t;a.Ut--(rjji=' h^^ T3>U ©otttmtJtn 'Sluiucvsitij iu tttc City of Jlcui ^ovTi l^ibvavy Special ^untl 1899 (Sixicu itnoutjmoiisTvi • • • * • « * IHK UKAl TIKll. J)rClll>:S.S OK UKVONSHIKK A KISS KcK A '.OIK. THE 1 > QUEENS OF SOCIETY 1 ■> -» ' 1 -> ,^ BY GRACE AND PHILIP WHARTON NEW EDITION WITH A PREFACE BY JUSTIN HUNTLY McCARTHY, M.P. » \ Oi'igijial illustratiotts by C, A. Doyle TWO VOLS.— VOL. L FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS 1 1 • • t • • • • • ■ < t • * * t « < ■ • • ••:■: • • • • 95^ T c^ y. / DEDICATION. Dear Mr. Augustin Daly, May I write your name on the dedication page of this new edition of an old and pleasant book in token of our common interest in the people and the periods of which it treats, and as a small proof of our friendship? Sincerely yours, JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY. London, July, 1890. 2774;?0 CONTENTS. Preface to the Present Edition . , p. ix Preface to the Second Edition . . p. xxv Preface to the First Edition . . .p. xxix SAIL\H DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. Queen Sarah's Birthplace.— La Belle Jennings. — 'The Queen of Tears.' — The Handsome Englishman. — Marlborough in Love. — Privately Married. — Queen Anne upon Dress. — Yearns for Equality. — An Afternoon in the Seventeenth Century. — ' Est-il Possible?' — Anne Flies from Court. — Colley Cibber as Footman. — CoUey's Enthusiasm. — Mary of Orange. — The Model Queen. — The Cockpit. — Sidney Gcdolphin. — Sarah the Object of Calumny, — Marlborough to his Wife. — King 'Caliban.' — Marlborough Disgraced. — The Court in Full Dress. — The Royal Sisters. — Lady Marlborough Tabooed. — Royal Spite. — Cold Receptions. —The Little \Vlaig. — The Churchills. — The ' Dictatress's ' Insolence. — The Shorn Tresses. — Mrs. Oldfield, the Actress. — Whig and Tor}'.— Poor Relatives. — A ' Back-stairs ' Conspiracy. — Queen Sarah Dethronfid. — Takes Leave of Queen Anne. — The Building of Blenheim. — The Duchess's Economy. — Her Wonderful Slirewdness. — Death of Marlborough. — A Suitor for the Richest Peeress in England. — The 'Proud Duke.' — ^Anecdote of the Duchess of Bucking- ham. — The Duchess of Marlborough's Pet Aversion. — The Duchess as Portia.— 'A kind of Author. "—' Old Marlborough' Dead.— 'Old Marl- borough ' Buried. . . . . . p. I MAD.AME ROLAND. The Studious Child. — Her First Catechism. — Early Education. — In a Convent. — Religious impressions. — Poor Ste. Agathe. — Grandmamma. — Religious Doubts. — A Lazy Confessor. — Atheism. — The Spirit of the Age. — ' A Bas les Anstocrats.'— Manon's Portrait. — Her many Suitors. — Phhppon's Idea of a Match. — Matchmaking. — Death of Madame Phlippon. — Manon writes a Sermon. — A New Suitor. — Roland's History. — Phlippon Refuses. — A Marriage of Reason. — Madame Roland as Nurse. — Brissot and the Giron- dins. — Brissot's Story. — Young Buzot. — Tlie Meetings at Madame Ro- land's. — The King of Blood. — Robespierre's Ingratitude. — Dumouriez in Love. — Madame Roland the Centre of the Girondins. — Ministers, no Ministers. — Madame Roland's Famous Letter. — ^At the Head of Parisian Society. — Anarchy Reigns. — The 20th of June. — The Inauguration of the Republic. — Madame Roland at the Bar of the Assembly. — Conspiracies Rife.— Roland Arrested. — Roland Escapes. — Madame Roland Arrested.— Prison Life. — Madame Roland writes to Robespierre. — Prepares to commit Suicide. — Her Letter to Her Child. — Her Trial — Sentenced to Death — Before the Guillotine. — Reflections on these Deaths. — Let them Go. p 45 vi Contents. ^ I.ADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. Her first D<:-but.— llie Kit-Kat Club.— Early years.- A Female Scholar.— Anecdote of young Burnet. — I^dy Mary's Verses. — Dolly Walpole's Troubles. — Mistre^is Anne Wortley. — A Country Gentleman of the iSeven- teenth Century, l^dy Mary on 'the World." — Classical I'lirtation. — Mr, Wortley. — A Doubtful Lover. — Love-letters. — Unsettled Settlements. — I.Ady Mary Elopes. — Her Appreciation of Scenery. — 'l"he Curate's ' Night- go.vn.' — Lady Mary's Beauty. — A Disgraceful Court. — ' The Schulcnberg. — The Kings Creatures. — Introduced at Court. — The Town Eclogues. — Anecdote of Lady Mary and Craggs. — Her letters from the East. — Pope's I/3ve for Her. — Travels to the East. — Arrives at .Adrianopol. — The Beautifr.l Fatinia. — Rambles about Constantinople. — Introduces Inoculation. — A Cooing Couple. — l^ady Mary's Turkish Costume. — Quarrels w.th Mrs. Murray. — All about a Ballad. — The Twickenham Set. — ^The Quarrel wth Pope. — Ivord Fanny and Sappho. — Reply to the Imitator of Horace. — Odious Verses. — Lady Marys Society. — Walpole's Description of Her.- - Lady Mary at Louvere. — Her EJisreputable Son. — In the Harpsichord House. — Death of Lady Mary. — Satirists. — Lady Mary's Character. — Her Portrait . . , . . ?• 9^ GEORGIANA DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE. Her Parents. — ^The Duchess when a Girl. — ^The Duke and the Lustres. — Devon- shire House. — Prince Charles Stuart.— An Atrocious Nobleman. — Sheridan. — The ' Maid of Bath.' — Fox. — Tlie Gambler and Herodotus. — The Ladies' Canvass. — Tlie Duchess and the Butcher. — Fox Electeti. — Mrs. Crewe. — The True Blue. — The Smile that Won. — Scandal about the Duchess. — George the Third goes Mad. — 'The Weird Sisters.' — Burke and Fox. — Death of Fox. — Lines on his Bust. — Death of the Duchess. — Lady Elizabeth Foster. — Report relative to her. , , . p 137 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON (L. E. L.). Brompton of Yore. — ^The I^andons. — At Hans Place. — Mrs. Rowden's Day- school. — Giving out the Prizes. — Genius against Education. — Reads Walter Scott. — Mrs. Landon. — First Poem. — Bulwer on L. E. L. — Self-Indepen- dence. — Goes into Society. — 'Sally Siddons.' — 'The Impro\'isatrice.' — Never in Love. — More Imputations. — Deaths. — Miss Landon Defends Herself. — Return to Hans Place. — Her Life there. — Two Hundred Offers. — Her Society. — Literary Pursuits. — Visit to Paris. — More Calumny. — En- gagement vdth Mr. Forster. — Broken Off. — Letter on the Subject. — Morbid Despair. — Meets Mr. Maclean. — Mr. Maclean. — His Mysterious Conduct. — ^Iarriage. — Last Days in England. — Sails from England. — Voyage out. — Life at Cape Coast Castle. — Her Mysterious Death. — Investigations. — The Mystery Unsolved. — Suspicions. — The Widower's Tribute. — Mrs. I-^ndon. — Remarks on L. E. L.'s Death. — Her Last Letter. — Past and Future, p. 160 MADAME DE SEVIGNE. At the .Age of Fifteen. — ^The Saint — Her Grandmother. — Her Marriage — Tlifc Cardinal de Retz. — Society under I^uis XIV. — ^TTse Hotel de Rambouillet. — Ihe Precieuses Ridicules. — Madame de S^vign^ among them. — Tlie Re- ward of Virtue. — Temp. Louis XIV. — Madame de S^vigne in Love. — riie Outbreak of the ' Fronde.' — Ninon de IFnclos. — De Sevi<^nd Killed in a Duel. — The Court of Louis XIV. — Anecdote of Racine. — ^'flie Amauld.s. — Religion of the Day. — The Bandits of La Trappe. — 1 he Ascetics of Port- Royal. — Madame de S^vignd's Idolatry. — Anecdote of Boileau. — Anecdote of F^u^loa. — The Knox of the Fr«nch ijourt. — La Kociieioucauid. — Foi*- x^vnients, vii que?! the Swindler. — Madame de S^vignd at Paris. — Madame de S^vign<{ iL^ruJaoed. — ^A French Marriage. — Madame de Grignan. — Classics and Vicp. — .Aji Indulgent Mother. — Young de SeNHg^^. — Madame de S«^vignc's Letters. — Madame de S^vign^'s ^AJfection — Letter-writing. — Death. — Death of Madame de Grignan. # . . . p. 202 SYDNEY LADY MORGAN. Lady Morgan of What?— Her Ladyship's Eyes.— The Old Irish Girl.— The Pet of the Green-room. — Her First Literary Attempts. — Attacked by Crcker. — Party Lies. — Lady Morgan as an Irish Apostle. — Family Ties. — Sir Charles, — Lady Morgan's Religious Opinions. — Sets Out for Italy. — At Paris. — The False Nliladi Morgan. — Arrives at La Grange. — La Fayette. — At La Grange. — Society in Paris. — The City of Calvin. — Meets Lord Ryron. — Byron's Miniature. — I^^dy Cork and the Watches. — I^dy Charlevillc in her Chair. — Pink and Blue Nights. — Lady Morgan's Drawing-room. — The Princess. — Winnows her Society. — Last Years and Death. — Her Geniality and Benevolence. . . . • • p. 236 JANE DUCHESS OF GORDON. Jane Marvvell's Portrait. — A Haughty Beauty. — The Court of George III. — The Beautiful Duchess of Rutland. — Ihe Splendid Duke. — The Duchess as Whipper-in. — Lord George the Rioter. — Xo-Popery Riots. — Fire and Des- truction. — The Agreeable Dinner P.irty. — Ix)rd George in the House. — From ProtestaJit to Jew. — Beattie's Absurd Adulation. — Anecdote of Hume. — Beattie at Gordon Castle. — Eccentric Lords. — Tlie Duchess's Sons. — A Pit for Pitt.— Pitt Outwitted.— True Nobility.— Paris in 1802.— Waiting for the First Consul. — Enter Bonaparte. — Eugene Beauhamais. — ' Had 1 Known.' — The Father of Ix)rd John Russell. — ^The Prince of Wales. — A Public Lie. — Death of the Duchess. • , p. a6a SUBJECTS OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS. Volume I, FAGB THE BEAUTIFUL DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE— A KISS FOR A VOTE (Frontispiece) THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH PLEADING HER OWN CAUSE 41 THE INAUGURATION OF THE REPUBLIC 78 LADY MARY, POPE, AND KNELLER— THE PORTRAIT SCENE 121 THE POETS EXILE— L. E, L. AT CAPE COAST CASTLE .. 200 THE HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET 207 THE COUNTERFEIT LADY MORGAN 249 PREFACE. N that enchanting harlequinade which we call Paris in the last century a great lady desired and devised a new amusement. Weary of the routine pleasures of the mode, weary of the eternal confluence of men and women in their Danse Macabre of folly, the Countess of Custine sought and found a novelty. It was an age of suppers, Parabere suppers, Pompadoursuppers, Du Barrysuppers, Polignac suppers. Madame de Custine found that the pleasure in supping began to pall, that the lights seemed to burn dimly, that the flowers had lost their perfume, the viands their savour, the wines their warmth, the wit its brilliancy. The Piquette of pleasure was in need of new grapes. Madame de Luxembourg, conscious of the growing ennui, proposed to meet the difficulty by giving supper parties composed entirely of men. Madame de Custine, more original, retaliated by giving supper parties com- posed only of women. The idea amused, pleased, took the popular fancy. For a season women's supper parties became the rage, and great ladies derived, or affected to derive, infinite satisfaction from sitting at social boards with only their own sex for company. We are told that many of these banquets were very delightful, that my lady Lysistrata and her Athenians in powder and brocade were much diverted by their own audacity and indepen- dence, that the talk was very witty, the humour verj- X Preface. varied, in those nights and suppers of the Goddesses. It may well have been so ; the student of the last century in France, as he reads, wishes with all his heart that he could leap back some hundred years and more, and slip unperceived, a periwigged Clodius, through the folding-doors of Madame de Custine's supper-room. Yet it is permitted to us to feel something of a kindred sensation in reading the *' Queens of Society" of Grace and Philip Wharton. For here in these pages we meet with a charming company — and all, like Madame de Custine's guests, are women. Indeed, we are exceptionally fortunate, for, while the guests of the great French lady were limited to her contemporaries — to a charming de Louvois, a charming de Crenay, a charming d'Harville, a charming de Vaubecourt — we can move in a society invited from many times, and can, in fancy, feel that we look in the same hour upon the faces of fair and witty women, sundered in fact by gene- rations. Indeed, we might perhaps be tempted to wish that an even wider range had been taken : that more Ladies of Old Time had been bidden to the feast ; that Queens of Society who reigned before the spacious Eliza- bethan days might have been included. But this were unmannerly ; this were to quarrel with our host and hostess. Madame de Custine's supper parties could not entertain all her friends. It is our part to accept with gratitude the company our hosts have been pleased to choose for us. Indeed, there is cause for gratitude. The eighteen women whom the Whartons chose as representative Queens of Society are almost all exceedingly fascinating, exceedingly delightful. If they reigned in their day royally, the empire of many of them still endures, even Preface, xi in some instances exercises a more extended sway. As these sweet shadows rise up before us, one by one. E paion si al vento esser leggieri, we see a face here and there that attracts us, as Dante was attracted by the face of Francesca, and specially we bid them stay and tell their story. To a student of the French Revolution, glancing down the list of names, the name of Madame Roland naturally appeals. No character in that absorbing time is more attractive, not Lucile Desmoulins, nor the brown-locked Theroigne, nor the girl from Caen who struck down the friend of the people. Most of the great characters of the revolutionary drama have been misunderstood and misrepresented, over-praised by their admirers, over-blamed by their enemies. Madame Roland has suffered like the rest, from friends and from foes. It must be admitted that the Whartons hardly rise to the gravity of the situation in their study of Madame Roland. They are more at home with lighter themes ; the French Revolution is a little too much fo^* them. They consider it and its figures with a thin conventionality, their criticism is not suggestive, their historical appreciation neither wide nor deep. To apply in any sense the term "demons" to Madame Roland and her husband is but to provoke a smile ; to call Roland a coward because he died in the high Roman fashion, is but to shuffle with words. We might wish that Roland had not died by his own hand, that Condorcet had not taken poison, that Valaze had waited for the common fate of his brother Giron- dins, that Romme had not thrust the knife into his breast on that fatal day. But in considering all these cases we should consider also the conditions of the xii Preface. time. We should remember how deeply the exalted spirits of the age were imbued with the neo-classic spirit which justified self-slaughter. We should remember how subtly and ingeniously Rousseau, the ruling mind of the time, had defended suicide in the pages of the "Nou- velle Heloise". We should remember the tremen- dous influence which the "Sorrows of Werther" had for nearly twenty years exercised upon imaginative minds. However excellent our own morality may be, it is well in passing historical judgment upon others to take into account the moral atmosphere of the age we are considering, and at least allow those who have had the misfortune to be less virtuous than ourselves the benefit of any doubt that can be extended to them. Naturally enough, the kind of criticism which converts the Rolands into demons and cowards is scarcely more discriminating in its treatment of the other revolu- tionaiy figures, who are incidental to the article on Madame Roland. It is a kind of criticism which is especially obnoxious to the serious student of history — the ** Fiend-in-human-shape" school of criticism. Robes- pierre of course is the favoured victim of this kind of criticism, but to baptise him as *'king of blood," and ** apostle of hate," is not to offer any serious aid towards the study of one of the strangest characters within the range of history. Robespierre has found his defenders, who are as injudicious as his denunciators ; the mean is still to seek. But when we remember the words of Gouverneur Morris, one of the shrewdest of the contemporary observers of the French Revolution, we are forced to believe that a mean must be found. " Robespierre has been the most consistent, if not the only consistent. He is one of those of whom Shakes- Preface, xiii peare's Caesar speaks to his frolicsome companion * he loves no plays as thou dost, Anthony '. There is no imputation against him for corruption, he is far from rich and still further from appearing so. It is said that his idol is ambition but I think that the establishment of the Republic would (all things considered) be most suited to him." But after all it is not for serious study or judicious speculation upon the French Revolution that we turn to the bright pages of the Whartons. We want to be amused, interested, entertained, and their pages afford amusement and interest. We may — indeed we must — object to the study of Madame Recamier as a further proof of the incapacity of our authors to appreciate the revolutionary epoch; we must find fault with much that is childish in the chapter on Madame de Stael — and yet it is in one sense the very childishness of all these essays that is their chief charm. They have no claim to deep knowledge, to profound judgment ; they reel off as readily as tales told by a fire, and they have in them much of the amiable prolixity and the genial inconsistency which is the attribute of a nursery tale. This airy gossiping diffuseness is seen to best advantage in the essays which treat of Englishwomen. The writers understood their own countrywomen very much better than they understood the daughters of France, and the result of their better acquaintance with their subjects is a more decided entertainment to the reader. In the pages devoted to Mary, Countess of Pembroke for example, our authors show at their best. They are in warm sympathy with the stately sister of Philip Sidney, whom Osborn praised so highly and — since no good work is done without sympathy — xiv Preface, the picture they paint of " Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother," is one of the best in the gallery. In the picture of Madame Piozzi, best known to the world as Mrs. Thrale, the authors are successful in tell- ing over again with skilful abbreviation the main features of Mrs. Thrale's life, and of the life of her most famous friend, Dr. Johnson. There is a time which always attracts ; there are people who can never fail to be interesting. To see Johnson's name on a printed page is to call up at once the whole of that enchanting epoch of English literature — an epoch as splendid as that of Anne or of Elizabeth, the epoch of Burke, of Sheridan, of Goldsmith, of Garrick. The epoch lives for us, sempiternally young, brilliant, inspiring, in the pages of Boswell's marvellous biography — the biography which more than any other book in the world, more even than Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, has made a man of the past a living reality to the children of the present. Boswell had his faults and Boswell had his follies, but the world has heard too much of them — has heard too little of the merits of the Laird of Auchin- lech. What if he did go about absurdly with Corsica Boswell written on his cap ; what if he did allow him- self to be deluded by the Ireland forgeries ; what if he was a little vain, a little affected. He had every excuse for vanity. He was the intimate friend, the chosen companion of one of the greatest men of a great day ; he lived to see the book in which he recorded, and ad- mirably recorded, that famous friendship take its place among the classics of English literature. We may perhaps admit that the Whartons are scarcely just to Mis. Thrale. That delightful woman who fascinated so many in her day, who still fascinates Preface, xv so many, has failed to fascinate the writers of these essays, and they deal her out scant justice. They object to her marriage with Piozzi almost as strongly as Dr. Johnson himself or Dr. Beattie. They appear to be amazed at the fact that Mrs. Thrale showed no very enduring sense of sorrow for the husband she had lost when Thrale died. It would we fancy surprise most persons more if Mrs. Thrale had felt any abiding regrets for Thrale's memory. Thrale was not an amiable iiusband. Johnson, it is true, had a great regard for Thrale, but his regard was largely for quali- ties which could hardly be supposed to appeal very strongly to a wife like Mrs. Thrale. Thrale did not include fidelity among his virtues ; he was the cause of much and most undeserved unhappiness to Mrs. Thrale while he lived. It is curiously unjust to blame her who was always an exemplary wife if after the death of a man who was more a master than a husband she sought for happiness in her own way. We can all see as clearly as Beattie, as clearly as Johnson, as clearly as the Whartons the many objections that could be raised from a social point of view to the marriage of Mrs. Thrale with Piozzi the singer. In an age which with all its ad- miration for art had a covert scorn for artists, in an age when Chesterfield could write to his son imploring him above all things not to be a fiddler, in such an age the marriage of a woman of wealth, of position, and of influence with an Italian singer would seem inevitably to be a degradation and an offence against good man- ners. But after all if Mrs. Thrale chose to sacrifice that slight and fragile thing, the good opinion of society, in seeking for her own personal happiness she is not much to blame. She had a bright, lovable, slightly shallow xvi Preface. nature ; she had known much unhappiness ; she had a right to please herself; and the grumbling even of the great Johnson always seems in this regard a little un- manly. She was a wonderful woman ; she lived to be eighty and to write some foolish, gushing, kindly letters to Conway the actor which have been much misinter- preted. Horace Walpole was very bitter against her, but Horace Walpole was given to bitterness and his wit did not spare women. There is another one of these Queens of Society to whom his pen was even crueller than it was to Mrs. Thrale, and that was Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. It would be difficult for any one who had once read it to forget the picture Walpole drew of her when she was in Florence in 1740. The picture is so repulsive, so mercilessly brutal, that it rivals the terrible attacks of Pope and arouses inevitable pity for the luckless woman who had the misfortune to find two such enemies as Pope and Walpole. The daughters of Lycambes, who hanged themselves because Archilochus lampooned them had scarcely more justification for their acts of folly than Lady Mary. But Lady Mary went her way through the world, always ready to give as good as she got, erratic, audacious, independent ; it v/ould take more than the stings of Pope or the sneers of Walpole — which must, we should imagine, have reached her ears — to crush her spirit. The essay on Lady Mary Wortley Montagu is one of the best of the series. The sympathy which its authors refuse to mete out to poor Mrs. Thrale they extend, cordially and without stint, to Lady Mary. While we condemn the want of sympathy in the one case we heartily welcome the abundance of sympathy in the other. Indeed it would be difficult not to feel sympa- Preface. xvii thetic with Lady Mary. Her famous letters are among the brightest things in literature ; they can be read again and again as agreeably as Horace Walpole's and they do not leave the same bitter taste behind them that so many of Walpole's leave. Every episode in her long career is interesting. The fair-haired child of eight who took so readily to the toasts of the gentlemen of the Kit-Kat club, the studious maiden of nineteen who taught herself latin and translated the ''Enchiridion'* of Epictetus from a latin translation, the gallant champion of Dolly Walpole, the lover of Edward Wortley Montagu, the star of the evil court which could not make her evil, the satirist of the " Town Eclogues," the Ambassa- dress to Turkey, the champion of inoculation, the friend of Hervey, the enemy of Pope, the Continental traveller, the mother of a scapegrace son, whose adventurous wanderings have furnished food for romance, in all these characters Lady Mary shines, ever interesting, ever witty, ever on the whole good. The lover of the East, the student of Oriental things owes her a very deep debt for the keenness and the accuracy of her ob- servations of Eastern life duringher residence in Stamboul, observations which bring the interior of Eastern life home to the student in a way that few other books have ever succeeded in doing. It is curious to note that Orientalists are indebted too, to another bearer of the name, to the Wortley Montagu whose manuscript of the Arabian Nights in the Bodleian museum at Oxford has lately been carefully studied and translated by Sir Richard Burton. No subject in all this interesting series of sketches is more interesting than that of the beautiful Georgina Duchess of Devonshire. The very mention of the name xviii Preface^ acts like a charm. It has the power of calHng up one of the most fascinating periods of English history, that period when a '* Prince's Party " reigned at Carlton house, and when the Westminster Election marked an epoch. The beautiful Duchess is famous for her beauty, the beauty that lives to us a measure in the portraits of the time ; she is famous for her wit, for the exquisite manners which made the Prince Regent declare that she was the best bred woman of her day ; she is famous most of all for her friends, and for one friendship in especial. One of the greatest names in English History is inseparably associated with that of the Duchess of Devonshire — the name of Charles James Fox. The Whartons feel in duty bound to pass their censure upon the misdemeanours of Fox's early youth. We in the present day can afford to dwell longer upon the genius, the patriotism, the magnificent gifts of the man, and to pay less heed to the fact that in a drinking age he drank, that in a gambling age he gambled, that in a dissolute age he was not austere. Of few men can the often quoted saying of Bolingbroke about Marlborough be more pertinently applied. Fox was a great man, and we can very well afford to forget the faults — faults which were as much a part of the age in which he lived as the mode of powdering the hair. To read of Fox in however short a record is to rekindle an old enthusiasm, to awaken an old regret. The enthusiasm is for that brilliant fragment of historical biography. Sir George Trevelyan's *' Early life of Charles James Fox," one of the most valuable and one of the most fascinating contributions yet made to the ever fascinating history of the Eighteenth Century. The regret — and it is a keen regret — is for the determination which Sir George Trevelyan has taken Preface, xix never to finish his story of the great statesman's career, to leave what might be the miOst attractive biography in the language only a fragment — a brilliant fragment in- deed — but still a fragment. *' The unfinished window in Aladdin's Tower unfinished must remain." Of course Sheridan comes into any sketch which deals with the days of the glories of Carlton House and Devonshire House. The Whartons paint a grim picture of the degradation into which Sheridan drifted after such great and such varied successes, and they express a due and deserved sympathy for the beautiful wife whose portrait as Saint Cecilia is one of the most haunting of last century ghosts. But the}- do not tell — perhaps they did not know — the curious legend vv^hich has been linked with the name of Mrs. Sheridan. It is said that Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the "gallant and seditious Geraldine," who was a great friend of Slieri- dan's, became deeply enamoured of his friend's wife. It is said that the charm of the young nobleman affected Mrs. Sheridan so profoundly as actually to hasten her death, and that v/hen Lord Edward Fitzgerald married, as he aftenvards did, the fair Pamela,daughter of Madame de Genlis and Philippe Egalite, he only did so because of the surprising resemblance which she bore to the beautiful wife of Sheridan. It is a curious, a pathetic story ; it may be true. There is a certain note of melancholy over the stories of all the Queens of Society. This note is most strongly found in the sketch which follows immediately upon that of the Duchess of Devonshire, the sketch of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, the once so famous L. E. L. The fame of L. E. L. and of her poetry has considerably diminished; other and greater stars have swum into XX Preface, the horizon since the days when she wooed her tender, gentle muse, and since she glittered for a while, the butterfly heroine of certain circles, the butterfly victim of so many calumnies. The story of her life is pathetic enough, with its little cheap triumphs, its imitation laurels ; the stoiy of her death is, and must no doubt remain, a mystery. After life's fitful fever, she sleeps well by those seas of ** silvery purple," which she de- scribes in the last letter she ever wrote — the letter the ink on which was scarcely dry when she was found in a dying condition with that empty prussic acid bottle in her hand, the possession of which has never been satisfactorily accounted for. ** I like the perpetual dash upon the rocks ; one wave comes up after another and is for ever dashed in pieces like human hopes that only swell to be disappointed." These words are in that same last letter; they are very characteristic in their graceful pathetic platitude of poor L. E. L.'s melancholy life. Perhaps the pleasantest essay in the book, because it deals with the pleasantest person, is the sketch of Madame de Sevign^. Madame de Sevigne occupies something of the same place among women that Montaigne holds among men ; she exercises the same subtle personal charm ; she attracts her readers with the charm of a personal friendship ; those delightful letters might have been written to oneself, they are so fresh, so vital, so exquisitely, so fallibly human. Ah, if only one's post hour in the morning brought such epistles to the breakfast table I If only anyone anywhere now-a-days in this bustling world, this fin de siecle, had time to write such letters to friends, and friends with time to read them 1 The Penny Post is a blessing and Preface. xxi so is the electric telegraph and the telephone, but between them they have annihilated correspondence. Could we hope for a Pliny the Younger under the scientific conditions of modern life ; could we hope for a Horace Walpole, could we hope for a Madame de Sevigne ? Alas, life is too much of a rush ; when we take up our pens to-day we have indeed to write quickly. The writing, and even more, the reading of long letters — of real letters such as Sevigne wrote, imply great margins of leisure, ample spaces of smooth tranquillity such as few can find to-day. An exception there is of course now and then ; a Fitzgerald in some quiet nook of Sussex, living his own life in his own way and ignoring all conventions, may find time to gladden distant friends with letters that are letters, and may in so doing enrich the shelves of many happy students with volumes very dear to them. But the Fitzgeralds are rare in the world, are growing rarer every day. Everyone lives more or less at high pressure, the affluent as well as the needy ; it is not in the ranks of the American Millionaires or in the Dukeries that a graceful ease, a lettered idleness, is to be found to-day. Perhaps some daring spirit who went and lived in a cottage like Thoreau, perhaps some determined woman who shut herself apart from the world like Harriet Mar- tineau might find the time to write long delicious letters to their friends, and another generation would be enriched with a new Walpole or a new Sevigne. But if such dar- ing adventurers found the time to write those letters, could their friends find the time to read them ? Could the busy man, could the busy woman, with more to put into the day'sroundthan ought properly to be accomplished within the orbit of any respectable week, — could they find the xxii Preface. leisure to sit down and gravely read long pages upon pages of correspondence, however delightful, however freshly fancied, however charmingly expressed ? It is much to be feared that in nine cases out of ten the new Sevign6 or the new Walpole would be laid aside for a more convenient opportunity, and also that in nine cases out of ten that convenient opportunity would never arise. ** Before I was married, whenever I saw the children or the dogs allowed, or rather caused to be troublesome in any family, I used to lay it all to the fault of the master of it, who might at once put a stop to it if he pleased. Since I have married I find that this was a very rash and premature judgment." Such are the words of one of a series of bitter reflections upon marriage, in which Lord Melbourne indulged after his marriage to Lady Caroline Ponsonby. It is easy to understand from such a review of the case as is given in the Whartons' book, why Lord Melbourne should have penned such a passage. There could hardly have been two persons more unsuited to each other than William Lamb and Caroline Ponsonby. She afterwards accused him in her novel of Glenarvon of never taking her seriously, while on the other hand, her flighty way, and literary affectations must have tried him terribly. The Whartons do not seem to have known of Lady Caroline's encounter with Byron's funeral passing along the Northern Road, as she was coming out of the Brocket Gates for a morning ride, an encounter which so affected her nature, as to make a separation from her husband inevitable. There is a story told too, in the recently published Lord Melbourne's papers which deserves to be quoted here. At a dinner at Paris, Lady Caroline Preface, xxiii suddenly asked one of the party, in the hearing of the rest, whom he supposed she thought the most distin- guished man she had ever known, in mind and person, refinement, cultivation, sensibility and thought. The person addressed suggested Lord Byron. " No," was the reply ; " my own husband, William Lamb," Let us make our bow to Lady Morgan before we say farewell to these Queens of Society. Lady Morgan is somewhat unfairly forgotten of late. She was very clever, her novel " The O'Briens and O'Flahertys," is one of the most remarkable Irish novels ever written. The fame she enjoyed in her day has been followed by a wholly undeserved neglect. If the republication of these papers serve to reawaken interest in her works, they will have done simple service. JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. T would be vain to attempt anything like a reply to the numerous remarks, both public and private, that have been passed on ' The Queens of Society.' By some writers the choice of individual characters for this eminent position has been approved ; by others, questioned ; by several critics, absolutely denied to some of our most notable royalties. Now a disputed title is always an important point, — whether, as it regards great kingdoms, or arbitrary distinctions. A * Queen of Society* we hold to be one who, by the force of her reputation, her good management, her abilities, her man- ners, partly, and, even of her rank and fortune, commands around her a circle of persons of eminence, or fashion, or cele- brity of some valid nature : this circle being dependent on the attractions, be they intellectual, or simply ra.shionable, of the fair monarch herself — contingent on her continuance in life, or, in what is much the same thing to a * Queen of Society,' on her capability of recei\ang guests. Taking the denomination in this view, we cannot agree with those who deny to Madame du Defiand the title ; nay, it seems to us peculiarly her ovm. Blind, old, poor — not of that high rank which in France, in the last contniy, was still before the xxvi Prcjcuc. Revolution, held in such reverence ; with a more than sullied character, a bad temper, an exigeante disposition — Madame du Deffand managed to assemble around her a circle of the most intellectual and agreeable persons in Paris, a circle into which foreigners were eager to be introduced, and in which the scej)- tical old lady reigned absolute. She was as much a * Queen of Society' in her w^ay, in the Convent of St. Joseph, as the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire in Devonshire House, or, to bring the similitude more closely, as Mrs. Montagu in Montagu House. They were all queens, although their subjects were of a different stamp, and their thrones varied in outward splen- dour. The empire over the intellect was perhaps greater in the convent than in the palace. Again, in respect to L. E. L., whose elevation seems to dis- please some of her contemporaries, it cannot be denied that by her gift of poetry, her remarkable conversational charm, her gaiety of spirits, and her great success in general literature, she, a poor unknoAvn girl, commanded a position in society denied to many a rich and even a titled lady. It is pleasant to ob- serve that women can thus raise themselves from obscurity to influence ; and to reflect how completely genius and agreeable manners may supersede all necessity for rank and wealth, so far as an emment position in the social world is concerned. It is objected, also, that the queens are all too charming, too beautiful, too faultless, the annals too flowing, and eulogistic. We cannot assent to the criticism. Dark shadows rest on some of their thrones ; and these have been distinctly marked. The scepticism of Madame Roland, the imprudence of the Duchess of Devonshire, the doubtful moral code of Madame / rcjJLce. xxvii kecainier, not to mention many other uuses, have all b«>ui the Ineme of sorrowful, if not of stem comment. It is stated, also, that the materials for these volumes have been taken from works generally known, and that they have not comprised all those sources to which easy access might be had. If the volumes which form the staple even of one life were enu- merated it would, we believe, by their number, startle even the contemptuous. In taking largely what contemporary writers have to otter of fact, or comment, we have only done what is done every day in common life. When we want to draw forth traits of character we generally apply to those who know, or who have known the subjects of our inquiries. Could the system of foot-notes have been adopted, Grace and Philip Wharton would have stood forth as indefatigable authors ; but the pleasure in reading the work might, it was thought, be les- sened by references which are apt to interrupt the narrative. Since no authorities have been given, the greater obligation is felt for any corrections, either through ihc medium of the valu- able periodicals of the day, or in the various letters which have been received by the authors of the work. Aware of our weak point, namely, the absence of avowed authorities, yet conscious of sincere endeavours to be accurate — to be just, and to omit nothing well authenticated — the comments that point out errors are not viewed as attacks, or even as reproofs, but as welcome uids. Suggestions have been attended to, and a careful revision of the work has been made. In accepting these, however, the writer of this preface begs to decline all advice conveyed in anonymous letters, of which a considerable number have been sent to Grace and Philip xxvjii Preface, Wharton. These mostly come from the far-off land, novir in civil commotion— America ; some, however, have even been sent from New Zealand, one or two from Canada ; all violent, upon some supposed slight to an ancestor or ancestress ; all, in so far as the authors of the work can attest, mistaken. Since the first edition of this work came out, * The Autobio- graphy, Letters, and Literary Remains of Mrs. Piozzi-Thrale,' edited by Mr. Hayward, have appeared. This work has thrown a new light upon the character of Mrs. Piozzi, and the author of her life, as one of the * Queens of Society,' has profited by the publication in correcting some incorrect statements and impressions PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. HEN the guardian-demon of the unblest was asked how many monarchs he counted among the souls in his keeping, he rephed, * All that ever reigned.' So says fable ; we are very far from intending to indorse it. But there may be some people who think that the monarchs of society — those uncrowned heads, whose dominions are the minds and hearts of their fellow-beings — present as few exceptions as those sovereigns who build up history. There may be many who imagine that the * Queens of Society' have won their titles with no better qualifications than wit and beauty ; that their very position has rendered them vain, if not imperious ; and that they have lived in the world and for the world only. No opinion could be more erroneous ; it is a libel on society to suppose its judgment so distorted ; and a glance at the names of the women who have held this proud position will show that this is the case. Of the eighteen ladies whom we have selected as best fitted to represent this class, no less than six have been as celebrated for their literary talents as for their social position. Of these Lady Morgan and Lady Caroline Lamb wrote novels which were eagerly devoured in their day ; the Countess of Pembroke and Mrs. Thrale were miscellaneous writers ; L. E. L. was a charming poetess ; and Madame de Stael may be justly held up as the greatest authoress of France. XXX Preface. Letter-wilting, again, has been the province of six others, of wliom Lad) Hen-ey, Mrs. Montagu, and Madame de Maintenon are only of less celebrity than Madame de Sdvigne and Madame du DefTand, always cited as the letter-writers of France, while Lady Mary Wortley Montagu holds the same place in this country. Seven again, have been eminent political leaders ; one of them, indeed, Madame de Maintenon, though uncrowned having been virtually Queen of France ; and though Madame R^camier and the Duchesses of Gordon and Devonshire may have had comparatively little influence on the fate of their respective countries, the same cannot be said of Madame Roland ; while the names of De Stael and ' Queen Sarah ' are historical. Nor was it their talent only that recommended these women to the Electress-ships of their respective circles. Though society may do without a good heart, it will not dispense with that appearance of it which we call amiability of manner. With some few exceptions the * Queens of Society ' have been kindly, amiable, and even gentle people While Sarah of Marlborough and Madame du Deffand were as notorious for their high tempers as for their wit, Madame Roland, L. E. L., Mrs. Montagu, and Mrs. Damer were all as amiable women and as thoroughly good-hearted as possible. Byron himself, never too liberal of his praise, has testified to the vast fund of good nature in * De I'Allemagne,' as he calls Madame de Stael ; Madame de S(5vigne is a model of maternal affection ; and Mrs. Thrale won Johnson — in spite of her faults — by the kindness she sliovved the poor invalid. We think those who remember Lady Morgan will readily add her name to the list. The talents of society — wit, conversational powers, and a kn<^wledge of the world — are, of course, necessary ingredients in the characters of these charming women ; but that there was in most of them a depth of mind not always accorded to the Prcftice. xxxi other sex may be safely dedaced from the fact that, with few exceptions, every one of them has been the intimate friend — often, indeed, the counsellor — of some great man. To run through the list before us : * Queen Sarah ' was no less the friend than the wife of Marlborough : Madame Roland was the friend of the leaders of the Gironde ; Lady Mar)' both friend and foe to Pope ; the Duchess of Devonshire the active partisan of Fox ; Madame de Sevigne the intimate of the ArnauJds and La Rochefoucauld ; Madame Recamier of Chateaubriand; Madame du Detfand of Voltaire and Walpole, of whom the latter wa5 devoted also to Mrs. Darner ; Necker received advice from, and Schlegel was the companion of, Madame de Stael ; Mrs. Thrale was the friend of Johnson ; Lady Caroline Lamb of B\Ton ; Mrs. Montagu of Beattie ; Lady Pembroke of Sir Pliilip Sidney ; and Madame de Main- tenon the consoler of Scarron, and the counsellor of Louis Quatorze. These facts must necessarily add much to the interest of lives, which even apart from them, have no ordinary attraction. But perhaps the greatest interest to the general reader will be found in the varied phases of society in which these women moved. The history of society collectively remains to be written ; but it is written disjointedly in the Hfe of ever>' man or woman who has taken a high social position. It is, indeed, only in these that we are introduced to scenes of past life, which history, fully concerned ^\•ith monarchs, parliaments, and nations, cannot condescend to depict. The \\Titers have therefore selected certain periods to illustrate by the lives in question. The profligate courts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., the earher and later periods of the French Revolution, the Empire, and the Restoration, are here touched upon in the me- moirs of French women of society, while, for our own country, mere is a life to illustrate every period from the reign of xxxii Preface. Elizabeth down to our own times, from the Countess ol Peni> broke to Lady Morgan, although a chronological arrangement has, for certain reasons, not been followed. It remains only to point out that while the selection has generally been made from women of irreproachable moral character, one or two have been chosen by way of contrast and by way of warning. The temptations of society are very great ; yet how far more easy it is to attain the honour — if honour it be — of reigning in its circles, by stricdy virtuous than by lax conduct, may be seen from the memoirs to which the reader is now introduced. In many cases the lives of the ladies selected have been written at greater length by other biographers ; in some, how- ever, none but short notices, prefixed to their letters or works have hitherto been published, and in one or two, we believe, no consecutive memoirs have ever been written. That the reader may not be misled, it should perhaps be stated that the mode of writing Lady Morgan's name is that adopted by herself Lasdy, the illustrations have been executed with especial attention to costume and known peculiarities of dress ; and, whenever it was found possible, the artists have introduced portraits of the persons represented. - 1 THE QUEENS OF SOCIETY. SARAH DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. Qiieen Sarah's Birthplace. — T-i Belle Jennings. — 'Tlie Queen of Tears.' — The Handsome Englishman. — Marlborough in lyOve. — Privately Married. — Queen Anne upon Dress. — Yearns for Equality. — An Afternoon in the Seventeenth Century. — ' Est-il Possible?" — Anne Flies from Court. — Colley Gibber as Footman. — CoUey's Enthusiasm. — Mary of Orange. — Tne Mo^lel Queen. — The Cockpit. — Sidney Godolphin. — Sarah the Object of Calumny. — Marlborough to his Wife. — King 'Caliban.' — Marlborough Disgraced. — The Court in Full Dress. — The Royal Sisters. — Lady Marlborough Tabooed. — Royal Spite. — Cold Receptions. — The Little Whig. — The Churchills. — The ' Dictatress's ' Insolence. — The Shorn Tresses. — Mrs. Oldfield, the Actress. — WTiig and Tory. — Poor Relatives. — ^A ' Btck -stairs * Conspiracy. — Queen Sarah Detlironed. — Takes Iy.'ave of Queen .Anne. — The Building of Blenheim. — The Duchess's Economy. — Hir Wond'-riul Shrewdness. — Death of Marlborough. — A Suitor for the Richest Peerage in England. — Tlie 'Proud Duke.' — Anecdote of the Duchess of Bucking- ham. — The Duchess of Marlborougli's Pet Aversion. — The Diichess a3 Portia. — * A kind of Author."— 'Old Marlborough" Dead.— 'Old Marl- borough ■ Buried. TUNG by the aspersions cast on her by her political enemies, this celebrated woman, wnom Pope has sa- tirized under the nam.e of Atossa, pubHshed her own Memoirs. 'I have been,' she "vvTote, 'a kind of author.' She penned with great spirit her o^vn vindication ; nor would she have condescended to do so, had not her best feelings been wounded by the impressions entertained against her by the widow of Bishop Burnet : so alive was this celebrated woman to the good opinion of others. Yet, though even Henry Fielding, whose father, Edward, had served under the Duke of Marlborough, ^vrote a \'indica- tion of the 'duchess's character in general,' as well as an ans-vver to the attacks upon her, it is strange that neitlier her 9 "Qjiccn Sdrari-s* Birtliplace. birthplace, no.rtljg ^>Qt v'herer she died, have been positively known, even tp ^the ^lesceudants of this beautiful, arrogant, all-powerful' female courtier. The fact, perhaps, was, that those who succce'd^cl tO'hcr l'oVe|:l her little ; whilst 'J^-ck Spencer,' as he was usvially styled, het" 'rtckless favourite grandson and heir, v/as not a man to search out for the annals of an aged grand- mother, and still less to dwell upon the scenes of her death-bed. She was bom, however, as careful and recent researches have proved, in a small house at Holywell, near St. Albai.s ; so called because the nuns of Sopv/ell, a monastery in the vicinity, used to dip their crusts in that well when too hard otherwise to be eaten; and on the 29th Ma}', 1660, the future 'viceroy,' as this leader in fashion and politics was termed, first saw the light. Her father, Richard Jennings, was a plain country gentle- man, possessing land to the value of four thousand pounds, yearly, derived from his estate at Sandridge, near St. Albans, and other manors in Kent and Somersetshire : and her mother, Frances Thornhurst, was the daughter and heiress of Sii Giffard Thornhurst, of Agnes Court, in Kent. Sandridge, where once the family chiefly lived, is a straggling, uninteresting village : there seems not to have been any good house on the estate, until, sold by the extravagant grandson of the duchess, her darling spendthrift. Jack Spencer, a handsome house was built on it by a prosperous gentleman retired from trade. Destined by fortune to affluence, Sarah Jennings was the youngest of three daughters : the two elder ones were Frances, who afterwards became Duchess of Tyrconnel, and Barbara, married to Edward OrifFith, Esq. : two sons, John and Ralph, successively inherited the patrimonial property. Sarah and Frances passed their girlhood during the tranquil period which preceded the death of Charles U., chiefly at Holy\velL The opinions of men, were, even then, forming themselves into the three great political parties -- Jacobite, Whig, and Tory ; but those factions in which 'Queen Sarah' afterwards mingled so conspicuously were still donnant Her father and her forefathers had been zealous adherents Lo the Stuart cause, but they were also strict Protestants. La Belle Jennings. 3 Fmnr,c?5, v/ho figured afterwards as the *^Vhite Milliner,' early displayed those talents which, \A\h her surpassing beauty, were likely to gain an ascendancy in the court of either of the last Stuart kings. England was then wliat France has since been tenned — Von subserviency. *A friend,' she said, 'was what she most wanted.' For the sake of friendship she wished all fonns laid aside. * Your highness,' displeased her, so she proposed to the lady in waiting that when separated they should adopt less alarming titles. * My frank, open, temper,' says Lady Churchill, * led me to pitch upon Freeman,' and so the princess took the name of Morley : and from this time Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman began to address each other as equals, made so by affection and friendship. But, unliappily, the affection was all on one side. In after life the duchess, though she allowed that Queen Anne possessed a certain majesty of deportment, depicted her as wearing a constant and sullen frown, showing *a gloominess of soul and a cloudiness of disposition :' tenns which one would not readily employ when referring to any one who had ever been the object of our genuine attachment. Yet there is something noble and spirited in the following sentiment, expressed by the duchess in her vindication : ' Young as I was when 1 became A71 Afternoon in tJie Seventeenth Centiuy. 9 this high favourite, I laid it down as a maxim that flattery was falsehood to niy trust, and ingratitude to ray dearest friend.' Anne, on the odier hand, begged of her not to call her * high- ness ' at every word, but to speak her mind freely in all things. Henceforth, Lady Churchill remained in^the household of Anne until faction turned their friendship into enmity. Lady Churchill, located at AVhitehall, now became the star of that minor court, noted for dulness and respectability, which assem- bled in Anne's private apartments to pla; wnist, or quadrille, or to drink caudle after the birth of a young prince or princess. From this stately retirement, Lady Churchill witnessed the course of events ; the death of Charles IL, heart-broken by Monmouth's ingratitude ; the accession of James IL During this period the beautiful Mrs. Freeman appears to have held aloof from masquerading, which was the fashion of the day. Her sister Frances, attired as an orange girl, had passed her basket round in the pit of the theatre under the very eyes of Mary Beatrix, her patroness, and, her disguise half suspected, had vaunted of the compliments paid her. But Sarah abstained from lowering herself; and though afterwards reigning over fashion as over politics, was Httle seen except in the performance of her duties. Hyde Park was then only a country drive, a field, in fact, belonging to a publican. Sometimes the Princess Anne might be seen there, driving with her beloved Freeman, in her coach, panelled only, without glass windows, which were introduced by Charles II. There they encountered Lady Castlemaine and Miss Stuart, whose quarrel vv-hich should first use the famous coach presented by Grammont to the king was the theme of Whitehall. Sometimes from the groves and alleys of Spring Gardens they emerged, perhaps, into the broad walks of St. James's Park, bet\veen the alleys of which, cafe's, such as those permitted in the gardens of the Tuileries, were resorted to by the gay and titled., Sometimes the Princess Anne, followed by the haughty Freeman in her hood and mande, descended Whitehall Stairs, and took her pleasure in her barge on the then calm and fresh waters of the Thames, beyond which were green fields and shady trees. These were all inexpensive plea lo ' Est-il possible* sures ; and both Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman were econo mical. The princess's allowance from the privy purse was small_, and Lord Churchill's means were moderate. More frequently, however, the two friends sat in the prin- cess's Doudoir, then termed her closet, and in that sanctum discussed passing events with bitterness : — the dramatic close of the days of Charles II., who begged pardon of his surround- ing courtiers for being 'so long a-dying;' — the accession and unpopularity of his brother James ; — and, afterwards, the event that roused even Anne from her apathy and made her mali- cious — the birth of the prince whom we southrons call the Pretender. Kind, gentle, and correct as she was, Mary Beatrix was secretly the object of Anne's dislike. A stepmother is bom to be hated : dislike begets dislike ; and Mary Beatrix was not wholly faultless in her conduct to tlie princess. Anne was then the mother of a son of two years of age, and William, Duke of Gloucester, as he had been created, was the heir pre- sumptive to the crown. Doubts were raised : and Anne, touching on the subject of the queen's confinement, provoked her Majesty to throw a glove at her face, upon which the prin- cess retired from court, and went to Bath ; she was, therefore, as well as Lady Churchill, absent when the birth of James Stuart, afterwards styled the Chevalier, took place. Hitherto Sarah, as well as her lord, had been wholly devoted to the Stuarts, and to that party, not then designated, until a later date, Tories, which holds to the reigning family, right or wrong. But Lord Churchill, attached to the Protestant faith, had ample reason, from the gross tyranny of James II., to withdraw from the court as much as possible, and to decline either new honours or offices of trust under that monarch. One by one friends and courtiers deserted James II. : but Prince George of Denmark still remained near him during his flight to Salisbury. Whenever any fresh desertion took place, Prince George, with some diplomacy, merely exclaimed, ' Est-il possible V At last he went too. Upon hearing of his with- drawal, James, with a degree of humour which we would rather have expected from Charles II., exclaimed — * What ! is Est-il Anne Llies fro 1)1 Court. ii possible gone too?' On his return, however, to his capital, James found that Anne had also fled : her apartments at the Cock])it in Westminster, were empty. ' God help me !' cried the disconsolate king ; * my own children have forsaken me.' Anne had indeed, from a fear of being involved in disturb- ances which might injure the succession of her son, taken flight ui)on the return of Est-il possible to Whitehall. In the dead of the night she left her apartments, creeping down by the back stairs, in a hackney-coach, Lady Churchill accompanying her mistress ; and protected by the Bishop of London, Dr. Comp- ton, who had been Anne's tutor, they passed through the streets, and, unobserved, arrived at the episcopal palace, then in the city. On the ensuing day the fugitives went to Copt Hall, the seat of the Earl of Dorset: thence to the Earl of Northampton's, and then to Nottingham, where the country, and in particular the adherents of William of Orange, collected to welcome and support Anne. It must have been a simple cortege, of which Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman now fonned the main features : for the good Bishop Compton, firing up on the occasion, and recalling his youthful days, in which he had been a comet of dragoons, rode at the front with a drawn sword in his hand and a pair of pistols at his saddle-bow. Amid those who assembled at Nottingham was the famous CoUey Gibber the dramatist, whose 'Provoked Husband' and 'Careless Husband' are among the most choice productions of a period rich in dramatic literature. CoUey was then a young man, destined for Oxford : and his fatlier, whose fa.mous figures _ denoting Melancholy Madness and Raving Madness, of the size of life, in the Bethlehem Hospital, have never been ex- celled, was then usually working at Chatsworth, and altering the old Gothic pile into a Grecian structure. When Colley arrived at Chatsworth, he found that his father had gone to Nottingham to serve in the volunteer corps that had mustered for the protection of Princess Anne ; and thither he also went. Now old Caius Gibber was by no means a hero, though the sculptor of heroes; and on beholding his son, full of ardour, he begged him to take his military duties on his young shoulders, and per- suaded tlie Earl of Devonshiie, who was the colonel of the 12 Co/Ay* s E)itJuisiiism, corps, to allow of his having this substitute : so Colley, as he describe«l it, jumped into his fathers saddle, and figured away in the old man s regimentals. Soon after this occurred, the coq3s were ordered to meet the princess on the London road, and to foim a guard round her person whilst she entered Nottingham. The excitement in the town was very great, for a report prevailed that there were two tliousand of tiie King's Dragoons in pursuit of the princess : but the cavalcade reached the Earl of Devonshire's quarters in safety. That night there was a supper. Anne was now the darling of the Protestant party; and all the persons of distinc- tion in the town were eager to accept *my Lord Devonshire's invitation ' to sup with him. The guests were many, the attendants few; and Colley Gibber being well known to the Earl of Devon- shire's maitre cVJiotel^ was pressed into the service. It must have been a singular and an animated scene. The Princess Anne, stately but heavy, was attended by two ladies of her bedchamber, both remarkable for their beauty; but Lady Churchill far out- shone Lady Fitzhardinge, the other lady, in loveliness. As young Gibber, afterwards so noted for his delineation of a woman of haut ton in Lady Modish, stood behind Lady Churchill, his eyes were riveted by her graceful beauty. He could see nothing, hear nothing else. ' Being so near the table,' he wrote fifty years afterwards, *you may naturally ask me what I might have heard to have passed in conversation at it, which I certainly should tell you had I attended to above two words that were uttered th^e, and those were, '■^ Some wine and water;'"' and these came from the * fair guest ' whom Colley took such pleasure to wait upon. * Except,' he says, * at that single sound, all my senses were collected into my eyes, which, during the whole entertainment, wanted no better amusement than that of stealing now and then the delight of gazing on the fair object so near me.' This was Lady Churchill, who sat unconscious of a gaze which the juvenile enthusiast described as 'a regard that had something softer than the most profound respect in it;' nor did he see vWiy he was not free to express this admiration, *since beauty, like the sun, must,' he thought, ^sometimes lose its power to choose, Lady ChurchilL 13 and sliine into equal warmth the peasant and the courtier.* It was half a century after that evening that Colley, young still in fancy, described in those glowing terms the impression made on him by that brief interview. Lady Churchill was wholly passive in tliis iiiglit of Anne's, although the blame of it was thrown on her by political writers. The metropolis, however, was in com- motion when all was discovered. Every one believed that step to have been premeditated, since six weeks previously Anne had ordered a private staircase to be made. She had evidently seen the storm afar off. She returned, however, to Vv'hitehall, to see her royal sister Mary occupying the apartments of Mary Beatrix in that palace, and William holding his court at St. James's, escorted by Dutch guards. This was a result which Lady Churchill does not seem to have anticipated, if we may trust her own account. * I do solemnly protest,' she afterwards wrote, * that if there be truth in any mortal, I was so very simple a creature that I never once dreamt of his (William IIL) being king. Neverthe- less, the responsibility was believed by ever}^ one to rest in some measure with Lady Churchill, since it was through her advice, it was thought, that Anne gave her consent to the crown being settled on William for life : whereas, after Mary, she would have been the rightful successor. At this critical juncture. Lady Churchill wisely sought the advice of persons older and more competent to judge than her- self. The \\adowed Lady Rachel Russell was still living at Southampton House, Bloomsbury, in deep and mournful seclu- sion. She sought her; and they consulted together, and, with the aid of Archbishop Tillotson, decided on the course to be adopted. It was in Southampton House, therefore, that edifice the sight of which had draAvn tears from Lord Russell as he went to execution in Lincoln's Lm Fields, that it was resolved that Anne should henceforth turn from her father's cause, and embrace that of the Revolution. Lady Rachel wa.s then in her prime ; and the blindness which added to the sorrov/s of her old age, a blindne.ss caused by incessant weeping, had not then commenced. These preliminaries being settled, Lady Churchill endeavoured 1 4 Mary of Orange. to like, as well as to acknowledge, the new queen who had suc- ceeded the heroic, patient, and good Mary of Modena. But the court was indeed altered. Mary of Orange, on taking pos- session of her apartments at Whitehall, showed too plainly that she wanted feeling still more than the phlegmatic Anne. It was Lady Churchill's dut}' to attend her Majesty that day to the very rooms which had lately been occupied by Mary Beatrix, ■with her ill-starred infant son. Mary little suspected that the first lady of her sister's bedchamber was watching her with no friendly gaze. ' She ran about,' Lady Churchill relates, * look- ing into ever}' closet and conveniency, and turning up the quilts on the bed, as people do when they come into an inn, and with no other sort of concern in her appearance but such as they express :' and, although at that time Mary was gracious and even caressing to the favourite. Lady Churchill thought her behaviour very strange and unbecoming. Decomm, she felt, should have suggested some sadness of countenance, when Mary passed through the rooms, and paused to examine the very bed from which her father, King James, had been so lately driven. But these thoughts she kept to herself. Two days afterwards, the very hall of that palace whence James had fled, and at the gate of which Charles L had been beheaded, wit- nessed the proclamation which made William king and Mary queen. In the present day, the faintest attempt to place a foreign monarch of another dynasty on the throne would pro- duce revolution ; in those, it was hailed as a refuge against despotism. Two days previously Lord Churchill having been created Earl of Marlborough, the a.spiring Sarah gained another step in the course of her aggrandizement, and became the Countess of Marlborough. But she hated the hand whence this new honour came ; and the reign of Mary was embittered to both the daughters of James II. by the incessant bickerings of the two sisters, and by endless disputes and affronts which Lady Marlborougli did not attempt to soothe. She had aban- doned, it is true, the friend and patron of her youth, the con- fidante of her marriage, Mary Beatrix ; but she could not avoid feeling that Mary of Orange, with her cold virtues, would nevel replace that warm and fascinating patroness. The royal sisterg TJi£ Cockpit, 15 too, it was soon perceived, did not assimilate. Mary was a model queen, a model \vife; that unpleasant personage, a patron of excellence. She possessed what Pope calls, * not a science, but worth all the seven, prudence.' She began to refomi the court, to send away doubtful characters, to set an example of industry in needlework, and of regularity in public devotion as well as in private. She found fault, it appears, with Lady Marlborough's laxity in this last respect ; and to hint a blemish in Lady Marlborough was to offend Anne mortally. Then Mary was an esprit fort ^ a great historian and politician, and a great talker ; and she found her younger sister, from whom she had been separated for years, as silent as she was stupid, just answering a question, nothing more. William IIL too, was intensely jealous of the popularity which Anne enjoyed, and which is sometimes the result of perfect insignificance of cha- racter in high station. There soon arose a pretence for disputes, and an outbreak followed of course. The Princess Anne, as we have seen, lived in that part of Whitehall called from its entrance the Cockpit. St. James's Park, which, in the time of Henry VI IL, belonged to the Abbot of Westminster, was bought by that monarch and con- verted into a park, a tennis-court, and a cockpit, which was situated where Downing Street now is. The park was ap- proached by two noble gates, and, until the year 1708, the Cockpit Gate, which oi)ened into the court where Anne lived, was standing. It was surmounted Tvith lofty towers and battle- ments, and had a portcullis, and many rich decorations. Westminster Gate, the other entrance, was designed by Hans Holbein, and some foreign architect doubdess erected the Cockpit Gate. The scene of the cruel diversion of cock-fighting was, indeed, obliterated before Anne's time, and the palace, which was one long range of apartments and offices reaching to the river, ex- tended over that space. The locality was pleasant enough. From her windows Anne could see the pleasant village of Charyng; Westminster Abbey, without the towers, stood in an open space, and the Park peopled with singing birds; and though merry King Charles J 6 Sidvicy Godolphin. was no longer to be seen there feeding liis ducks, and talking pleasantly to everyone, there was a grand mall in fine weather, to which lords and ladies, shopwomen, Mohawks and roaring boys, maccaronies (or dandies) of both sexes repaired and sat, in gay dresses and periwigs, under the trees. Yet the Princess Anne was not contented : she had the bad taste to wish to remove to the very rooms once occupied by the Duchess of Portsmouth, mistress to her late uncle, Charles II., a person- age who, with other disrejjutable ladies, had been routed by Queen Mary from the now saintly precincts of Whiteliall. The difficulties and discussions induced by Anne's wish to remove, produced endless heartburnings, and ended in Anne's taking the duchess's rooms for her children's use, and remaining at the Cockpit. Here, at this period, resorted the gay, the learned, the in- triguing, attracted, not by Queen Anne and her dull consort, but by the grace, the wit, and busy political turn of Lady Marlborough. She stands at the head of those who have been * queens of society,' for she governed the beau 7nonde of her own time. It is true she was not in her climax until Anne was on the throne ; but she was in the radiance of her youth when her friend Mrs. Morley dwelt in the Cockpit. Unlet- tered, slie was the counsellor of her famous husband, the leading star of his ambition. Her plain, shrewd sense, with- out one grain of sentiment, riveted him. They had but one heart, one soul between them : whilst her loveliness, her dig- nified ease, her vivacit}'', fascinated a man of powerful under- st;mding and noble qualities — the celebrated minister Sidney Godolphin. The very name, Godolphin, signifying a white eagle, recalled in those days one of the heroes of the Great Rebellion, the ill- fated Sidney Godolphin. Like most others of Charles's adhe- rents, the minister of Queen Anne belonged to an impoverished race, and it was even contemplated by his friends to place hira in some trade. The young Comishman had, however, all the shrewdness of the west countryman; and being a page to Charles II., when once in the precincts of a court he made the best of his opportunities. Nothing, however, in the public Sarah the Object of Ciiliimny. service so accorded witli his inclinations as being made cham- berlain to Mary Beatrix. He admired, he respected, he almost loved this young and amiable queen, and continued to befriend her until the close of his o\vn career. That career was a straggle between principle and affection. When James IT. showed his true designs to his indignant people, Godolphin, like an honest man, clung to the standard of civil and religious liberty ; but his heart was with his early patrons. Courageous, but tender-hearted, he set his party at defiance, accompanied James II. to the sea-shore, before his final departure for France, and continued to correspond with him, which he honestly confessed to William III., until the death of the exiled monarch. Godolphin was Lord Treasurer to James II., and he was retained in that office by William III. Although one of the plainest of men, he had attracted, early in her youth. Queen Anne's regard : he was now, according to slanderous report, the favoured lover of Sarah Countess of Marlborough. Deeply marked with the small-pox, his counte- nance was harsh; and no one could have imagined that Godol- phin could v/eep like a woman when his feelings were touched, and that he was prone to sentiment His smile, however, when it broke forth from his plain, hard features was most winning, and his eyes were dark and penetrating. Such was the man, to whose honour be it spoken that he ever cherished for Mary of Modena a romantic and generous devotion, and to injure whom, it was alleged by contemporaries that the wife ot his friend and coadjutor, Marlborough, was the object of a passion by no means platonic. There existed at that period a paid regiment of ^\Titers, whose v/orks were at once calumnious and adulatory. As * Queen Sarah,' as she was now styled, was often the subject of the latter, so she sometimes became the butt of the former style of writing. Patronized by Dean Swift, amongst the venial defamers of the day, appears the notorious Rivella, alias Mrs. de la Riviere Manley, whose * Atlantis,' ' History of Prince Mirabel,' ' Secret History of Queen Zarah and the Zarazians,' were thought worthy of being preserved by Svvift among the state tracts. Rivella was a woman of aban- doned character, the pupil, in her youth, of the infamous 1 8 Marlborough to his Wife, Madame Mazarin, the confidante of the Duchess of Cleveland, and the tool, for party purposes, of the malignant Swift. It was her aim, of course at once to lower the Marlborough ascendency with the public, and to cut short an intimacy beneficial to all concerned, by tainting it 'with her foul and absurd aspersions ; but Queen Sarah could not be aspersed. Her moral character was invulnerable. She rose superior to the assault, and retained the all-important friendship of Godolphin to her latest day. A woman of prudence and virtue has, in fact, a far greatel latitude of action in her conscious innocence than those who dare not defy calumny. Marlborough was, indeed, continually absent ; the very first campaign in Ireland tore him from his home. His letters were full of tenderness to her whom he left. ' Put your trust in God,' he wrote to his wife, in the very midst of his triumphs, ' and be assured that I think I can't be unhappy as long as you are kind.' And after the battle of Ramilies — ' Pray believe me when I assure you that I love you more than I can express.' Vet Sarah had now passed the bloom of her youth, and her temper had lost its equanimity. Still the hero pined for repose with her. ' As God has been pleased to bless me,' he AVTites in another letter, * I do not doubt but he will reward me with some years to end my days with you ; and if that be with quietness and kindness, I shall be much happier than I have ever been yet.* Lady Marlborough, was indeed, every way blessed : to please her, her husband now purchased the share in the family estate, from her coheiresses Frances and Barbara, and built a large mansion on the spot where she was bom, called HolyAvell House, a stately structure, which she left only when Blenheim was given them by the nation, and in which some remember the old Lady Spencer, the mother of the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, living in gi-eat comfort and suitable style. Some clouds, nay some stonns there were at times in this serene atmosphere ; but these were almost essential to keep Queen Sarah alive, in the dull court of the Princess Anne. Like most spoiled women, she had one pet aversion, and that was King William, whom she called ' Caliban.' Other names that she gave him were not even so decorous as that offensive Ki?ig ^Caliban* 19 wbriquet. The dry, cold manner of William affronted her: the king despised talkers, and one of Lady Marlborough's greatest gifts was conversation. Then she hated his character, which, she thought, was exhibited in its true colours by Wil- liam's eating up a dish of early peas all himself, whilst Anne, near her confinement, was dying to partake of them. ' Europe and the back stairs,' Horace Walpole remarks, ' shared in her mind in importance ;' and whilst every-day incidents affected her mind to frenzy, it became hard to take a broad and gene- rous view of affairs. The court now assumed a formality that disgusted one who hated surface-piety. William, whilst Lady Orkney was his mistress, paraded virtue in the plainest of forms. His senten- tious remarks, his deep reserve, his chilling demeanour, fonned a singular contrast with the easy politeness and mirth of Charles H., and the stately courtesy of King James. At Hampton Court, whither he retired with Mary, his * Roman eagle' nose, his sparkling eyes — conspicuous on a face deeply seamed with the small-pox — his thin, small figure, made him look like a caricature of mankind. Like Napoleon HL, he had the grand secret of hiding all he thought, and much that he felt. The royal actor on that stage whereon the pageant of royalty had of late passed so suddenly away, had the talent so much commended, for silence. The automaton monarch, however, broke the peaceful stillness, by his deep convulsive cough, and the weakness which was bearing him to the grave recalled the comaction that he was human. Lady Marlborough now passed much of her time at Hamp- ton Court, to which William was adding that mass of building which looks upon the gardens, and where he was planning, with a lingering fondness for his Dutch palace at Loo, the noble gardens upon the model of those of his regretted home. Amid the ornaments of the presence-chambers, none formed a more suitable embellishment than Queen Mary herself. She was every inch a queen, and far more agreeable in appearance than her sister Anne. Tall, majestic, with a fine open face — though weak-eyed — Mary moved with infinite grace. Fond of society, she endeavoured to obviate the impression made by 20 ]\Iarlboroiigh Disgraced. the king's rudeness and ticfturnity by talking herself, and ty bringing around her those who could adorn the now exclusive circle of Hampton Court and Kensington. But she could not succeed in making the dull receptions of her court cheerful, or even endurable ; for all the fashion, wit, and talent centred round Lady Marlborough. Litt'ie did Mary love her sister Anne ; yet she ascribed all the bickerings that now arose to the favourite, henceforth called the ' dicta tress,' and resolved, if she could, to accom.plish her dismissal. In spite of Lord Marlborough's great ser\'ices to the crown, he had been detected in carrying on a correspond- ence bordering on treason with James II. ; and a still more-; fatal error, he was also discovered to have told his wife of a,- design of William's to surprise the important port of Dunkirk. Tliat project had transpired — and failed. It had been men- tioned by Lady Marlborough to a Lady Oglethorpe ; by Lady Oglethoq:)e to Frances Jennings, now Lady Tyrconnel ; by her it was transmitted to the French court. Jean Bart, the pirate, a native of Dunkirk, had cut through the English ships which blockaded the harbour, and saved the tOAvn. Marlborough was disgraced, and his wife was led to conclude that she- would be forbidden the court ; nevertheless, with her usual courage, emboldened also by the advice of Godolphin, she attended Arme, when the princess conceived it to be her duty to visit her royal sister at Kensington. No details of the audience are extant ; but it may be readily pictured to a mind conversant ^vith that period. The interior of Kensington Palace was then dark and cheerless ; the walls were oak panelled ; the roof richly embossed. Beneath a canopy of state sat Mar}'", in her accustomed deep-blue gown, with tio\^^ng skirts, and a chemisette of point lace opening in the front of the bust. Her plump throat is encircled with a collar of pearls ; her hair is flowing down her back : in front it is raised high on the head in a toupee form, intermingled on either side -^vith pearls. She wears a 'commode' to set out her train, and has raised heels. Her aim is to be delicate and rega.1, for Mary has never worn her petticoats short since those days of youthful folly when she skated on the Scheldt with the The Court in Full-Dress, «1 Duke of Monmouth, whom it was William's policy to allure to his Dutch court. In vain has she tried to model her dress strictly by the rules of modesty, though angry with Kneiler for continuing to paint her in a costume which looks as if it were likely to drop off altogether. By her side sits the king in a French peruke, which almost obliterates his face, except his eagle nose, and falls down to his small waist. He wears a field-marshars uniform, with the stai and garter, a costume rarely altered by him; and his cough might be heard, dry and asthmatic, even at the very entrance of the presence-chamber. Courtiers of every grade, silver sticks and gold sticks, the grand cliamberlain and pages, stand in their appointed places, some in waving flaxen perukes, called by wags, *the silver fleeces,' others in frosted wigs, which had just begun to succeed the dark, curling perukes of Charles II. and his time. The higher the rank of each individual, the larger the ^^^g. (Shame on Louis XIV., by whom this absurdity was introduced, and in whose reign even statues were bewigged!) The kings feet are mounted in high-heeled shoes, and buckles of diamonds, set in silver, shine on the step on which they rested. William's brow darkens as he beholds the princess enter, tor he has heard that when the disgrace of Marlborough was announced to her, Anne had shed tears. She knew what was next to happen. Near the king stands Eentinck, afterwards Duke of Portland, and once page to his Dutch majesty. Bentinck was one of Lady Marlborough's most powerful foes, for he had secured William s whole power of affection, by nursing him, at the peril of his own life, through the small-pox — as great an act of friend- ship in those days, when that scourge was wholly unmitigated, as can be conceived. Bentinck had taken the disease, and his placid face, seamed and disfigured, could never fail to recall to the king his act of devotion. To liim we owe tlie taste of gardening which Engip.nd, until his time, but little appreciated. Anne, when queen, never forgave his dislike of her dear Mrs. Freeman, and deprived liim of his post as Keeper of Windsor Great Park. The princess, with her consort, Prince George, in his full dress as Lord High Admiral, may be easily 92 Lady Marlborougli Tabooed, pictured. The rubicund face of Est-il possible is now some- what weather-beaten. He has lately distinguished himself fight- ing against his father-in-law's troops at the Battle of the Boyne ; nevertheless, the king and queen treat the brave nonentity with no more respect, as Queen Sarah declares, ' than if he had been a page of the back stairs.' Anne scowling, though Kensington could never have been too light, is handed by her consort with an air of injured inno- cence. There is a resemblance observable between the royal sisters, but the difference is the absence of intelligence and grace. Anne is clumsy in her stateliness ; Mary is perfect in every attitude. Anne has a somewhat good house-wife air, and looks like the respectable mother of a family. Mary is a Stuart and a queen. As Anne, in a cinnamon-coloured gown, with a crimson train, a falling jewel on her brow, and her hair in thick short curls high on her forehead, moves heavily forward, a whisper runs through the presence-chamber. 'What! Lady Marl- borough ? and her husband dismissed from his command, and she the cause ?' Yes, she is coming in all her matured beauty, with her light hair all in wavy curls on her head ; one tendril intmding upon her brow whiter than snow. The hair, systemati- cally careless, is thrown back so as to show the ears, and the delicate region of the cheek, the chin, the throat ; and falls in tresses far away, undulating, glossy tresses over the left shoulder. Whilst all around are blazing with jewels, she wears not one: her dress is white satin, and could stand alone ; but she, too, has a ' commode :' her white arm has a string of pearls round it, and that is all. On the left side of the queen walks Lady Fitzhardinge, whom Sarah loved — a rare distinction — and who betrayed her friends to William, an event not rare in courts ; and followed by the usual silver sticks, and the complement of pages, they make their way up to the Cloth of Estate amid the smiles and mur- murs of all present. The reception — to return from this ideal picture to fact — was perfectly freezing ; and, early in the next day, Mary intimated to her sister that since she had allowed Lady Marlborough tc go to Kensington with her, her * lady of the bedchamber mu?»" Royal Spite. ' 23 not stay' in the princess's service: Anne's taking her 'was the very strangest thing ever done, and was very unkind in a sister, and would have been veiy uncivil in an equal.' She could pass over most things, but could not pass over Lady Marlborough's going to court on that occasion. To this message Anne returned a calm but resolute reply, said to have been suggested by Godolphin. No answer was sent to it, except a messenger from the Lord Chamberlain to Lady Marlborough, commanding her to leave the Cockpit : that residence being in Whitehall, was considered within the queen's rights. The princess, thereupon, resolved not to separate from her friend, packed up, and went away also, accepting, for a time, the loan of Sion House from the Duke of Somerset So far Queen Sarah was triumphant ; but even her spirits and health were affected by her husband's continued disgrace. * Do, for God's sa.ke,' Anne wrote to her, ' have a little care of your dear self Give way as little to melancholy as you can. Try asses' milk.' And she was miserable at the necessity for Mrs. Freeman's being 'let blood.' The feud between the two sisters went on for some time ; but Anne was as obstinate as any Stuart. Lady Marlborough, mean- time, lost her infant son. Lord Brackley; and the princess, taking a chair, braved royal anger, and went to see her. In vain did Mrs. Freeman offer to give up her post to ensure peace. Anne answered her offers in letters which her dear friend after- wards described as very ' indifferent both in sense and spelling,' with great repetitions of a few passionate expressions. Anne's court, meantime, was almost deserted ; and when she went to Bath, her uncle. Lord Rochester, wrote to the Mayor (a tallow-chandler), forbidding any respect to be shown to her ; yet Anne was scarcely vexed. Her favourite's smiles or frowns affected her more than the tallow-chandler's not being allowed to light up Bath. ' Dear Mrs. Freeman must give me leave to ask her,' she humbly wrote one night, ' if anything has happened to make her uneasy. I thought she looked to-night as if she had the spleen ; and I can't help being in pain whenever I see her so.' Mary even ordered that the text of the sermon at St. James's, where Anne went to Church, should not be put into 24 Cold Receptions, her pew according to custom; but that 'noble design,' as Mrs. Freeman termed it, was dropped by tlie advice of ministers. These woman-hke disputes were going on when Mary was attacked with the small-pox, and died, owing to the mistaken treatment of Dr. Radcliffe. The two sisters never met more, and the audience at Kensington was then* last interview. After a time, when William's bitter anguish was somewhat assuaged, he was reconciled to the Princess Anne ; and forth- with crowds were seen hastening to Berkeley House, and Queen Sarah was once more in her glor}'. How thoroughly she despised those who now caressed her as the *dictatress' once more ! How intensely diverted she seems to have been with the half-witted Lord Cannarthen's saying to Anne, as he stood by her in the circle : * I hope your Highness will remember that I came to wait upon you when none of this company did ;' and a burst of laughter shook the courtly assembly. In spite of the reconciliation, however, William continued to show all the malice of a little mind towards his successor and sister-in-law. When Anne waited on his Majesty at Kensington, no more respect was paid to her than to any other lady, until this neglect v/as talked about, and then Lord Jersey saw her to her coach, but no one higher than a page of the back stairs ever came to meet her. Often was the princess kept waiting for an hour and a half. These annals of a wardrobe, as Horace Wal- pole terms them, are characteristic; and, as such, it is to be regretted that Plooke the historian, to whom the duchess in- trusted the arrangement of her Memoirs, thought it prudent to cut out some of the most amusing and impertinent passages. Time, however, softened all these heartburnings ; and William, how bitter soever his dislike to the Lady Marlborough, did justice at last to her husband. When the Duke of Gloucester, Anne's only surviving child, became old enough to require a governor, William confided him to Marlborough : 'Teach him, my Lord, to be like yourself,' were William's words to Marl- borough, ' and my nephew cannot want accomplishments.* Bishop Burnet was appointed the little duke's tutor by Marl- borough ; and between them they so over-trained the poor hot- house plant, that in two years it ceased to exist. The Little Whig, 25 Meantime, five daughters and one son seemed to fill up the measure of Lord and Lady Marlborough's felicity. But of all human sources of happiness, none excite so much hope, none often cause such bitter disappointment, as children. The son, Lord Blandford, died early ; the daughters were beautiful and virtuous, but had tempers like their mother, and, as they grew up, there was little family union. Lady Henrietta Churchill, in her eighteenth year, was married to Lord Rialton, the eldest son of the minister Godolphin : she afterwards became Duchess of Marlborough in her own right, but died before her mother. Of her it is told that, being devotedly attached to Congreve, the dramatist, she had, after his death, a wax figure made resem- bling him, which was placed in his usual seat at her table, a cover always being laid for * Mr. Congreve.' Henrietta's temper was not unperceived by her father, who deeply regretted the quarrels between his wife and daughters as the latter grew up. Lady Anne, the second of the great Marlborough's daughters, and the loveliest, was married to Lord Sunderland, son of the disgraced minister, Sunderland, and through her descendants the titles and estates of the Churchill s have been enjoyed by the Spencers. She was all goodness ; but her union was infelicitous. Beneath a frigid demeanour. Lord Sunderland concealed fiery passions : with a cold heart, a republican in public, a t}Tant in private life, he sought, when a young vv'idower, the hand of Lady Anne Churchill, whilst such affections as he had were buried in the tomb of his first wife, Lady Arabella Cavendish. On this account Lord and Lady Marlborough long hesitated before they would intrust their best-beloved daughter to him. They were married, however, and Lady Sunderland became a leader of fashion; to compass which she must needs be a politician. ' The little Whig^ as she was called, from the smallness of her stature, used to wear her patches on the left side, whilst the Tory ladies wore theirs on the right ; so that all society was divided by this social freemasonry. Lady Sunderland died at an early age of consumption. Next came Lady Elizabeth, raaiTied to the Earl of Bridge- water : — ■ 26 TJic Churchills. ' Hencii B-auly, Wiiking, all her forms supplies, An angel's sweetness in Bridgewater'"? ey^ '* Slie also died of consumption, and was buried in Gaddesden Church, Hertfordshire. Then came * Angel Duchess Montagu,' Lady Mary Churchill, manied to the Duke of Montagu; but, although Pope gave her that name, she seems to have been a complete shrew. Her mother and she were long at variance. * I wonder you and your mother cannot agree,' said Marl- borough, worn out, in old age by their squabbles ; * you are so alike.' The daughter of the Duchess of Montagu, the good and gay Duchess of Manchester, was a great favourite of Queen Sarah's. * Duchess of Manchester,' said her gi-andmother to her one day, 'you are a good creature, but you have a mother.* * And she^ too, has a mother,' was the ready, fearless retort. For her daughters, the ' dictatress' procured so many places, that Queen Anne's court was said to consist only of one family. Yet, though they added lustre to her life, they were not the solace of her age. The death of William IH., in 1702, formed an era in the life of Queen Sarah. She was forty-three years of age, and her husband fifty-three, when, on Anne's coming to the throne, their prosperity was raised to the acme. Queen Sarah was now cap- tivating as a wit, rather than as a beauty : yet her loveliness remained still ; and her hair, preserved by the use of honey water, was abundant still, and untouched by time. Her haughtiness had now grown into insolence, and her temper was chiefly vented upon her royal patroness, whom for ten years she governed without a rival. The courtiers, who had been weeping at the bedside of William, now rushed from Kensington to the more genial atmosphere of St. James's, Avhich was crowded with loyal sub- jects, congratulating her whom they had deserted when she had held her court in the privacy of Berkeley House, and the coronation followed in a few months, when Lady Marlborough • Pope, TJie ' Dictatnss's^ Insolence. 37 was seen in all her glory, attending on tlie queen, who was carried in a low chair from the hall at Westminster to the abbey. Even then, the watchful courtiers observed that when holding the queen's gloves, or presenting them to her Majesty, the 'dictatress' used to turn away her head, 'as if she had an ill smell under her nose.' But Anne took this insolence pas- sively, and heaped honours and pensions on her two favourites. In the midst of all Lady Marlborough's triumphs, however, a blow came which might have chastened a less proud spirit. Her son, the Marquis of Blandford, caught the small-pox at Cambridge : the disease appeared in its most malignant form. His mother, now Duchess of Marlborough, hastened to hira. The queen sent two of her physicians in one of the royal car- riages to see him. For some time there was a slight, slight hope. In this suspense the great heart of Marlborough was poured out thus to his wife : — 'If we must be so unhappy as to lose this poor child,' such were his words, ' I pray God to enable us both iu behave our- selves with that resignation which we ought to do. ii this uneasiness which I now lie under should last long, I think I could not live. For God's sake, if there be any hope of reco- covery, let me know it.' A few hours after writing this letter, the unhappy fathei, unable to bear the delay of a reply, set off for Cambridge, where he arrived only in time to see his son expire. The youth was buried in King's College Chcpel, the place where his prayers had been regularly and fervently uttered ever since his residence at college. Marlborough mourned like a father and a Christian ; but he was summoned to the seat of war, and, in the excitement of battle strove to bear his loss, and to believe it for the best. It did not wean his wife from the world, in which her whole soul was fatally bound up. The bereaved couple were separated by the French war for many months. The duchess was now for some years, if not queen indeed, the queen of society. Lord Somers and the Eail of Halifax, of whose poetry Horace Walpole observes, time has indeed * withered the charais ;' Pope, who satirized her as Atossa ; 28 TJie Shorn Tresses. Gay, Steele, Addison, Congreve — all mingled in the circles which, in the Friary in St. James's, where Queen Sarah latterly resided, were assembled. The Duchess of Marlborough de- lighted in the society of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, then a young and brilliant member of society. In after days Lady Mary and Lady Bute used to visit the duchess, and even sit by her whilst she was at dinner, or when casting up her accounts, which she did in the very midst of all her busy life. In the course of conversation with these two charming women, tlie duchess used to relate how proud the duke had formerly been of her luxuriant hair. One day, however, he offended her, and Sarah, in a fury, punished him. She cut off all those fair tresses, and laid them in a room through which Marlbo- rough was obliged to pass, that he might see them, and be vexed. To her surprise, the duke took no notice of the loss of her locks. Years afterwards she found them, however, in a cabinet, amongst the most precious of his possessions, trea- sured up. At this point of her story the duchess used to melt into tears. The kind heart that had loved and pardoned her was,, when Lady Mary Wortley heard the anecdote, in the grave ; and the cold, undutiful members of the family alone remained. Amongst the votaries of the duchess, Colley Gibber, in a scarlet and gold livery — for he was now one of the royal come- dians, and styled a ' gentleman of the great chamber' — still admired the charms of the ' grandmother without a gray hair.' Mrs. Oldfield, the original Lady Betty Modish, was also ad- mitted, frail as she was, into the aristocratic saloons then thrown open widely to talent. Here she learned to personate the woman of fashion. She was the mistress of William Mayn- waring, who, at forty, had become attached to this first-rate actress with all the passion, and with more than the constancy of a first love. In vain did Maynwaring's best friends, and among others the Duchess of Marlborough, try to turn him from a connection so discreditable. Maynwaring was a7ni de la maison to the duke and duchess, and died at HolyAvell, after walking in the gardens there, ver)- suddenly. He divided his property between Mrs. Oldfield and his sister, for which he Whig and Tory. 29 was blamed by Swift, who knew not one generous sentiment, but defended by Sir Robert Walpole. During the reign of Queen Sarah at court, Majii waring had often warned her of the risk she ran in treating the queen with contemptuous familiarity. Dr. Hare, Bishop of Chichester, re- commended self-control on still higher grounds, whilst the famous Dr. Garth was, in all emergencies, not only a physician but a friend. But nothing could pacify her implacable haughty spirit, and it brought its own reward. Favoured so eminently by fortune, the duke and duchess had still their trials. Among the bitterest enemies of the Whig party was Dean Swift. He had set out in life as a violent Whig. When James II. left Whitehall, the dean declared that nothing would purify that ancient palace after the Stuarts had lived there. • He's gone — the rank infection still remains. Which to repel requires eternal pains.' The *mad parson,' as- Swift was called at Button's Coffee House, before his name was known there, excited the curiosity of many persons. The appearance of the * Tale of a Tub,' in 1704, betrayed the renegade to his former friends. The * Examiner,' conducted by Swift, Atterbury, Bolingbroke, and Prior, all Tory ^Titers, made both the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough the objects of its skilful satire. The Whig party now began to decline, and in spite of the great victories of Ramilies and Blenheim, which ought to have reinforced Marl- borough and Godolphin, a change of ministr)' took place, and Harley, Earl of Oxford, the very head and front of the High Church and Tory party, became prime minister. It is true that he endeavoured by ever}^ possible means to gain the favour of the power behind the throne — Queen Sarah ; but whatever Avere her failings, she was fearlessly sincere — and she defied him : she would not bend to his flatteries, nor scarcely listen to him when he spoke. The Duchess had, smce the battle of Blenheim, become a princess of the German empire. Her pride was now almost too great for her attendance at court to continue ; she way 30 Poor Relatives. becoming weary of her duties; but, although willing to go out, was by no means inclined ' to be turned out,' and possibly her reign would have endured until the last, had it not been for one fatal error in her tactics. It is often poor relations, or humble friends, who prove the worst foes of the incautious. One of the queen's dressers, by name Abigail Hill, had owed that post to the Duchess of Marlborough, to whom she was related. Abigail was the 'Becky' of Queen Anne's back-stairs. Her father had been a Turkey merchant, and had failed ; and she had even been reduced so low as to become a servant to Lady Rivers ; but her kinswoman had rescued her, and placed her in the queen's household. The duchess's motives for this charitable act originated in that old-fashioned claim of consanguinity which is too often disallowed in the present day. Sir John Jennings, her grand- father, had had two-and-twenty children ; and though he had an estate of four thousand a year, Mrs. Hill, the mother of Abigail, came in for a share of five hundred pounds only ; and her hus- band having speculated, the family were reduced to indigence. One day a lady ventured at Whitehall to tell the lofty Sarah that s!ie had relations who were destitute. The dictatress, though by no means fond of parting with money, pulled ten giiineas out of her purse, and sent it for present use. Mrs. Hill's eldest daughter, Abigail, after this became an inmate ot tlie duchess's house at Holpvell, and was brought up in a whole- some state of fear of her patroness. In due time Abigail was promoted to be one of the Princess Anne's bedchamber women or dressers ; * for,' the duchess states, ' as I found rockers (from the royal nursery) in King James's reign were promoted to that ofhce, I did not see why she might not ask for it for poor Abigail Hill, whose younger sister was made laundress to the little Duke of Gloucester.' Another member of this indigent family was Jack Hill, who was at first put into the Customs, and afterwards rose to be a general, and commanded in the ex- pedition to Quebec : nevertheless, this * ragged boy, the honest Jack Hill, a good-for-nothing lad,' was afterwards, says the duchess, * persuaded by his sisters to get up, wrap himself in A ' Back-stairs ' Conspiracy. ^ i warmer clothes than those I had given him, and go to the House to vote against the duke.' The end might be conjectured, even if the often-told story ol ingratitude and meanness on the one hand, and insolence and generosity on the other, had not been circumstantially told by the duchess in her ' Vindication.' The queen and her favourite differed, it seemed, on several important points. Anne hated the idea of the Hanoverian suc- cession, and pined to bring her brother back to England. Sarah was all for George I. and that d)masty, and showed her temper whenever Anne dared to rebel against her opinion. No sooner had she left the palace than Anne used to send for Mrs. Hill to confide to her how ill-treated she was. Mrs. Hill was willing to go all lengths, and to be a Jacobite heart and soul. Her manner was flattering and humble ; and she had the additional advantage of being connected Avith Harley, Earl of Oxford, whose sentiments were Tory. In the midst of all this back- stairs intriguing, Miss Abigail married, privately, Mr. Samuel Masham, the eighth son of Sir Francis Masham, baronet, and a groom of Prince George's bed-chamber. But though tlie Duchess of Marlborough was not informed of this secret union, Queen Anne was a confidante in the affair, and had even at- tended the ceremony secretly, as Queen Sarah found out from a boy who waited on the upper servants in Anne's household : *back stairs,' again ! The deception had been carried on some time. \Vhenever the duchess went to see the queen, in stepped Mrs. Masham, ^vith the boldest and gayest air possible. At the sight of her benefactress she stopped short, changed her manner, and drop- ping a solemn curtsey, with a — Did your Majesty ring ?' retired with demure humility. As the duchess was, as she expressed it, * apt to tumble out her mind,' she did not scruple to express herself very openly when her suspicions were confinried ; and to her horror she found that the queen began to take her cousin's part. Offence followed offence : there was no reasoning with worthy Queen Anne, who had a habit of repeating the same thing over and over again, till Sarah was almost ready to rush from the room 3» Queen Sarah Dethronetf. in a rage. Mrs. Masham had offended her Grace of Marl borough by never going near her ; and when the duchess com plained of this one day, the queen said that it was very natural Mrs. Masliam should keep away, since the duchess was angry with her ; and she was quite in the right. ' My cousin,' cried Sarah, * has no need to be afraid, unless she is conscious oi some crime.' Then Queen Anne began again — (this tiresome way of repeating the one idea in her mind had been inherited from her father) — ' It was very natural, and she was voxy much in the right :' upon which, exasperated beyond measure, * Mrs. Freeman,' as she was now only occasionally styled, got up, went away, shut the door of the closet, in which she and the queen sat, with such violence, that the very walls shook, and the cor- ridor echoed with the sound. Mrs. Masham, terrified, did at last call on the incensed duchess. Reproaches and recriminations proved that the poor queen was in the right : her interview made matters worse. During the ensuing Christmas holidays, the duchess made one more attempt to see the queen. They were still Mrs. Free- man and Mrs. Morley in words; but all confidence was gone. Queen Anne stood during the interview, as if to give a hint that it was to be short : and when they parted, merely gave her hand to the duchess, who stooped to kiss it. * She took me up,' the duchess relates, * with a very cold embrace, and then, without one kind word, let me go.' The duchess, nevertheless, made another effort. She wrote to the queen, promising never to name her cousin Abigail again, and begging her majesty, be- fore she received the holy communion, to examine herself; quoting, also, passages from the 'Whole Duty of Man,' then the handbook of the religious world, and Jeremy Taylor ; but, in spite of her lecture to Queen Anne, and her promise, she did not scruple to call Mrs. Masham, * a wretch.' Neither argument nor promises availed. The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough were obliged, by the influence of Abigail, to resign their offices ; and from the moment of their retirement. Queen Anne ceased either to be great abroad, or respected at home. Henceforth, whenever Anne addressed her Takes Leave of Queen Anns* 33 former fa\'ouritc it was in the tone of command. Mrs. Moriey and Mrs. Freeman had ceased to exist. 1'hey met, hoA^ever, once more. When Prince George of Denmark lay expiring, the duchess hastened to Kensington, and was presenf; at his last moments. When all v/as over, the duchess, in the warmth of a generous heart, kneeling, entreated her Majesty to let her accompany her to St. James's, and to leave the scene of sorrow. Queen Anne was touched, but quailed at the idea of offending her * poor Masham,' who was not in the room. She assented, however ; but placing her watch in Sarah's hand, bade her retire till the finger should reach a certain hour; mean- time to send Mrs. Masham to her. A crowd was collected out- side the ante-chamber. The duchess, who perceived that all chance of regaining the queen's favour was at an end, resolved that the failure of her favour should not be disclosed to the expectant courtiers. She ordered them to retire whilst her majesty should pass through ; she gav«» directions that her own coach should be ready for the queen's use: then she returned to the royal closet. *Your Majesty,' said the lofty dictatress, * must excuse my not delivering your message to Mrs. Masham: your Majest}'- can send for her to St. James's, how and when you please.' Then she gave her arm to the queen, who, looking to the right and to the left, afraid of wounding her 'dear Masham,' on whom she bestowed a glance of kindness, moved along the galler)'. But no reconciliation ensued, and Queen Anne, when at St. James's, chose to sit in the very closet latterly occupied by Prince George, because the ' back stairs ' belonging to it communicated with Mrs. Masham's apartment ; and Abigail could thus bring to her any one with whom she chose to carry on political intrigues. Well might Shakspeare's lines in his * Richard 11.,' in speak- ing of the farewell l)etween Anne and her once dear Mrs. Free- man, be recalled : — 'And say, what store of partinjif fenrs were shed? Faith, not by me, except the north-east wind (Which then blew bitterly against our faces) Awak'd the sleepy rheum ; and so, by chance, Did'grace our hollow parting \vith a tear.' Henceforth the duchess must be considered as the hcaa of 3 34 1^^^ Building of Blenheim, the Opposition. Swift now attacked her more fiercely tluin evei in the * Examiner,' and accused her of taking enormous bribes when in office, and of peculating as mistress of the wardrobe. When Queen Anne heard of these charges, she remarked : * Everybody knows that cheating is not the Duchess of Marl- borough's crime.' Still Swift was in close alliance with the Masham faction, and directed against the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough those lines beginning — • A widow kept a favourite cat, At first a gentle creature ; But when he was grown sleek and fat, With many a mouse and many a rat, He soon disclosed his nature.' The erection of a ducal residence at Blenheim henceforth occupied the duke and duchess's retirement. It was designed by Sir John Vanbrugh, an arciiitect who was the object of Sarah's inveterate hatred. Vanbrugh built the Haymarket theatre : there he assisted Bettcrton as manager, and brought out two plays, ' The Relapse,' and * The Provoked Wife,' at once witty and immoral. Vanbragh was completing Castle Howard, when he was en- gaged to build Blenheim. To his fantastic taste we owe St. John's Church, Westminster ; not to mention his own residence now pulled dowm at Whitehall, of which Swift writes — 'At length they in the rubbish spy A thing resembling a goose pie. He was comptroller of the royal works, on which account, and being a man, on his njother's side, of good family, and of an agreeable exterior, he had been cherished in the society of the great Having once been confined in the Bastille, and having been humanely treated, he built a house for him.self on that model at Greenwich. He now began Blenheim, a work of which Swift says — - 'That if his Grace* were no more skilled in The art of battering walls than building, We might expect to see next year A mousetrap-man chief engineer.' The duchess and Vanbrugh began very soon to quarrel : she thought * sevenpence half-penny per bushel for ilnie a v-ei^y * The Duke of Marlborough. The Duchess's Economy. 35 high price, when it could be made in the park,' and he did not hesitate to call her very foolish and troublesome. She, in a manuscript letter, never yet published, taunted him with going dowTi to Blenheim in a coach with six horses ; whilst old Wren, she said, was carried up and down to the top of St. Pauls in a basket, and, though with ten I'mes his genius, never grumbled. Vanbrugh, to do him justice, wished to restore the old Manor House of Woodstock (idealized by Sir Walter Scott). It was a ]jicturesque building, quadran- gular, with a court, and standing on an elevation near the then small stream, the Glyme, on whose banks old Chaucer wandered. Within the precincts of this tenement was the famous labyrinth, ' Rosamond s Bower ;' and there was a gate- house in the front of the ancient palace, from the window of which Queen Elizabeth, when a captive there, is said to have envied a milkmaid whom she saw passing, and to have wTitten with charcoal those lines which are still extant, de- scribing her wish for freedom. The Roundheads, too, had sheltered themselves in the Manor House. Yet in spite of all these associations, the duchess ordered the house to be pulled down, Godolphin, without one atom of taste, ddii.g her by declaring ' that he would as soon hesitate about taking a wen from^ his face as delay removing so unsightly an object from the broAV of the hill.' Down, therefore, it went; and the hill being of ' an intractable sliape,' as Vanbrugh said, was lowered. Among other relics found in the eartli was a ring with the words — 'Remember the Covenant.' It was given by the masons to Lady Diana Spencer. Blenheim was begun in 1705: in 1714 the shell of the building was not complete. It had then cost two hundred ar.d t^A'cnty thousand pounds of public money.* The duke and the dixhcss had begun to fear the enonnous expense 01 living in such a palace, and to calculate about tons of coals and wax candles. When the Duke of Marl- borough died, he left tlie duchess, however, ten thousand pounds, as the duchess said, to spoil Blenheim her own * Since the first edition of this work appeared, the lamentable fire in tta noble structure has taken pLice.— El>. 36 Her Wonderful Shrczvdncss. way; aird twelve thousand a year 'to keep herself clean with, and go to law.' Slie finished the house, which altogether cost three hundred thousand pounds. The triumphal arch and the column were erected by her at her own expense. But a stout war was carried on between her and Vanbmgh, whom she would Jicver allow to enter the house, even years after its completion. He consoled himself by calling her that 'wicked woman of Marlborough,' because she had seen through that remorseless jobber}' which has ruined almost every national building in England. The dictatress was, in fact, a woman of wonderful shrewd- ness. When the South Sea scheme was broached she pre- dicted its fatal result. She had a great art of getting and hoarding money, yet she knew not one rule of arithmetic ; when she added up, she set down her figures at random, as if a child had been scribbling on the paper; yet her sums, done chiefly in her head, always came right. In 17 16, the Duke of Marlborough was attacked by palsy, partly in consequence of the death of his favourite daughter, Anne, Countess of Sutherland, 'the Httle Whig.' His mind never recovered its tone, and his nerves were far more shattered by the duchess's temper than by his battles or the turmoil of politics. One day when Dr. Garth, who was attending him, was going away, the duchess followed him do\'/n stairs and swore at him fbr some offence. Vainly did the duke try the Bath waters. He recovered partially, and his memor)' was spared. It is therefore \\Tong to couple him, as he has been in the following lines, vvith Swift, who became a violent lunatic, and died in moody despondency : — ' From Marlborough's eyes th.e tears of dotage flow. And Swift expires, a driveller and a sliow.' Marlborough Avas active and calculating to the last. Whilst at Bath, he would walk home from the rooms to his lodgings to save sixpence ; yet he left a million and a half to his de- scendants to s(]uander. When gazing at a portrait of himself, the great general is said to have exclaimed, 'That was a man.' He lingered six years after his first attack, still, to The Death of Marlborough. 37 the last, attending the debates in the Lords, and settling his money matters himself. He had one difficulty, too much money, and once ^^TOte to a friend to help him. ' I have uow,' he said, *one hundred thousand pounds dead, and shall have fifty more next week ; if you can employ it in any way, it will be a very great favour to me.' As he was expiring, the duchess asked him whether he had heard the prayers which had been read to him. *Yes, and I joined in them,' were the last v/ords which the great Marlborough uttered. He sank to rest with her, whom, ^vith all her faults, he had loved more than all, by his side. The virtues of Marlborough were great ; and one cannot but accord wath Lord Bolingbroke, who, hearing his penuri- ousness spoken of, stopped the parasite who had hoped to please him by abusing a foe : — ' He was so very great a man that I forgot he had that \'ice.' Swift, however, took care that it should not be forgotten. *I dare hold a wager,' he said, ' that the Duke of Marlborough ir all his campaigns was never known to lose his baggage,' It is said that the great general scolded his servant for lighting four candles in his tent when Prince Eugene came to hold a conference with him. His habits were simple, like those of Wellington ; his dress plain, except on set occasions ; his table plain, too plain also, many thought, who would have comprehended ostentation better. He kept few servants, and he dreaded nothing so much as a numerous retinue ; yet he was kno"\vn to give a thousand pounds to a young soldier who wanted to purchase a commission. He was buried in the mausoleum at Blenheim, built by Rysbracli at the expense of the duchess. She was now the richest peeress in England, with an income of forty thousand pounds a 3'ear; and not many months had passed after Marlborough's death before a suitor appeared in the person of a Whig peer. Lord Coningsby whose admiration appears to have commenced before the duke's death ; when during the decline of the illustrious invalid, it v.'as plain tliat Sarah would soon become a fine 38 A Suitor for tlie Richest Peeress hi E?igland. mark for the designing. * Friendship,' however, had covered with its convenient garment his secret wishes : as a friend he and the duchess had corresponded: as a friend, four months after Mixrlborough had expired, he thus addresses the opulent widow. 'When I had the honour to wait on your Grace at Blenheim, it struck me to the heart to find you, the best, the worthiest, and the wisest of women, with regard to your health, and consequently your precious life, in the worst of ways. Servants,' he added, 'were very sorry trustees for anything so valuable, and the indifference of her Grace, when she lay ill, had lain dreadfully heavy on his thoughts ever since.' Then he reminds her of the loss her death would be to her two grandchildren, Lady Sunderland's children, whom she had adopted ; and draws a parallel in his own case, saying that when he had himself lain on a bed of sickness, the idea of leaving his 'two dearest innocents' to trustees and guardians, who 'ten millions to one, that they would become merciless and mercenary, had almost killed him !' Of Lord Coningsby's ' dearest innocents ' there were five, the eldest of whom had lately been created Baroness Coningsby, so that a little of the duchess's wealth would have been a gi*eat addition to this newly-acquired title. The duchess, being now in her sixty-second year, was not, it is certain, taken in by this devotion. However, Lord Coningsby wTote again, and his letter has been disinterred by a worthy Dryasdust from amidst a heap of accounts and catalogues. This time she was his ' dearest, dearest. Lady Marlborough :' his despair at her intention of not going to London that winter : his desire to see her, if only for one moment; his hopes that she was going to make him the happiest man in the world, whilst he was to make her (' who was already the wisest and the best) the happiest of women ' — end with a postscript, which was, perhaps, the only part interesting to the matter-of-fact duchess — ' There is no cattle or sheejj, as your Grace desires, to be had till July next.' Unhappily, Queen Sarah's reply to all this devotion has not TJie Proud Duke. 39 been preserved. We can imagine her reading the letter, swearing a Httle, and throvN'ing it in wath her bills, among which it has been found a hundred and fifty years after it was penned. Charles Duke of Somerset, second duke of England, com- monly called the ' Proud Duke,' offered to the still beautiful Duchess of Marlborough, within a year after the duke's death. This nobleman was a peer of the stamp of which one hopes the •' mould and fashion ' are destroyed. Never did he con- descend to speak to a servant ; he conveyed his commands by signs. Never were his children allowed to sit in his august presence. It was his custom to doze a little in the afternoon, when he required that one of his daughters should stand by him whilst he slept. One day. Lady Charlotte Seymour, venturing to sit dowoi, since she was tired, he left her twenty thousand pounds less than her sister. When he travelled, the duke ordered the roads to be cleared of all obstruction and idle bystanders. The duke was a widower of sixty-five, and his first \^'ife having been a Percy, he thought he did her memor)' honour in offering his hand to the widow of Marl- borough. He was, however, promptly refused. * The widow of Marlborough shall never become the wife of any other man,' was the reply. He bowed to the decision, and begged the duchess to advise him whom to many, as many he would. * Ask Lady Charlotte Finch,' was her counsel. He asked, and was accepted ; but he never forgot the distinction betsveen a Percy and a Finch. A gulf severed the tvvo unequal families. The last duchess once tapped him familiarly with her fan. He turned round angrily, ' My first duchess was a Percy, and she never took such a liberty.' Twenty-two long years did Queen Sarah sur\ave her husband. She was the head of the Whig party who filled the saloons of Marlborough House, whilst the Duchess of Buckingham, the natural daughter of James H., was the ' queen ' of the Jacobite circles. This eccentric lady, when her husband died, made as si)lendid a funeral for him as Queen Sarah had made for the defunct Marlborough, and when her son died, sent to borrow the funeral car which had earned the hero to tlie tomb. 40 Anecdote of the DticJicss of Buckingham, * It carried my lord of Marlborough,' cried the duchess fiercely, * and it shall never carry any other.* * 'Tis of no consequence,' retorted the Duchess of Bucking- ham. * I have consulted the undertaker, and he can make me as good a one for twenty pounds.' Each duchess despised the other. Pope's famous character of * Queen Sarah ' was shown to her by a friend (friends being the jjeople who always show such brochures), as if it had referred to her Grace of Buckingham. But the shrewd old Sarah saw through it. * I see what you mean,' she called out, as the friend went on reading ; ' and I can't be imposed upon.' She gave Pope a thousand pounds to suppress the character. Amongst other anecdotes told of the duchess's arbitrary acts in her old age, is the following unworthy trait. Her grandson, the second Duke of Marlborough, had embellished the Lodge in the Little Park at Windsor, made many im- provements there; planted extensively, and formed a canal and a seqDentine river. The old duchess hearing of this, set off from London, taking with her a number of men to destroy everything that had been done. She pulled up the trees, and cut and hacked everything she came near. She next pro- ceeded to a piece of waste ground, which was, eventually, to become the property of Lord Sidney Beauclerc ; but which had been enclosed by Justice Reeve. Here she caused everything to be pulled down, and destroyed. ' Sid the beggar,' she pro- tested, nor none of his family should ever be the better for her; and told the justice he might go to law if he pleased. Not contented with this, she turned the duke, his guardian, out of the Little Lodge ; and pretending that his duchess and her cousins (the eight Miss Trevors) had stripped the house and garden, she had a puppet-show made with waxen figures, representing the Trevors tearing up the shrubs, and the duchess caiTying the chicken-coop away under her arm. The duke's offence had been his marriage into the Trevor family ; Lord Trevor having been an enemy of his grandfather's. Women of the duchess's character have always a pet aver- sion ; and Sir Robert Walpole had the honour of holding that .) « o > 5 ■> •) J ' t f f t < *■' f » ft I r t frrr- .^ jifiviw '^liili '/?5^ m^W''mwm^^%m{i'^ '::^ir3 IHE 1>LCHKS8 OF MAKLBOKOUGH PI.KADING HEK OWN CAUSK. The Duchess as Portia. 4I post in her Grace's mind. Her latter years, after she had done with the ' Duke of Buckingham's vvidow/ as she called her, were passed in quarrelling with VValpole about a hundred thousand pounds she had lent to government ; and with the Duke of St Albans, about coming ad libitum into Windsor Park, of which she was ranger, m:ider pretence of supervising what he called the fortifications, but what she termed ' the ditch around the castle.' The Duke's powers only extended to the castle and the forest ; nevertheless, he had, the duchess said, besieged her in both parks, and been willing to forage tliera at pleasure. It was the lot of the duchess to survive three of her lovely daughters: Henrietta, — Duchess of Marlborough, after her father's death, in her o^vn nght ; — Anne Lady Sunderland ; — and Elizabeth Countess of Bridgev/ater. Lady Harriet Churchill v/as married- after her father's death, to the minister, Pelham Holies, Duke of Newcastle. She died before her mother; and with the only daughter who survived her, Queen Sarah was in a state of perpetual warfare. The obligations of a courtier's life did not, perhaps, permit the duchess time to cultivate the affections, or to form the characters of her children, but she seems to have indulged her grandchildren with all the fondness that was never sho\m to their parents. One of the few objects she took pride in was the Lady Diana Spencer, Lady Sunder- land's daughter. Though she detested Queen Caroline, the consort of George II., the duchess was pleased when her Majesty said, at a drawing-room, *Tell my Dy to come back that I may bid her to hold up her head;' *a thing,' said the duchess, ' I was always telling her to do.' Yet her Dy, who married Lord John Russell, the Duke of Bedford of Junius, only survived that union four years. There was another darling of the old dowager's heart, John, commonly called Jack Spencer, whom she staled her 'Torrismond.' Torrismond was more fond of the tavern, more frequently in the watchhouse, than became his rank, name and character : yet she still loved him, and hoped she might live to see him well married. In common with his elder brother. Lord Charles, he had squan- dered away the great siuns left them, figured in all sorts of 42 'A Kind of AiitJior! wild pranks, borrowed money from Jews at twenty per cent, and morlgagt' wthout any surname by the declaration that there were no more Monsieurs, no more Counts, no more *de's,' no more Saints, and lastly no more Sircs^ were still prone to such little weaknesses as tliat with which Roland aalled himself Roland de la Flatih-e ; and in the present day no butcher, baker, or candlestick-maker, however republican in sentiment, retires from trade and buys a petty freehold without instantly clairaing S 66 Brissot and the Girondins. a *de somcihing or other to beautify his humble 'Vidal' oi * Lef^vrc' In this quiet country nook, however, Madame Roland de la Pkitiere C3.inQ out in more amial>le rolours than slie had ever appeared in. Always ready to sacrifice herself for the good of others, and discovering that she was the only person in the neighbourhood who knew anything of medicine, she was ready to obey the most extravagant claims on her time and trouble, and would go three or four leagues at any moment to reh'eve a sick peasant. In 1789 she passed twelve days without taking off her clothes once, attending by the bed-side of her husband, who v/as dangerously ill, and this devotion raised a new bond of affection between the husband and wife. In this year, too, the first echoes of the Revolution reached them in their retire- ment, and both sprang up joyfully to greet what they regarded as the emancipation of suffering mankind. Roland was soon famous for his opinions in Lyons ; and that city sent hira as her first deputy to the Constituent Assembly. On the 20th of February, 1791, Madame Roland returned once more to Paris, where for two short years she was to lead, and be the soul of, a new movement, which repaid her zeal, as it did that of so many other disciples, with the knife of the guillotine. Thus at the oge of thirty-seven her private life, which would have left her without a name in histor)'', ended : and she began the brief brilliant career which has suiTounded with a halo of blood- red light. The rise of the French Revolution is too well knowTi to need a review here ; but it is necessary to show how the Rolands were drawn into the circle of the Girondins, and came to take so leading a part in the movements of that party. The soul and originator of it was Brissot, a mnn of som.e virtues, more vices, but faithful to the last to the cause of the republic. He was the son of a pastr)'cook at Chartres. Rom a democrat (unless making tarts and brioches be claimed as the aristocratic part of the business of a baker), a democrat by principles, education, convictions, he had yet that same aris- tocratic vanity which induced Roland to add 'de la Plati^re' to his plebeian name. Brissot, ashamed of his, assumerd Fanny and Sappho. — Reply to the Imitator of Horace. — Odious Verses. — Lady Mary's Society. — WaJpole's Description of Her. — Lady M;iry at Ix)uvere. — Her Disreputable Son. — In the Harpsichord House. — Death of Lady Mary. — Satirists. — Lady Mary's Character. — Her Portrait. HIS liveliest, wittiest, severest, and — if we believed Horace Walpole, which we do not — diiiiest woman of her time, is celebrated for her charming letters, her Oriental travels, for being first the idol and then the abomination of Pope, and lastly, but by no means least, as a public benefactress, by introducing into this country, in spite of the most vehement opposition, the operation of inoculating for the small-pox. As a female humourist moving in all kinds of society, admired by all, abused by many, but whether with admiration or dislike, talked of by everybody, Lady Mary claims her niche in this work. Her father was Evelyn Pierrepont, raised afterwards to the Peerage. Her mother, Lady Mary Fielding,* was first cousin to the father of Henry Fielding, the author of ' Tom Jones,' so that \yKO humourists, male and female, are to be found in the same family at the same time. It is always troublesome when one is reading the life of one person to go back t^vo or three generations to otliers who gave them little more than their •Spelt sometirres Feilding. 92 Her First D^but. name. Suffice it then to say of Lady Mar)''s mother, that she was daiigliter to William Fielding, second Earl of Desmond, and third Earl of Denbigh, whose fourth brother, John Field- ing, was the grandfather of Richardson's rival. Her father, Evelyn Pierrepont, of Thoresby, was grandson to a certain William Pierrepont of the same place, who supported the party of Cromwell in the civil war, and was commonly known as Wise William. In 1706 this father was created, by Queen Anne, Marquis of Dorchestei ; and in 1715 George I. made him Duke of Kingston. By his first wife Lady Mary Fielding, he had three daughters and one son. The eldest of these was Lady Mary herself, born m 1689-90; the next was Frances, who married the Earl of Mar, who took so prominent a part in the movement of 1715; the next F>elyn, who married John Lord Gower. After giving birth to her only son, William, in 1692, the Countess of Kingston died, and thus. Lady Mary Pierrepont was left in childhood without a mother. In reviewing her life and character, this fact must be taken into consideration, and proportionate allowance made for her. Her father, the Earl of Kingston, was a fine gentleman and a bad father, the friend of beaux and wits ; but not over affectionate to his children. This, too, must be considered. Her first debut in society was rather illustrious. She was eight years old, a pretty fair-haired child, with a good deal of spirit and not a little vanity. Her father was amused with the pert- ness, and proud of the pretty face of his little daughter. He was a member of the famous Kit-Kat Club, which was then held in Shire Lane (now Lower Searle's Place), which hes between Lincoln's Inn Fields and Fleet Street. This litde street, so called because it di\ided the city from the shire, was always a nest for wits. Here lived old Isaac Bickerstaff, the Tatler, who met his club at the 'Tmmpet' Tavern, which still stands, and here assembled the Kit-Kat Club. It v/as composed of thirty- nine noblemen and gentlemen who were devoted to the Hano- verian succession, and all strong Whigs. Its curious name v/as the subject of much discussion. Some said that the house in which it met was kept by one Kit or Christopher Katt, who concocted those incomparable mutton pies which always forme<) The Kit'Kat Club. 93 n part of the supper of the members, and which from him were called Kit-Kats. Others maintained that the maker of the pies was named Christopher, and his house had the sign of the Cat and Fiddle. Pope (or it may be Arbuthnot) found another derivation for the name in the following well-known verses : — • Wlience 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, Gray statesmen or green wits ; But from the pell-mell pack of toasts Of old cats and young kits,' referring to the then fashionable system of toasting some cele- brated beauty after dinner. The ladies approved of had the honour of having verses to them engraved on the glasses, and, in some cases, of their portraits hung up in the club-room. The members at the time of which we speak were all more or less distinguished. There was Marlborough himself; there were Sir Robert Walpole, the minister of George 1. and George II. ; Vanbnigh, knov.Ti for bad plays and worse architecture ; Addi- son ; Congreve ; Dr. Garth, who could run as well as prescribe, and beat the Duke of Grafton in a foot-match of two hundred yards in the Mall ; the Dukes of Somerset, Richmond, Grafton, Devonshire ; the Earls of Dorset, Sunderland, Manchester, and Wharton ; Lords Halifax and Somers ; Maynwaring, Stepney, and Walsh, and the Earl of Kingston, Lady Mary's father. Jacob Tonson, the bookseller, was their secretary, and Sir Godfrey Kneiler painted all their portraits, of that peculiar si/e ever since known as a Kit-Kat It must have been difficult for thirty-nine men to find thirty- nine incontestable beauties whenever they might be called on to do so, and in such a dilemma, or perhaps to indulge a whim, the Earl of Kingston one day proposed his daughter as his toast The company demurred, on the plea that they had never seen her. ' Then you shall see her,' cried the father, ready to carry out the joke. She was sent for, and received with acclamations, acknowledged to be a beauty, and even an incipient wit, and handed, liko a pretty doll as she was, from lap to lap among 94 Early Years, poets, \vits, statesmen, and rakes. The omen was auspicious, and the bon-bons and kisses witli wliich she was overwhelmed were only the t}q:>es of that admiration she wa-^ destined to receive later. In after life she remembered the incident, and affirmed that it was the happiest moment she had ever known. How the next ten years of her life were passed we have no accurate information. She lived at the dull house at Thoresby in the * plains of Nottingham,' or at Acton, near London, and seems to have been mainly occupied in cultivating her mind. She herself tells us that her education was 'one of the worst in the world,' from which, as from other passages in her letters, we may infer that Lord Kingston gave her little or none. This deficiency her own energy supplied. Fond of reading more than anything else, she eagerly devoured such books as were then to be found in country libraries, many of them ponderous folios of serious writing, among which we may perhaps include the romances of Mademoiselle de Scudery, ponderous enough surely, and certainly a serious undertaking, and the other so- called novels then in vogue, and translated into English. These twelve-volume works were no light reading, though the lightest of the day. They took a six-month or so to get through ; and being full of high-flown sentiment, must have had a far more powerful effect on the young reader's mind than the three-volume novels, of which a young lady was heard to boast the other day that she could read two a day and four on Sunday. Reading was then decidedly more profitable than it is now. It was, in fact, a study, not a mere indulgence. With her brother William's tutor. Lady Mary is said to have studied French and Latin, but it is more probable that she taught herself the latter. Her diligence, her thirst for knowledge, and her intrepidity in tack- ling any branch of it, added to her wonderful memory, enabled her to acquire what other young ladies of her day, content with tapestry-work and tittle-tattle, never thought of attempting, and in after years the same spirit made of her a very decent Turkish scholar. It is possible that in these more masculine studies she may have received some aid from her uncle, William Fielding ; but it is certain that Bishop Burnet, the author of the * History of the Reformation,' and Bishop of Salisbury, inspected and A Female Scholar. 95 assisted her classical studies. At the age of nineteen she translated from the Latin (for her acquaintance with Greek seems to have been too limited to admit of her using the version in that language) the * Enchiridion' of Epictetus. This transla- tion, made in a single week, shows considerable proficiency in Latin, and, as the work of a girl who was perhaps self-taught in that language, deserves to stand very high. wShe forwarded it to the bishop with a long letter, in which several quotations prove that she had even then read Erasnius carefully, requesting him to correct her errors in the translation, wliich he did. This letter is perhaps more remarkable than its enclosure, and shows that at that age the yoimg girl had already acquired no small amount of useful wisdom, better still than her Latin and Greek. She speaks thus of the education of women in her day, and I fear that what she says applies pretty nearly to that of many of our own fair contemporaries : — * We are permitted no books but such as tend to the weaken- ing and effeminating of the mind. Our natural defects are every way indulged, and it is looked upon as in a degree criminal to improve our reason or fancy we have any. We are taught to place all our art in adorning our out^vard forms, and permitted, \vithout reproach, to carry that custom even to extravagancy, while our minds are entirely neglected, and by disuse of reflec- tions, filled with nothing but the trifling objects our eyes are daily entertained with. This custom so long established and industiiously upheld, makes it even ridiculous to go out of the common road, and forces one to find many excuses, as if it were a thing altogether criminal not to play the fool in concert ^vith otlier women of quality, whose birth and leisure only serve to make them the most useless and worthless part of the creation. There is hardly a character in the world more despicable or more liable to universal ridicule, than that of a learned woman : those words imply, according to the received sense, a talking, impertinent, vain, and conceited creature. I believe nobody will deny that learning may have that effect, but it must be a ver)' superficial degree of it.' The name of Bishop Burnet reminds us of an anecdote 01 his son Thomas, for a long tim.e the scapegrace of the family. 95 Lady Marys Verses. The bishop, observing him one clay to be unusually grave, asked him what he was meditating. *A greater work,' repHed the young man, 'than your lordship's ''History of the Reforma- tion." ' ' Indeed ! what is that ?' — ' My o\vn reformation.' * I am delighted to hear it,' quoth the bishop, ' though I almost despair of it.' The young man's meditation was not fruitless, and he lived to be Chief Justice of Common Pleas, and, what was better, a respectable man. In such studies, industriously pursued, were the younger years of Lady Mary's life passed ; but when her father resided at Thoresby, and surrounded himself with his jovial comjianions, it was her duty to entertain them at his table. According to the custom of the day, she had the arduous task of carving for the whole party, while the earl at the other end pressed his guests, if indeed they required pressing, to drink and be merry. This undertaking, which the etiquette of the day made impera- tive on the lady of the house, was so considerable that she was obliged to take her ovni dinner in private beforehand. We can well understand the na-usea of such banquets to the young lady. Though Lady Mar)' had none of the young-ladyism or senti- mentality of girls of her age, we are not to suppose her either hard or masculine. Her mind, indeed, had a manly vigour which she had developed by books rarely read, and thoughts rarely indulged, by others of her sex ; but her character and her tastes were perfectly feminine. On the one hand we find her not only devoted to, but even composing, poetry ; on the other, cultivating the tenderest and most affectionate friend- ships with young women of her own age. Of her verses there is not much to say, except that they are free from sentimentality ; so free, indeed, that they never once speak to the heart, and therefore fail to fix themselves on our minds. They have the epigrammatic turn and love of anti- thesis which seem inseparable to the poetry of her day, their fair share of classical allusions, and an easy gracefulness of style. To this they unite strong sense and some satire, though not nearly so witty as that in her letters. She began to make verses early. At the age of twelve she composed a fair imita- tion of Ovid's Epistles, entitled 'Julia to Ovid ;* at fourteen. Dolly Walpoles Trotiblcs. 97 again, she penned some verses to Truth. But the most cele- brated of her metrical pieces are the *To'>\ti Eclogues,' and the various addresses and ballads, of which we shall speak in the proper place. It may suffice to say, that, in spite of the tem- porary popularity of these, Lady Mary has no claim to be con- sidered as a poetess. Her verses are only pretty and neat They show no inspiration, no power, no loftiness of thought ; but they are sufficient to prove the elegance of her tastes. Her early friendships were among those of her own station. She had some intimacy with Lady Anne Vaughan, the only child of the Earl of Carberry, and, therefore, an heiress. This young lady was very unfortunate in her marriage Avith Lord Winchester, after\vards the third Duke of Bolton, who married her only for her money, and soon threw her over for the cele- brated actress Polly Peachum (Miss Lavinia Best\vick), whom he married after the death of his wife. The most respectable of the maids of honour of Queen Anne, Mistress (that is, Miss) Jane Smith, the third daughter of the Whig Speaker Smith, and an intimate friend of Lady Suffolk, was another of her intimates. Then there came the volatile Dolly Walpole, the sister of Sir Robert, the minister. Dorothy was a merry, harmless Norfolk girl, one of a family of nineteen, with no fortune but her face, which proved one in time, and which made her the belle of her native county. Bred up at Houghton, she was brought by her brother, then Mr. Walpole, to London, with a view of find- ing a husband. Her brother's wife is described as an intriguing and not very amiable woman, who was determined that Dolly should make a good match. She was surrounded by admirers, of whom one, every way desirable, presently declared himself. His relations, however, little thinking that Mr. Walpole would one day be the right hand of two sovereigns, and have more in his power than the richest peer of the realm, inquired about the young lady's portion. Like most mercenary people, they were destined to be cheated. They found that she was dower- less, and therefore forbade a connection which some years later would have been worth thousands to them and theirs. Dolly, who was in love, was miserable, Mrs. Walpole was unkind to her ; and so when Lady Wharton offered her a shelter in hei 1 98 Mistress Anne Wortley^ own house, she readily accepted it She was too ignorant of the scandals of town to know what an infamous character Lord Wharton bore, and that this step would be laiinous to her. Sir Robert happened to be out of town ; but when on his return he learned where his sister was, he went to Lord Wharton's with his usual irascibility, and utter want of tact, and thundered for admittance, claiming his sister in no very polite terms. When admitted, he assailed Lady Wharton in *Anglo Saxon' language, carried off his sister, and took her down to Hough- ton, to pass her time in penitence for her mistake. The inci- dent furnished a pretty story for the scandal-mongers of the town, and poor Dolly's name was hawked about in no very agreeable manner. For three years she mourned, at Houghton, her lost love and her tarnished fame. At that time, however, Charles, second Viscount Townshend, who had been away as ambassador at the Hague, and was now a widower, returned to Raynham Hall, in the neighbourhood of Houghton, saw Miss Dorothy WaljDole's pretty face, and, ignorant of the little story about L-ord Wharton, fell in love with it, and proposed to the owner. He was accepted, and they were married in 17 13. The match was ample compensation for the first love. Lord Townshend afterwards became a minister, and played a con- spicuous part under George the First. It is said that Lady Miiry took some part in this affair, op- posing Mrs. ^V'alpoIe, defending the simple Dolly, and making herself obnoxious to her sister-in-law; and it is also hinted that this part may account for the animosity which Horace Walpole, Dolly's nephew, felt towards Lady Mary. Horace was always much attached to his mother, and he never forgave a foe of his family. There is no doubt that, for one cause or another, he never spoke well of the subject of this memoir. But the best and most intimate of Lady Mary's friends was Mistress Anne Wortley, the sister of the man she afterwards married. '^I'he Wortley-Montagus united in themselves two of the oldest families in England. The Montagus, from whom are descended the ducal families of Manchester and Montagu, and the Earls of Halifax and Sandwich, date their arrival in England irom a Norman folio wer of William the Conqueror A Country Gentleman of the lyth Century, 99 •with the uncouth name of Drogo de Monte Acuto. The Wort- leys were a Saxon family of Yorkshire. The grandfather of Mrs. Anne Wordey and Mr. Edward Wortley Montagu was Su* Edward Montagu, of Hinchinbroke in Huntingdon, who, being high-admiral at the time of the Restoration, influenced the fleet to declare for Charles II., and was, in consequence, created Earl of Sandwich. His eldest son succeeded to the title. His second was Sidney Montagu, who married Anne Wortley, an heiress and daughter of Sir Francis Wortley, of Wortley in Yorkshire, whose surname thereupon he added to his own. The son and daughter of this Sidney were the husband and bosom-friend of Lady Mary. As for this Sidney himself, he is described as sitting in his ingle-nook, employed in the refined aad delicate occupation of swearing at his servants, washing down his oaths with store of canary, while his brother, the dean, meek and mild, sat opposite to him, beseeching Heaven to par- don the blasphemies he had not the courage to reprove. With Mrs. Anne Wortley Lady Mary con-esponded affection- ately and even passionately, when she had fallen in love with her brother, and meant for him all the endearments she lav- ished upon her. The following letter, written in 1709, is a good specimen of Lady Mary's style at nineteen, and of the usual epistolary style of the day, and is interesting as showing what were her studies and interests at that age : — * I shall run mad. With what heart can people 'WTite when they believe their letters will never be received ? I have already writ you a very long scrawl, but it seems it never came to your hands ; I cannot bear to be accused of coldness by one whom I shall love all my life. This will, perhaps, miscarry as the last did. How unfortunate I am if it does ! You will think I forget you, who are never out of my thoughts. You will fancy me stupid enough to forget your letters, when they are the only pleasures of my solitude. » » * Let me beg you for the future, if you do not receive letters very constantly from me, imagine the post-boy killed, imagine the mail burnt. or some other strange accident ; you can imagine nothing so impossible as that I forget you, my dear Mrs. Wortley. • • * I am now so much alone, I have leisure to pass lOO Lady Mary on ^The Worlds whole days in reading, but am not at all proper for so delicate an emplo)Tnent as chusing you books. Your own fancy will better direct you. My study at present is nothing but diction- aries and grammars. I am trying' whether it be possible to learn wthout a master ; I am not certain (and dare hardly hope) I shall make any great progress ; but find the study so diverting, I am not only easy, but pleased v/ith the solitude that indulges it. I forget there is such a place as London, and wish for no company but yours. You see, my dear, in making my pleasures consist of these unfashionable diversions, I am not of the number who cannot be easy out of the mode. I believe more follies are committed out of complaisance to the world, than in following our o\vn inclinations. Nature is sel- dom in the wrong — custom always ; it is with some regret I follow it in all the impertinences of dress ; the compliance is so trivial, it comforts me ; but I am amazed to see it consulted even in the most important occasions of our lives • * * * I call all people who fall in love with furniture, clothes, and equipage, of this number, and I look upon them as no less in the wrong than when they were five years old, and doated on shells, pebbles, and hobby-horses. I believe you will expect this letter to be dated from the other world, for sure I am you never heard an inhabitant of this talk so before.* "What she here says of dress reminds us that in after years she was described by Walpole, who saw her at Florence, as being very untidy, in a dirty mob, and with uncombed hair. That well-known anecdote, too, is of Lady Mary, which relates how, being once reproached with having dirty hands, she re- plied (it was at the French opera), *Ah, si vous voyiez mes pieds !' That she was eccentric and indifferent to dress, there can be no doubt. It is rather to her praise than otherwise \ but that she was dirty in her person we can believe only on the word of Horace Walpole, who hated her, and did not mind what he said about his foes. That she could dress well, when she chose, is no less certain ; for her dress at court one e^■ening was so pleasing, that the Prince of Wales, who admired her a little too much, called the princess from her cards to see Miow Mr. Wo?- thy 10 1 well Lady Mary was dressed.' * Lady Mary always dresses well,' replied the princess in dudgeon, returning to her basset One afternoon when Lady Mary went to call on her friend Mrs. Wortley, she found in her room a gentleman, some thirty years old, leaning familiarly by the fire-place, and watching hei as she entered with a keen critical eye. His face, in spite of the huge full-bottomed \vig, then in fashion, was handsome and expressive — ^a shade thoughtful, but cold and terribly sensible. In his manner there was a mixture of Yorkshire bluntness and mejiance, with something of Norman dignity. He talked like a man of the world, with a touch of the scholar, which delighted her. He had evidently mingled with the humorists of London clubs, but he preferred classics. Keen observer as she was, she at once entered on that subject. Accustomed rather to despise women, and particularly young ladies, he was amazed and charmed to find one of so much sense and such unusual reading. He improved the occasion, and lingered in his sis- ter's room longer than he had ever done before. Nor did he leave it willingly. Here were beauty, wit, and strong sense united in one person. He was not a philosopher, but he was not susceptible. It required fascinations as great as these to move him, and he was moved. This man was Edward Wort- ley-Montagu, commonly called Mr. Wortley, the brother of Lady Mary's bosom friend. They talked of Roman heroes. Fancy a young lady and young man of to-day flirting over the classics ! He mentioned an author, and she regretted she liad never read his works. Some days after she received an edition of this author, in the fly-leaf of which were wTitten the following verses : — ' Beauty like this had vanquished Persia shown, The Macedon had laid his empire down, And polished Greece obeyed a barb'rous throne. Had wit so bright adorned a Grecian dame, The anVrous youth had lost his thirst for fame, Nor distant India sought through Syria's plain ; But to the muses' stream with her had run, And thought her lover more than Ammon's son.* We perceive from this very clear declaration that Mr. Wortley had not much feciiity of rhyming, whatever his classical attain- ments. But he was not without his attractions in the eyes of an intellectual woman. He had been well educated, if we 10? Mr. Worthy. mistake not, at Cambridge; had made the grand lour in lyo-^, and even extended his foreign experience beyond the usiud limits by a residence of two years in Venice. Like most young men of family in that day, he had entered Parliament early. There he sat at different times for the city of Westminster, the city of Peterborough — both very influential constituencies — and the borougiis of Huntingdon and Bossiney. He was a Liberal and a progressionist, two very good qualities in this day, though then sullied by a necessary adlierence to the Hanoverian suc- cession. About the time of his meeting with Lady Mary, he had brought in a bill for the naturalization of foreign Pi otes- tants. Later he entered one for limiting the number of the officers of the House, and securing the freedom of Parliament; and this bill, which nearly affected the interests of the members, was agitated for five years, and eventually lost in 1713. Li the same year, 1709, he obtained leave for a bill to encourage learn- ing, and secure coi)yrights of books to the authors. Thus we can judge that he was a sensible, well-meaning man, as different from his father as gold from tinsel. He had other recommen- dations. His tastes or his whiggism brought him in contact with the humorists of those days. Addison was his intimate friend. (>arth, Congreve, Ma} nwaring, and even Steele, were among his associates. Perhaps he had not much wit or humour himself; he seems to have dreaded it; but it is certain he had much sound sense, and was not altogether a common man. On the other hand he had just as much heart as was wanted for his career, a strong feeling of honour and no romance. The events that followed upon this interview form the real romance of Lady Mary's life ; and, whatever else may be said of her, her conduct in them attaches us to her. A romance in- deed this love affair was, quiet, and apparently cold as it may have been. It was the old romance of a woman loving fondly a man who disapproved of her, and of her efforts to attach him in spite of natural modesty and a consciousness of his indifference. That Mr. Wortley was much in love there is no doubt ; but he set his o\mi judgment against his o\vn heart : he doubted if this girl, who appeared to be coquettish, vain, fond of the world and society, would be a suitable companion for a man of his Lovc-Leiters. 103 quiet and serious tastes, or take sufficient interest in his political ambitions. He not only felt this, but openly told her what he felt in the matter, and treated her with a nonchalance which only increased her affection for him. For some time after he had offered and been accepted, their intercourse was carried on through the medium of letters to and from his sister; but about 171 1 Mrs. Anne Wortley died in the flower of her youth. Some time after this, Lady Mary wrote her first letter to Mr. Wortley — ' the first,' she says, * I ever wrote to one of your sex, and shall be the last.' She begins by excusing her boldness in writing to him at all, and then de- fends herself against a charge of frivolous tastes, which he seems to have made, and while endeavouring to conceal her love for him, pleads for his affection. 'You distmst me; I can neither be easy, nor loved, where I am distrusted. Nor do I believe your passion for me is what you pretend it ; at least I am sure, was I in love, I could not talk as you do. * ♦ * i wished I loved you enough to devote myself to be for ever miserable for the pleasu.re of a day or two's happiness. I can- not resolve upon iL Vou must think otherwise of me, or not at all.' His complaints, doubts, and accusations continued, and at last she writes : ' I resolved to make no answer to your letter ; it was something very ungrateful, and I resolved to give over all thoughts of you. I could easily have performed that resolve some time ago, but then you took pains to please me : now you have brought me to esteem you, you make use of that esteem to give me uneasiness ; and I have the displeasure of seeing I esteem a man that dislikes me. Farewell, then ; since you will have it so, I renounce all the ideas I have so long flattered my- self with, and will entertain my fancy no longer with the im- aginary pleasure of pleasing you. * * * You think me all that is detestable ; you accuse me of want of sincerity and gene- rosity. * * * There is no condition of life I could not have been happy in with you, so very much I liked you, I may say loved, since it is the last thing I'll ever say to you. This is telling you sincerely my greatest weakness ; and now I will oblige you with a new proof of ray generosity ; I'll never see you more.' I '34 U)isettlcd Settlements. But in his answer to this he says : * I would die to be secure of your heart, though but for a moment ;' and sei/:ing on this expression she again attem];ts to exonerate herself, and the letters that follow are much in the same strain, defending their writer from charges of coquetry, of inconstancy, of a love of society, and even of interested views. Yet he could not make up his mind to give her up. * I see what is best for me,' he writes ; ' I condemn what I do, and yet I fear I must do it.' In this letter he asks for an interview, and gives us some insight into the manner of their meetings. He proposes that it should take place at the house of Mrs. Steele, the wife of Sir Richard, who was then Mr. Steele. ' You may call upon her or send for her, to-morrow or next day. Let her dine with you, or go to visit shops or Hide Park, or other diversions. You may bring her home, I can be in the house reading, as I often am, though the master is abroad.' Hyde Park, it may be noticed in pass- ing, was then, as now, the great promenade of London. Horse-races and foot-races were often held in the ring, and in the afternoon the ladies drove round and round it in a cloud of dust ; ' some,' says a writer in 1700, * singing, others laughing, <)thers tickling one another, and all of them toying and devouring cheesecakes, and marchpane, and China oranges.' The lodge there was celebrated for its milk, tarts, and syllabub, to taste which was the regular accompaniment of the drive. At that time the Serpentine, which was not made till 1730, was repre- sented by a couple of ponds, and the lodge in question was close to these. But whatever doubts he had, Mr. Wortley at last made open proposals to Lady Mar>''s father, then Lord Dorchester. They were favourably received, and all went well till the setdements came to be discussed. Mr. Wordey disapproved of the foolish practice of settling property on a son unborn, who might turn out a spendthrift or a fool. Lord Dorchester replied that no grandchild of his should risk being a beggar, and would have nothing more to say to his proposals of marriage. The wisdom of this precaution on Mr. Wordey's part was shown in the sequel. His son turned out both fool and spendthrift, and something worse ; and the Wortley estates, if settled on hun, Lady Mary Elopss, 105 would soon have been squandered upon the wretched creatures who from time to time passed as his wives. Lord Dorchester, however, did not leave his daughter alone, and when a more complaisvir.t suitor with a handsomer income offered himself, briefly commanded her to marry him. To dis- obey such an order was then the height of undutiful conduct yet so great was the disgust which Lady Mary entertained for the gentleman proposed that she ventured to write to her father offering not to many at all rather than unite with him. The furious parent sent for his daughter, and told her that she must marry him at once, or consent to pass the rest of her days, while he lived, in retirement in a remote part of the country. Her relations all encouraged the match, and seemed to think her mad for wishing to love her future husband, assuring her she would be just as happy after marriage whether she loved him or not What was a vow, taking at the altar before God in the most solemn manner, compared with a settlement on an un- born baby, a jointure for herself, and plenty of pin-money? \Vhat indeed, in that day, and, we fear, with too many parents even in our own quasi-religious times ? She rephed to her father that she detested the man proposed, but was in his power, and must leave him to dispose of her. Lord Dorchester took this as a consent, made the settlements, and even ordered the trousseau. Lady Mary was in despair, and INIr. Wortley, now that his prize was likely to be snatched from him, closed his hands on it eagerly. He proposed that they should be privately married; Lady Mary was delighted, and at once consented, though not without fears at such a step. ' I tremble for what we are doing,' she writes. * Are you sure you shall love me for ever ? Shall we never repent ? I fear and I hope.' Yet delay would be fatal, and so she quietly walked out of the house one day, and was married to him by special license in August, 17 12. Of course the father was furious, and of course, I hear some worldly people say, the m.arriage turned out ill. This is not exactly the case, as we shall see. It was as happy, perhaps, as the majority of matches — for many years it was en\'iably so — and the fact that it ended in a very amicable separation late in io6 Her Appreciation of Scenery. life, only proves that this couple had more sense than some, who though continuing to live togetlier, do so only to quarrel and make the separation of heart and feeling far greJiter than one of mere abode. After their marriage, Mr. and Lady Mary Wortley resided in different parts of the country, but not much in London. Some- times they were at Hinchinbroke, the seat of Mr. Wortley's grand- father, Lord Sandwich ; sometimes in Huntingdon, for which Mr, Wortley was the member at tliat period ; sometimes in Yorkshire, occasionally at Wharncliffe, one of the houses there belonging to the Wortley family, as it now does to their descend- ants. The scenery round the last place is said to be very fine after a Yorkshire model ; and because Lady Mary does not fall into raptures about it, she is accused of a want of love of nature. We are not inclined to defend Lady Mary's tastes and character of mind in every particular, though we are dis- posed to think she was a much better woman than some of her contemporaries, especially Walpole, made out ; but this com- plaint is sheer nonsense. That she had an eye for beauty, and could appreciate it, we may see from many of her foreign letters ; that she did not care for that of Yorkshire is no great sin ; other people have been and are indifferent to that not very comfortable county ; and it may be allowed to prefer shady lanes, wooded ground, and rich pastures to the bleak hills near Sheffield. After all, her expression is merely that * Wharncliffe had something in it which she owned she did not dislike, odd as her fancy might be.' Her letters to her husband, who frequently left her a long time alone at this period, are among the best proofs that she was not that vile, worldly creature which Walpole, who invented freely when he could not find legitimate abuse for those he dis- liked, tries to make her out. We here see the simplicity of her character. She is evidently weary without her husband, and is thrown among dull people, yet she makes the best of it, and is content to talk of her walks on the terrace and friendship with a robin-redbreast. Later she is anxious about her boy, who is ill ; and later still, she makes a complaint, for the justice of which we have no direct evidence, but which is written in a The Curate's * Night- Gozvn^ 107 touchin'T manner. She reminds her husband that he has been o absent from July to November ; that he writes seldom, and tlieii coldly ; that he never asks after his child ; and that when she was ill he expressed no sympathy and no sorrow. As all this was written without affectation or show of misery — a luxury to some women — we may believe that there was cause for her com- plaint The letter having no date, had been dated by Mr. Wortley himself. Does not this tell a tale? The passionless man was smitten in his conscience : he was willing to note the lime when such complaints were made against him he may even have been touched by them. Her letters at this period, though far less spirited and less clever than those written from abroad, are interesting, as giving us glimpses into the then state of affairs. Thus in 17 14 she describes how the king was proclaimed in York, and ^n effigy of the Pretender dragged about the streets and burned, and how the young ladies of the neighbourhood were in constant fear of the threatened invasion. Another letter gives us a hint of how Parliament was * elected' in those days — perhaps, we may add, in these too — * I believe there is hardly a borough vacant * * * Perhaps it will be the best way to deposit a cer- tain sum in some friend's hands, and buy some little Cornish borough^ In another she amuses us by the description of a love affair between a very high-church young lady of forty and a curate with a 'spongy nose' and a squint. She points out the curate goin'g about in a dirty * night-gown* (dressing-gown), to the happy spinster, who blushes and looks prim, but quotes ' a passage from Herodotus, in which it is said that the Persians wore long night-gowns.' Fancy consoling one's self for a lover's appearance by comparing him to a Persian ! But Lady Mary was not always engaged in such rural ob- servations. On the accession of George L, her husband was made a Commissioner of the Treasury, and she came up from Yorkshire to stay in London. She was introduced at court, and her wit and — if we may call it so — her beauty made a great impression there. The coarse, heavy king was struck with her ; the brutal, vulgar prince of Wales polluted her with his leers, and disgusted her with his admiration. She was at loS A Disgraceful Court. the ago of lier prime, four-and-twenty, and married. Hei face, though not absolutely beautiful, had something most attractive in it Pope, who had seen her as a girl, and was in love with her, wrote verses to * Wortley's eyes;' and if her portraits are not the basest flatterers, her expression was precisely that to captivate and enthral a man of mind. There was no languor, no weakness, and yet no boldness in it It betrayed an inde- pendent spirit, where a lofty self-respect, which was not vanity, united ^vith a contempt for the follies and vices of the world, as she knew it. There were thought, dignity, eminence in her look, and her bitter, unflinching wit did not give it the lie. The face was a pure oval, the head freely set on a neck vvhich might have been longer. The nose was sharp and very slightly retrousse^ the mouth small, well formed, and firm set. The celebrated eyes, if not very large, were very bright, and the fair, fresh complexion added somewhat to their brilliance. She was beautiful by youth and expression ; in old age she is de- scribed as a hideous hag, and the fire of the 'Wortley's eyes' had become too keen and bitter to redeem the wreck of the face. After all, if we look up the women whose beauty has gone hand-in-hand with their wit, and made tempests in many hearts, we shall find that they have rarely possessed perfect features, and that the mind has indeed been the real beauty of the body. So it should be. The court of George I. was the worst in the history of England : it was every whit as vicious as that of Charles II., without the redeeming quality of elegance. All was gross and vulgar, from the heavy German monarch, who could pass whole evenings cutting out paper, to his minister. Sir Robert Walpole — almost the vulgarest man ever in a British minis- try — and down to the \vretched German underlings who had followed the Hanoverian to England. Not content with mere vice, the whole court was a kind of speculation. Those in power bought and sold the places of confidence they ought to have carefully distributed, and that unblushingly. Every one sought to make his or her fortune out of the miserable nation upon which the Hanoverian had been foisted. The king's mistresses amassed wealth by the sale of their depraved * The Schulcnherg^ 109 influence ; the king's ministers were little better ; women were given appointments which could only belong to men ; ladies at their birth were made comets or ensigns in the army, and re- ceived pay up to a marriageable age. There was not even the semblance of religion which invested the court of Louis XIV., where preachers could at least speak freely and did speak freely : the clerg}', especially the bishops, were little less cor- rupt than the courtiers. The king was surrounded by Germans, who looked upon England as a rich windfall, out of which they would make the most they could. They themselves had not wit enough to laugh at their dupes, but their English proteges did it for them ; and Walpole treated poor old Marlborough with insolence, from which his fame as a soldier, if nothing more, should have protected him. The king spoke no English, and never tried to learn either our language or our institutions. He left all to his ministers — taut mieux — and amused himself in the company of Madame Schulenberg, whom he created Duchess of Kendal, and who was nearly sixty when he brought her over. It was then that England saw the representa.tives of her so-called 'noblest' families catering for the favour of this low person, and even marrying the illegitimate ofrsi)ring of the king for the sake of court grace. Lord Chesterfield, the greatest beau and wit of his day, was not ashamed to ally the blood of Stanhope, which he affirmed was the surname of our first parents, Adam de Stanhope and Eve de Stanhope^ with that Countess of Schu- lenberg ; while Lord Howe, the father of the celebrated ad- miral, v/as quite delighted to secure the daughter of the other Mady,' the Countess of Kielmansegg. The best of this was that Chesterf.eld was duped, and very nghtly punished. The old friend of his Majesty had not come to England to make money for an Enghsh earl, and the douceurs which she had received for a royal smile or a promise of a place were carefully despatched to her Vaterland, that the noble race of Schulenberg might for ever bless the sacrifice she had made of her virtue. Chesterfield, disgusted, got rid of his wife as soon as possible, and thanked Heaven that the fair Melosina — wch was her name — presented liim with no heir to sully tne no The King's Creatures, line of Adam de Stanhope and Eve de Stanhope with a bar sinister. The Duchess of Kendal, though thus antique, very ugly, and very thin — in fact, a witch — possessed immense influence over the heavy mind of the King of England. Fortunately for this country she was too stupid to use this influence on her own responsibility. She contented herself with turning it in that direction from which the highest bribe was forthcoming; and so well known was this supremacy, and the mode of com- manding it, that even foreign ambassadors recommended their governments to treat with her; and Count Broglio, the French minister here in 1724, openly hints in his despatches that the 'Sclmlenberg' must be bribed. The king was easily managed. He had not much conversation, and did not like to be bothered. He passed his evenings from five to eight in the charming society of this ancient Lais, engaged in the intellectual pastime of cutting up j)aper. Except when an opposite fit came over him, he readily gave in to his 'friend's' suggestions. The other follower of his Majesty, the Countess of Kielmansegg, who was created Countess of Darlington, was many years younger than the favourite and was overpoweringly stout as the other was painfully thin. She did not make a rival of the Schulenberg, being persuaded that such influence as she pos- sessed was sufficient to make her fortune. She was moreover, much cleverer than the other person, and much connected with the Whig ministry. She had wonderful powers of conversation for a German, and could be very agreeable when she chose. The king was indifferent to her, and only lounging in her apartments for the pleasure of smoking his pipe at ease. He was essentially the man for a German beer-garden, and would have made a good figure in the faubourgs of Vienna, but he was scarcely suited for the throne of such a country as Great Britain. But we English are a strange people ; and while we dread a French invasion as the end of all things, we are quite content to invite a dirty and vicious band of vulgar Germans to come and rule over us and rifle our pockets. The king was surrounded by Hanoverian creatures, who lorded it finely over tlie English nobility, who were obliged to TJie Kings Creatures, in kiss tlieir feet There were Baron Bothmar, who had been an agent in London for the elector during the last reign ; Bemstorf, who had come over with him, and possessed con- siderable influence, and, in conjunction with Walpole, managed to get large sums of money into his hands; Goritz, another baron, but more respectable than the rest ; Robethon, a Frencli adventurer, to whom Lord Townshend was indebted for his place; and even a couple of Turks, Mahomet and Mustapha, who had been taken prisoners in the war in Hungary, and were now very useful in guarding the king's person and assisting him in affairs in which none but infidels (or Hanoverians) accus- tomed to the idea of a seraglio would have consented to take a part To complete this virtuous and charming court, there was young Craggs, an Englishman, the son of a footman, risen into power by the lowest services rendered to the Duke of Marlborough. Young Craggs had got into the elector's favour through the influence of a tJiird mistress of his Majesty, who did not accom.pany him to England, the Countess Platen, who was pleased by the handsome face of the youthful John Thomas. It was Craggs senior who confessed that when getting into his can'iage he had always an effort to prevent himself getting up behind. To mancige such a band, all of them engaged in making the most possible money out of England, a rich bully like Sir Robert Walpole was indispensable. His character is well known ; and it is a comfort to find that his colleagues in the ministry, with only two exceptions, Pulteney and Stanhope, all despised and hated, while they could not but fear him. But it is horrible to find Englishmen and English ministers joining with these rapacious foreigners in spoiling the country, selling places and receiving bribes ; still more horrible to find that English ladies of high rank were ready to sell their honour to such people, as the Countess of Suftblk did to the Prince of Wales, a brute who, as Lady Mary tells us, * looked on all men and women he saw as creatures he might kick or kiss for his diversion.' It certainly makes us smile at the gullibility of John Bull, to find that after denouncing the vices of the Stuarts, he invited over a yet more corrupt set to take their place; and 112 The Toiun Eclogues, that the main recommendation to the Hanoverian succession should have been the ' religion ' of that family. To tliis atrocious court was Lady Mary introduced at the age of four-and-twenty, a wit and a beauty. Now surely it is something to her praise that while half the court kdies of her own station were following the example of their august master, though often without the temptations which she must have had, Lady Mary, this monster of corruption as she appears in Wal- pole's letters, should never have succumbed to them. In the present day it is indeed no praise to a woman to be virtuous, because it is simply what we expect of her, and to be the re- verse excludes her from the society of all classes. But when vice was the fashion, and a liaison^ as it was charitably called, rather exalted than debased a woman, we may at least think passably of one on whom the peculiar smiles of royalty and the attentions of an heir to the throne had no effect but nausea. Lady Mary has left us an account of the court she frequented, which shows, if we take into account the tone of her day, how completely she despised its wickedness ; and had she written novels k la Thackeray instead of sim})le letters, Lady Mary would be hailed — as * Michael Angelo' is — as the bold satirist of the follies, if not the reformer of the vices, of society. One work she did produce about this period which, though poor compared with the satires of Pope, entitles her quite to rank near him : this was the ' Town Eclogues,' written in 17 1 5, and published in the following year. They consisted of six poems, one for each day of the week, entitled respec- tively, * Roxana, or the Drawing-room ;' ' St James' Coffee- house ;' 'The Tete-k-Tete ;' ' The Basset-table ;' 'The Toilette;' and 'The Small-pox.' These poems excited a great deal of attention, as the characters portrayed in them were traced to well-known living personages ; but reading them now that all the personal interest is passed, we can only say that they are clever, well-turned, somewhat rough, and almost too plain to be finely satirical. The coarseness with which they are re- plete was a common fault of the day, and was almost refined by the side of Pope and Swift, while, to judge from the let- ters ot other ladies of ranli, her contemporaries, Lady Mary Anecdote of Lady Mary and Craggs. 113 did not exceed the licence allowed, even to women, in WTitmg. An anecdote, which she has related of her court da}-^ at this period, has been so often repeated that perhaps it would be wrong to omit it here. On one evening passed at court she wished to escape in order to keep some important en- gagement. She explained her reasons to the Schulenberg, who told them to the king, but his Majesty was too much charmed with Lady Mary's wit — and well the heavy German may have been so — to allow her to depart. At last, however, she contrived to run away. At the bottom of the stairs she met Craggs, the footman's son, who asked her why she was decamping so early. She told him liow the king had pressed her to stay, and without replying he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs into the antechamber, there kissed her hands respectfully, and left her. The page hastily threw open the door, and re-announced her. She was so con- fused by this sudden transportation, that she told the king, who was delighted to see her come back, the whole story. She had just finished when in came Craggs. *Mais com- ment. Monsieur Cragg,' cried the king, * est-ce que c'est I'usage de ce pays de porter les belles dames comme un sac de froment ?' The secretary, confused, could say nothing for a minute or two, but at last recovering himself, muttered, 'There is nothing I would not do for your Majesty's satisfac- tion ;' an answer which was well received. From this corrupt court Lady Mar>' escaped to one where there was less corruption, because there was less pretence of either honesty or morality. The Turk had few vices, because his easy religion allowed him many indulgences. The Pro- testant monarch had many, because his religion, which he cared Httle for, allowed him none. The Turk could go to the Mosque with a free conscience ; Madame Schulenberg went regularly to her Lutheran chapel in the Savoy, but we may question whether the reading of the seventh command- ment was not trying to her ears. In 1716 the embassy to the Porte became vacant, by the removal of Sir Robert Sutton to Vienna. The post was a 8 114 i^cr Letters from tJic East, V^ery important one at that epoch, as it was to England tlial the Continent looked to settle the differences between Turkey and the Imperialists. That the mission was intrusted to Wort- ley may be taken as some proof that his talents had recom- mended him to the ministry. He resigned his situation in the Treasury, and set out in August on a journey which was then hazardous and difficult. It was daring in his wife to accompany him, and her doing so shows that she was still inuch attached to her husband. Few ladies ventured upon eastern travel, and she was even supposed for a long time to have been the first Englishwoman who had done so ; but this was not the case, Ladies Paget and Winchelsea having both accompanied their lords in their respective embassies. However, Lady Mary was the first woman who \vrote any ac- count of her travels in those regions, and her letters from the East attained great celebrity. At first, indeed, they were looked upon as exaggerated and replete with ' travellers' tales ;' but Mr. Dallaway, who travelled the same route and lived at the same palace at Pera, has vindicated them from this imputa- tion. They were first published in 1763, without the cogniz- ance of her relations, edited, it is supposed, by a Mr. Cleland. She had given a copy of them to Mr. Sowden, the English chaplain at Rotterdam, and it appears that two English gen- tlemen whom he did not know called upon him one day and requested to see the letters. They had contrived that he should be called away ; and when he came back, he found that they had decamped with the books, which, however, they returned the next day with many apologies. To that edition a preface was appended, written in 1724 by a Mrs. Astell, a strong-minded lady, who upheld the * rights of women' and was delighted to have a person of so much wit as Lady Mary belonging to her owti sex. The letters are addressed chiefly to the Countess of Mar, her sister, to Mrs. Thisde- thwayte, Mrs. Skerrett, Lady Rich, other ladies belonging to the court, and to the Pope. She appears to have travelled from Rotterdam to the Hague, Nimueguen, Cologne, where she writes, * I own that I was wicked enough to covet St. Ursula's oearl necklaces,' and wished she herself converted Pope's Love for Her, 1 1 5 into dressing-plate ;' to Niimberg, after passing Frankfort and Wiirtzburg. Here she makes an observation which is probably made by ever)- Knglish traveller, with much satisfaction, con- trasting the cleanliness and order of the Free Protestant tOA\-ns with the shabby finer)' of the rest ; and tells us that in a Ro- man Catholic church at Niimberg, she had actually seen an image of our Saviour in * a fair full-bottomed v/ig very well ])owdered.' From Niimberg they passed on to Ratisbon, whence taking boat they proceeded down the Danube to Vienna. Here she received one of Pope's extravagant love- letters, which rather than lose a friend she allowed him to "vvrite to her, replying in a jocose strain, which did not show much reciprocity of feeling. In this letter Pope says : ' I think I love you as well as King Herod could Herodias (though I never had so much as one dance with you)' — fancy Pope dancing ! — * and would as freely give you my heart in a dish, as he did another's head.' He bears a high testimony to her wit and mind. * Books have lost their eftect upon me ; and I was convinced since I saw you, that there is something more powerful than philosophy, and since I heard you, that there is one alive wiser than all the sages.' In all her letters Lady Mary shows the same powers of ob- sen'ation, mingled with a keen sense of the ridiculous. She sees everything, and describes all she sees ; but like a good traveller she takes more notice of the people than of the country, and does not weary her reader with a description of hotels they are not likely ever to enter, and dinners they have not eaten. Many touches here and there prove how litde change 150 years make in the character of a nation. Thus she describes the extravagant dressing of the Viennese ladies, their hair piled up over a roll of stuff to an enomious height, and ' their whalebone petticoats of several yards' circumfer- ence, covering some acres of ground.' Surely the latter part of this description might have been ^vritten just as well in the month of January, 1860. At Vienna a German count made Lady Mary a declaration, and when she replied somewhat in- dignantly, added with perfect sang-froid, * Since I am not worthy of entertaining you myself, do me the honour of lettiDg Il6 Travels to the East. me know whom you like best among us, and I'll engage to manage the affair entirely to your satisfaction.' So much for Viennese morals, wliich have not altered in a century and a half any more than Viennese petticoats. Mr. Wortley's instructions delayed him about two months at Vienna, and the travellers thence proceeded to Prague, and thence through Dres^ien, Leipsic, and Brunswick, to Hanover, where they made a halt, to return to Vienna in January, 17 17. At last, at the end of Januar}^, the couple started on their perilous journey eastward. However, its perils proved to have been much exaggerated. The terrible Tartar soldiers who ravaged Hungary, killing everything, down to innocent cocks and hens, that they came across, did not molest our travellers. The weather, indeed, was bitter, but sables, and the fur of Muscovite foxes, kept out the cold. Inns there were none ; but it is one thing to travel as an ambassador, and another to voyage as a nobody ; so the envoy extraordinary and his wife were everywhere well received ; and all went on smoothly enough for her ladyship, though probably the Turks, who talked to her, may have been uneasy and wondered if the women of England were not all men. Lady Mary's letters during this period are very amusing, and her naive descriptions of things, as she found them, are really the best ever written about the East, not even except- ing Eliot Warburton's. Thus, when she goes to the bath, she not only uses her eyes, but her mind. She finds that the frequent contemplation of the nude figure destroys the interest we feel in the human face. Judging from the way we examine the beauties of animals, this is quite comprehensible ; and we quite forgive Lady Mary for adding a sigh over the natural sensuality of mankind, which she believes would be twice as great, if civilization had not introduced clothing, an argument which will not readily be admitted. Near Belgrade, again, she passes the field of Carlo witz, still reeking with the blood of the Turks, defeated by Prince Eugene. She looks with horror on the mangled corpses strewn about the field, and without bursting — as is the modern fashion — into a storm 0/ Arrives at Adriaiiopol. wj declamation, quietly deplores the evils, and laughs at the * necessity' of war. * Nothing seems to be plainer proof of the irratiofiability of mankind (whatever fine claims we pre- tend to reason) than the rage with which they contend for a small spot of ground, when such vast parts of fruitful earth lie quite uninhabited. It is tnie, custom has made it un- avoidable ; but can there be a greater demonstration of want of reason, than a custom being firmly established so contrary to the interest of man in general ? I am a good deal inclined to believe Mr. Hobbes, that the state of nature is a state of war; but thence I conclude human nature not rational, if the word means common sense, as I suppose it does.' The grand signior, as the sultan was then called, was at that time at Adrianopol. At Sophia, on her way, she visited a Turkish bath, which she describes in full — the ladies re- clining on the sofas, unencumbered with any costume, while at- tendants combed and dressed their hair and so forth ; and how they were quite satisfied, on seeing one stiff hideous portion of her dress, so hated by men, and known only to civilization, that her husband had locked her up in iron in a fit of jealousy. Her letters from Adrianopol are full of most interesting descriptions, written in the easiest and most unpretending style, and, inasmuch as she was a woman, and therefore ad- mitted where men are excluded, more interesting than any eastern travels ever written. The belief, so general in Eng- land, that she was admitted to the seraglio, has been clearly disproved by Lady Louisa Stuart, the writer of the 'Anec- dotes' appended to Lord Wharnclifie's edition of Lady Mar}^s works ; but wherever she could go, Lady Mary doubtless went, with plenty of courage and yet more curiosity. At Adrianopol and elsewhere, Mr. Wortley lived in the greatest possible magnificence, the English governm.ent being quite alive to the value of effect upon the Turks. He travelled with three hundred horses and a retinue of one hundred and sixty persons, besides his guards. These last were Janissaries ; and Lady Mary's letters contain many interesting notices of those now ex- tinct fiincdonaries. The grand signior and his ministers, she 1 1 8 The Beautiful Fatinia. lells us, were quite in their power : * No huzzaing moos, sense- less pamphlets, and tavern disputes about politics,' influenced the Ottoman government ; but when a minister displeased the soldiery, in three hours' time, his head, hands, and feet would be thiown at the palace door, while the sultan sat trembling within. Of the Turkish ladies, their dress, their habits, and theii morals. Lady Mury had many opportunities of judging ; and pronounces them the most free, rather than the most enthralled, women of the world. At Adrianopol she visited the Sultana Hafiten, the widow of Mustapha II., and Fatima, the wife of the Kyhaia, or deputy to the grand vizier. The latter she affinns to have been far more lovely than any woman she had ever seen at home or abroad. * I was so struck with admira- tion,' she writes, * that I could not for some time speak to her, being wholly taken up in gazing. That surprising harmony of features ! that charming result of the whole ! that exact pro- portion of body; that lovely bloom of complexion, unsullied by art ! that unutterable enchantment of her smile ! But her eyes ! large and black, with all the soft languishment of the blue I * * * After my first surprise was over, I endea- voured, by nicely examining her face, to find out some imj)er- fection, without any fruit of my search, but my being con- vinced of the error of that vulgar notion, that a face exactly proportioned, and perfectly beautiful, would not be agreeable ; nature having done for her with more success, what Apelles is said to have essayed by a collection of the most exact features to form a perfect face. * * * To say all in a word, our most celebrated English beauties would vanish near her.' At length, in the month of May, 17 17, the embassy left Adrianopol, after a residence there of about six weeks, and proceeded to Constantinople, where it was lodged in a palace in Pera. Here, wrapped closely in \i^'[ feregce and as7fiack, the adventurous Englishwoman rambled about the city of minarets, seeing all its wonders, and observing narrowly the manners of its inliabitants. Its mosques, its baths, its palaces, its Babel of foreigners, all were described in an easy lively style ; and at a time when there were so few books of eastern travel, and those Introduces hioculaiion. 1 19 mostly of a very formal character, it will be understood that these letters were read in England with avidity. Her position, as mfe of the ambassador of Great Britain, admitted her into the highest native society, as far as a woman could enter it at all ; while her knowledge of Turkish, which she learned from one of the dragomans of the embassy, and her interest in classical antiquities, enabled her to give a literary value to her letters. On the other hand, the reader of them will be shocked by what he will perhaps consider their occasional coarseness ; but it must be remembered that the manners of her day per- mitted even a woman to speak openly of many things now passed over in silence ; and certainly her descriptions, if some- times too graphic, give us a more thorough knowledge of the people and the scenes she painted, than the more delicate pro- ductions of modern days. In the month of October, however, Mr. Wortley received letters of recall, countersigned by his friend Addison ; and her stay in Constantinople was therefore limited to about a year. On the 6th of June, 17 18, Mr. Wortley and his suite pre- pared to return to England, but not by the route they had for- merly travelled. They now took ship through the Levant round to Tunis, and Lady Mary was delighted by the sight of all the celebrated haunts of Greek lore. After a short stay at Tunis, they sailed for Genoa, passed though Piedmont, stopping at Turin, crossed Mont Cenis into France ; and, after short halts at Lyons and Paris, reached England in October, 17 18. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought back with her a great reputation as a traveller, and the valuable knowledge of in- oculation, which she was determined to introduce into England. She had observed the practice in the villages of Turkey, where it was generally perfonned by an old woman with a good-sized needle. She had a very natural horror of the small-pox, which had carried off her only brodier, to whom she was tenderly attached, and had visited herself in a very severe manner. Of the effects of this attack she wrote a description in one of her *Town Eclogues,' in which Flavia laments the destruction of her beauty. Fortunately, however, the disease left few traces 120 Its Success. on her face ; but one of its effects was to destroy her eyelashes, thus impairing the softness of the expression, and giving her eyes that fierce look which worked such a spell over Pope, who has immortalized them. Her first trial of the cure which she had thus discovered was made, with great mngnanimity, on her own son, with whom it succeeded admirably ; and with a patriotism which entitles her to the gratitude of the country she determined, on her return, to introduce it into England. This was no quiet, no pleasant task, for, instead of a national benefactress, she was hailed as a demon. The frxulty prophesied disastrous consequences ; the clergy preached against * the impiety of thus seeking to take events out of the hands of Providence ;' and the ignorant and foolish declaimed against her. Yet the repeated success of the operation brought it, though gradually, into favour; and Lady Mary had the courage and the patriotism to persevere. A commission of four physicians was deputed by government to watch the effect of it upon her own daughter ; and when this was found satisfactory, poor Lady Mary had to endure the fresh persecution of too much popularity, and her house was turned into a species of consulting place for every one who could claim the slightest acquaintance with her, until, in the course of four or five years, the safety and advantages of the operation were firmly established. Certainly this zeal of Lady Maiy's shows a better heart than the partisans of Pope and Walpole will allow her ; and whatever her character may have been, she deserves a high place as the introducer of an opera- tion, which, until the discovery of vaccination, was the rescue of many thousands of lives, and which, but for her courage, might have remained untried to this day. On her return Lady Mary became a great favourite at court, especially with the Princess of Wales, aftenvards Queen Caro- line; but she had not been long in England, when, at the per- suasion of Pope, she retired to a house at Twickenham, where he was then decorating his well-known villa, making, among other things, a subterranean grotto, decorated with looking- glasses — surely the last piece of furniture the hideous little man should liave coveted. Lady Mary gives a curious reason lur Lady Mary's Turkish Costume, 121 her retirement from London. Mr. Her\'ey, afterwards Lord Hervey, celebrated for his efieminate character and some medi- ocre poetry, was then recently married to the beautiful Mary Lepell, whose life, under the tide of Lady Hervey, is given in this volume. * They visited me,' writes Lady J>Iary, * twice or thrice a day, and were perpetually cooing in my rooms. I was complaisant a great v/hile, but (as you know) my talent has never lain much that way : I grew at last so weary of those birds of Paradise, I fied to Twick'nam, as much to avoid their persecutions as for my ov/n health, which is still in a declining way.' Yet in after years it was these very people, her partiality for whom brought about her quarrel with the author of the * Dunciad.* Mr. Wortley bought the house that Pope had recommended to them, and Lady Mar}' was chiefly occupied in the alterations they were making in it, the education of her little daughter, and the society of Pope, Gay, and Swift, who were all at Twick- enham. It was here that Pope induced her to sit, or rather stand, to Sir Godfrey Kneller for her portrait in her Turkish costume, which she describes in one of her letters. This dress was truly magnificent, and became her figure d, menieille. The trousers were of thin rose-coloured damask, brocaded with silver flowers; the slippers of white kid, embroidered with gold. ' Over this hangs my smock of a fine white gauze, edged v/ith embroidery. This smock has wide sleeves, hanging half way dowm the arm, and is closed at the neck with a diamond button ; but the shape and colour of the bosom are very well to be distinguished through it The antery is a waistcoat made close to the shape of white and gold damask, \vith very long sleeves falling back, and fringed with deep gold fringe, and should have diamond or pearl buttons.' Tlien came a caftan^ of the sam.e stuff as the trousers, and reaching to the feet It was confined by a broad girdle, studded with precious stones ; and in this was stuck the dagger with a splendid jewelled hilt 'Y\\Q^talpac, or head-dress, of fine velvet, was, again, covered with pearls or diamonds, and beneath it the hair drawm up from the face hung dowm behind at full length, braided with copious ribbons. The attidude 0/ 122 Quarrels with Mrs. Murray. queenly dignity which Lady Mary assumed in this costume is very graceful ; and her fine figure is set oft' by it far more thaa it could have been by the stiff" fashions of her day. Little Pope was in raptures as Sir Godfrey drew the portrait in crayon, to finish it oft' at his leisure ; and we may imagine him hovering about the artist, gazing first at the original and tlien at the likeness, and already jotting down the following verses, which he gave to his idol, on this occasion ; — ' The phu'ful smiles around the dimpled mouth. The liap])y air of majesty and truth, So would I draw (but oh ! 'tis vain to try, My narrow genius does the power deny,) The equal lustre of the heavenly mind, Where every grace with every virtue's join'd ; Learning not vain and v.isdom not severe, With greatness easy, and with wit sincere. With just description show the soul divine. And the whole princess in my work should shine.' Very different these lines to the brutal satires he afterwards vented on this * princess.' To all gifted with a fine vein of satire, let Lady Mary's quarrels be a warning. She not only lost friends by her un- controllable wit, but by the bitterness with which she attacked her foes has left i)osterity in doubt which party was to blame. It was the custom of her day to write ballads on every occur- rence in society ; and Lady Mary was by no means singular in this indulgence. These productions were hawked and sung about the streets, but seldom traced to their authors, though Lord Hervey and Lady Mar)'^, known to be both poets and satirists, had much of the odium attachetl to them. It was one of these squibs which gave rise to the first of her many quarrels. A certain Mrs. Murray, for a long time one of her most inti- mate friends, had had a most disagreeable adventure, which, for a time, was the talk of the town. One of her father's footmen, named Arthur Cirey, had, in a drunken fit, one night entered licr room, i)resented a pistol at her head, and declared his so- lemn intention to gratify the passion he felt for her. Her cries roused the household, the man was seized, tried at the Old Bailey, (where Mrs. Murray was compelled to appear as a wit- ness,) and condemned, on the charge of attempted burglary, tc transportation. Two ballads, if not more, appeared on the oc All A bout a Ballad. 1 2 3 casion. As Mrs. Murray was very pretty, and of winning man- ners, it was possible to take a romantic view of the incident and this Lady Mary did in a poem entitled * An Epistle from Arthur Grey, the footman, to Mrs. Murray ;' describing the passion which he had hopelessly entertained for his mistress, and the despair in which he had had recourse to violence. There was nothing in these verses to offend Mrs. Murray, ex- cept the mere fact of their giving additional notoriety to an event which ought to have been forgotten. To say the least, it was bad taste on Lady Mary's part to write them. Bui side by side with these appeared a ballad, which was in every way in- famous. Mrs. Murray believing Lady Mar}' to be the author of both poems, withdrew from her society. The ballad-writer was foolish enough to ask for an explanation, and stoutly denied the authorship of the second piece. Mrs. Murray was not satisfied with this denial, and at a masquerade singled out Lady M.ir}', attacked her grossly, and hinted at impropriety in her conduct According to her own account, Lady Mary did not retort, but met diis attack with gentleness. However this may have been, the acquaintance could not continue, and Lady Mar}"- had the public odium of scurrility. Lord Hervey was by no means the best friend Lady Mar)' CO lid have. His effeminacy and fastidiousness were so well known that she herself said of him that ' this world consisted of men, women and Herveys ;* and it is related that when once asked to take beef at dinner, he replied, * Beef ! oh, no — faugh! Don't you know that I never eat beef, or horse^ or any of those tilings ?' In addition to this Lord Hervey professed to be a sceptic, and he was certainly a man of bad moral character even for that age. On the other hand he had a fascinating manner, plenty of natural wit, the advantages of a polished education, and — what, perha]:)s, had more influence with Lady M;iry than all the rest — some acquaintance with the Continent. He was already known as a poet ; and his * Four Epistles after the manner of Ovid' were much admired. Gay, and a plea.sure seeker, he appears still to have been capable of serious thought, at least sufficient to compose a deistical pamphlet At Rich- 124 The Twickejihavi Set, mend he had met his wife, among the rather brilliant than re- spectable ladies who thronged about the Princess of Wales, such as Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Selwyn, Miss Bellenden, and Mis3 Howe. With these ladies Pope, 'The ladies' plaything and the muses' pride,' as Aaron Hill wrote of him, was a great favourite. The Her- veys became intimate with him at Richmond, and thus with Lady Mary herself. Probably this set of wits at Twickenham exemplified the proverb of our copy-books about familiarity and contempt Certainly they appear to have indulged the first in far too great a degree, and certainly the second came in its wake sooner or later. Lady Mary especially laughed at both Pope and Her- vey. She was at Twickenham what the princess was at Rich- mond, the centre of the same circle when it moved a little fartiier up the Thames, and she was surrounded by Gay and Swift, Chesterfield, Bathurst, and Bolingbroke, besides Pope and Herv'ey. Pope's temper was none of the best Like all satirists, he could not stand being made a butt, however good- naturedly. His mean appearance made him very lonely and morbid with any woman whose aftection he wished for, as well as esteem. There is no doubt that Pope was in love with Lady Mary. Though his letters are almost too extravagant to be called love-letters, of which they are sometimes the paro- dies, at least as coming from a man with a keen sense of the ridiculous ; yet many touches in them betray that the fancy he had entertained for her, when a girl, had ripened into some- thing like passion when she was a married woman. Lady Maiy allowed him to write these declarations to her, perhaps thinking that neither he could be vain enough nor the world so silly, as to believe she would return them ; but what man is not vain when he finds the slightest possible encouragement ? It is said, that, at last, he made her a declaration in person, which she, unable to control herself, received with a burst of laughter, rude enough though v/ell deserved. Pope never for- gave it, and ceased to visit her. This is one story told to ac- count for their subsequent quarreL TJie Quarrel with Pope. 125 On the other hand it is related that Pope was jealous of Lord Hervey, with whom Lady Mar)' became very intimate, and who, though so effeminate, was very handsome in face : and as for effeminacy, there is scarcely a man of any note of that day who may not be charged v/ith it more or less ; unless, like Beau Nash and Sir Robert Walpole, he were a mannerless bully. That Pope, with his morbid character, was jealous of John Lord Hervey, is possible enough ; nevertheless it is only fair to give his own version of the story, which is, that he cut his old acquaintance * because they had too much wit for him.' The subterfuge is too evident. Did Pope, would Pope, ever admit that anyone had too much wit for )iim ? or, admitting it, would not his vanity have prompted him to accept the fight ? On another occasion that great poet — for such even his ene- mies confess him — ascribed the quarrel to a wish on the part of Lord Herv'ey and Lady Mary to get him to write a satire on certain persons, of whom he did not think ill enough to accept their propositions. Very good, Mr. Alexander Pope ! but was this excuse of thine anything more than an excuse ? Strong, terrible as thou wert, we know thee a liar, all the world knows it ; and Johnson confesses that before Lady Mary Wortley, then retreatedst with ignominy. There are, however, few tasks less thankful than raking up the embers of a dead poet's life. There are always plentj' of people to defend the poet on the strength of his poetry ; and perhaps it is best so. In seeking for the cause of this quarrel, we only seek to exonerate a woman, who really, as women go, was a great deal too good for the bitter, peevish, unannealed author of the *Dunciad.' Look through the case as we will, we can find little or no blame attaching to Lady Mary; and knowing the morbidness of Pope's character, we are not at all disinclined to attribute all the blame to him. At any rate, Lady Mary asserts that their quarrel was 'without any reason that she knew of;' but there was clearly no love lost between them, at least on her part ; since, on the publication of * Gulliver s Travels,' she wiites : * Here is a book come out, that all our people of taste run mad about ; 'tis no less than the united work of a dignified clerg\'- man (Swift), an eminent physician (Dr. Arbuthnot), and the 126 Lord Jufuuy and Sappho. first poet of the age (Pope), and very wonderful ii is, God knows; great eloquence have they employed to pro7'e themselves /feasts, and show such a veneration for horses, ack to his own apart- ments in St. James's, and conveyed under a splendid canopy to Westminster Abbey. As the gorgeous procession passed Carlton House, a band of music, consisting of thirty, played the ' Dead March in Saul.' The Prince of Wales had wished to follow his friend on foot to the grave, but such a tribute was forbidden by etiquette. It is to be regretted that princes must be exempted from so many of the scenes in this sublunary life calculated to touch the heart, to chasten and elevate the spirit. As the funeral en- tered the Abbey, and those solemn words, ' I am the Resurrec- tion and the Life,' were chanted, the deepest emotion affected those who had known and loved him whose pall they bore. Lines on his Bust. 157 Among other tributes to the memory of Fox were the follow- ing lines from the pen of the Duchess of Devonshire. The visitor to Woburn Abbey will find them underneath the bust ol the great statesman in a temple dedicated to Liberty by the late Duke of Bedford. ' Here, near the friends he lov'd, the man beliold. In truth unshaken, and in \irtue bold, Whose patriot zeal and uncximipted mind Dared to assert the freedom of mankind ; And, whilst extending desolation far. Ambition spread the hateful flames of war : Fearless of blame, and eloquent to save, _'Twas he — "twas Fox — the warning counsel gave , Midst jarring conflicts stemm'd the tide of blood, And to the menac'd world a sea-mark stood ! Oh ! had his voice in mercy's cause prevailed, What grateful miUions had the statesman hail'd ; Whose wisdom made the broils of nations cease. And taught the world humanity and peace I But, though he faild, succeeding ages here The vain, yet pious efforts shall revere ; Boast in their annals his illustrious name, Uphold his greatness, and confirm his lame.' The duchess only sur\'ived Fox a year : she died in 1806, beloved, charitable, penitent. Her disease was an abscess ol the liver, which was detected rather suddenly, and which proved fatal some months after it was first suspected. When the Prince of Wales heard of her death, he remarked : * Then the best- natured and best-bred woman in England is gone.' Her re- mains were conveyed to the family vault of the Cavendish family in All Saints' Church, Derby; and over that sepulchre one fond heart, at all events, sorrowed. Her sister. Lady Duncannon, though far inferior to the Duchess in elegance both of mind and person, had the same warm heart and strong affection for her family. During the month of July, 181 1, a short time be- fore the death of the Duke of Devonshire (the husband of the duchess), Sir Nathaniel Wraxall visited the vault of All Saints* Church. As he stood admiring the cofiin in which the remains of the once lovely Georgiana lay mouldering, the woman who had accompanied him showed him the shreds of a bouquet which lay on the coffin. Like the mortal coil of that frame wiihin, the bouquet was now reduced almost to dust. * That nosegay,' said the woman, * was brought here by the Countess 158 Death of iJie Duchess, of Bessborough, who had intended to place it herself upon the "coffin of her sister; but as she approached the steps of the vault, lier agony became too great to permit her to proceed. She knelt down on the stones of the church, as nearly over the place where the coffin stood in the vault below as I could di- rect, and there deposited the flowers, enjoining me to perform an ofllice to which she was unequal. I fulfilled her wishes.' By others the poor duchess was not so faithfully remembered. Her friend Lady Elizabeth Foster had long since become hei rival, yet one common secret, it was believed, kept them from a rupture. Both had, it was understood, much to conceal. The story of the late Duke of Devonshire's supposed birth has been referred to : he is supposed to have been the son of the duke, but not of Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, but of her who afterwards bore that title. Lady Elizabeth Foster. The inflexible determination of the late duke to remain single, ac- cording, it is said, to an agreement between him and his uncle, then Lord George Cavendish, always seemed to imply, in a man of such pure and domestic tastes, so affectionate a disposition, and so princely a fortune, some dire impediment In 1824, Lady Elizabeth Foster, then the second Duches.s of Devonshire, expired at Rome, where she had lived many years in almost regal splendour. Amongst her most intimate friends were the Cardinal Gonsalvi and Madame Re'camier, who were cognizant of the report, which was confirmed in their minds by the late duke's conduct at her death. Lady Elizabeth, as we shall still by way of distinction call her, was then so ema- ciated as to resemble a living spectre ; but the lines of a rare and commanding beauty still remained. Her features were regular and noble, her eyes magnificent, and her attenuated figure was upright and dignified, with the step of an empress. Her complexion of marble paleness completed this portrait. Her beautiful arms and hands were still as white as ivory, though almost like a skeleton's from their thinness. She used in vaiii to attempt to disguise their emaciation by wearing bracelets and rings. Though surrounded by every object of art in which slie delighted, by the society, both of the English, Italian, and French persons of distinction whom she preferred, there was a Report Relative to Her, 259 shade of sadne-ss on this fascinating woman's brow, as if re- membrance forbade her usual calm of life's decline. Her stepson (so reported,) the late duke, treated her with re- spect and even affection, but there was an evident reser\'e be- tween them. At her death he carefully excluded all friends to whom she could in her last moments confide what might per- haps, at that hour, trouble her conscience. Her friends, Ma- dame Recamier and the Due de Laval, were only admitted to bid her farewell when she was speechless, and a few minutes before she breathed her last. The circumstance struck them forcibly as confirmatory of the report alluded to ; but, it must in candour be stated, that the duke's precautions may have originated in another source. His stepmother was disposed to Romanism, and he may have feared that the zeal of her Catholic friends should prompt them, if opportunity occurred, to speak to her on the subject of her faith, and to suggest the adoption of such consolations as their own notions would have thought indispensable at that awful moment. The point is one that cannot be settled. It may, however, be remarked, that in disposition. In his wide benevo- lence and courteous manners, the late duke greatly resembled the subject of this memoir — the beautiful, the gifted, but the worldly Georglana Duchess of Devonshire. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. (L. E. L.) Brompton of Yore. — The Landons. — At Hans Place. — Mrs. Rowden's Day school. — Giving out the Prizes. — Genius against Education. — Reads Waltei Scott. — Mrs. Landon. — First Poem. — Bulwer on L. E. L. — Self-depen- dence. — Goes into Society. — 'Sally Siddons.' — 'The Improvisatrice.' — Never in Love. — More Imputations. — Deaths. — Miss Landon Defends Herself. — Return to Hans Place. — Her Life there. — 1 wo Hundred Offers. — Her Society. — Literary Pursuits. — Visit to Paris. — More Calumny. — En- gagement with Mr. Forster. — Broken Off. — Letter on the Subject. — Morbid Despair. — Meets Mr. Maclean. — Mr. Maclean. — His Mysterious Conduct. — Marriage. — Last Days in England. — Sails from FLngland. — Voyage out. — Life at Cape Coast Castle. — Her Mysterious Death. — Investigations. — The Mystery Unsolved. — Suspicions. — The Widower's Tribute. — Mrs. Landon. — Remarks on L. E. L.'s Death. — Her Last Letter. — Past and Future. T is now more than forty years ago since an eminent writer and journalist, looking from the window of his house in Old Brompton, was attracted by the appearance of a little girl, who was trundling a hoop with one hand, and holding in the other a book of poems, of which she was catching a glimpse between the agitating course of her evolutions. It was literally ' run and read.' The gentleman was William Jerdan ; the girl was Letitia Elizabeth Landon. The scene must have been a pleasing one ; the matured, suc- cessful man of letters, full of criticism and politics, Canning s last tnot^ Normanby's first novel ; besieged by authors with attentions, feted by nobles — the then prince of weekly journal- ists had so much still of truth in his heart, of benevolence and fatherly interest, that he paused in the inten^als of his work to look at the studious yet playful child and her hoop. She was then, in spite of adverse circumstances, a round-faced, rosy little creature, blithe as any lark, active as a butterfly, but pensive and poetic as a nightingale. Take also into your mind's picture the localities : Brompton was out of town then ; haymaking went on in Brompton Crescent ; monthly roses and Brompton of Yore. i6l honeysuckles flourished in Brompton Row ; Michael's Grove was a grove, though one might count its trees ; and, beyond, there were lanes that penetrated beyond Old Brompton and terminated at once in the country. Vegetation there was early and rapid, and the place had an almost village-like simplicity about it. There was no Brompton Square, no Alexander Square — neither terraces nor crescents with greater names than the mere designation, Michael's the patron saint or building sinner, wlierefore one knows not, and the humble name, Brompton. Yet stay ; let me look into my inestimable friend Peter Cunningham's valuable 'Handbook for London,' in which we are told how Amelia Place, now Pelham Crescent, was once a pleasant row of houses looking over a nursery gar- den (in L. E. L.'s time) : how the churchyard, on the first grave of which she \vrote one of her most beautiful poems, was in her childhood a blooming garden ; nay more, how famed the 'hamlet,' as Cunningham calls it, of Brompton had been as the grave of authors, actors, and singers. How Beloe, the sex- agenarian, and Count Rumford — strange anomaly ! — had died in the same house, 45, Brompton Row ; how here George Col- man had succumbed to fate ; then Curran ; here again. Miss Pope, the lady actress par excellence, who taught our grand- motliers how to enter a room, how to go to court, and how to contract their mouths by repeating the words * niminy piminy,' (vide some old play in which she used to convulse the audi- ence by these syllables). He tells us all this ; so let us realize that Letitia Landon was reared amid flowers, and near the imaginative and dramatic personages in whom she ever found great interest. She was not, however, bom at Brompton, but in the adjacent parish of Chelsea, in the genteel enclosure of Hans Place, number twenty-five. Since poverty is next to a crime in some classes of English society, the lowly circumstances of her family were for some years adduced as a proof that they were of mean origin. She was descended, nevertheless, from an ancient and honourable race, the Landons of Crednell in Here- fordshire, and flourished on their oami estate until Sir WiUiam I^ndou, Knight, rashly ventured his luck in the South Sea II 1 62 The Landons. bubble ; and his estates were absorbed in the generd wrecks After that time, adieu to opulence, or, indeed, to prosperity of any stable kind for that branch of the family from which Letitia was descended. Still they were able to keep up a position in the world, and to enter those professions which hold so good a place in England. From generation to generation the Landons were beneficed clergymen : John Landon, Rector of Nursted and listed in Kent, the great grandfather of Letitia, was noted for his literary abilities, which were directed against his son, the Rector of Tedstone Delamere. He was, however, encumbered with eight children, the eldest of whom was another John Lan- don, the father of L. E. L., who, esche^ving a clerical life, quitted his home, went off to sea, made a voyage to the coast of Africa, that very south coast where his daughter aftenvards perished, and came home again, quitting the service on the death of his friend and patron, Admiral Bowyer. His younger brother, meanwhile, Whittington, had entered the church, and obtained considerable distinction at Oxford. Aided by his own scholastic knowledge, by his agreeable man- ners — which are said by those who remember him to have been both dignified and urbane — he became eventually Provost of Worcester College, the patronage of the Duke of Portland having been extended, in this instance, to his elevation. The Provost was also endowed with the deanery of Exeter, and his flourishing circumstances operated favourably on those of his elder brothers. Through the kindness of a mutual friend, named Churchill, John Landon became a partner in the house of Adair, then a prosperous army agent in Pall Mall. His next piece of success was to find a wife with a good for- tune — Miss Catherine Jane Bishop, of a Welsh extraction, who began life, as those who knew her formerly have asserted, when unmarried, with fourteen thousand pounds to her fortune, ' her horse, and her groom.' On the 14th of August, 1802, the eldest child of this apparently happy couple, Letitia Elizabeth, was bom. They were then living in Hans Place, in a house built by Holland, the great architect of those days and those pai'ts, and long inhabited by his son. Captain Holland. It *s At Hans Place. 163 situated to the v/est, the south-west side of the quiet little square, and is a charming house of its gmre, with two pleasant drav/ing-rooms, and a third, forming a sort of conservatory boudoir, and looking into a strip of garden. Beyond, in L. K L.'s time, were the gardens of the late Peter Denys, Esq., then residing at the Pa\'ilion, a house also built by Holland for his own residence. The gardens were since tenanted by a m.arket gardener, famous for his salads and asparagus. Beyond these gardens there were only detached houses, skirt- ing a strip of land then called Chelsea Common, but more like a large field than a common. The little garden of number twenty-five was full of roses. Umbrageous trees on the left denoted the beautiful pavilion gardens, exquisitely planted with appropriate shrubs, with a miniature lake, to which sloped a lawn, broken here and there by parterres. All this scene was familiar to L. K L. in her infancy, and in the dawn of her childhood ; and she always retained a fondness for Hans Place. A racket ground has usurped the space whereon the market gardener (the well-known Catleugh, a frequent exhibitor of geraniums) raised his salads, or gathered, for his customers the earliest strawberries with the dew still on them. The pavilion gardens are divided : land and rents have risen since the days when Letitia looked out from her nursery window on goose- berry bushes and cherry trees ] yet the repose of Hans Place is still unbroken. One beloved companion shared the small pleasures of the little Letitia, and that was her brother Whittington, some years younger than herself. They were inseparable, except when Letitia went to learn to read, taught by an invalid neigh- bour, who used to scatter large letters over the floor, and tell her pupil to name them, and form them into words. When she was good, the child was rewarded, and her recompense, whatever it might be, was taken home and shared with hei brother. * She must have been very quick,' Mj. Landon, years afterwards, remarked, ' for she used to bring home many re- wards ; and I began to look eagerly for her coming back.' When unsuccessfiil, or inattentive, she had brought home 164 Mrs. Roivdcns Day-SchooL nothing, the future poetess crept up stairs to her nurse, to whom she was much attached, to be consoled. At five years of age, she went as a day scholar to an admir- able school, at that time established at number twenty-two in Hans Place. This house, for many years in after life, was the residence of L. E. L. through sickness, in happiness, in good report and bad report : and it had other associations beside those connected with L. E. L. to arrest the attention of the passer-by. It is the next house to the pavilion gates on the east side of the square ; and has a kind of off-shoot, of one story, containing a long, low room, half overshadowed with plane trees of the pavilion, half with the elms of a close, small garden in the back, in which half of L. E. L,'s life was passed. It happened that Miss, or as she styled herself Mrs. Rowden was a lady of singular acquirements and energy : more espe- cially she cultivated, what is now so greatly neglected, the com- mitting to memory the English classics, and the reciting before an audience the best passages, as they do at Harrow and Eton on prize days. She was herself a poetess, and quite a cha- racter in her way ; clean, lively, full of energy, kind, devoted to what she esteemed the highest of all professions, that of education. Such women are now rare. Then French was taught in Miss Rowden's school by an emigrant, the Comte St. Quentin, whose accent and idiom were very different from those of the modern French teacher, taken from a far lower class than formerly, when the noble exiles from Paris gave lessons. Hence L. E. L. acquired two things which she never lost — a love of poetry, and a pure French accent ; a fair in- tellectual stock in trade to begin her youth wth. Mary Mit- ford was another gifted pupil of Mrs. Rowden's, and remained for years the friend and correspondent of her instructress, who marrying the Comte St. Quentin, removed eventually to Paris. L. E. L. was noc, nowever, very long a regular pupil of Mrs. Rowden's, but used, in after days, to attend classes there, so as to derive advantage from her plans. Amongst other cele- brated persons who knew and respected Mrs. Rowden, was Lady Carolinje Lamb, \^ho was an inmate of number twenty- Giving out the Prizes, 165 two for some time. Lady Caroline used to give out the prizes on breaking-up days ; and for several years her graceful form was seen entering the long, low room, which has been described, leading by the hand her little boy, whom she was destined to lose. 'After the business of the day was over,' writes a former pupil of Mrs. Rowden's, 'Master Lamb used to be set on a high table to recite Shakespeare, which he did ^vith wonderful em- phasis for such a child. I well remember his giving the " Seven Ages of Man." ' No wonder the poor boy died early. How litde could Lady Caroline imagine that amid the smiling, eager faces then uplifted towards her, there was one for which many an eye would afterwards turn with intense eagerness as the three magic letters L. E. L. were uttered : that, in that very room, should be decided the tragical fate of that child, the youngest in the school, who could then — it was her only fault her teacher said — never walk steadily from joyousness of spirit, there suffer sickness, anxiety, and die hard unkindness from an unsparing world ! Scarcely was L. E. L. seven years old when her father re- moved to Trevor Park, East Barnet, and for some time her education was superintended by her excellent cousin. Miss Elizabeth Landon, who survives her intelligent little pupil. Her imagination, and more especially her memory', were now plainly apparent to her family. At night she would amuse her parents by their fireside ^^ith the wonderful castles her fancy pictured. She was perfectly happy in the garden, talk- ing to herself, and walking with what she called her ' mea- suring stick' in her hand. When spoken to at such times she used to say, ' Oh ! don't talk to me ; I have such a delightful idea in my mind.' During all this period of her life, the edu- cation of L. E. L. was carefuliy attended to. It was not by an impulse of genius alone that she became a poetess, but by long mental culture of a generous kind ; by reading works of sound history, travels, biography — v/ading through books, not skim- ming them, and mastering each as she went on. In music, however, although she had the advantage of being taught by Miss Bissett, a lady of first-rate powers, she never attained any proficiency, although all her life fond of vocal music. Neithei 1 66 Reads IValkT Scott, could she ever be made to write a good hand. Her ^\Titing Wiis cramped, as if she had used her left hand only, and w-as ahvays a matter of ditiiculty to her. Her affections developed witli her intellect. She was so full of faults, and yet so fond of her brother, that it was found expedient, when one was guilty of an offence, to punish the other for it. * Nothing,' lier bro- ther said, 'could subdue her Vvill, except it was done through her aflections.' The system adopted with her was a stern one ; but it prepared her for that life of work and of self-dependence which she afterwards encountered. Even at this early age the disinterested, self-denying character of her maturer years was apj^arent. ' I had,' writes her brother, * petitioned ray father for three shillings,' when he oftered me, by way of compromise, a new eighteenjienny piece if I would learn the ballad — ' Gentle river, gentle river, Lo ! tliy streams .oie stained with gore.' Alas ! it was thirty verses long, and flesh and blood in the boy revolted. But Letitia, seeing his dilemma, oftered to learn the thirty verses herself, repeated them perfectly, and got the three shillings. She then persuaded her brother to learn it, teaching him verse by verse. * I don't,' says Mr. Landon, ' remember whether I ever said it ; but I do remember that she gave me the three shillings.' One of her early exploits was teaching her fathers gardener, thirty years of age, to read : this was her first good deed. The man rose to be a milkman ; and eventually, enabled by Letitia's tuition to keep his ov/n books, he prospered so well as to settle down in a respectable public-house at Barnet. At Trevor Park, L. E. L.'s happiest, perhaps her only really happy days were passed. Imagination is an infinite source of delight to children. She found in her brother a ready listener to her 'travels' — all supposititious rambles — to her 'desert island.' Happily for her, the pure, high-toned works of Walter Scott were the reading of the day. Well does every parent judge who has them in his library. It was an inestimable ad- vantage to the young people of that time. All in his works has a tendency to elevate : his p.etry, which is so far mferior to his prose, is devoid of the passionate gloom of Byron, free from Mrs. Landcm. 1-67 the poisonous casuistry of Shelley. L. E. L. knew the *Lady of the Lake' by heart, and Uved on Scott's poetry, as she has said in her poem on the Great Unknown. ' I peopled all the walks and slmdes Witn images of thine : Tills hme-tree was a lady's bower, The yew-tree was a shrine ; Almost I decni"d each sunbeam shone O'er bonnet, spear, and morion.' The mental appetite of the young at that age is not difficile; and she forgot, in the enchanting interest of the story, the de- fects in Scott as a versifier : * Marmion' was her favourite ; and she sometimes in after life repeated in low, almost tremulous accents, and very impressively, those lines descriptive of Con- stance when brought before the conclave of monks to receive sentence. She was always touched by the recital of every valiant action ; and one of her earliest pieces were stanzas on * Sir John Doyle,' that brave old soldier (the uncle of Lady Bulwer Lytton), whom L. E. L. afterwards personally knew. During the course of years, her character was thus formed. As it developed itself, an impressionable, hasty, honest nature appeared : tears and smiles, long after the age of infancy, came easily, and quickly succeeded each other. The sweetness of her temper in after life was remarkable. As a child, she was passionate ; but she acquired afterwards one of the best sort of tempers — that which is naturally impulsive, but which is regu- lated by principle and firm regard for the feelings of others. To her cousin L. E. L. ov/ed much : from her mother she inherited much. Mrs. Landon resembled her daughter greatly. A thin, small woman, with a countenance full of animation, it was evident, from die expression of her eyes, whence the talents of L. E. L. were derived. Short as L. E. L. was, her mother was somewhat shorter; quick as were L. E. L.'s movements, those of her mother were quicker still. In voice, in native vivacity of character, they greatly resembled each other. Mrs. Landon was a person of cultivated mind, warm feelings, great penetration, considerable wit. During the season of the prosperity of Mr. and Mrs. Landon, anotiier daughter was bom — a fragile being, who died of cc»- i68 First Poem, sumption at thirteen years of age. Mrs. l^ndon was devoted to this poor child, in whom, from difference of age, L. E. L found no companionship : so that, whilst her brother was at school, she still lived, as it were, undisturbed in her own little world, and her imagination became the ascendant power of her mind. Until the age of thirteen, L. E. L. was a healthy, blooming girl, full of spirits — a romp, as girls should be at that age ; and her childhood, in spite of her melancholy account of it in several of her compositions, was a joyous one. But clouds were lower- ing over her home, and from henceforth the struggles, which were scarcely closed until her death, began. Mr. Landon — an amiable man, of an easy and sanguine temper — had encum- bered himself with a farm, and lost large sums from the mis- management of his bailiff. Business was not prosperous, and the failure, eventually, of Adair's house plunged him into diffi- culties which he never retrieved. Trevor Park was given up : and he took his wife and children to Old Brompton, where the first dawnings of L. E. L.'s genius were discovered, encouraged, and finally introduced to the world by Mr. Jerdan. It was about tlie year 1818 that some of L. E. L.'s poetical efforts were printed in the ' Literary Gazette,' which at that time was almost the only purely literary weekly journal, and a periodical of great influence and extended circulation. She was only fifteen when, a year before, she had published a litde volume entitled ' The Fate of Adelaide,' a poem which she dedicated to her mother's intimate friend, Mrs. Siddons. 'The Fate of Adelaide' was involved in the failure of its pub- lisher, Mr. Warren, of Bond Street, and, though it sold well, L. E. L. never received any profit for her production. She next appeared under the shelter of her famous initials in a series of * Poetical Sketches' in the * Literary Gazette.' These sketches are eminently beautiful, and were deservedly successful : the initials became, as Leman Blanchard expresses it, a name. That was not an age of poetry ; and the strong utilitarian tendencies of the times would, one might suppose, have frozen the current of a young and unknown poetical genius. Malthus and Senior flourished ; Miss Martineau was not far off; Byron was * iia- Btthver on L. E. L. 169 proper ;' Scott was * feeble ;' Tennyson, a boy at college ; and poetry was a thing appertaining to a long past century, not to ours. Yet passion, fancy, feeling, in all the freshness of an original mind, spoke to the heart, and had a response. When, in 183 1, Sir Edward Bulvver Lytton (then Mr. Bulwer only) edited the * New Monthly,' in his review of ' Romance and Reality' — L. E. L.'s first novel — he thus alluded to the effect produced by her poetry, and by the mystery that hung over her identity. ' We were,' he says, * at that time more capable than we now are of poetic enthusiasm ; and certainly that enthusiasm we not only felt ourselves, but we shared with every second person we then met. We were young, and at college, lavishing our golden years, not so much on the Greek verse and mystic character to which we ought, perhaps, to have been rigidly devoted, as "'Our heart in passion and our head in rh)'Tne." ' At that time poetry was not yet out of fashion, at least with us of the cloister, and there was always in the reading-room of the Union a rush every Saturday afternoon for the " Literary Gazette," and an impatient anxiety to hasten at once to that corner of the sheet which contained the three magical letters L. E. L. And all of us praised the verse, and all of us guessed at the author. We soon learned it was a female, and our ad- miration was doubled, and our conjectures tripled. Was she young ? Was she pretty ? And — for there were some embryo fortune-hunters among us — was she rich ? We ourselves who, now staid critics and sober gentlemen, are about coldly to mea- sure to a prose work' (what is here quoted is introductory to a review of ' Romance and Reality') ' the due quantum of laud and censure, then only thought of homage, and in verse only we condescended to use it. But the other day, in looking over some of our boyish effusions, we found a paper superscribed to L. E. L., and beginning with " Fair Spirit !" ' Wliilst she was thus almost unconsciously exciting a strong curiosity about herself, the young poetess was experiencing a great calamity, which certainly overshadowed all her life Avith it^ consequences. Her father died. It was not only tliat she 170 Sclf-Dependoice. loved him — for he was a kind and proud parent — l)iit tliat, just as she was entering life, her youth, her genius requiring more than ordinary protection, she lost that tie whicli kept together her family — that stay to which she could have looked for sup- port when, misunderstood by some, misrepresented by others, she became the object of calumny. The blow had another effect : it threw L. E. L. completely on her own efforts. Poverty, in that appalling form which it wears in great cities, now threatened her mother, herself, and her sister. She had always looked to her own efforts to help her family, and she joyfully became aware of her power to ser\''e them. But from henceforth, after the first blithesome period of her songful youth, poetry became unhappily her pro- fession. Never did any writer more wonderfully rise above the effects of task-writing than L. E. L., but that it crippled her genius there can be no doubt. And her home was happy no longer. Her mother's temper, with a warm heart as she had, clashed with hers. L. E. L. deeply regretted her father, whom she loved with that exceeding love to which is added the feeling of a more than ordinary loss. Yet she was still buoyant, hope- ful, and gay as any skylark singing as it soars aloft There is no doubt but that in the separation that afterwards ensued be- tween her and her mother much blame was due to herself. She began to feel her powers, and to reject control. Society spoiled her, as her parents had done, not so much by over fondness, but by that pride in her talents that intoxicates. She was caiTied along, too, by impressions that in after life she would have repelled. Her early adversity had taught her self-depend- ence, and she now sometimes wished to tear herself away from constraint — to live as certain espriis forts did, alone ; to be a Corinne, her poetry and her fame giving her a sort of brevet among girls of her own age. Yet with all this, for which she paid so dearly, her heart was as pure, her character as innocent, her taste as exalted, as that of the most irreproachable English girl who has never contemplated an emancipation from the restraints of home. Great anxieties, too, and many coming privations, added doubtless to the irritations of that unhappy period. And tliere Goes into Society, 17 1 were many inconveniences in a small tnhuige to one who now had before her a career such as few women, if any, in our countr)' could ever have contemplated as their lot. Society now found out that L. E. L., as well as her poetry, was essential to it. The first of her patronesses was the late Miss Spence, a lady known to her contemporaries as the authoress of * Darne Kebecca Berry,' a production the credit or discredit of which was shared by Lady Bulwer Lytton, who was, at the time when it appeared, the beautiful and gifted Rosina Wheeler. Miss Spence was of Scottish origin, somehow related to Fordyce and his sermons, whom she always managed to bring out in a couplet with Lady Isabella Spence. L. E. L. was gratified by a call from Miss Spence, who in those days of leo-hunting was proud to be the first to present to a select circle in little rooms, in Little Quebec Street, Mayfair, the veritable L. E. L., fresh caught for their amusement. Kere L. E. L. first met Sir Lytton Bulwer, then a fair young man, of aristrocratic elegance, full of wit and fancy, and then passionately attached to her whom he since made his wife. The petiis comiies in Little Quebec Street were often attended by Lady Caroline Lamb, who soon evinced an interest in L. E. L. which ended only with Lady Caroline's life. Miss Wheeler, to a perfect beauty of face, with her magnificent figure, united great wit, great live- hness, and a power of appreciating the genius of L. E. L. Their friendship was afterwards painfully terminated ; but in Sir Bulwer Lytton L. E. L. ever found a constant, sensible; an(4 sincere friend, whose regard for her survived her death. Her descriptions of these social literary meetings, these has hkus reunions up three pair of stairs — Miss Spence in a blue toque doing the honours — were very graphic ; and Moore, who heard them sometimes, thought that the powers of Miss Austen were vested, as well as gTeat poetical gifts, in L. E. L. But when her novels appeared it was seen that he was mistaken. Literary and intellectual society were not, however, wholly new to L. E. L., though not in the bas-bieu system. Mrs. Sid- dons's friendsiiip for Mrs. Landon lasted their lives, and was of an intimate character. * Sally Siddons,' Mrs. Landon used to say, ' worked the trst cap ever put on my Letitia's head whe» 172 * Sally Siddonsl a baby.' She referred to that charming, doomed daughter of Mrs. Siddons who died of consumption whilst her mother was the star of Ireland's provincial towns. Campbell, in his * Life of Mrs. Siddons,' has depicted the mother's agony when her darling was taken from her. Sally was engaged, it is be- lieved, to be married to Sir Thomas Lawrence. Accustomed also to mingle with a small number of friends of good position, whom Mrs. Landon ever retained — for her adverse circumstances never lowered her in afiy way — the man- ners of L. E. L. were gentle and very agreeable. She had great, very great iad^ a natural gift, as well as the result of good early society. She was willing to be pleased, and desirous, perhaps too desirous, to please ; for that, which is a virtue, sometimes induced her to say things far too flattering to be always thoroughly meant. She was led into it from imitation. Her nature was a sincere one ; but the has-blai buttering system was then at its height. She was at this time from eighteen to twenty-two or three, a comely girl with a blooming complexion, small, with very beau- tiful deep gray eyes, with dark eyelashes : her hair, never very thick, was of a deep brown, and fine as silk : her forehead and eyebrows were perfect ; the one white and clear, the other arched and M'ell defined. She was inclined rather to be fat ; too healthy looking ; and then her other features were defective — her nose was retrousse. Her mouth, however, without being particularly good, was expressive, and proportioned to her small and delicate face. Her hands and feet were perfect ; and in time her figure, which had a girlish redundance of form in it, became slighter, and ended by being neat and easy, if not strictly graceful. She had a charming voice ; and one could not but wonder that with that, and with so much soul, she did not sing — a sort of necessity of her nature. Few persons have had their songs set so often to music ; and few persons ^vrote songs so adapted to society, and to the graceful performance of amateurs, as she did. Her * I know not when I loved thee first,' and her * Constance,' have been set by clever composers, and are deservedly popular. Her verses have always been liked by composers. ' Hie Iinprovisatrice^ 1 73 Her success brought hope to her excitable mind. Good luck, she o\vTied, surpassed her expectations. * I am con- vinced,' she wrote to her cousin, * that a kind of curse hangs over us all.' Some lines which she composed at this time, when visiting an aunt in Gloucestershire, addressed to her mother, show a fondness that seems to render the after sepa- ration inexplicable. In 1824, when Letitia was twenty-tvvo years old, ' The Im- provisatrice' was published. Its success was immediate. * The stamp of originality,' as Mr. Blanchard writes, * was on this work. There was a power in the pages that no carelessness could mar, no obscurity own — and the power was the \\Titer's own.' * The Improvisatrice' was identified with the writer whose soul had been for some years poured forth in songs that had all the veroe of being improvised. Although at this period of her life it is asserted that L. E. L. had never loved, never sorrowed, her new poem, like her contributions to the ' Literary Gazette,' was full of forlorn hope and blighted affection, so given that it required some strength of reasoning not to believe them real. ' It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute that wTought me wTong ; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song.' But the instant L. E. L. was known, the circle surrounding her was disenchanted. She pleaded guilty to no sentiment ; she abjured the idea of wTiting from her owm feelings. She was so lively, so girlish ; so fond of a dance, or a play, or a gay walk ; so full of pleasantry, so ready with her shafts of A\nt, that one felt half angry -with her for being so blithe and so real. Still those who knew her well did comprehend her : they knew what deep feelings lay beneath all that froth of manner which did her so much injustice. They knew that many of her sal- lies were drawn forth by the tiresome flatter}' of some, ihtfade observations of others. A successful author has much to un- dergo from society : the continual repetition even of the most gn"atifying tributes becomes wearisome beyond expression, and most of our noted authors put an embargo on it. But L. E. i* 1/4 Never in Love, was too good-natured to do this : she assured each admirer of her works that his or her tribute was just what she wished for. She always Hstened — always answered with courteous respect to the well-intended obser\'ation3 : it was only those conversant with the expressions of her varying face that could know what she felt. When she said, however, that she had never been in love, she spoke, at that time, tlie truth ; and indeed it is probable that she never experienced the passion as she described it : if she did so, the emotion was transient and produced no effect on the circumstances of her life. She was now to be found by the numerous and fashionable visitors who were proud of her acquaintance in a small apart- ment in Sloane Street, where she lived under the protection of her grandmother, Mrs. Bishop, to whom she was affectionately attached. The drawing-room of these lodgings was som.etimes filled \\^th gay ladies of rank in the morning, and with men of letters and literary ladies in the evening. L. E. L. was a social being ; and young as she then was — little more than twent>'- three, had the gift, so perfect in PVance, so rare in England, of receiving well. Nothing could be more lively than these little social meetings, and nothing more unexceptionable. It is true that among men of letters, great diversities of character are to be found ; but in the society of her ov.ti sex, L. E. L. was very careful hov/ to steer her way. It was at this period that she was seized with her first severe attack of illness, inflammation of the lungs. She suffered much, and her constitution never perfectly rallied afterwards. It was about this time, also, that the first attempt to injure her character was made in the * Sun' newspaper. The paragraph coupled her name with that of the friend to whom she owed so much ; consultations were then held by her friends as to the steps to be pursued. Mr. Jerdan advised an action being threatened if an instant contradiction did not ap- pear; and he was right : a threat of that kind would probably have produced far more important consequences than the silencing an ephemeral report. It would have intimidated a host of almost invisible slanderers who found delight in bring- Deatlis. 173 ing do\vn to the vulgar level of their own minds one all genius and purity. Even had an action been necessary, there would have been nothing to fear. Ever}' action of L. E. L.'s life was open as daylight. From first to last she was always in the sight of friends, many of them married ; her mornings were passed in incessant ■\\Titing ; her evenings in society \ whilst her grand- mother never left the house. Well might she write these exquisite lines at the close of hei second poem, ' The Troubadour,' to her father's memory ; ' My hcnrt said, no name but thine Should be on this last page of mine. My father ! though no more thine ear Censure or praise of mine can hear, It soothes mie to embalm thy name With all my hope, my pride, my fame I • • • • My own dear father, time may bring Chance, change, upon his rainbow wing, But never will thy name depart — The household god of thy child's heart— Until thy orphan child may share The grave where her best feelings are. Never, dear father, love can be Like the dear love I had for thee.' It was during the height of her fame also, raised to its climax by the publication of ' The Troubadour,' that her young sister sank away, happy in being taken from the adversity which she had never had physical strength to bear. L. E. L. was not aware of her danger till all hope was gone ; then she hastened to her mother's. Never can her description be forgotten of her feel- ings on gazing on the living skeleton before her. At this period, and ever afterwards, she began to contribute regularly to her m.other's means of subsistence. This was one of the greatest sources of satisfaction in her independence ; and the generous- hearted girl felt it to be so. She was plunged into the full career of London society when her grandmother died, and her plans were again unsettled. Perhaps in not returning to her mother, L. E. L., as an au- thoress, was right ; as a member of society she was wi-ong. As an authoress she required quiet ; entire freedom from irritation ; absence from small worries incidental to a home of privation. Ad\ice til at she could not aUvaj's follow, yet dared not, lest 1/6 Miss Landon Defends Herself, altercation should arise, dispute. After a lapse of years tliese considerations seem valid, and constitute a plea for that which was constantly urged against her — her absence from her mother's protection. It was, in point of fact, all that could be urged to her detriment. In referring to the reports against her, she thus wrote in the bitterness of her soul : — * I have not ^vritten so soon as I intended, first because I wished to be able to tell you I had taken some steps towards change ; and I also wished, if possible, to subdue the bitterness and irritation of feelings not to be expressed to one so kind as yourself I have succeeded better in the first than the last. I think of the treatment I have received until my soul writhes under the powerlessness of its anger. It is only because I am poor, unprotected, and dependent on popularity that I am a mark for all the gratuitous insolence and malice of idleness and ill-nature. And I cannot but feel deeply that had I been possessed of rank and opulence, either these remarks had never been made, or, if they had, how trivial would their consequence have been to me ! I must begin with the only subject — the only thing in the world I really feel an interest in — my wTitings.' * * * < When my " Im- provisatrice " came out, nobody discovered what is alleged against it. I did not take up a review, a magazine, a news- paper, but if it named my book it was to praise " the delicacy," "the grace," "the purity of feminine feeling" it dis- played.' * * * < With regard to the immoral and improper tendency of my productions, I can only say it is not my fault if there are minds, which, like negroes, cast a dark shadow on a mirror, however clear and pure in itself.' * * * ' As to the report you named, I know not which is greatest — the absurdity or the malice. Circumstances have made me very much indebted to the gentleman [whose name was coupled with hers] for much of kindness. I have not a friend in the world but himself to manage anything of business, whether literary or pecuniary.' * * * 'Place yourself in my situaiion. Could you have hunted London for a publisher ; endured all the alternate hot and cold water thrown on your exertions ; bargained for what sum they might be pleased to give ; and Returns to Haiis Place, 177 after all canvassed, examined, nay quarrelled over accounts the most intricate in the world ? And again, after success had procured money, what was I to do with it? Though igno- rant of business, I must know I could not lock it up in a box.' * * * c ^y^Q ^a^ tQ undertake this — I can only call it drud- gery — but some one to whom my literary exertions could in return be as valuable as theirs to me ? But it is not on this ground that I express my surprise at so cruel a calumny, but actually on that of our slight intercourse. He is in the habit of calling on his way into town, and unless it is on a Sunday afternoon, which is almost his only leisure time for looking over letters, manuscripts, . E. L. was greatly touched by anything that approached Acquaintance with Mi'. Maclean. 1^7 to heroism. Her fine lines on Sir Walter Manny show hei sentiment for the old chivalric gallantr)'. Slie heard much of Mr. Maclean from her friend Miss Emma Roberts, who had in- troduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Forster, Mr. Maclean's intimate associates. There was to be a party to welcome the hero, and L. E. L. was invited. In her enthusiasm she wore a Scotch Tartan scarf over her shoulders. She had a ribbon in her hair, and a sash also, of the Maclean Tartan ; and she set out for the soiree in gi'eat spirits, resolved on thus compliment- ing the hero. Mr. Maclean was much struck by her appearance. In looks L. E. L. was improved, by being more delicate than ever in fonn and complexion. The rich hues of the Tartan over her white muslin dress became her neck. She had at this time every advantage of a comfortable home. The Miss Lances had given up 22, Hans Place; then she lived some time with a friend of theirs (an excellent woman), Mrs. Sheldon ; ske also changed her plans of life ; but after the cruel rupture of her engagement with Mr. Forster, a lady of large fortune, living with every luxury in Hyde Park Street, insisted on L. E. L.'s making her house her home, received and treated her as a daughter, and gave her what she could not otherwise have ex- pected, tlie protection of herself and her husband, persons 01 the highest respectability and character. Under these favourable and happy auspices did L. E. L. begin her fatal acquaintance with Mr. Maclean. Never had she been before so serene, so protected, so happy. She had an elegant drawing-room allotted her to receive separately her own friends : a carriage was always ready for her to make visits. Nothins: could exceed the almost maternal care that watclied over her still frequent illnesses. Those who so loved, so cared for her, lived to mourn lier, but they are now at rest. Honoured be tlieir memory — ^good, piou'3, generous as they were. Still L. E. L. felt that she was not independent, and hers was an independent mind. All these circumstances combined made her v^ish to have a claim, a home somewhere \ and Mr. 1 88 Mr. Maclean. Maclean soon offered to her these sighcd-for objects of hec heart. He was accepted, and introduced to her friends as her be- trothed. Many approved her choice. Mr. Maclean was of an ancient Scottish family, the son of the Rev. James Maclean of Urquhart, Elgin, and the nephew of General Sir John Maclean. In early youth he had been sent out to Africa as Colonial Secre- tary at Cape Coast Castle : he was scarcely of age when he was made governor of the colony. He was a grave, spare man, between thirty and forty when he became engaged to L. E. L., but he looked very much older. His face, without being very plain, was not agreeable. It was pallid : and his dark hair fell upon a brow by no means of an elevated or intellectual cast. His dark-gray eyes were seldom raised to meet those of another. He was very taciturn, and still spoke his native Scotch, when he did speak, which was seldom : never, if he could help it. A practical man, he seemed to look upon all sentiment as folly, wit as superfluous, taste and fancy as weakness of mind, the softer passions as a waste of time. Still he was L. E. L.'s choice — her mature choice. His position was good ; and, ex- cept the necessity of going to Africa, there was nothing to be said against the marriage. Most mysteriously, the engagement was suddenly interrupted by Mr. Maclean's leaving London, and ceasing ail correspond- ence. L. E. L. hoped for the best : wrote to him — no answer ; wrote again — no answer again. Then her health became aftected : she had an attack of nervous fever. She explained all ; the calumnies had reached him also. Her depression was extreme ; and her attachment for Mr. Maclean appeared to be deeper than it had ever before been to any of her many suitors. After some time, during which Mr. Maclean maintained a rigid silence, he reappeared ; entered into no explanations ; vouch- safed no apology. But it seems L. E. L. was satisfied, and the engagement went on. She was not, at first, aware that Mr. Maclean was obliged to return to Cape Coast, and probably expected that after so long a service in so dreadful a climate he would have been promoted to some other post. But it was not to be so ; and she heard of his resolution to resume his Marriage, 1 89 duties at the colony without changing her determination to marry him. This all took place in tlie summer of 1837. Mr. Blanchard states, in his * Memoirs of L. E. L.,' that the impediment to their union had been on prudential accounts only, and that never did Mr. Maclean for an instant give credit to the reports against her. Still, another obstacle arose. L. E. L. was in- formed by a friend that Mr. Maclean was. already privately married to a woman of colour at Cape Coast. The assertion was distinctly denied, however, by Mr. Maclean : no connec- tion of the kind, he said, existed ; nor had any connection of any kind existed for a considerable time. There existed, never- theless, a certain degree of anxiety in the mind of L. E. L. A marriage is legal in England if it has been celebrated according to the rites of the colony in which it has taken place. Mr. Maclean, however, explained himself wholly to the satisfaction of Miss Landon ; and she never communicated what had passed between them, nor her annoyance on tlie subject to her brother until after her marriage. Preparations were then in progress for their immediate union, and L. E. L. felt a perfect confidence in the truth and honour of Mr. Maclean. She believed him to be free : and her con- victions may have been coiTect. A brief period of happiness was now her Tot. Her health was still preca-rious, but improving. ' Perhaps one reason that I am so recovered is,' she wrote to Lady Stepney, ' that I am so much happier. All the misery i have suffered for the last few months is past like a dream — one which, I trust in God, I shall never know again. Now my own inward feelings are what they used to be. You would not now have to complain of my despondency.' And at this time her admirable novel of ' Ethel Churchill' having been most successful, her happiness seemed coniplete. On the 7th of June, 1838, she v/as married to Mr. Maclean^ the cerem.onial taking place in St. Mary's, Bryanston Square. It was, by Mr. Maclean's wish, so strictly private tl at even the family with whom L. E. L. resided did not know that it had taken place until a fortnight aftenvards. Mr. Landon, the IQO Last Days in England, bride's brotlier, perfoimed the ceremony : Sir luhvard Bulwei Lytton gave the bride away. After tlie service, all who were present at the church, except the bride and bridegroom, made their congratulations and went away. Mr. and Mrs. Maclean went to the Sackville Street Hotel ; but on the following day L. E. L. returned to her friend's house, and entered into society, as usual, under her maiden name. It is impossible to avoid suspecting that this arrangement was the result of some fear in Mr. Maclean's mind lest the event should be kno\vn too soon at Cape Coast ; but the reason he alleged was his dislike to congratulations and festivities, and the great amount of busi- ness which he still had to transact at the Colonial Office before his return. It was on the day of the coronation of Queen Victoria, June 28th, 1838, that L. E. L. was last seen on any public occasion in this country. Invitations had been sent to her from most of the best clubs in London to occupy a place at their windows. She chose Crockford's, as being nearest to Piccadilly : she wished to leave as soon as the procession had passed to the Abbey. Some who knew her glanced from their carriage as the unparalleled cortege passed down St. James's Street. She wore a white bridal bonnet and a simple muslin dress, and with a party of friends stood in a balcony, waving her handkerchief in the enthusiasm of the moment as the troops appeared. As the last regiment of the gorgeous Lancers rode down the street she suddenly withdrew, and those who were watching her from the opposite window saw her no more. That evening many friends called on her in Hyde Park Street to bid her farewell. The town was blazing v/ith illumi- nations, the bells were ringing, the populace was hurrying here and there as L. E. L. received for the last time those she had loved so well. In the morning before, hurried to death, she had nevertheless found time to see Dr. Schloss, the publisher of the ' Bijou Almanack,' to which she had for some years given her name and poems gratuitously. The simple German shed tears as he thanked her for her liberality, her endeavours to Ferve him, her sympathy for a poor stranger. L. E. L. wa« Sails frovi E^igland. 1 91 truly charitable. She could not give money, but she gave her time, her toil, wherever there was distress. In the evening the scene was changed. The gay, the lite- rary friends, the lovely daughters of the house — now, alas ! gone, save two — the early friend of her girlhood, Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer, a\[rs. Disraeli, and many others, lingered long to wash her happiness and a safe return. It was understood that she was only to remain three years at Cape Coast, and the delicacy of her lungs rendered it, on that account, even desi- rable for her to go to a warm climate, as she had been threat- ened with asthma. At supper Sir E. L. Bulwer, in a graceful speech, proposed the health of ' his daughter,' alluding to his having acted as a father at her marriage. The vessel did not sail from Portsmouth until the 5th of July, but on the morning of the 28th of June, L. E. L. quitted London for ever. So painful and protracted was the parting that she and her com- panions were too late for the first train. She was much excited by this her first journey by a railroad, and said to Mr. Maclean, ' Why don't you have them in Africa ?' but towards evening she became much depressed, and a sort of terror seemed to possess her mind at the separation from her brother. Poor L. E. L. ! When her brother, during their stay at the inn at Portsmouth, said to her, * What shall you do without your friends to talk to ?' ' Oh !' she replied, * I shall talk to them through my books.' She had already planned work which would require just three years to finish. 'Everyone,' her brother wTote, 'was full of hopes, and though, perhaps, they sounded more like doubts, there was no want of cheerfulness at dinner, especially on her part But the brig was all this time getting away from Spit- head, and the captain of the cutter which followed, to take Mr. Hugh Maclean and myself back, came below and said we could not stay any longer. All our spirits, real or not, dropped at once. The others went out, and I remained some rime \vith my sister. At last they came dowm, and took her upon deck. 1 then perceived that Mrs. Bailey, who had not been before ob- sen'ed by us, was in the adjoining cabin, and I took the oppor- tunity of speaking to her, as the only European female who would be near my sister; and the impression which at the 1 92 Voyagr oiit, time she made on my mind was that of a woman both kind- hearted and trustworthy. We parted again on leaving the vessel, but nothing more was said. My sister continued stand- ing on the deck and looking towards us as long as I could trace her figure against the sky.' The brig * Maclean/ in which Mr. Maclean and L. E. L. sailed, had been fitted up, as far as the accommodation for L. E. L. was concerned, with ever\' attention to her comfort. The weather was fair, and the voyage prosperous. There was nothing more than the ordinary discomforts of a sea voyage ; but in so sa}'ing, a volume of small miseries is implied. Mrs, Bailey, the wife of the steward of the ship, acted as L. E. L.'s maid : no English servant v.'as permitted to accompany her as a permanent attendant, an arrangement which L. E. L. most bitterly regi^etted, and which must be for ever lamented by her surviving friends. After a time, L. E. L. was sufficiently reco- vered from sea sickness to write two of the must exquisite poems that she ever composed — 'The Polar Star,' and the * Night at Sea.' They were transmitted to her friends : the last legacy ft-om the warm heart that, when tlie poems were read, with tears, in England, had ceased to beat. She still affixed to them her initials, L. E. L. On the 15th of August she thus wrote to her brother : * Cape Coast Castle. Thank goodness I am on land again. Last night we arrived ; the lighthouse became visible, and from that time, gun after gun was fired to attract attention, to say nothing of most ingenious fireworks in- vented on the spur of the moment. A fishing boat put off, and in that, about two o'clock at night, Mr. I^Iaclean left the ship, taking them all by surprise, no one supposing he would go through the surf on such a foggy and dark night. I cannot tell you my anxiety, but he returned safe, though wet to the skin. We found the secretary dead, poor young man ! so that every- thing was in utter confusion.' This was, indeed, an inauspicious beginning; but it was not until long afterwards that the friends of L. E. L. attached any importance to this strange conduct on the part of Mr. Maclean ; when his thus going ashore in the dead of the night was a source of some suspicions that he had d&smed it necessary to send away from the fort, in which his Life at Cape Coast Castle, 193 bride was so soon to take up her abode, some persons pro- bably long established there. But no fad of the kind has transpired. \Vlien she landed, L. E. L. was in good health. For some time she wTote cheerfally, and favourably of her new home. The next letter to Mr. Blanchard describes the castle and hei mode of life. That mode of life was changed, it is true, from the half-sorrowful, half-pleasurable existence of London; but L. E. L. was one who could readily adapt herself to everything Her o^\^l health continued good, but a severe illness of Mr. Maclean's seemed to cause her much anxiety and fatigue. Foi four nights she scarcely took any rest ; still, and with all the in conveniences of having no competent servant, the amiable, un- selfish L. E. L. wrote to her dearest friend, ' I cannot tell you how much better the place is than we supposed. If I had been allowed to bring a good English servant wnth me, to which there is not one single objection, I could be as comfortable as possible.' She spoke more highly, too, in that letter, of Mr. Maclean's public character, and the reputation he had for strict justice. Allegations had certainly been made against him in England for cruelty, by a Captain Burgoyne, who married a daughter of Lady Elizabeth and Sir Murray Macgregor, and who, with his wife, passed two years at Cape Coast ; but these had been si- lenced, if not refuted. In subsequent letters, Mrs. Maclean's tone regarding her hus- band changed considerably. Mr. Maclean left her the whole day alone, until seven in the evening, and also entrenched him- self in a quarter of the huge fort or castle, where he forbade her to follow him. She confessed that she thought him strange, inert beyond description, vorj reserved, and never speaking a word more than he could avoid. Still her spirits were good. She spoke of no unkindness. He seemed to leave her to write, or to think, or to wander about the fort just as she pleased. The total solitude, the absence from loved friends, would have tried the courage of one less elastic than herself, but hers stood the shock. At the close of the year 1838, the brig 'Maclean,' in which 194 Her Mysterious Death. L. E. J* had sailed for Africa, returned, bringing the tidings of her death. She was well and cheerful on the evening of Sun- day, the 14th of October, and had occupied herself in writing to her English friends for several days. On the 15th of the month, Emily Bailey, the stewardess, and her only English at- tendant, was to return in the * Maclean.' Between the hours of eight and nine, Mrs. Bailey went to Mrs. Maclean's room in order to give her a note addressed to her by an official in the colony. She attempted to open the door, but was unable to do so for several minutes, owing to some heavy weight on the in- side. When she at last succeeded, she perceived Mrs. Maclean lying on the floor with her face against the door, and with a botde — an empty bottle — in her hand. There was a slight bruise on the cheek of the dead, or dying, L. E. L. Mrs. Bailey fancied she heard a faint sigh as she leant over her. She went, however, instantly for her husband, to call Mr. Mac- lean, who came immediately, and sent directly for advice. The surgeon to the fort, Mr. Cobbold, who came promptly, and Mr. Maclean, carried the body to a bed in the room, and efforts were made to resuscitate life, but wholly in vain. The bottle was then examined : it had evidently contained prussic acid, and was labelled, * Hydrocyanicum Delatum. Pharm. Lond. 1836.' The awe-struck persons in that chamber of death then looked around. A letter was on the table, which she, who lay before them unconscious, had been writing. The ink was scarcely dry with which she had penned those last words to her friend, Mrs. Fagan : ' Write about yourself; Jiothing else fialf so viuch interests your affcctio?iate L. E. Maclean.' She had even dated her letters, so composed had been her thoughts, 'Cape Coast Castle, Oct. 15.' These were the last lines she ever traced. Mr. Maclean had risen from a bed of sickness to rush to his wife's apartment. He was the last person, except Mrs. Bailey, who had seen her alive. She had gone to his room — which seems, at all events during his illness, not to have been hers — to give him some arrowroot ; and complaining of weariness, bad said she would go to bed again for an hour and a half. What lie felt, what he said, hov/ he stood the shock of seeing Investigations. 195 her, whose last act had been one of kindness to him, a corpse, is not recorded, and no one ever read his countenance. An inquest was summoned, and depositions taken ; and everything seemed more and more mysterious in proportion to what was disclosed. She had been seen in health the night be- fore : yet Mrs. Bailey stated that she had had spasms, and was in the habit of taking prussic acid for spasms ; and he concluded that she must have taken an over-dose that day. Nevertheless, no odour of prussic acid was emitted from the mouth : and the learned — among the rest, the late Robert Liston, then in London — on being applied to, declared that had she died from prussic acid, * she could not have retained the bottle in her hand ; that the muscles would have been relaxed.' Mr. Cobbold, the sur- geon, merely deposed that the pupils were dilated, the heart still weakly beating, and that he had given ammonia, but in vain. He does not say that the ammonia was swallowed ; he does not say that it was rejected. Then the question arose, where could she have got the prussic acid which, according to Mrs. Bailey, she used so freely? Mr. Maclean stated — * in her medicine chest :' and the assertion went down well at Cape Coast ; but when the matter transpired in England, Mr. Squires, of Oxford Street, the chemist who had prepared and supplied the medicine chest, affirmed that no prussic acid had been supplied in it \ and on hunting up all the prescriptions wTitten for L. E. L. by Dr. Thomson, who had alone attended her for fourteen years, it was discovered that prussic acid had never been ordered for L. E. L. either for spasms or for any other disorder. No post-mortem examination was proposed, or made : the inquest and the funeral were all ended in six hours after the lamented L. E. L. had ceased to exist. The verdict of the coroner's inquest was that the death of Letitia Elizabeth Mac- lean was ' caused by her having incautiously taken an over-dose of prussic acid, which, from evidence, it appears she had been in the habit of taking as a remedy for spasmodic affections, to which she was liable.' The names of the coroner and jury are given in Mr. Blanch- ard's Memoir. All that is put do^vn accurately ; but one im- IQ^ The Mystery Unsolved, porlant fact was omitted, that after her leaving Mr. Maclean's room, a cup of coffee had been handed in to L. E. L. by a little native boy, whose office it was to attend in the gallery or corridor in wiiich her room was situated. Why was this boy not called in evidence ? Why was not the cup found, and any portion of its contents, if still in it, analyzed ? That cup must have been in the room in which this fatal mishap, or secret poi- soning, took place ; yet no mention was made of it on the in- quest. Whichever it may be set down to — whether to accident or to a dark designing act — can never now be kno\vn, till we stand there, where all things are known. The truth has never transpired. Reports even prevailed that the cause of death was suicide ; but there was the undried letter — that effusion of affec- tion, to Mrs. Fagan, to give that — the last reproach to one so calumniated — the lie. By some, and especially by Mrs. Mac- lean's afflicted mother, who long survived the blow, it was be- lieved to be an accident. By others it has been suspected that the repudiated wife, or mistress, whose claims so nearly pre- vented this ill-omened marriage, was in some remote comer of the fortress still ; and, as the natives of that coast are wonder- ful adepts in the art of poisoning, it has been thought that L. E. L. fell a victim to jealousy : and that Mr. Maclean was anxious, by the hurried and irregular proceedings adopted, to screen her from the consequences, and to prevent disclosures ruinous to himself Some years afterwards the govenor of Cape Coast came to England. He must then have been made fully aware of all that the press had published — the pul^lic had said about his wife's mysterious death. Yet he was wise enough never to enter into any justification. The secretary of the colonies, at the time of L. E. L.'s death, was equally forbearing. Lord Normanby and Lord John Russell, successively in office in that department, found, as they wrote to the afflicted brother, ' so many difficulties in the way, that they were obliged, with great regret, to abandon their original intention of inquiry.' The * difficulties' arose, it is suspected, in the strenuous exertions and promised vote of an active M.P. who had interposed to save his absent friend the annoyance of an inquiry ; but the Siispicions, 197 people of England, who look upon L. E. L. as a child ot* ge- nius all their own, will ever regret that some measures were not taken in spite of * difficulties,' to clear up this dark story. After Mr. Maclean's death, which happened about six years after that of L. E. L., tAVO young English officers visited Cape Coast : they landed, indeed, chiefly for the purpose of learning all they could about the young poetess, whose name was still remembered, when they were at Cape Coast, as of one to whom ail felt resi^ect during her brief sojourn. They tried to gain particulars of Mr. Maclean's last illness. It was long : but never, during that weary journey through the valley of the sha- dow of death, except once, did he breathe her name — never did he refer to what must have pained him, the reports about the manner of that death ! He requested his secretary to take especial care of a box of papers which he always kept under his bed, and to destroy them after his death, of the certainty of which he was aware. Mr. Blanchard, in 1841, wrote: *A handsome marblet is on its way, it appears, to Cape Coast Castle, to be erected in tl)e castle, bearing the follo^ving inscription : — * Hie jacet sepultum Crane qiicd mortale fuit LETITI.-E ELtZABETHyK MACLEAN. Quara egregia ornatam indole Musis prstcipue amatam Omniumque amores secum trahentera In ipso a-'tatis fiore Die Octobris XV. a.d. M.D.CCC.XXXVIII.. NxdX. XXXVI. Quod spectas, vialor, raaiTnor, Vanum htu doloris monumentum Conjux moerens erexit,' * Here lies interred All that was mortal Of Letitia Elizabeth Maclean. Adorned with a lofty mind, Singularly favoured of the Muses, And dearly beloved by all, She was prematurely snatched away By death in the fiower of her age, On the 15th of October, 1838, Aged 36 years. The marble which you behold. O travellerj A sorrowing husband has erected : Vain emblem of his grief I' 1 9? Mrs. Lajidon. Mr. Maclean's body was interred, by his ovvn direction, by that of his wife : and that was the only reference made to L. E. L. by her husband. It was proposed to erect a tablet to the memory of L. E. L., by subscription, in that church at Brompton, on which she wrote her poem — * The First Grave.* But Mrs. Landon's circumstances after her gifted child's death were found to be so indigent, that it was thought better to raise a subscription to support her than to erect a tablet The late Mrs. Buhver Lytton, and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton came for- ward to aid in this last act of respect to L. E. L.'s memory : and Sir E. B. Lytton continued a handsome annual subscription till the death of Mrs. Landon in 1854. Sir Robert Peel as- signed to her a small pension of fifteen pounds, all that he had then to bestow out of a fund at the disposal of the Prime Minister's 'vvife : and these resources, with the aid of her son, who, then a curate only, could only assist, not wholly maintain his poor mother, made her tolerably comfortable during her life. It had been a life of trial ; and long before it was the will of God that her spirit should be at rest, she had * longed to be dissolved, and be with God.' At length she sank to rest, full of faith, and hope, and piously nursed by the niece who had educated L. E. L., and who had sustained her in her many sorrows. Mrs. Landon survived her daughter nearly twenty years : during that wearisome period she was never known either to touch upon the subject of her differences with L. E. L., nor, latterly, to refer to her death. It will naturally be asked why Mr. Maclean left the mother of his wife to the generosity of friends, to support her after she, who had ever cared for her mother's wants first, was gone. Mrs. Landon was a woman of an independent spirit. She could not be insensible to the convictions in the mind of others, that her gifted child had not had justice done her, after death. The hurried inquest, the careless garbled evidence, the pretext of the bottle — all raised suspicions which may have been wholly groundless, but which cannot be condemned as unlikely or unnatural. By the brig ' Maclean,' Mr. Maclean wrote to her, and referring to the allowance of fifty pounds a Remarks on L. E. L!s Death, 199 year, which Mrs. Maclean always made her (though adding to it often considerable sums), he engaged to double that provi- sion and to give her a hundred pounds a year for her life. Mrs. Landon, in reply, said that * could she be assured her d-aughter was happy with him, she would thankfully accept that annuity.' No answer was returned, nor did Mr. Maclean ever com- municate with Mrs. Landon again. When he came to England, he did not attempt to see her : nothing that had belonged to L. E. L. was even sent, as is usual in such cases, to her mother or to any friend or relative. Such are the unsatisfactory facts appertaining to the sudden close of a life so cherished. Time has not contributed one gleam of light upon an event which is still deplored, for sur- vivmg friends : and which, even now and then seems to recur to the memory of the public like a painful but half-forgotten dream. We shall never be more enlightened than we are now ; but of this, let those who delight in L. E, L.'s exquisite verses be assured, that it was not suicide that took her, not, we trust, unprepared from a world she loved well, with all its thorny cares. Had such an idea as that of self-destruction crossed her mind, she would have wTitten to her brother, whom she so fondly loved, in explanation, in extenuation — a farewell, a plea, would have been found in her writing somewhere. But, to show the state of her mind, calm, though pensive, as that of an exile might incline to be, she penned this last letter to a beau- tiful and intelligent friend, long since, as well as her husband, Colonel Fagan, also deceased. *My Dearest Maria, * I cannot but write you a brief account, how I enact the part of a feminine Robinson Crusoe. I must say, it itself, the place is infinitely superior to all I have ever dreamed of. The castle is a fine building ; the rooms excellent, I do not suffer from heat ; insects there are few or none ; and I am in excellent health. The solitude, except an occasional dinner, is absolute ; from seven in the morning till seven, when we dine. I never see Mr. Maclean, and rarely any one else. We were welcomed by a series of dinners which I am glad are over, for 200 Her last Letter. it is very awkward to be the only lady ; stiil the great kindness with which I have been treated, and the very pleasant manners of many of the gentlemen, make me feel it as little as possible; Last week we had a visit from Captain Castle, of the * Pylades.* His story is very melancholy. He married, six months before he left England, one of the Miss Hills, Sir John Hill's daughter, and she died just as he received orders to return home. We had also a visit from Colonel Bosch, the Dutch governor, a most gentlemanlike man. But fancy how awkward the next morning : I cannot induce Mr. Maclean to rise, and I have to make breakfast, and do the honours of adieu to him and his officers ; white plumes, mustachios, and all. I think I never felt more embarrassed. I have not yet felt the want of society in the least. I do not wish to fonn new friends, and never does a day pass without thinking most affectionately of my old ones. On tliree sides we are surrounded by the sea. I like the perpetual dash upon the rocks ; one wave comes up after another, and is for ever dashed to pieces, like human hopes tliat only swell to be disappointed. We advance — up springs the shining froth of love or hope, a moment white, and gone for ever ! The land view, with its cocoa and palm ti-ees, is very striking; it is like a scene in the " Arabian Nights." Of a night the beauty is very remarkable ; the sea is of a silvery purple, and the moon deserves all that has been said in her favour. I have only once been out of the fort by daylight, and then was delighted. The salt lakes were first dyed a deep crimson by the setting sun, and as we returned they seemed a faint violet in the twilight, just broken by a thousand stars, while before us was the red beacon-light The chance of sending this letter is a very sudden one, or I should have ventured to write to General Fagan, to whom I beg the very kindest regards. Dearest, do not forget me. Pray write to me, " Mrs. George Maclean, Cape Coast Castle, care of Messrs. Foster and Smith, 5, New City Chambers, Bishopsgate Street." Write about yourself — nothing else half so much in- terests * Your affectionate * Cape Coast Castle, Oct. 15. L. E. Maclean.* * ft It • ' THK POETS KXILK — L. K. I.. AT CAPK COAST CASTLK. • t r < ( ct • r J^ast ana future. 201 No one who reads this letter can doubt the collected mind, the clear memory, the reasonable emotion, with which it was written. There is not a single exaggerated expression in the whole composition. She even gives her diT-ection to her friend as if she contemplated the certainty ot a continued cOiTe- spondence. To conclude ^\'ith her own exquisite lines : — • Vtit futurr nev-r rer.d^rr. to the paM 'I he young beliefs mtPisted to its k?cpir4f ^ Inscribe one sentence — life's first tnith and las*'-*- On the pale marble where our diwt is .sleepuij; : \Vs might have been.' MADAMK DE SEVIGNE. At the Age of Fifteen. — ^Ihe Saint — Her Grandmother. — PW Marriage. — ^^fhe Cardinal de Retz. — Soofcty under Louis XIV. — ^Tlie H'jt'jl de Rambouillet. — The Precieuios Ilidicules. — Madame de S^vign^ among them. — llie Re- ward of Virtue. — ^Temp. Louis XIV, — Madame de S^vigr.e in I^ve. — Tlie Outbreak ol the * Fronde.' — Ninon de lEncios. — De Sevign^ Killed in a Duel. — The Court of I^uis XIV. — Anecdote of Racine. — ^The Arnaulds. — Religion of the Day. — The Bandits of La Trappe. — The Ascetics of Port- Royal. — Madame de S^vigntis Idolatry. — Anecdote of Boileau. — Anecdote of Fdndon. — The Knox of the French Court. — 1^ Rochefoucauld. — Fou- quet the Swindler. — Madame de Sdvign<5 at Paris. — Madame de S^vign^ Introduced. — A French Marriage. — Madame de Grignan. — Classics and Vice. — ^An Indulgent Mother. — ^\'oung de Sdvignd. — Madame de S^vign^'s Letters. — Madame de Sevignd's Affection. — Letter-writing. — Death. — Death of Madame de Grignan. FRENCFIWOMAN with none of the vices and little of the frivolity of Frenchwomen, a true Louis-Quatorzienne without the prejudices of that reign, a woman of society and one of its leaders, yet a prodigy of domestic aftections, a fre- quenter of the court but a lover of the fields, a wit without attempt- ing it, and a great writer without knowing it, Marie de S^vignd has justly won the admiration of every great man who appreciates wit and honours virtue. Even the satirical Saint-Simon can find nothing to say against htii/ssit praises her ease, her natural graces, her goodness, and he. Knowledge. Horace Walpole, himself the prince of letter-wTiters, made an idol of her, and tried to copy her style, which he considered as his finest model. Of her very portrait he says, enthusiastically : ' I am going to build an altar for it, under the title of Notre Dame des Rochers,* in allusion to her country-house in Brittany, Les Rochers. Mackintosh is loud in her praises. He read her letters while in India, and his journal has frequent notices of them * She At the Age of Fifteen. 203 has so filled my heart,' he says, * with affectionate interest in her, as a living friend, that I can scarcely bring myself to think of her as being a writer, or having a style ; but she has be- come a celebrated, probably an immortal writer without expect- ing it.' Of her easy yet forcible style, he says, in speaking of a passage in one of her letters, ' Tacitus and Machiavel could have said nothing better.' But Laraartine, one of her latest biographers, is perhaps her greatest admirer. He vie\vs her with a poet's eyes, and calls her ' almost a poetess,' and * the Petrarch of French prose.' He sees in her the one great in- stance, that has come down to us in literature, of maternal devotion, and, as an embodiment of this idea, has not hesi- tated to count her among the great civilizers of the world, and to place her name side by side with those of Socrates, Homer, Milton, Bossuet, and P'enelon. To a less romantic vision this excessive devotion to a daughter, * qui ne la meritait que medio- cre?ne?itj' says Saint-Simon, may appear like a weakness, still more so when contrasted witli her indifference to her son ; and it is perhaps rather as a woman of the world, standing out vir- tuous and sensible in an age of universal vice and extravagance of opinions, that the English reader will prefer to contemplate Madame de Sdvigne. Her life has indeed two sides, the romantic and the practical Her early hfe, her devotion to her husband, and her absorbing passion for her daughter, belong to the former. The rest is so sober, that some have called her cold, and even her greatest admirers confessed her lukewarm. In the old abbey-house of Livry in the forest of Bondi near Pai-is, there lived, about the year 1642, an old man and a young girl, like a dusty, black-lettered folio lit up by a stray sun- beam, when the bookcase is opened. Christophe de Coulanges is the abbe of Livry, a worthy old man, visited from time to time by men of learning, and, though of severe piety, not quite separated from the outer world. His niece, Marie de Rabutin, is an orphan of fifteen, his charge and his pupil. This young girl is indeed a joy in his quiet house. Her face alone is beau- tifal. The fresh delicate complexion, the oval form, the fea- tures regular if not classical, the rich abundance of fair hair, 204 The Saint — her Graiuhnother. are all of themselves enough for beauty. La Fontaine wrote of her — • With bandaged eyes you seem the God of Love ; His mother, when those eyes illume tlie face.' But those large blue eyes, dreamy one moment, with falling lids, and the next lit up with thought and mirth, are the centre fires of the whole, and in them the expression is for ever changing. Add to this a slight and graceful figure, and it is easy to understand that even her beauty dazzled the world of Paris at her first appearance. And this girl, beautiful and gay as she is, is now studying Greek and Latin with her old uncle, now receiving learned lessons from Me'nage and Chape- lain, and collecting a stock of erudition which was to fit her in after life fbr the companionship of men whose names are classical. It is remarkable that a woman, who, if she had nothing fur- ther to distinguish her, would remain to the world as the type of a mother's devotion, should not only have been left mother- less when six years old, but have had a grandmother so little aware of maternal duty, that she could abandon her young children to enter a convent, though her son threw himself across the threshold of her house to prevent her departure, for which act, and the building eighty convents, the Church of Rome thought fit to canonize her. The husband of this in- fatuated woman was Christophe de Rabutin, Baron de Chantal and Seigneur de Bourbily, which lies near Semur in the depart ment of the Cote d'Or, and between thirty and forty miles from Dijon. The family was old and respectable, but not one of the great families of France. The son of this Christophe married a Mademoiselle de Coulanges, daughter of an influential house. Their only child was Marie, afterwards Madame de Sevignd She was bom at Paris on the 5th of February, 1626, and brought up at the Chateau de Bourbily. In 1628, her father died in the defence of the He de Rhe againgst the Eng- lish ; and not long after his widow followed him, leaving the little child of six years old Avith no nearer relative, on her fa- ther's side, tlian her grandmother, who, as indifferent to her Her Marriage. .^O^ grandchild as she had been to her own children, left her to the care of a maternal uncle, the Abbe de Coulanges. At Livry, of which she so often speaks in her letters, she passed the next nine years of her life under the protection of this uncle, thus escaping that education of the convent to which young girls were then subjected, and of v.'hich she afterwards herself expressed her disapproval. \X fifteen the beautiful Mademoiselle de Rabutin-Chantal, sole heiress to an estate of three hundred thousand francs, was introduced by the De Colanges to the court and court-circles of Paris, and was at once pronounced fascinating. She had indeed qualities which made such a verdict universal. It was not only the gay and light who were charmed with her mirth and beauty: the more serious found in her a fund of solid learning after the fashion of those times, and a power and taste for reflection. And these qualities were set in the yet more valuable attributes of a rare modesty free from all prudery, and a good heart ready for the cultivation of friend- ship. The young girl was beset with candidates for her hand, among whom were members of the noblest families in France. Her choice v/as unfettered. She was an orphan, an only child, and an heiress ; and there is therefore ever)^ reason to believe that the choice she made was that of her own heart. It does but add one instance more to the hundreds that might be quoted of women actuated in this most solemn matter purely by fancy. Young as she was, for she was married at seven- teen, Marie de Rabutin had sufficient perception of character already not to be misled by mere appearances, or dazzled by external extractions. Yet the JNIarquis de Se'vigne was a man who had little but these to offer. Handsome, dashing, and courageous, he was at the same time selfish, sensual, and in- capable of a sincere attachment. He accepted the devotion she offered him with careless indifference ; and, insensible alike to her superiority of mind and integi'ity of character, threw her over for acquaintances utterly unworthy of comparison with his young wife. He was of an old Breton family, and a markka i de caf/ij>y and held a good position at court. To add to tnia, 2o6 The Cardinal De Rctz. he was a relation and favourite of ihe Cardinal de Retz, th(!n coadjuteur to the Archbishop of Pariy ; and the Abbe de Coulanges, influenced by these considerations, favoured rather than opposed the match. The Cardinal de Retz was at that time the rising star in France. Richelieu had been dead about two years : his mantle had descended on the shoulders of Mazarin ; but there was already a party formed against the crafty Italian, and Paul de Gondy, then about tliirty years old, was on the look-out for an opportunity of putting himself forward. Richelieu had al- ready pronounced him * a dangerous spirit,' on reading his book * I>a Conjuration de Fiesque,' which De Gondy had written when eighteen years of age. On the death of his uncle, in 1645, ^^ was made Archbishop of Paris. Like his prede- cessors, he had been destined for a courtier or a soldier, rather than a priest. Richelieu was educated for the army, Mazarin served in it : De Gondy was forced to take orders against his will, and had passed his early days in duels and gallantries. Like his predecessors, again, he was a man of ambition, but, unlike them, he had no definite purpose in view. Lie caballed and plotted more for the pleasure of being in the opposition than to gain a step towards an end. The power he obtained was immense, but he trifled with it. Wavering and hot- headed, he rushed into new intrigues while the old ones were yet incomplete ; and while for a time he was more popular than either Richelieu or Mazarin had ever been, he failed to make use of the advantages, and wasted his energies in petty enter- prises. Yet he seems to have been a loveable character, and in after years Madame de Se'vigne, who saw more of him than any one else, was much attached to her * dear cardinal.' Her intimacy with him was aftenvards fatal to her favour at court. Louis XIV. hated nothing so much as the recollection of the Fronde, in which De Retz had taken so prominent a part, and this dislike he extended even to the cardinal's friends. Monsieur de Sevigne then might be considered certain of promotion from his connection with the cardinal, and the mar- riage was therefore looked upon as a good one. It was det- uned to prove very different. ■> 1 ■t > ' ■> I "> -> ->■■>»■. CO) THK HOTKL UK KAMBOllLLKT. Society under Louis XIV. 207 The life of a Frenchwoman then, as much as In the present day, began with marriage ; and I^.Iadame de Sevign^ entered upon hers in an age of great promise, the forerunner of the Augustan age of France. The turbulent ministry of Richelieu was followed by a reaction in favour of letters, learning, and the measures of peace. Anne of Austria was guided by the wily but conciliating Mazarin; and the factions which had disturbed France so long were reduced for a time to mere intrigues of court. The society of Paris had at length breath- ing space from stormy politics, and turned to the softer allure- ments of wit and letters. This society, circling round the court, influenced and controlled by it, yet possessed a freedom of thought which has been little known in France since those days. The great men of the age of Louis Quatorze were still young, but the Cid of Comeille and the Maxims of La Roche- foucauld were already in the mouths of all readers. On the other hand, vice was rampant, encouraged by the example of the court, and religion was reduced to bigotry or asceticism. Priests ruled the court, and were foremost in its luxurious sen- suality. When repentance came, as it often did with the de- cline of power or the decay of beauty, the penitent rushed from a world where all was so hollow, and where their attrac- tion was no longer felt, and hid their heads in convents or monastries, which rivalled one another in the severity of their asceticism. Port-Royal and La Trappe were living sepulchres where elegant courtiers and gallant reprobates mortified the flesh they had spared nothing to indulge, and thought to pacify heaven by the torture of their long-pampered bodies. It was an age of extravagance in feeling, and prejudice in thought. The people were despised, * the country' identified with the king. France was the court, Paris the small circle of cour- tiers who hovered round it The chief centre of this circle at this period was the Hotel de Rambouillet : Madame de Rambouillet, a Florentine by birth, and connected with the Medici, had brought with her to Paris a love of Italian poetry and a pardon for Italian licentiousness. She gathered round her all the lovers of Htera- ture, and admitted, at the same time, the lovers oi life who 2c8 TJie Pricictiscs Ridicules, cro^^ded in from the court. They talked of the virtues o' Greece and Rome, and exemplified in themselves the vices of France. Hitlier came Mazarin to play cards and talk bad French ; De Retz and a whole host of love-making abbes in his wake. Here La Rochefoucauld observed human nature in the narrow sphere which is the * world' in his maxims, and made love to les beaux yeux of the .Duchess(^ de Longueville, politician and authoress. Here came the great magistrates and dignitaries of state, headed by the magnificent swindler Fouquet, the financier, whose acquaintance Madame de Se- vign^ probably made in these salons. The * dignity of wit,' which was then as high, if not higher, a title than office to the popularity of these circles, was represented by all the talkers of the day, among them being conspicuous two near relations of Madame de Sevigne. Monsieur de Coulanges, a cousin on her mother's side, was a merry little man, celebrated for telling, or rather acting, a good story, which always set the company in a roar of laughter. De Bussy-Rabutin, a connection on her father's side, was almost as popular a letter-writer as Madame de Se'vigne' herself He was a gallant of the first water, always pusliing intrigues, always repulsed, and always visiting his re- pellers with the lash of satire, and the yet more cowardly weapon of calumny. Vain to excess, he was also contemptibly sen'ile, and when sent into exile by Louis Quatorze, he could not en- dure his fate with noble resignation, but attacked the monarch with slavish entreaties and nauseous flattery. But the cream of the society at the Hotel de Rambouillet was that knot of absurd blue-stockings, whom Moliere anni- hilated in his * Precieuses Ridicules,' a name derived from a habit which these classical ladies had of addressing one another as ^ ma pr'ecieuse^ Of these female pedants Made- moiselle Scuddry, the authoress of terrible romances in ten or twelve volumes, in which Cyrus or Ibrahim was the hero, and wamors of the ancient world talked and acted much in the same strain as the ornaments of the Regency, was facile prin- ceps. Around the 'incomparable Sappho,' as this lady was called in her set, were gathered a number of learned indivi- duals of the same cast : Julie, the daughter of Madame de Madujne de Sevigne among TJicm. 2og Ranibouillet, christened by the 'Precieuses^ * the incomparable Artemis,' and Pelisson, the ugHest man of his day, of whom Boileau \vrote ' L'or m^me a P^L'Sson donne uu teint de beautd ;' and who, after having tamed spiders in the Bastille for five years, was rewarded by Mademoiselle de Scuder}' with the cha- racter of Acante in her novels, were among the most celebrated. The * Precieuses' and their male admirers talked classics, com- posed and (cruel torture !) read sonnets and epigrams, ex- changed compliments with elaborate allusions to Augustus, Alcibiades, Artaxerxes, or any other hero of antiquity, and be- lieved themselves to be the only really educated and truly gifted people in France. In later days Mademoiselle de Scudery transferred the same society to her owti house ; but at this time the ^Precieuses' thronged the Hotel de Rambouillet in great numbers, where Madame de Rambouillet, to save herself the trouble of accompanying every visitor through the antechamber, often received them in bed, as Mazarin aftenvards did his own guests. This troublesome custom of going a certain length with your guest, according to his or her rank, was at that time impera- tive, and is still kept up in some old-fashioned circles in Paris. Saint-Simon relates an anecdote of some nobleman v/ho was very precise , on this point, and annoyed his visitors with it so much, that at last one of them locked the door upon him as he went out ; but the polite host was not to be so eluded, and positively got out of the window^ in order to make his guest the proper farewell bow at the front door. Into this mixed coterie of pedants and prudes on the one hand, and unprincipled pleasure-seekers on the other, the young Marquise de SeVigne was introduced, with wit enough to make her an object with the one, and beauty enough to render her a victim of the other set. Sense and modesty contrived to tri- umph over the temptations of both. Though she is sometimes included in the lists of * les Precieuses^ she had quite good taste enough to laugh at their rhapsodical absurdities ; and on the other hand her strong principle, which her enemies designated 14 210 The Reward of Virtiie. — Temp. Louis XIV. coldness, enabled her to overcome the callurernents of the othei extreme. Nor was she exempt from trials. Already her worthless hus- band had proved his indifference to her in a series of intrigues for which there was no excuse. She was left very much alone in her domestic life ; and yet in an age when vice was the rule, virtue the exception, she maintained the high purity of her re- putation. It is a curious proof of the feeling of that age, that Madame de Se'vigne could accept as friends the very men whom she rejected as lovers. Among these the principal v/ere tlie magnificent Fouquet, of whom Eoileau ^vrote — • Jamais surintendant ne trouva de cmelles ;' Madame de Sevign^ making an exception to his successes ; the Prince de Conti, the Comte du I^ude, a noted lady-killer, and Bussy-Rabutin, of whom we have spoken, and who, when his fair cousin rejected his vile suit, revenged himself by calumnies which no one, fortunately for her, would believe. Yet, in after years, Madame de Sevigne' was a devoted friend to Fouquet, and corresponded on easy terms with Bussy- Rabutin. What a story does this tell of the depravity of that age ! Nay, she even went further, and appears to have herself agreed in the verdict of her age which pronounced her virtue to be mere insensibility. Far from being proud of having re- jected these suitors, she seems soiTy that she was compelled to offend them in so doing, and excuses rather than glories in their rejection. Certainly her correctness, from whatever cause it arose, is much to her honour. Temptation, encouragement, and example surrounded her on every side. Propriety of con- duct was not only an exception in those circles, but an odious exception. The woman who would not be as bad as her neigh- bours drew upon herself their envy and hatred. She was de- nounced as a prude, a prig, one who set herself up to be superior, and so forth. Such humours, so they were regarded, were fit, not for society, but for the cloister. Thither let her carry her virtue, if she chose, but not intrude it where it could only suggest disagTeeable comparisons. Such was the feeling of the day, and for such judgments it was but poor consolation Madanic de Shigne in Love, 211 to be compared by * les Prccieuse^ of the Hotel Rambou'llet to some high-featured Lucretia of classical history. Then, again, Madame de Se'\-igne's admirers were not men of ordinary stamp. Fouquet's ill-gotten wealth, De Conti's rank, Du Lude's handsome face, and Bussy's insolence, were such high recommendadons among the ladies of the court, that it was an honour rather than a disgrace, to be singled out by them, and Madame de Sevign^'s rejection of these lady-killers was set down to pride or obstinacy. No one could imagine all the time — for it was too strange an idea to enter into anybody's head — that Madame de Sevigne, gay, charming, and beautiful as she was, was still in love \\ith her husband ; and had any one supposed it, for a moment, the cruel conduct of this man would have made such a devotion appear extravagant in their eyes. Madame de Sevigne did not reproach him, but secretly mourned over his inconstancy, and hoped for an ultimate improvement. To effect diis, she, with much difficult}', persuaded him about two years after their mar- riage to quit the temptations of Paris and retire with her to their chateau at * Les Rochers,' in Brittany, in the neighbour- hood of Vitre. We can well understand that this step was dic- tated by nothing but the desire of recalling to herself her estranged husband. To quit Paris at nineteen, in the zenith of her success, when her beauty was fresher and fuller than it could ever be again, would have been to any Frenchwoman like a voluntar)' entrance of purgatory ; but to quit it for a lonely chateau, in a dark, foggy, ungenial country ; to leave all the wit, mind, and spirit of the Place Royale for the heavy plati- tudes of half-drunken hunters, or the tittle tattle of rustics who had never emerged from their na.rrow district, and, Chinese-like, recognized no world beyond it, must have been trying to any woman of mind. Yet Madame de Se'vigne seems to have been quite happy in here enjoying for a time the careless affection of a man to whom she was passionately attached. The young wife was satisfied if she could only have him to herself; she did not ask for much love, knowing that he could not and would not give it her. Here, then, the young couple, he tv/enty-four and she only 212 The Oil f break of the 'Fronde! twenty, passed the succeeding three years with just go much society as the neighbourhood afforded, which, if any comj^arison can be made between Brittany of the present day and Brittany of two centuries ago, was very Httle. In March, 1647, her first child was born, that only son, of whom, in after days, she wrote so amusingly, and who seems to have mingled a very small share of his mother's good sense with the extravagant love oi dissipation which he inherited from his father. But the foUow- mg year was yet more blessed by the birth of that daughter, afterwards Madame de Grignan, to whom she addressed her famous letters, and for whom she felt — if indeed there is no af- fectation in her style — an affection which has been extolled as the ne plus ultra of maternal tenderness. Her happiness, however, was not to be long-lived. In 1648, not long after the birth of this second child, there broke out in France that incomprehensible and apparently most useless re- volt, which goes by the name of ' La Fronde.' At the head of the movement was Madame de Sevigne''s friend and her hus- band's relative, the Cardinal de Retz. The rise of De Gondy, the cardinal, had been rapid. Vincent de Paul had been his tutor, yet how little had he profited by the lessons of that great man — if we may not say, great saint? Little more, indeed, than to acquire the art of conversion. De Gondy used it to turn a Huguenot into a Romanist ; and Louis XIIL, delighted with his success, appointed him the coadjuteur of tlie Archbis- hop of Paris. In 1643, at the age of twenty -nine, the young schemer was raised to the archiepiscopal chair. No longer able with dignity to indulge in the extravagances of vice, he had re- course to those of political intrigue. Mazarin was his main point of attack. He courted and gained the affections of the people; and unable openly, from his position, to wage war against his rival, he encouraged the popular discontent, seized the opportunity of an evieute in 1648, and using the Due de Beaufort as his lay instrument, to carry out iiis own machina- tions, developed it speedily into a civil war. This was now raging, and the Marquis de Se'vignd as a sol- dier in the royal sen-ice was recalled from his retirement in Brittany to his duties in the capital. I'his was unfortunate for Nitwn De VEiiclos. 213 his poor wife. At his request she returned to Paris with her children, but only to experience fresh slights, and endure new insults from her inconstant husband. Among the famous wo- men of Paris — famous for beauty, wit, and want of modesty — • Ninon de I'Enclos was at that time the most notorious. Though openly depraved she was not entirely excluded from the higher ranks of society : Madame de Maintenon, herself irreproach- able, was not ashamed to be her intimate friend and companion ; and it is curious to fmd Madame de Sevigne speaking of her fa- miliarly as * Ninon.' Y/ith this person Monsieur de Se'vigne fell, or affected to fall in love, and dissipated his fortune for her worth- less smiles. It was in vain that his neglected wife sought to recall him ; and at last she yielded to the advice of her former guardian, the Abbe de Coulanges, and after making an an-angement for a separate maintenance, retired with her children to Les Rochers, leaving her husband to his profligate life in Paris. We have no 'means of ascertaining what efforts the wife did really make to save her wTCtched husband ; but if these seem to have been slight, insuflicient, and unworthy of the deep attachment she felt for him, we must remember in palliation, how much the ideas of that age differed from our own on these subjects. As we shall afterwards see, in speaking of her son, Madame de Sevigne, like the rest of the then world, looked on such attach- ments as follies rather than vices, and perhaps the danger of her husband's soul was the last thought that entered her mind. As to her attachment, there can be little doubt that, constant only in inconstancy, the Marquis de Sevigne had at last chilled it by his conduct. But whatever she may have felt, the punish- ment that followed to her and to him disarms us of all reproaches. She had not been long in retirement at Les Rochers when she received a letter which felled her to the ground. Her hus- band, she was told, was desperately wounded. In the course of a scandalous intiigue he had run athwart the ambition of the young Chevalier d'Albret, another dissolute courtier; a quarrel had arisen ; a duel had followed, and this was the result. Ma- dame de Sevigne wrote to her husband a letter of tender re- proaches and woman-like forgiveness. The news was false The quaiTel had indeed taken place — the duel had been ar 214 De Sevigfie Killed in a Duel. ranged — but it had not yet come off. The letter of his wife may have brought some remorse into the profligate's lieart, but could not avert the catastrophe. The misnamed ' honour' of tlie age demanded the blood of one or other of the foes. They met and fought, and De Se'vigne' fell. He was in his twenty- seventh year, and left behind him a wife of twenty-three and two young children. Thus closed the first romance of Marie de Rabutin's life. She had loved and chosen this man from her heart. She had forgiven his inconstancy, and endured his neglect. He was now taken from her and slain in a quarrel for a woman unfit to be her rival. So completely had he neglected her, that she had nothing of his to cherish as a relic ; and in her gTief and love was fain to demand from the very woman for whom he had abandoned her his portrait and a lock of his hair. Her grief, indeed, was so intense that we are told that in after years she could never meet his antagonist (if we may not say his murderer) without falling into a swoon. He had absorbed all her love, and she was one of those women whose passion has but one centre. When that was gone, and grief after long years had calmed down, the passion still survived in a maturer form, and the deep love of the wife passed into a calmer yet as powerful attachment for her — and his — child; and it is only thus that we can account for her devotion to her daughter, Madame de Grignan. The reckless Marquis de S(;vlgne had squandered his own fortune and his wife's on worthless objects, and Madame de Sevigne found it necessary to retrench for several years. She now devoted herself to the education of her children, and passed her time chiefly at the house of the old Abbe de Coulanges, her first protector. But she well knew that her son would re- quire that personal interest at the court through which alone came fortune and promotion, and she resolved to return to Paris. Some four or five years after her husband's death she again entered the salons of Paris, a young mdow of seven and twenty, as beautuul as ever, and celebrated for her wit aud alando7i. I'he court of Louis Quatorze w-s now in its iiighesl giiwy The Court of Louis XIV. ' 215 The great men of every tone and taste who had been young ten years before were now risen into eminence ; and Madame de Sevigne could soon count the best of them among her friends and correspondents. Corneille, Racine, MoHere, La Fontaine, and Boileau were the poets and satirists \vith whom she talked and laughed. Her more serious thoughts were imparted to or drawn out by the two Aniaulds, the founders of Port-Royal and fathers of Jansenism, with their pupil, the suffering, patient, and delicate Pascal ; and by the grandest preachers of the centuiy, Bourdaloue, Mascaron, and Bossuet. Among her heroes were the restless De Retz ; the heroic Scotchman Montrose, then an exile ; La Rochefoucauld, the author of the ' Maxims ;' Marshal Turenne ; Le Grand Colbert ; Conde ; and more of the great and pseudo-great men of the Augustan age of France. The ladies with whom slie mixed have names scarcely less historic. There were the Duchess de Longueville, the political intriguante of the Fronde ; the penitent La Valliere ; the heartless but res- pectable Madame de Maintenon ; Madame de Montespan ; the Countess d'Olonne, daughter of Madame de Rambouillet; and another star of the Precieuses^ Madame de La Fayette, the authoress of ' Zaide ' and other novels, but more celebrated as the devoted friend of La Rochefoucauld, of whom she said, * II m'a donne son esprit, mais j'ai reforme son coeur,' which, if a true boast, was not an insignificant one. As Madame de Sevigne was a woman of no little perception, her opinions of some of these contemporaries, as we find them in her letters, will not be without interest. With regard to the poets, the French have found fault with her for setting Corneille so far a])Ove Racine. This was undoubtedly the fashion of the day, as she herself tells us, and Madame de Se'vigne may have been influenced by it; but, whatever the common ta.ste in France, there are eminent judges in England who find more nature and truer passion in the older tragedian. She admired Racine extremely, especially his * Bajazet' and 'Esther.' Of the former she says : ' The character of Bajazet is frigid; the customs of the Turks are not correctly obser\-ed ; they don't make so much fuss about marrying ; tlie crisis is not well prepared, and one cannot enter uito the cause* 2 1 6 A nccdote of Racine, of this great butchery ; however, there are some good tilings in it, but nothing perfectly good, nothing to elevate, none of U^iose bursts which make us shudder in Corneille's pieces.' Again she says of Racine, 'he composes plays for La Champmel^ ' (an actress with whom he was in love, and to whom he taught he? parts), ' but not for future ages. Long life, then, to our old friend Comeille ; let us forgive him a few bad verses in con- sideration of the divine bursts which cany us away ; they are master-strokes which cannot be imitated. Boileau says even more of him than I do.' As an instance of the flattery to which even genius stooped, in speaking to a monarch who loved adulation more than anything, she relates an answer made by Racine to Louis Quatorze, when the sovereign expressed his regret that th-e poet had not accompanied the army in its last campaign. ' Sire,' said Racine, ' we had none but town clothes, and had ordered others to be made, but the places you attacked were all taken before they could be finished.* 'This,' adds Madame de Sevigne', ' v/as pleasantly received.' Boileau and La Fontaine were both great favourites with Madame de Sevigne. The fables of the latter were even then learnt by heart and recited in society, as they still are among old-fashioned people in France. Of the famous satirist Boileau she said to his face that ' he was tender in prose but cruel in verse ;' a very tnie verdict, for he was as amiable in private life as he was bitter on paper. All the Arnaulds were friends of Madame de Se'vigne', but she was most intimate with Amauld d'Andilly and his son the Marquis de Pomponne. This family of Arnaulds — the most respectable, most learned, and most religious in France of that period — has been identified with the famous Society of Port- Royal, and this, again, with the anti-Jesuit doctrines of Jan- senism, The progress of that society was, in fact, owing to them. In 1625, the nuns of a convent called Port-Royal des Champs, near Paris, found that the site, owing to the marshes, was too pestilential *-^ remain in, and were forced to quit their establishment. Madame Amauld, a rich widow, and the mother of the commissary-general, Amauld d'Andilly, and The ArnaiUds. 217 of the famous BIsiiop of Angers, bought for them the Hotel de Clugny in Paris, and with her daughter as abbess, gave to the new estabhshment the name of Port-Royal of Paris. She herself and six of her da.ughters, besides her granddaughter, La Mere Angelique, who was the abbess of Port-Royal, were all inmates of this convent, and were noted for their austere virtues and unparalleled learning. Richelieu said of them that they were as pure as angels, but as proud as demons. In 1637, the two young men, M. Lemaitre, a lawyer, and M. de Serricourt, an officer in the army, agreed tliat the world was all vanity, and that happiness was only to be found in pious solitude. Such was, indeed, the religion of the day, and such it often is when society reaches that point of civilization where vice and luxury take the place of manly exertion. It was the spirit of the early Christians, who saw with disgust the profligacy and effeminacy of Greece and Rome : and it was almost the spirit of our ov/n Puritans who recoiled from the license of the courts of James and Charles. Asceticism is a feature peculiar to civilization. It is a reaction in favour of manliness. Un- known to rude ages of stirring life, and unnecessaiy to ages of purer and really higher civilization, it seemxS to mark those which are distinguished for their extravagance, luxur}', and pro- fligacy. It is an indignant rebound from effeminate vices into a simplicity of life which, whatever else may be said of it, appears to be manly from the ver}' courage and self-denial which it exacts. But it is no less extravagant than that which it flees ; it is no less an unnatural and even diseased condition, and it is only such an age as those in which it occurs that can mistake it for religion. ' The gi^eater the sinner, the greater,' indeed, * the saint.' The ascetics of all ages have been generally the worst of men before their change ; they only exchange one luxury for another, and in the intensity of self-torture they find a comfort, almost, one may say, an ease (for habit makes it so), v.hich exempts them from the far more trying exercise of true religion. It requires little discernment to perceive that it is far easier to live on bread and water in an obscure cell, tearing one's flesh with knotted cords, than to meet temptation in aa open field and there resist iL 2l8 Religion of the Day, But an extravagant age naturally confounds an extravagance with religion, and the ascetics of the days of Louis Quatorze were admired by the court, whose members probably intended, when youth, beauty, and fashion had left them, to follow in their steps, and pacify an evil conscience by almost childish severities. At the time that Madame de Sevignd wTote, a noted instance of sudden conversion had taken place. The young and handsome De Ranee was the most dissipated of all the dissipated abbe's of that priest-haunted court. His excesses were the talk even of people who were too accustomed to ex- cesses to notice them. In 1657 the small-pox was raging in Paris, and about the same time the abbe was desperately in love with Madame de Montbazon, a celebrated beauty. Calling on her one day, he found the servants away and the doors open, and walked up to her room without waiting to be announced. He opened the door, and in a leaden coffin beheld the head- less form of the lady he had loved so passionately. On the ground by its side was the once beautiful head itself, now a hideous mask. The small-pox had attacked her in its most violent form and in a few hours she was dead. Her servants, dreading the contagion, had sent for the first coffin that could be found. It was too short, and they had resorted to the horrid expedient of decapitation to meet the difficulty. Her lover had come in at the very moment that they were gone to fetch a Iiearse to cany the body away. He staggered back from the awful sight, and escaping from the house, vowed to bury himself alive for the rest of his days. And he did so. In the centre of a dense huge forest near Evreux, in Nor- mandy, is a close, narrow valley, still as a grave and dark as a pit. Around it the jealous cliifs rise high and steep, and the forest itself penetrates into the abyss, as if to add to its gloomy darkness. In the bottom of it eleven foul and stagnant pools load the hea\y air with sickness, and in the middle of these there stood the once famous monastery of La Trappe. It was a den of thieves. The mc ':s, secure in their foul pit, far from the world, and protected by the pathless forest, issued in lawless bands at night, armed to the teeth, and concealing themselves along the highway, rushed out to plunder the unsuspecting T lie Bandits of La TraJ^pe, 219 traveller. They were known in the province as *The bandits of La Trappe.' Among these men De Ranc^ went alone, unarmed, and little by little gained an ascendancy over their minds, till he brought them one after another to quit their lawless life, and return to one of asceticism. But the rules he enjoined could not but be severe, and he m.ade them more and more so, Bread, water, vegetables, was all their food. The furniture of their cells was replaced by a truckle bed of rope, a rug, and a human skull. The silence of the gloomy valley was doubled by the terrible silence imposed for the sake of security on its half-dead inhabitants. The stalwart but now wasting figures of the once lawless monks passed one another without a word. Their sealed tongues were loosed only for one hour on Sunday, and then it was to speak of matters of faith and doctrine. The world was, or seemed to be forgotten ; shut out, foregone for ever. None knew his fellow's name, except the abbot himself. Each new-comer took a new name when he renounced the world ; and once a father and son lived there together unknowTi to each other, till the latter died. It was then that on his tombstone the father read the young man's name, and recog- nised his son. Pain and self-torture were courted as re- demptives, and De Ranee turned away a novice because he noticed that while weeding he pushed aside the nettles, to pre- vent being stung ! In such a grave did De Ranee bury himself, and the Trap- pists were the wonder and admiration of the age. It is not therefore surprising that the example of Lemaitre and Serricourt should have been eagerly followed by the courtiers and gallants whose consciences were pricked. In a short time they had a large band of companions, renouncing the world, and bent on learning and good works, and these men called them.selves tlie Society of Port-Royal. They differed from monks in being bound by no vows, and wearing no peculiar dress. Their clothing was plain ; their lives simple and peni- tential ; their time given to study and the care of the poor. They soon increased in such numbers that, finding their hous€ in Paris too small, they retired to the convent of Port-JKoyal 220 The Ascetics of Port-Royal. des Champs, wlilch had been abandoned by its nuns. Here they set to work to drain and cultivate the valley, and the once gay courtiers were transformed to labourers and mechanics, gardeners and carj^senters, and had to wield spade and mattock in the delicate white hands which had hitherto handled only the sword or played with a lady's fan. They soon became fashionable saints. The court ladies poured out their sorrows and sins to them, and received very blunt wholesome advice in return ; and parents of all ranks sent their children to be edu- cated by them. Their system of tuition, and the grammars they prepared, are still upheld and even employed n France and Switzerland. Madame de Sevigne, who visited Port-Royal des Champs in 1674, when the nuns had returned there once more, calls it a paradise, and says that * holiness extends for a league all round it' ' The nuns are angels on earth,' she adds, with a touch of her usual levity; 'it is a hideous valley, just fitted to inspire a taste for working out one's salvation :' a truly Louis-Quatorzian idea. Amauld d'Andiily entered the confrlrie at the age of fifty-five, after passing his life in court and camp, holding the appoint- ment of Commissary General. When Madame de Sevignd knew him, in 1671, he was a very old man. She relates an in- terview which she had with him at Pomponne, his son's house. Her ' bon hoimm^ as she affectionately calls him, proved his good sense in the serious conversation that followed. * He said that I was a pretty heathen ; that I made an idol of you in my heart ; that this kind of idolatry was as dangerous as any other, although it might seem to me less heinous ; and that, in short, I should look to myself.' He talked to her for six hours, but does not seem to have cured her, though what he said is precisely what any modem reader nuist think when he reads her extravagant phrases of affection for her indifferent daugliter. Arnauld d'Andiily had two sons and five nephews, all members of the Societ)' of Port-Royal. Among thes^ the chief friend of Madame de Sevigne was the Marquis de Pomponne, one of his sons. He was a man of great capabilities, and an honourable, dignified character. He held the post of Secretary of State for Foreign Aiiairs from 167? A necdote of Boileau, 22\ to 1679. when he was dismissed, and retired to Pomponne, where Madame de SeVigne and his friends constantly visited him. Pascal, the disciple of the Amaulds, the mathematician, philosopher, and saint, was another of Madame de Sevign^'g heroes. A paralytic stroke at eighteen deprived him of the use of his limbs, and from that time he was never free from sufifcring : yet not contented with this, he became a recluse, and to complete his torments wore a belt oT pointed iron. His *Pensees' were the admiration of every reader, and Boileau thought them better than anything ancient or modem. Ma- dame de Se'vigne gives an anecdote on this subject. Boileau was dining with a Jesuit, and the Jesuits, as is kno\\Ti, detested the Jansenists, among whom Pascal was counted. The con- versation turned on ancient authors, when Boileau exclaimed that he knew of a modem one superior to them all. The Jesuit asked who it was. Boileau did not like to say. * You have read his book, I am sure,' said he. The Jesuit pressed him to reveal the name, and the company joining with them, Boileau at last exclaimed — ' M. Pascal.' 'Pascal!' cried the Jesuit, red with rage ; ' oh ! Pascal is as good as anything false can be.' ' False !' cried Boileau ; ' false, mon pere ! he is as true as inimitable. He has been translated into three languages.' * That does not make him true.' Boileau grew warm. * What !' he cried ; ' do you talk of the false ? Dare you deny that one of your o\vn writers has said, that a Christian is not obliged to love God?' *Sir,' said the Jesuit, trying to calm him, Sve must make distinctions.' 'Distinctions! Mo7'bleuI Distinctions about loving God !' And so saying, Boileau jumped up, ran to the other end of the room, and refused to speak to the Jesuit for the rest of the evening. The influence of the Arnaulds on Madame de Sevign^ was perceptible in after years ; but it is remarkable that the powerful sermons of men who were not such enthusiasts, but viewed religion in a tmer light — men like Bossuet, Bourdaloue, Mas- caron, and Flechier, the greatest preachers of their day, and among the greatest ever heard in France — should not have moved her so much as the private conversations of a family of ascetics. The fact was, that to hear sennons, and coramext on 222 Anecdote of Fhiclon, them, was tlien, as now, a fashion ; and then, as now, the style was admired or criticised : the words were declared powerful, searching, and so forth, but the matter was not taken to the heart. The warnings, the entreaties, the thunders of men who were sincere in their condemnation of the vices of the court were listened to as a piece of well-studied oratory to be talked of in their salons, in the same tone as one talked of the elo- quence of Demosthenes and Cicero ; and because they were regarded in this light, because the power of a sermon led only to a calculation how soon the preacher would be raised to a bishopric, or what reception he would get at court after it, the most solemn warnings took no effect. Courtiers looked for- ward to redeeming the present by an old age of penance : but in the mean time the king's commands must be attended to, the king's vices imitated, and there was no time to think of the King of all kings. It is somewhat in this spirit that IMadame de S^vignd speaks of the celebrated sermons, or rather discourses, of her day. Of Bossuet, indeed, she speaks little, but about Bourdaloue, the court preacher, and an intrepid thunderer against the court vices, she is always enthusiastic. Bourdaloue was the Knox of the French court, and spared neither king nor cour- tiers. Madame de Se'vignd tells us that he even described people in his sermons, though reserving their names. Such a licence was permitted and even defended by Louis XIV. As an instance of it, we have the anecdote of F^nelon, who once being asleep during a sennon in the chapel at Versailles — what must laymen have done, if even Fenelon could sleep in church? — was suddenly awakened by the voice of the preacher, drop- ping from its lofty tone to a ver}' practical one, and exclaiming — * Awaken that sleeping abbe, who comes to church only to pay court to his Majesty !' Such apostrophes remind us of Baptist Noel pointing out to his congregation the ladies who wore flowers in their bonnets. But even in Madame de Se- vigne's highest praise of Bourdaloue, we see the feeling of the age with respect to sermons. * lie preached divinely.' * You would have been enchanted.' * How can one love God when one hears none but bad sermons?' and so forth. The religion La RocJiefoiicauld, 22^ of the day was a purely formal one, and the sermon was ad- mired but rarely felt. Madame de Sevignd passes with ease from extolling the finest tirades of Bourdaloue or Mascaron to an easy smile about the depravity of her ov.m son. That Bour- daloue, however, was no ordinary preacher, we can understand, from the fact that she and Boileau, who both cordially hated the Jesuits, could not help admiring him, Jesuit though he was. Among the other great men of the day, those she most ad- mired were the Cardinal de Retz and La Rochefoucauld. She was intimate with the former for thirty years. She says of him at one time : ' His soul is of so superior an order that one can- not expect for him a mere common end, as for others.' At another, she anticipates that he will yet effect something re- markable, and even be made pope. ' He lives,' she uTites in 1675, 'after his retirement, a very pious life, goes to all the ser- vices, and dines at the refectory on fast days :' not a very great stretch of religion for a cardinal forsooth, but for a courtier in surplice, such as De- Retz really was, a great change for the better. At this period, however, he was employed, not on pious reflections, but rather worldly recollections, for he was writing his Memoirs, as ever^'body of any mind did in those days. At another time she says : ' I love and honour his eminence in a manner which makes the thought' (of his illness) ' a torment to me ; time cannot diminish my feelings for him.' There is no doubt that ^ith all his faults, De Retz was a loveable man and Madame de Se'vigne would doubtless have been louder in lier praises of him had she not been Avriting to a daughter who de- tested him. One thing the cardinal did which, considering his age, claims our esteem for him — he paid his debts. They amounted to more than a million francs (forty thousand pounds), which would be equal to fully sevent}' thousand in the present day. Madame de Se'vigne says : * He copied no one in this, and no one will copy him.' No courtier, still more no cardinal, ever thought of such an act of honesty in those days ; and De Retz stood alone in this respect. It is pleasant to read her account of La Rochefoucauld's warm domestic affections ; and we may ask whether the man vho reduced vice and virtue alike to the principle of self-love, 224 Fouquet, the Swindler. did not prove something higher in his own case. Madame dc Se'vignd says: *As for M. de la Rochefoucauld, he was going, like a child, to revisit Verteuil, and the spots where he has shot and hunted with so much pleasure. I do not say " where he has fallen in love," for I do not believe that he has ever been in love.* He appears to have profited himself by his maxims, and to have endured the terrible attacks of gout, under which he at last succumbed, with a firmness worthy of the author of the * Maxims.' Of those reflections, Madame de Sevigne says, what we probably all feel on reading them : * There are some of them which are divine, and to my shame, some, too, which I cannot understand ;' with this difference, that we are not ashamed of our impossibility to comprehend them. Both De Retz and La Rochefoucauld were of the Fronde party, and Madame de Sevign^, though she took no active share in it, as the Duchesses de Longueville and De Chevreuse did, had to bear the ill-Avill of Louis on account of her friendship for these two men. To add to this, when the papers of the Finance Minister, Fouquet, were examined, some letters from her were found among those of his particular friends, and the dislike of the monarch was assured. In days when a sovereign's frown was the prelude to total disgrace, this was no slight dan- ger ; but ever)'- one agrees in acquitting this worthy woman of any of that servility to which even the most independent de- scended before Louis XIV., and she remained true to her friend, who had also aspired to be her lover. That Fouquet embezzled the funds of the state to an extent unparalleled in the annals of swindling, there can be little doubt, and that he even plotted against the crouTi itself appears no less certain ; but whether Madame de Sevigne believed these accusations or not, she con- tinued true in her friendship, and always spoke of the financier as unfortunate rather than criminal. Her letters were perfectly innocent in every respect ; but their discovery seems to have caused some suspicions among her acquaintance, and to have dra\vn forth an exculpation of herself in A\Triting to M. de Pom- ponne. * I assure you,' she says, ' no matter how much credit I may gain from those who do me the justice of believing that I had no other intercourse with him than this, I cannot hefp Madame de Sevign'e at Paris, 225 feeling deeply distressed at being compelled to justify myself, and very probably without success, in the estimation of a thou- sand people who will never believe the simple truth.' Fouquet had fortified the island of Belle-Isle as a place of refuge, and in the last moment, when warned of the king's suspicions by the Duchess de Chevreuse, had set out to Nantes with a view to retiring to his fortress. Louis, for his own reasons, allowed him to depart ; but the moment he had done 90 he summoned an officer of his guard and commissioned him to arrest the fugitive. It is said that he had only delayed this measure as a prudential precaution ; but that when Fouquet's guest at an entertainment of unusual magnificence, given by the minister at his Chateau de Vaux, the king had seen in his cabinet a portrait of Mdlle. de la Vallie're, with whom he was then in love, and incensed at finding a rival as well as a thief in his surintendant , had wished to have him arrested in the middle of the fete, but was deterred from doing so by Anne of Austria, Fouquet was, at any rate, brought back to Paris, underv/ent a long trial before the Par- liament, where Madame de Sevigne, disguised by a mask, watched the bearing of her friend on his defence, and was eventually condemned to imprisonment for life at Pignerol, where he lin- gered for nineteen years, and died in 1680. Madame de Se- vigne's letters, during the period of his trial are full of the most tender anxiety for her friend, and are sufficient proof that her virtue cannot be ascribed, as it has been, to mere insensibility. Her friendship for Fouquet partakes, indeed, of the character of attachment, and we need not be surprised that by this time the widow had forgotten a husband so completely unworthy of her. Fouquet was a man who inspired attachment ; and the many friends who shared his disgrace, La Fontaine and the two Amaulds among them, seem to have been moved by a sincere affection. Madame de Se'vign^, at least, never forgot the pri- soner at Pignerol, as his other friends did ; but if she had any sentiment for Fouquet, it was the only one she felt after tlie death of her husband. During the fourteen or fifteen years that followed that event she was occupied partly with the education of her children and partly with tlie society of Paris. In the prime of her life, her 15 226 Mochvioisene de Sivi^ne Introduced. wit, and her beauty, she was everywhere sought for and enthu- siastically welcomed. She was suited to all the kinds of society that then circled round the court. Her learning made her a fit companion for ks Prccieuscs^ though she did not go along with their absurdities. Her wit and still pretty face gave her the ])ower of shining among the gayer sets, and her good sense and womanlike hero-woisliip recommended her to the political in- triguers, of whom so many were her intimate friends ; while her strict propriety of conduct did not exclude her from the society of the more serious men of the age. She was everywhere a favourite, and when she left Paris, Paris unanimously implored her to return. Meanwhile she was devoted to her children, especially to her daughter. She gave them the education which was then thought a good one, prepared them for this world rather than the next, taught them classics more than Christianity, and gave them polish rather than principle. Her beloved daughter was in due time introduced, and excited the most marked sensation. The Comte de Treville, then an oracle at court, said of her, 'This beauty will set the world on fire.' Menage called her *The miracle of our days,' and De Bussy-Rabutin, who had been in love with her mother, named her *■ La plus jolie fdle de jFrancCy a name which stuck to her for years. It is difficult to under- stand all this admiration when we look at the portraits that have come down to us of Madame de Grignan. We are at once in- clined to give the preference to her miOther. The daughter's features were neither very regular nor very pleasing, as far as we can judge. The complexion appears to have been brilliant and delicate, and the rich hair, though a shade darker than Madame de Sevigne''s, was even more luxuriant and beautiful. But the expression is cold and uninteresting. The dark eyes want that life and changefulncss which was such a charm in her mother's face, and the general air is one of languor. She wanted, in fact, that cheerfulness which had made Madame de Se'vigne' so universal a favourite. She herself wrote to her mo- ther: 'At first sight people think me adorable, but on further acquaintance they love me no longer;' and if we can judge from letters, her character was not one to elicit sympathy or af- ^ A French Marriage. 227 fection. Her beauty was not sufficient to make up for the smallness of her fortune and her mother's ill-favour at court ; and much as she was admired, the adored daughter was not souglit by any of those desirable young men on whom Madame de Sevigne, with a mother's ambition, fixed her desiring eyes. Angry at this, mother and daughter both agreed to quit Paris, and spend a whole winter at Les Rochers. When they returned to Paris, the beauty of Mdlle. de Se'vigne is said to have made some impression on the king ; but her coldness still repelled the young men of great families. She had already arrived at, and almost passed the age at which a ^ jeune fille' was expected in those days to * form an alliance.' She was nineteen, and that was a terrible age. A year passed, and she was still Mdlle. de Se'vigne ; another, and then both mother and daughter gave up the hope of a brilliant marriage, and arranged one which was positively bad. The Comte de Grignan was a lieutenant-general in Langue- doc ; of good descent and excellent reputation. On the other hand, he was forty years old, had been twice married already, was a heavy, stolid, uninteresting man, and was not, apparently, very deeply devoted to Mdlle. de Se'vigne. Nevertheless, when he proposed he was readily accepted. An extract from a letter of Madame de Sevigne shows what could be thought of the sacred tie of matrimony in those days. * His former wives,' she writes, * have died in order to make room for my daughter, and destiny, in a moment of unwonted kindness, had also re- moved his father and his son ; so that, possessing greater riches than ever, and uniting by birth, connection, and excellent qua- lities, all that we could desire, we made no hesitating terms, as it is usually the custom to do, and we feel much indebted to the two families which have passed away before us. The world seems satisfied, which is much. * * * He has fortune, rank, office, esteem, and consideration in society. What more should we expect ? I think we come well out of the scrape.' A scrape it was, in those days, to be single at twenty ! This indifferent pair was united on the 29th of January, 1669, and for a short time Madame de Sevigne's desire of keeping her daughter by her was granted. But the separation she 228 Md'himc de Grlgnan, dreaded came at last. M. de Grignan was appointed Vice- Governor of Provence, and was compelled to leave Paris for the south of France. Madame de Se'vigne induced him to leave his wife behind for her confinement. She gave birth to a daughter, Marie, who was called Mdlle. d'Adhemar, and who some years afterwards was sent, according to a custom of the day, which sacrificed the daughters to make up the fortune of the sons, to a convent, from which she never emerged. Her other daughter, Pauline, ^ cette jeime /^^r?/////^,' aftenvards became Madame de Simiane, the friend of Massillon and a letter-writer, like her grandmother, but of inferior merit. The separation of Madame de Se'vignd and her beloved daughter, which took place in 1670, was a terrible blow to the former ; but we are indebted to it for a collection of the most curious and interesting letters ever written, which have the ad- vantage of having been penned in perfect simplicity, with no thought of publication, and no desire, as those of Walpole evince, of being read with admiration in a circle of clever ac- quaintance. From this period Madame de Sevigne seems to have lived only for her daughter. Madame de Grignan returned this devotion with something like indifference. Her letters to her mother have been lost. It is said that her daughter Ma- dame de Simiane destroyed them on religious grounds. Ma- dame de Grignan was a devoted admirer of Descartes, whom she called h^r pere; and she not only studied his works ^vith assiduity, but seems to have enlarged on philosophy in her letters. It is said, too, that in some of them she turned into ridicule the absurd religious, or rather superstitious processions of La Provence, processions at which Massillon was afterwards so much disgusted that he put an end to them. But this ridi- cule was enough to shock the prejudices of her daughter. From the few letters that remain, the character of Madame de Grignan appears to have been frigid and reasonable, rather than warm and joyous like that of her mother. Even from Madame de Se'vigne's letters we gather that she wearied of the extrava- gant devotion of her parent, who seems at times almost to make excuses for her aftection. On tlie other hand, Madame de Grignan's moral character was irreproachable. Wedded to a Classics and Vice, 229 husband to whom she was indifferent, she espoused philosophy rather than court admiration ; and however cold her letters may have been, we may gather, from Madame de Se'vigne's remarks, that they contaiited matter worthy of the consideration of thinkers. On the whole, it may be well regretted that tliey are lost to us. While thus devoted to her daughter, Madame de Sevigne cared too little for her son. This young man was of a weak character, vacillating between the best and the worst impulses. He had received an ex- cellent education, but not sufficient principle to enable him to meet the temptations of Parisian life, in days when the monarch himself set the example of depravity. He was devoted to classical literature, and great in Homer, Virgil, and Horace, and even printed a dissertation on a passage of the last, about which he and Dacier had a dispute. He was educated for the army, and at the age of twenty took part in an expedition to Crete. The Turks had been besieging Candia for twenty-four years. France was their ally, but her sympathies naturally went with the Venetians who held the capital of the island. Louis could not therefore send a regular expedition to their relief, but he authorised the Comte de la Feuillade to raise a corps of gentlemen-volunteers to aid the Venetians, and among them the sons of all the greatest French families enrolled themselves. The young Comte de St Paul, the son of the Duchesse de Longueville, raised a squadron of one hundred and fifty young cavaliers, all eager to fight in the cause of Christianity. By the advice of Turenne, who was a friend of IMadame de Sevigne's, her son joined this corps, and set out for Crete. The French volunteers did, however, more harm than good by their rashness and folly, making repeated sorties against the Turks, in which their numbers were soon terribly reduced. The survivors quarrelled with the Venetian defenders of the town, and set sail before it was taken, returning to France with little gloiy, though they made the most of it M. de Sevigue returned to Paris, and while waiting for pro- motion followed in the common stream and wasted his fortune upon actresses. He was at one time the rival of Racine in his 230 An Indulgent Motlter, admiration of La Chaiupmele, at another he was devoted to Ninon de I'EncloSjWho liad before ruined his father, and was now no less than tifty-four years of age, yet still lovely and attractive. She is said to have presei'ved her beauty and appearance of youth to the last. The part played by Madame de St'vigne' on tliis oc- casion is very remarkable. Her son, who had a great affcciion for her and great confidence in her good sense, actually o^nfidcd these amours to his mother. Madame de Se'vigne was too much imbued with the spirit of her age to be very much shocked, but had too much sense not to wish to reform him. Not only was he dissipating his fortune — * his hand is a crucible in which money melts away,* she writes — but he was, she feared following in the steps of his unfortunate father, and might come to as bad an end. Like him he was very handsome and a great favourite, but he had inherited from his mother an inclination to better things, which showed itself from time to time in fits of deep contrition. Madame de Se'vigne did not, as some mothers would have done, thrust him away from her and leave him to sink deeper in the mire. She listened to his confidence, and even laughed at his amusing adventures, but attempted to show him reasonably the folly of his conduct ; and when she saw that a change had come over him, seized the moment and drew him back gently to the contemplation of a better life. Yet, strange to say, she talks lightly of all this to her daughter, narrates his gallantries and adventures, his successes and re- pulses, with a light pen, and passes in the next sentence to praises of the divine eloquence of Bourdaloue or Mascaron I Nothing could more completely show the feeling of her age. Fortunately, perhaps, for her son, he had a strong satiric vein : he was a warm admirer of Boileau. His letters, some of which remain, are written in an amusing, clever style. He saw the absurdity of his own conduct. Madame de SJvignd tells us that he even read to her some of his letters to the actress La Champmele. They were full of the most extravagant pas- sion, she says, and M. de Sevignd laughed at them as merrily as she did herself. This consciousness of his own absurdity, mingled with his mother's reproaches, had the effect of curing him for a time. Madame de Sevigne took him dowu to Young de Scvigiik, 231 Bi.Htany; and the country, that panacea for all the diseases, mental and bodily, of the city, worked a salutary effect on him. In 1677 he bought the post of second lieutenant of the Gen- darmes-Dauphins ; and from his account of himself to his sister, he was now very steady and living under his mother's roof. In the following year he distinguished himself at the siege of Mons : and his squadron, in covering a battery, endured a fire of nine gims for two hours with such pertinacity as to draw forth the ad- miration even of the enemy. In 1683, Madame de Sevigne suc- ceeded in finding a wife for him, Mdile. de Bre'han, the daughter of a rich Conscilkr du Fariemenf, of excellent family, and, having a fortune of two hundred thousand francs ; * a great marriage in these days,' says Madame de Sevigne. His mar- riage saved him. He became a respectable member of society, occupied himself with literature, and showed a tendency to be- come devotf which after his mother's death he developed very strongly. His wife had a like propensity, and they bought a house in the Rue St. Jacques, at Paris, in order to be near their religious counsellors. The last ties of Madame de SeVigne's life were broken at tlie marriage of her daughter, as the first had been at the death of her husband. From that period, 1669, to her death in 1696, a space of twenty-seven years, she seems to have lived for letter writing. If we except Corbinelli, an Italian who had come with Mazarin to France, and been employed diplomatically by him in Italy, and who, says Lamartine, * was an Italian Saint- Evremond, able to compete with the greatest minds, but shrinking from an encounter with the difficulties which lie in the path of fame, and assuming, as much through idleness as want of ambition, the character of an amateur ' — with the ex- ception of this man, who was devoted to her as a friend, called on her every day when she was in Paris, and even followed her to Livr>' and Les Rochers, we do not find that she felt any attachment to man or woman, except her daughter, up to the time of her death. Her friendships for De Retz, for La Rochefoucauld, and others, had more of admiration than sentiment in them. Thus her life became wrapt up in her daughter, to whom she wrote three or four tines a wc::k, and 233 Madame de Sevig ne s L eiters. even often er, sometimes even twice a day. At the same time^ the necessity of getting promotion for her son, and perhaps a natural love for society, kept her, whenever in Paris, in the circles of the gay and intellectual. In 1679 she took a long lease of the Hotel de Carnavalet, a fine old house in the Rue Culture Sainte-Catherine ; and here she received those cele- brated friends of whom an account has already been given. Though now far past her fiftieth year, and no longer a beauty, her wit and the friendship which the leading men and women felt for her, kept her still a popular favourite in the court society, though to the court itself she went rarely, owing to the coldness with which Louis XIV. treated her as a former friend of Fou- quet and La Fronde. With the gossip of this society her letters are full : but we cannot accuse her of being a mere gossip, as some letter-writers have been. She is less so, for instance, than Horace Walpole. Her letters contain just as much talk on books, religion, philosophy, and general politics, as on the frowns and smiles of the great monarch, the favour accorded to this courtier, the disgrace of another, the marriages con- tracted, the hons mots pronounced and circulated, and so forth ; and the oddity of it is, that she passes without a second's hesi- tation from the slightest to the gravest subject, and back again. But though it is in society that she shines most, and is most interesting in her judgments of men and measures and her anecdotes of the court, there is a soft and romantic touch, a touch almost of poetry, throughout her letters, that redeems the worldliness of the rest. She was a thorough Frenchwoman, but not a thorough Parisian. When she went to see the old * bien hon ' (her uncle the abbe) at Livry, or when she was far away in the inaccessible solitudes of Brittany, she does not re- pine, nor regret the metropolis as a more vulgar mind would. She rejoices in the song of the nightingale, in the change of the leaf, in the glad freshness of the air, and in her own simple way becomes a poet without meaning it. Madame de Sevigne was not ambitious. Unlike most of her lady friends, she could admire her heroes without joining in their political schemes. Thus it is, that those t^venty-seven years of her life, during which she wrote her letters, aie full, Madame de Sevignes Affection. 233 not of her own doings, or cares, or hopes, or projects, but of tlie private history of the court of Louis XIV., and, what in its way is as interesting and certainly more sunny to look upon, the private history of a mother's heart. We, the calm readers of to-day, fret and are half indignant when she breaks away from a narration that throws or seems to throw a new light on the character of one of the great men or women of the day, or even to illustrate history in a valuable manner, to cover her cold philosophizing daughter with tender phrases : but to a poetical mind this very fault is a beauty. It shows how pro- found was the mother's pride she felt, and proves that these expressions of affection to which, perhaps, the French of to-day would apply the epithet banak — hackneyed — were not neatly turned for admiration, but positively sprang from a heart ab- sorbed v/ith a single interest. Even her gossip is intended to give pleasure to her daught»er ; and when she speaks of her own friends, she is careful not to say too much of those whom she knows her child dislikes. The charm of her letters is, that they were written only to be read by that one centre of all her affections. When she writes to Bussy, or to Madame La Fayette, there is indeed the same glowing wit and neatness, the same mark of a clever ob- server of all that goes on around her ; but there is less of that peculiar natural grace which is the real secret of her artless style. She is again and again an instance of the old truth, that nature and the heart are the best masters of composition, and that if men and women would write as they feel and think, they would always wTite readably, if not absolutely well. To write letters was indeed the great accomplishment of women of that day, for they had nothing to do with music, and very little with any other art. All the lady-wits, wrote letters by the hundred. IMadame de Coulanges, Madame La Fayette, Madame de Grignan, Madame de Simiane, and others, have left m.ore or less of their epistolary productions ; and cer- tainly for ease, elegance, and refinement they surpass anything of the kind that has appeared in any other day or country. The letters of Madame de Se'vigne may not have that distinct in- terest which we find in those of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu 234 Letter- Writing, and others of our own country ; but they are far superior to them in taste and relinemcnt. There is Httle coarseness in lier letters. There is certainly a little now and then, but such as the open expression of the age warranted. In Lady Mary's there is a downright disregard of all decency at times, and such as the custom of no age could warrant. For thirty years after her death Madame de S^vign^s letters were unknown to any but Madame de Grignan and a few friends. A selection was made from them in 1724, and jnib- lished. They are said to have been rapidly written, with little respect for caligraphy, in a thin, careless hand. Like all the letters of the time they were tied round with a string of floss silk and sealed on either side. The letter-waiting years of Madame de S^vigne's life passed calmly and pleasantly. She had few or no real anxieties, and few events in her life, beyond the trifling ones with which her letters are replete. She lived at her Hotel du Carnavalet in Paris, or at Livry, or at Les Rochers, and every^vhere she re- called her daughter's presence. As Arnauld told her, she made an idol of that daughter, but that was all. In her latter years she too, like all the rest, became devote, a word to be translated by * pious ' rather than * religious.' A devote went to mass twice a day, and made an intimate friend of her confessor. Madame de Se'vigne gives a good reason for the love that ladies have of frequent confession. They like, she tells us, to talk of them- selves, and would rather talk ill of themselves than not at all. The devotes did much good in a systematic way, and as a salve for a poor conscience, but they did not necessarily give up society, or even bad society. * Bless the man !' said one of them at a dinner party, when a servant filled her glass with wine, ' does he not know tliat I am devote T The servant's mistake was ver}' excusable. Madame de Se'vigne died, as she had lived, for her daughter. While at Les Rochers she learned that Madame de Grignan was attacked by an internal disease, lingering but not dangerous. She set off, though it was winter, on the long and at that time hazardous journey to Provence, and there she tended her daughter day and night for three months. She was nearly ^ Death of Madame de Grignan. 235 pevtinty years of age, and this exertion was too much for her. Madame de Grignan recovered, but her mother succumbed to the fatigues of nursing her. She was seized with maUgnant small-pox, and died on the i6th of April, 1696, in her seventieth year. She was buried in the chapel of the Chateau de Grignan. Her daughter survived her only nine years, dying in 1705, from grief for the loss of her only son, the young Marquis de Grignan. Her letters, as Lamartine says, are her real tomb. In them her soul is to be found. They are worth reading for many reasons. They are a truer history of the reign of Louis XIV. than any that has been written. They are the purest outburst of an excellent heart. They are free from any spiteful or evil si^irit ; they breathe a calm, which in this world of worry is most refreshing ; they are a monument of motherly affection. Lladame de Sevigne is not entitled to the name of a ' great woman ;' she has worked or helped to work no great change in the human race. She was a woman in every sense, and did not emerge from a woman's natural sphere. She was a French- woman in every sense, yet she is perhaps the very best instance we can find of a Frenchwoman. In short, we cannot read her letters witliout admiring her for her mind, and loving her for her heart SYDNEY LADY MORGAN. I^dy Morgan of What?— Her Ladyship's Eyes.— The Old Irish Girl.— The Pe! of the Green-room. — Her First Literary Attempts. — Attacked by Croker. — Party Lies. — Lady Morgan as an Irish Apostle. — Family lies. — Sir Charles. — I^dy Morgan's Religious Opinions. — Sets Out for Italy. — At Paris. — The False Nliladi Morgan. — Arrives at La Grange. — La Fayette. — At La Grange. — Society in Paris. — The City of Calvin. — Meets Lord Byron. — Byron's Miniature. — Lady Cork and the Watches. — Lady Charleville in her Chair. — Pink and Blue Nights. — Lady Morgan's Drawing-room. — The Princess. — Winnows her Society. — Last Years and Death. — Her Geniality and Benevolence. YDNEY LADY MORGAN, as she latterly styled herself; but I remember her first as Lady Morgan merely, with a respectable-looking hu.sband, a large, light, heavy man, in spectacles, who at once worshipped and admonished her as we do a child. It was in what she used to call the out-of-the-way regions of North Marylebone that I had stood near a piano the whole evening, endeavouring to make out who could be that short personage who sat behind a small table (though in the circle), on which was set one of those dark-green circular shades which spring up out of a stand ; yet even this protection to her poor eyes was not thought enough, for the lady held before her face a green fan, so that a deep shade was cast upon the diminutive figure behind ; and even in a well-lighted room she was as much in retreat as if she had been taking her pleasure on a sunless day in an arbour. I soon perceived that she yvis a centre of attraction even in that room where Agnes Strickland at one time, Campbell at another, Rogers, and, in the course of the evening, numberless scientific celebrities had come and gone. Sheil, even then partially bald, sat down near her, and relapsed into his beloved Lady Morgan of Whatf 237 brogue , and there was such a play of wit between them, such brilliant attacks on his part, such pungent yet good-natured retorts on hers, that I felt sure she was from the dear Emerald Isle ; one of a race that has always its joke and its reply, even at death's door. I said to a grim-looking gentleman near, * I am a stranger, sir ; pray who is that ?' I turned my eyes towards the green fan. * That lady ? do you mean that very nice-looking person near the screen ? A fair, comely lady, with light hair? Well, you remember hearing of Miss O'Neil — before you were born, it must have been ; that is she : she is now Lady Becher.' ' O yes, I know ; I did not mean her. There is a lady — see, Lady Becher is bending now to talk to her ; she holds a fan.' * Oh ! don't you know ? Lady Morgan, of course.' * Lady Morgan ! but — ' *I don't mean Lady Morgan of Tredegar, but the authoress of " The Princess," of " Florence Macarthy ;" don't you remember ?' * Certainly.* * Every one knows her,' pursued my informant, who, I found afterwards, was a well-known reviewer; *you will find her agreeable : she makes herself pleasant* And, indeed, so I thought : for it was some time before I could get a cool post of observation. Having at last entrenched myself near a folding door, behind a fat dowager, I took a calm survey of Sydney Lady Morgan. She appeared to me then on the wrong side of the half-century; no one, however, even now, knows the year of her birth, for she had the tact to keep it to her- self, but it is conjectured to have been 1777, or thereabouts ; but no one could have supposed it possible who knew her, even at the last, that she could be eighty. She was then a very small and veiy slight woman, with an easy drooping figure, that looked as if Nature had been careless when she put it together ; and then she was somewhat crooked, though not strikingly so, nor was it very obvious even when, as she used to say, she * circu- lated ' through the room at her own soirees ; and this defect, good woman as she was, as a plea she used to attribute to 238 Her Ladyship's Eyes, having practised the harp too much in her youth. But I be- lieve that there were few women of the period in which Lady T^Iorgan figured as a girl, that were straight, thanks to stiff fitays and backboards. Her face, though never more than agreeable, had a great charm in its feminine contour. She wore at that time her own hair. I will not swear that it was all her own, for there were suspicious-looking curls dripping down upon the slight throat; but it was evidently partly natural, for it was thin, and drawn across her wide forehead with a sort of tasteful negligence. It was, however, of a lighter hue than the bands with which, in her last days, she attempted to restore the venerable ruin of S}'dney Lady Morgan. Her eyes were large, and of a bluish grey, in early life pro- bably blue. One of them had a slight cast, and went off at a tangent to the right ; but this did not spoil the expression, which was very sweet and very thoughtful, without, at any time that I knew her, being brilliant or searching. She always looked like a person who saw imperfectly ; and she always spoke of herself as half blind, and talked of visits from Alexander and dark rooms, leeches and shades ; and I never saw her without that green fan in her hand. It became an antiquity like her- self. Yet I believe she saw more than any one else did ; no- thing escaped her. She knew every 7iuance of feeling that passed in the minds of others ; she remarked dress, and she never 2/;/intentionally forgot or mistook a person. Her other features were neither prominent nor beautiful ; yet peculiar — Lady Morgan's own mouth and nose. I never saw any one that resembled her ; and if our grandmothers were liere to say it, they would declare that Lady Morgan had been a pretty woman. She had the manner of a woman who has been attractive, and that supplies the want of a chronicle. Besides the face was soft, agreeable, kindly — somewhat wrinkled even then, but harmoniously tinted with a soup^on of rouge. I remember her dress perfectly. It was juvenile to a fault — white muslin, short sleeveS; and a broad green sash tied behind ; something droi> ping and light about her head ; and a lace scarf over her shoul- The Old Irish Girl, 239 ders. She was still the Wild Irish Girl in fancy, though rather an old Irish girl. She soon, however, changed this style ; and though I never saw her what is called well dressed, if one were to take her and measure her by the yard, yet she had an intuitive notion of the becoming, combined, at that period of her life, with a close attention to economy. This remarkable woman was born, then (let us concede it), in the year 1777, on ship-board, between Ireland and England. Her father, Mr. Macowen, was an actor, a singer, the manager of a theatre, and a man of talent and local celebrity. It is said that he was handsome and dashing, and had the reputa- tion of being more successful with the ladies than with the pub- lic as an actor. His good looks he transmitted partially only to Sydney, but in full splendour to her sister the late Lady Clarke, who was extremely handsome. Abjuring the Mac, as there was then a strong prejudice against the sons of Erin, this lady-slayer came over to London, and appeared in Rowe's heavy play as Tamerlane. Theatrical critics were in those days as much guided by party views as the House of Commons : there were persons who could not tole- rate Kemble, but who idolized Young ; and Garrick, in whose wake Mr. Ovvenson must have followed, had his detractors, who adored Betterton. And so, whilst some praised, others decried Mr. Owenson's Tamerlane ; and the unsuccessful player was obliged to leave London and start for the provinces. Whilst * starring' at Shrewsbury, the handsome Irishman captivated a certain Miss Hill ; a * single woman of a certain age,' just old enough, happily for him, to be foolish on matrimonial points. She eloped v/ith him, and they were married ; and their first child was a daughter, the gifted, charming Sydney, so called, as well as many of her female contemporaries in the west country of Ireland, in grateful remembrance to Sir Henry Sydney, who was Lord Deputy of Ireland in the time of Elizabeth. Such was the origin of one v/nose life presents an instance of what unassisted women can do, to raise themselves in the scale of society, upon even a slender stock of education, with energy and talent Who would have predicted that the small, fmgile 240 The Pet of the Green-room, child, bred up amid actors, learning first her letters, probably, upon a playbill — conversant with properties — the pet of the green-room — whose loud merry laugh might be heard before the drop-scene was drawn up, behind the foot-lights, — who would suppose that she would have lived to eiglity-two, to figure i^ the most polite neighbourhood of London, among the most lettered, the most famous, and the most aristocratic society in the world ? Her father had all the qualities v/hich were afterwards deve- loped, under more favourable circumstances, in her. He was fond of the arts, to which she always professed devotion, though no judge of art. He was immensely convivial — hence her hereditary taste for society, and her aptitude at conversation. His companionship in his own way was delightful ; so was hers in a more refined and genial form. He sang excellently : she also sang and played on the harp. He was a man who de- lighted to bring forward young poets : here was a grand point of resemblance. Nothing delighted Lady Morgan more than to have a pet poet, whose fame she wished to nurture : whose work, sent bound, and with a copy of verses to her specially, she used to lay on her table — that little table near her; and to show, only to shou\ to her visitors, saying, * The gentleman- you met on the stairs with that wild-looking hair is an enthusiastic young poet \ see, this is his last. I don't offer to lend it to you, you can get it for seven and sixpence at Pickering's.' Upon scraps of education Sydney throve mentally, as girls do upon an unsystematic bringing up. It is Miss Austen, I think, who says that reading to oneself is an education to girls. I dare say it was the only one Miss Austen had ; but then her reading would be solid works — Bowdler, Hannah More, who flourished in Bath in her time, Russell's * Modern Europe,' and a few proper novels. But Sydney's studies were, as she grew up, at once more desultory and ambitious. She learned Italian, and read the * Natural History' of Lord Bacon. More espe- cially she devoured the history of her native land, which Ire- land undoubtedly was ; and she mixed up all these pursuits with music and poetry, sang to her harp, wrote a volume of poems, and published them by subscription, dedicated to Lady Her First Liter an' Attempts. 241 Afoira, whose lord was then Lord Lieutenant. She ^vTote, too, in periodicals. She used to relate how enchanted she was when for some tale the editor sent her two guineas, her first-earned money, and these two guineas, she said, were the source of all her scribbling : the encouragement was worth hundreds. It seems almost like a lesson to editors not too sternly to crush young hopes, lest, with the chaff often first put out, good seed is destroyed. It is well kno^vn that Mrs. Gaskell, whose novels are classics in tlicir way, vainly tried many years ago to get a volume of poems published, though they had much of the fancy and grandeur of thought observable in ' Ruth ;' and it is also tnie that Charlotte Bronte's first work was sent to every publisher in London, until it excited, by its veteran exterior, the curiosity of Mr. Williams, the able literary adviser of Smith and Elder, who read it and refused it, but suggested that the authoress should try a fresh subject; and * Jane Eyre' was pro- duced. Armed with her two guineas, a large s\mi for the little harpist, Sydney wrote her ' Wild Irish Girl,' origina*!, romantic, and ab- surd. Far better was her ' Novice of St. Dominick,' the effort of her maturer years, of which the story is interesting, although the incidents are improbable, and there is in it a tone of truer feeling than her later novels display. All these avocations were interspersed Avith poetic flights. Lady Morgan was the writer of ' Kate Kearney.' She published, also, a collection of Irish melodies antecedent to Moore's : she played and sang to her harp in every society into which her precocious talents brought her j yet still she was but ' Miss Owenson,' the * Wild Irish Girl.' Single women can do little to form a circle ; they can but adorn one when formed: Lady IMorgan, as 'Miss Owenson,' was a delightful and a popular member of societ}', but a mem- ber only ; young, without influence, devoid of aristocratic con- nection, a.nd poor. There was one feature in her destinies : she was early ap- propriated by the Liberal party as their own. She was of that day when Irish wrongs were rife, and the wounds inflicted on an oppressed country during the Rebellion were unhealed. She grew up in the politics of the Emmetts and of Lord Ed- 16 242 Party Lies. ward Fitzgerald ; and though her large amount of common sense modified, in after life, the convictions of her youth, she was consistent to the last, and perfectly aware of the errors of her countiymen. When she had fully emerged into literary eminence, and her works were j)opular in England, Mr. Wilson Croker, the last of the exploded race of political bigots, attacked her personally and cruelly. He pretended to start a commission of enquiry on her age, her parentage, her early position. ' Have we not seen this lady on stages and at fairs ?' he asked in the pages of the * Quarterly Review.' He turned upon her that which a gentlewoman can least stand — the laugh. We may dispute facts, but no one can deprecate a laugh. And his taunts, his stinging criticisms, his private influence, his party importance as the great organ of the spiteful, amused the world for a time, and alarmed the steady-going aristocrats of Grosvenor Square, who drew back in haste from what they believed to be a mingled mass of false pretentions, bad singing, reprehensible politics, and questionable religious convictions. In those days the passions even of good men predisposed them to credit that which assimilated to their own prejudices. A man used to be thought, as in the days of the ' Spectator,' of no principles who did not believe a certain amount of falsehoods. ' Party lies' were at their acme. In the words of Addison : * The coffee- houses were supported by them ; the press was choked by them : eminent authors lived upon them.' * Our bottle-conver- sation,' he says, * is so infected by them, that a party lie is grown as fashionable an entertainment as a lively catch or a merry story.' And, in the same way, the exaggerations of * John Bull,' in the days of Theodore Hook, of the * Satirist,' the * Age,' and, I am sorry to add, of the ' Quarterly Review,' furnished all the great talkers of the time with subjects for after dinner discourse. Nor were those the days in which 'lies were discharged in the air, and began to hurt nobody.'* The West End of London was then all Tory, and small people thought it fashionable to belong to that clique which ate with silver forks and abhorred Russell Square. A\n-iiggism and inau- * See Addison on Party Lying ; a capital paper. No. 507, Saturday, October 10. Lady Morgan as an Irish Apostle, 243 vais ion were thought to go together : as in France, the old Legitimists despise the Liberal party not so much for their opinions as for their alleged vulgarity ; and these convictions had their influence in crushing Lady Morgan at first, and for some time. Her gaiety, her real kindness of heart, and her talents, won, however, the heart of Dr. Morgan, a physician of good family, and a widower, of moderate but comfortable in- come : and being eventually knighted (it is said, partly from compliment to her)^ at Dublin, she assumed, as his wife, a posi- tion at once eminently respectable and agreeable. Meantime, her pen had been in active requisition. 'Ida of Athens' and ' The Missionary,' though popular at the time of their appearance, are now forgotten : they are manifestly the work of a young and ori- nal author. As a writer, I>ady Morgan gained much by her marriage. The poetry of her life was perhaps gone ; but the cul- tivated taste and logical mind of her husband rectified her ex- uberant fancies; and, as a married woman, her best novels were produced: 'O'Donnel' was considered by herself to be her masteqiiece : it placed her on a literary eminence, as the first novelist that advocated the Irish cause, and fearlessly she wTOte. It is true that Miss Edgeworth's * Castle Rack-rent' had then appeared ; (her delightful tale ' The Absentee' was of later date ;) but whilst she assailed the defective habits and princi- ples of the people, pointing out also the effects of the false and ancient system that England had pursued towards Ireland, Lady Morgan took up the more romantic features of the cause. The works of Miss Edgeworth tend to reform, to instruct : her story is subservient to her purpose. The novels of Lady Mor- gan excite the passions and enlist the sympathies. The one is the disciple of reason and truth — the other, the organ of fancy, political convictions, and romance. It was in 18 18, when the sprightly authoress must have been forty-one years of age, that Lady Morgan engaged to ^vrite her book on France. She had by that time seen enough of society ir this country and in Ireland, to prepare her for the task : for it is of httle avail to send out individuals to judge of foreign circles who have seen no good companies in their own nation ; and although with the brand of the ' Quarterly' upon her, Lady 244 Family Ties* Morgan had even then tasted largely of the pleasures afforded by those aristocratic circles which she ever loved * not wisely, but too well.' Her 'Book of the Boudoir' gives an animated picture of Irish noblesse and their provincial life : in depicting that in England she is less fortunate. As L. E. L. said of Mr. Gait : * He is like Antaeus, never strong, except when he touches his native land ;' so may it be said of Lady Morgan, that she was never so humorous in thought, so felici- tous in expression, so brilliant in fancy, as when her conver- sation or her \vritings turned on her country, and the ' Paddies,' as she irreverendy styled them, formed her theme. Her journeys to France, to Italy, and to Spain constituted the different epochs of her uneventful life. Let us, before we start >vith her on those tours, look for an instant into her in- terior life at home, and see how in her mature age she shone as a domestic companion, sister, wife. People who assert that Lady Morgan was a mere woman of societ}'', * pleasant but wrong,' caring for no one, devoid of genume feeling, content with all that the world offers, knew her but litde. It is too much the custom to assign that description of character to persons of a lively, social nature. Lady Mor- gan was a woman of the warmest affections ; devoted to her family ties. Her sister. Lady Clarke, had married an eminent surgeon in Dublin, and was the mother of several daughters when Lady Morgan meditated her first contuiental journey. These children were the objects of a tenderness perfectly ma- ternal. In one of her letters to Lady Clarke, Lady Morgan thus refers to them : — * Dear little toddles ! I am sure that nepotism is an organic affection in single and childless women. It is a maternal in- stinct gone astray. In popes and princes it is a frustrated am- bition : — a substitute for paternity. It is a dangerous tendency ; aunts and uncles never love " wisely, but too well ;" besides, it brings with it responsibilities without authority, and imposes duties without giving rights : and so bye-bye babies.* There was not a word of exaggeration in all this. These * babies' grew up to be elegant, handsome, and accomplished women, in whose dawn of life their Aunt Sydney found a deep Sir Charles, 24$ interest : they were the deliglit of her middle life, and one of them the solace of her age. In the fulness of her success as a * Queen of Society,' Lady Morgan was rarely to be seen with- out one of her nieces, whose musical powers, whose love of art, reminded her of the days when she was, as she used to say, a sort of show-girl, with her harp and her Irish melodies. Upon the death of one of her nieces, the fu"st Mrs. Marmion Savage, Lady Morgan sorrowed as a mother would have done. Every tie she had was dear to her : the warm Irish heart was never choked by the cares and deceitfulness of life. In her * nej^otism' she reminded one of a Frenchwoman, to whom the ties of relationship, which we English are too prone to cast away from us, are stronger in our continental neighbours than in any other European country. As a wife she was pre-eminently happy from similarity of tastes. Sir Charles soon participated in her literary objects, and became the WTiter of the grave articles in the 'Monthly Magazine,' published by Colbum, and at one time edited by Thom.as Campbell, and later by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. Sir Charles had a dignified, calm manner, which well supported the gay, though always gentle Sydney in society. He was still and ever devoted to that profession which, above all others, settles itself in the mind of man, forms that mind, applies itself to almost every circumstance in life, and is reverenced by the mature intellect because it is useful, enlarged, and true. Sir Charles Morgan was a physician of that period v/hen the gentleman was necessary to the profession. He ceased, with his maiTiage, to practise, but devoted himself to philosophy and literature. As a writer his v/orks have not lived : as a philoso- pher, there was one vital canker in his code. He was sceptical : there have been those who have declared that he v/as even an unbeliever : but it is generally thought that his notions were those of Cuvier : those that Lawrence once advocated, but Vv-hich he has long since nobly recanted — of Materialism and Deism, not of bold Atheism. And tlie fact, that even the opinions of Sir Charles Morgan went to this extent is dubious. Ikit. unliappily, it is but too true that his influence had a serious elicct on the mind of hi:> wife. 24^ Lady Morgan^ s Religious Opinions, That * party lie' whicli, diffused amongst thousands, is * as a drop of the blackest tincture, wears away and vanishes when mixed and confused in a considerable body of water.' Yet * the blot is still in it, but is not able to discover itself:'* that falsehood represented her as scoffing at every form of faith. Yet such was not the case : unfortunately, the term liberal had in her mind been confounded with incredulity. Her faith was not that of the Church of England, but had its own form, in- dependent of creeds. How far her heterodoxy went, whether to the very confines of unbelief or merely to externals, was ob- vious to those who intimately knew her. In her later years, she was dazzled by the cleverness of the book styled * Vestiges of Creation,' and adopted many of its arguments. Yet an emi- nent scientific man who conversed with her, expressed an opinion that her convictions were unsound, though not wholly sceptical. Her house was the resort of many clergymen : her favourite niece v/as married to a clergyman of great worth and piety, who was on the happiest terais with her : no one ever went to her large parties without seeing there the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. Milman, and many others, who would have turned away with horror from a female Atheist, even in all the radiance of talent and success. She belonged, indeed, in her youth to that period when all faith, all obsei*vances, had been but re- cently overthrown, and were slowly reasserting themselves after the shock of the French Revolution. In her first work on France, Lady Morgan has described the reorganization of so- ciety under the Bourbons, after the Restoration in 1816. It is still thought, in some circles of Parisian litterateurs ^ that to be incredulous,' or, as they tenn it, philosophic, is a proof of the esprit fort, to which distinction some women make the fatal mistake of aspiring. But in Lady Morgan's days the no- tion was in full force. She thirsted for that society in which she could meet with responsive liberalism of all kinds, and re- ceived with delight an offer from the late Henry Colburn, that enterprising and liberal publisher, to set oft' for Italy, and tc write a. work upon it of the same description as hei (still un- • A.ldiaon. Sets out f 07' Italy. 247 equalled) book on France. Hei o\vn words must Impart the offer, and its reception : — *This morning as I was on my knees, all dust and dowdiness, comes the English post — old Coiburn — no, not old Colbum, but young, enthusiastic Colbuni, in love v^-ith " Florence Ma- carthy," and a little epris with the author ! " Italy, by Lady Morgan !" He is not touched, but rapt, and makes a dashing offer of two thousand pounds, to be printed in quarto, like " France :" but we are to start ofif immediately, and I have im- mediately answered him in the words of Sileno in " Midas ;" ' " Done ! Strike hands ! I take your offer : Further on I may fare worse.'" Lady Morgan set off instantly via London for France. Over that country the mistaken policy of Lous XVIIL had even then cast a gloom ; but the lively Sydney was happy in the Society^ of La Fayette, of Humboldt, then in Paris, of De'non, Lacroix, and last, not least, of the Princess Jablonsky. Her portraits are wonderfully graphic, and, though true, not ill-natured. Wit- ness, in her diar}*-, an admirable descrij)tion of Louis XVIIL : — * A fine gentleman, an elegant scholar; graceful (if not grateful), as the Bourbons always are ; gracious, as the French princes have been, though their courtesies meant nothing. Whilst Lady Morgan had much to allege against those whom she styles ' the Tory detractors of England,' at the head of them ' The Quarterly,' she ov/ed to her success as a partisan the introduction to Chateau la Grange. Her ' France,' which had gone through three editions in one year, was proscribed by Louis aux Hnitres, as Louis XVIIL was then styled. A sort of interdict to her entering France had also been placed by tlie government of that .counUy : nevertheless, tempted by La Fayette, who had assured her that it was chiefly a matter of form, she resolved to go, and the result was one of the most delightfijl visits that she had ever enjoyed. In the month of August, 18 18, Lady Morgan quitted the * darling dusty old Fabrique,' as she calls it, the Hotel d' Es- papie^ in the Faubourg St. GeiTnain, for the Chateau la Grange, situated in the Department de la Brie. During the whole oi 248 At Paris. her stay in Paris this indefatigable woman liad been * cram- ming for her journey to Italy, and reading all that she could collect on the sul)JL'ct at the Bibliotheciue Royale. She now prepared to set off on her journey widi all the spirits of eighteen ; bought herself a * chapeau de solciV in the Marche des Innocents, with a bunch of corn-flowers stuck in the midst of it ; made a tour of calls and sights ; dined in a little public-house under the heights of Montmorenci, on the door of which was inscribed ^ Ici on duftse tons Ics Jours / admired the practice, and remarked what misery and murder it would spare if such prevailed in England instead of drinking gin and porter ; passed the evening at Baron De'non's, where she met Segur and Humboldt. The separation between Bonaparte and Josephine was still the theme of Parisian soirees, and Hum- boldt told some pleasing anecdotes in mitigation of the sup- posed hardness of Napoleon's character. Then Lady Morgan departed for La Grange ; on her journey to which a curious in- cident showed her the conspicuous place which she then occu- pied in the minds of the French ; for her liberal principles had met with a responsive voice among a certain class in France as far removed from the doctrines of the Rouge Republican as from the absolutism of the despot : these were the ' LidustrielSy a. class to be distinguished from the ' Ouvriers,' of whom they are the aristocracy, the higher order of mechanics. Delighted with France, she always declared that there was then twenty times more liberality and public spirit than in Ire- land, and that pamphlets were published there which would have been prosecuted in England. Perhaps her opinion was warped by the favourable manner in which her work on France had been received. As she was proceeding to visit General La Fayette — whose part in the first French Revolution is fami- liar to every one — she met with a curious compliment to herself. Waiting at Grand ville for La Fayette's carriage, which was to meet her there, she and Sir Charles joined a group who were standing outside the inn watching some one at the window. ' What is it ?' asked the unconscious Sydney. * What does it mean?' * Oh !' cried the man, 'c'est Miladi Morgan, who has spoken so well of us workmen in her book about France. She is ■> ■>■)•> itt o 1 JO J •) j^J 3 3 ) O J »> 1 :> ' 3 ^ r < C «• C / f >Jli'tlM 4 . - 1 XHK COUNTEKFKIT J.ADV :M0KGAN. TJt£ False Miladi Morgan. 24.9 waiting for General La Fayette's carriage.' * At that moment,' writes the heroine of the story, * " the Lady Morgan" came to the window. It is impossible to describe anything io grotesque, though such figures are still seen in France. A head, powdered and crepee, two feet high ; several couches of rouge on her cheek, and more than one on her cliin ; black patches a discretion : a dress of damask silk with scarlet flowers.' This venerable lady, above seventy, received the homage of the assembled admirers with the utmost complaisance, and coming out, entered her vehicle ; it was called a desobiigeanie, corresponding probably to our antique vis-d-vis of the days of ' old Q' and Queen Char- lotte : a coachman in a * livery as ancient and dusty as if he had served in the Fronde,' drove this grand dame de province away from the real Lady Morgan and her husband, who were enchanted to see the gracious bows and smiles with which the old lady received the homage intended elsewhere. Lady Mor- gan, nevertheless, was dying to come out with tlie secret * Hitherto,' she writes to her sister, ' Morgan had kept me quiet, but my vanity at last broke bounds : my charming chapeaii de paille^ v/ith its poppy flowers ; my French cashmere; and my coquetry, which, young or old, will go with me to my grave, would stand it no longer. ' " Odious ! in woollen ! 'tv/ould a saint provoke !" Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke. * As I was stepping into the I^a Grange carriage, I bowed to the nice " young man" who handed me in : ^^ Je suis, moiy la veritable Lady Morga?!.''' He said he guessed as much.' Lady Morgan and her husband arrived at La Grange on a fine September evening. The old castle tower, with the mantling ivy over it planted by Charles James Fox, the glowing sunset and the dark woods beyond, formed a scene not to be for- gotten. At the castle gate stood the noble and venerable La Fayette, the * Cromwell-Grandison' to v/hom poor Maria An- toinette had turned for help, and whom she had innocently admired. He was surrounded by his grand-children, then twelve in number; and conducting with all the grace of his country tlie welcome strangers to the salon, presented them to 250 La Fayette. Ar)' Schcffer, since famed in art, and to Auguste Thierry. Car- bonel the composer, who set Beranger's songs to music, and two Americans, formed the party, with the exception of two Enghsh gentlemen, one of whom told Lady Morgan that he had expected to find La Fayette eighty years old. * Where have you picked up such a notion ?' was the reply. ' Why, in your ladyship's work on France, reviewed by the " Quarterly." The ** Quarterly" said that the general was a dotard.' Lady Mor- gan's own description of this truly hospitable household is a tme but somewhat sad picture of what a French chateau afforded before the insane law of partition cut up everything like substantial prosperity in France. Few of the nobles of that country can now afford to live as La Fayette did, with twenty or thirty guests dining daily under the groined roof of the old stone hall, at a table where each dropped into his place without ceremony ; where all ostentation was banished ; no plate allowed for ornament ; an excellent plain French dinner and deHghtful conversation forming the entertainment. Yet among those who sat round that board were the descendants of some of the most renowned families of France. * I never,' Lady Morgan wrote to her sister, her beloved Olivia, * saw such a beautiful picture of domestic happiness, virtue, and talent.' What increased the enjoyment of the warm-hearted little Irishwoman was, that ' Morgan was happy.' Seated under the towers of La Grange by the side of a pond, fishing, or listening to Carbonel singing Beranger's vaudeville, *// est passe le ban vieux temps,' the ci- devant physician forgot the delights of the Paris hospitals, in which he took a deep interest. As the host and his guests strolled through the woods of La Grange, Lady Morgan ventured to ask the general whether it was true that he had gone with Marie Antoinette to a masked ball in Paris, the queen leaning on his arm. * I am afraid,' he answered, in that low emphatic voice peculiar to him, ' that it was so. She was,' he added, * so indiscreet, and I can con- scientiously say, so innocent.' Poor Marie Antoinette ! Years after her doom, thus was her fame justified by one whose good opinion she valued : and when La-ly Morgan, \vith some hesitation, resumed : * The At La Gi-ange. 251 world said, general, that she favoured the young champion " le heros des deux mondes." ' * Canca?i de sakmr he briefly answered, and the subject was dropped. Sunday was a day of rest as well as a festival at La Grange. At eight the great hall, perforated by Turenne's bullets during the war of the Fronde, was filled with peasantry', the servants, one or two gendarmes who looked in, and all the company.' peers of France, artists, writers, tlie general and his twelve grandchildren ; the concierge being the musician. As he struck up a roiidc^ the whole company formed themselves into that popular dance, at which Louis Philippe, when at Eu, often delighted to look on, especially when words were sung, as the dance went round. It is the national country dance of France. Whilst tlie guests were footing it, a party consisting of a young man in deep mourning, followed by his seiTants and portman teau, passed behind the dancers into the interior of the castle. This proved to be Auguste de Stael, the favourite and only sur- viving son of the celebrated authoress. After 'channing days, more charming evenings,' listening alternately to Carbonel's compositions and to I'hierry's anec- dotes, sitting to Schefter for her portrait, v.alking sur la peloust till sunset, and talking to the general about Bonaparte till bed- time. Lady Morgan returned to Paris. She left La Grange with deep regret. *AU the clever men from Paris come here constantly,' she wrote to her sister. * My little harj) (v/hich some Frenchwoman had mistaken for a dead child in its coffin) has the greatest success.' At the Chateau la Grange, Lady Morgan enjoyed those rich delights which society such as she met there, afford, when coupled with the contemplation of virtue and domestic happi- ness. La Fayette, after a stining life, was closing his days in peace among his family; Lady Morgan fully appreciated the unanimity of a French home de province. The perfect system that pervades families; the obedience of the young; the rapt devotion of the old to the younger members ; tlie art and part the old servants take in everything ; the unaffected freedom which never dispenses with politeress^ but abhors ostcnta- 2^2 Society in Paris. tion ; — this slic could fully comprehend. But there was one want ungralified — she desired to see Be'ranger. Why was the l>Tic satirist not there ? * Because,' said La Fayette, * he won't come. I have asked liim and he has refused, on the same principle that he declined to dine with Talleyrand and the Rochefoucaulds ; because I am " trap grand seigneur. '' ' His answer to La Fayette was : * My instinct leads me to the caveau, and not to the chateau.^ Beranger was not tempted to the drawing-rooms of the great, and thus escaped a distinction which might have fettered his verses, and which certainly would have diluted the strengtli of his genius. In the midst of all her felicity, she never forgot the absent To her sister she ^vrote : * I am quite delighted you have a boy : he will be easily provided for. We will educate him amongst us, and he will be a protection to his sisters. What I would give to have you ail here !' She spent some time in Paris after her visit to La Grange ; and in that gay capital learned that art of society which she never lost. Great names crowded to her Wednesday evenings in the Rue St. Augustin, in which central situation she had fixed herself. Talma reciting ' coldly but finely' Shakspeare in French (Ducie's translation). Jouy, the *" Erhnite de la Chaussee dAnlin,' complaining that his new play was prohibited by the censor of the press ; the beautiful Comtesse de la Rochefoucauld; the Princess de Beauveau, and her daughters ; and the Duchesse de Broglie, were amongst the French notabilities who adorned her sa/on. Lady Morgan had always her degrees of welcome. Some she received * with acclamation ;' any one who, as she pronounced of Thierry and Ary SchelTer, ' bade fair for poste- rity,' was always well received. About others she had her caprices : no one could sooner throw people just at the distance she liked than Lady Morgan. Though she professed, after the French fashion, that peoi)le were always to be let in, those who came without invitation on nights v/lien the party had been in- vited, were sure to find out their mistake. * I saw your win- dows lighted up, and, dear Lady Morgan, I came in, and here I am,' said a lady to her, under this predicament, one evening. TJie City of Calvin. 253 * So 1 sec,' was the dry answer, and Sydney turned from her. Iliis was in London. Lady Morgan, during the winter of 18 18, was still preparing for Italy, at that time a journey of some risk. She must have been in her true element in Paris. Christmas came, and wdth it the dismissal of De Cazes, a.nd the establishment of an Ultra ministry. Benjamin Constant was her frequent visitor, and read \\^th real or feigned delight her ' Florence Macarthy.' She v/as beginning to find her popularity a burden ; yet she under- took the journey to Geneva with * fear, if not with misgivings.* Even Colbum's two thousand pounds could not make her think it otherwise than awful. Nevertlieless, at last, with a sort of ecstacy, she wrote ' Geneva' on the top of her letters. At that striking city, she was received with great cordiality both by Dumont and Sismondi ; but she had, she avowed, no antece- dents or impressions about the ' City of Calvin.' It contrasted strangely wilh the fantastic and historical Paris, that city of pleasant memories, which she had left. By a sort of instinct, as it seemed, she selected the Hotel de la Balance as her abode, and inhabited the very rooms in which Madame de Stael held her famous literary receptions when she visited Geneva from Coppet. At the Baron de Bonstetten's Lady Morgan met De Candolle, M. Betanist, and Pictet ; but Dumont, who had been tutor to the late Lord Lansdowne, and spoke English per- fectly, was her favourite litterateur. The conversation in such society she describes as the perfection of enjoyment ; light though literary ; desultory, but interspersed with personal anec- dote, and therefore piquant. ' It was at Geneva,' adds this in- domitable partisan, ' that we first breathed the air of a republic' She must have had enough of republics since that time, after the failure in France, and its results In the spring of April, 18 19, Lady Morgan announced to her sister that she was ' all Italy's.' It could not have been easy to return to task-work after all the holiday time in Paris and Geneva. In the former capital Lady Morgan had avoided her countrywomen, who played at hazard, and were not respect- able. She now begged Lady Clarke, her 'dear Livy,' not to send any of the * Crawl eys,' trespassing after her; 'not to give 254 By roil s MiniatHvc. any one her Italian address except the O'Connor Don.' She went, feeling that she 1 ad a great vocation, but very little con- fidence in being able to do anything in the regeneration of Italy. This was ' sixt)' years ago ;' alas ! what has been done since ? In Italy she formed the acquaintance of Lord BjTon, of whom her reminiscences were vivid even to her latest days. Lady Morgan was a lenient judge of those errors which the world, properly, visits severely. Bitter, like all the Irish when offended, her moral decisions were, nevertheless, generally fair. When she knew Byron, he was under a deserved cloud of re- probation, even by that exalted society which overlooked the example of George IV. and ignored his connection with Lady Conyngham. Byron was just then finally separated from his wife. That story which got abroad, that Dr. Lushington, who was the great adviser of the separation, knew of circumstances too dreadful to be disclosed, which fully justified that step — a step which, as usual, drove the husband to desperation, without insuring the wife's peace — was generally circulated. Those exquisite lines — ' Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever fare thee well,' were in every one's mouth, in every one's heart, when Lady Morgan saw Lord Byron. She always espoused his cause. An exquisite miniature of the ill-starred poet remained till her death in her drawing-room, bequeathed to her by Lady Caro- line Lamb. The noble brow ; the blue, clear, speaking eyes ; the fine classic nose ; and, above all, the beautiful mouth, full of sweetness, yet firm and sensible, are evidence of the likeness being faithful. It is just such a head as one would wish a poet to be endowed with : it does not give the impression of an ' ima- gination of fire playing round a heart of ice,' as Southey would have us think of Byron, but of a genial, thoughtful nature — of a man born to be loved, though forced into evil by an adverse destiny. This was, above all, the picture in her possession to which Lady Morgan always drew the attention of strangers, and it hung near the sofa on which she usually sat. The ignorance and indolence of the Italian ladies struck this Lady Cork and the ]Vatchcs. 255 active woman forcibly. Yet she defends them in her work on Italy from the general charge of pervading immorality, and contends that there are families as pure, as well-principled, and as domestic as in England. She returned to England to form that circle in v/hich she lived, and in which she delighted ever after. The fierceness of parties was subsiding when she took up her temporary abode in James Street, Buckingham Gate, in a house belonging to Sir Henry Bulwer, with whom, as with his celebrated brother, Lady Morgan was intimate. Her ' Florence Macarthy,' appeared, and her fame as a novelist was high : she ventured, also, into the paths which even she was glad to illumine by her imagina- tion. Full of Italy, she wrote a very interesting life, or rather sketch of the life of Salvator Rosa. She published, also, her ' O'Briens and O'Flahertys ;' but the greatest of her works of fiction, * The Princess,' was yet to come. Lady Morgan after a time removed to William Street, Knights bridge, where in the immediate proximity of all the beau 7nonde of London, she established her quarters. Having been much abroad. Lady Morgan did not deem it necessary to give large expensive dinners in order to 'keep her world' together. She seldom received dinner company ; and when she did so, her table was never thronged, six or eight formed its fullest com- plement of guests ; and, indeed, her means did not permit the extravagance of a proper London dinner. During Lord Mel- bourne's administration she received a pension of three hundred pounds a year for her services as the supporter of the liberal party in Ireland. Sir Charles Morgan had also a tolerable in- come ; so that, to the end of her days. Lady Morgan could not have known pecuniary anxiety. She was by nature hospitable, though not extravagant, and assembled some of the best com- pany in London upon Lady Cork's principle of ' plenty of tea and wax lights.' ' The world,' she used to say, ' is a very good world, but you must seek it; it will not do to neglect it.' Early in life Lady Morga.n had been intimate with the Aber- com family. The Dowager Lady Cork — the Miss Monkton of Miss Burney's days — was one of her friends. Lady Cork was eccentric, and had an absent way of putting into her pocket 256 Lady Ciiaylcvillc in her Chair. anytl-.ing that lay before her. It is related of her that being one (lay at the house of a noble earl in ■ Square, some veiy ancient and valuable watches belonging to the family of her host were shown. ' I tremble,' whispered a fashionable divine, to whose extemporary' sennons half the west end of London thronged, ' to see those watches in Lady Cork's hands.* * They are as safe, sir, with me, as with you,' was her reply (having overheard him), and time proved that she was right. The earl, by no means a type of * absolute wisdom,' was gathered to his fathers. His countess succeeded to all the personalty ; amongst them to these same watches. After a few months of weeds — one cannot say of mourning — she mamed the Rev. Dr. , and the watches, of course, came into his pos- session. The Countess of Charleville, whose rare qualities have been well described in her * Diary' by Lady Morgan, was one of her most prized friends. The letters of this lady to Lady Morgan give, indeed, an insight into a character of singular good sense and gendeness. Of a cultivated mind, this venerable lady, with her singular charm of manner and of person, attracted around her most of the eminent men and v.'omen of letters of the day ; Tom Moore, * who would not sing until a large audience of pretty women were collected to hear him ;' William Spencer, whose verses, airy, polished, graceful like his person, made him the idol of society, whilst the charm of his manner and of his character converted the acquaintance of an evening into the friends of a lifetime ; Captain Morris, the lyrist ; — these were among the lions of those drawing-rooms in which Lady Charle- ville, wheeled from one room to another by her handsome son, then Lord Tullamore, formed a picture of no ordinary interest. The good sense and good spirit of this lady's letters to Lady Morgan, her gentle sincerity and excellent criticisms, denote a superiority of intellect very rare, because it was combined with the greatest humility. This beloved and respected lady had lost the use of her lower limbs before she had passed middle life, yet she survived till the age of ninety, and died, a short time previously to Lady Morgan, in 1858. Their friendship was the friendship of half Pink and Blue Flowers. 257 a century. Tliey were both Irishwomen, Lady Charlevills being one of the Cremorne family \ both witty \ though perhaps Lady Charleville's wit had the greater refinement of the two ; both women of society, yet not in the disparaging sense. Had Lady Charleville been a Frencliwoman and Uved in France, * she would have been assigned a place in social history with the Sevignes and Du Defifands.' One cannot but confess that Lady Charleville shows her tact in her avowal that she could not comprehend Sir Charles Mor- gan's work on the * Philosophy of Life,' the principles of which were attacked by Reynolds, the Christian Advocate at Cam- bridge. Lady Cork disapproved of Sir Charles's philosophy, and therefore sheltered herself under the plea of being ' over* whelmed by the detail and quantity of the physical knowledge it contained. Yet tlie work was praised by Humboldt, and translated mto French by Lacroix. It was accused of mate- rialism. Then at Lady Cork's, Lady Morgan added to her now in- creasing circle of society. It seems, indeed, like speaking of another age to recall, as she does in her ' Diary,' Lady Ame- land, the insulted wife of the late Duke of Sussex, and the mother of the Prince and Princess D'Este. ' Oh, these men, and their laws !' exclaims Lady Morgan ; ' so lightly made, so lightly broken, as passion or expediency suggests; from Henry VIII. and his pope — before, and after !' This was on Lady Cork's pink night : the next was her blue evening, when editors and reviewers went to meet people of science. Lady Morgan, in her selections from her 'host of friends,' showed better taste than to separate classes or to have pink or blue nights. Those who had been much in London during the last five-and- twenty years cannot forget the assemblage of noble if not royal authors ; of beaut}'', and fashion, and science, and musical skill, which rendered her drawing-room so re- markable. That room was in itself a picture. Ascending a not very wide staircase, you entered a small salon, opening with foldmg doors into another, which terminated in a verandah. The fur- niture was red : and witliout any attempt at splendour, the room 17 258 Lady Morgans Drawmg-room, had a comfortable aspect. The walls were crowded with pic- tures of great interest, but no value. Lady Morgan's own por- traits — the earlier ones, in a scanty, decollete dress — a girdle — a bodice two inches in length — curled locks — a pen in one hand, the other supporting her head — formed a main feature. During the latter years of her life, a small likeness was painted of her in her widow's cap, and in black, which gave her all the kindly exj)ressions of her character. Near her seat Lord Byron's fare rivetted those who sat opposite to it. Around the room were portraits of Madame de Pompadour, La Belle Jennings, an " Now tell me," said the doctor, " whether, if you had a wife or a daughter, you would ivhh them to be your disciples? Think well before you answer me ; for I assure you that what- ever your answer is, I will not conceal it." Mr. Hume, with a smile and some hesitation, made this reply : " No ; I believe scepticism miay be too sturdy a virtue for a woman." Miss Gregory will certainly remember she has heard her father tell this story.' Again, about Handel — * I lately heard two anecdotes, which deserve to be put in writing, and which you will be glad to hear. When Handel's Messiah was first perforaied, the audience were exceedingly struck and affected by the music in general ; but when the chorus struck up, " For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth," tliey were so transported that they all, together with the king (who happened to be present), started up, and remained stand- ing till the chorus ended : and hence it became the fashion in England for the audience to stand while that part of the music is performing. Some days after the first exhibition of the same divine oratorio, Mr. Handel came to pay his respects to Lord Kinnoul, with whom he was particularly acquainted. His lord- ship, as was natural, paid him some compliments on the noble entertainm.ent which he had lately given the to^\^l. "My Lord," said Handel, " I should be sorry if I only entertained them — I wish to make them better." * Beattie's happiest hours are said to have been passed at Gor- don Castle, with those whose tastes, in some respects differing from his own, he contributed to form ; whilst he was charmed with the beauty, the wit, the cultivated intellect of the duchess, . and he justly appreciated her talents and virtues. Tliroughout a friendship of years her kindness was unvaried ; • Ne'er ruffled by those cataracts and breaks WTiich humour interposed too often makes.* The duchess felt sincerely for poor Beattie's domestic sorrows; for the peculiarities of his wife, whom he designated as * ner- vous ;' for the early death of his son, in whom all the poet's af- fections were bound up, and to whose welfare every tliought of his was directed. 2y6 Eccentric Lords. One would gladly take one's impressions of the Duchess of Gordon's character from Beattie, rather than from the pen of political writers, who knew her but as a partisan. The duchess, according to Beattie, was feelingly alive to every fine impulse : demonstrative herself, detesting coldness in others ; the life of every party ; the consoling friend of every scene of sorrow; a compound of sensibility and vivacity, of strength and softness. This is not the view that the world took of her character. Beattie always quitted Gordon Castle * with sighs and tears.' It is much to have added to the transient gleams of happiness enjoyed by so good and so afflicted a man. * I cannot think,' he wrote, when under the pressure of dreaded calamity — that of seeing his wife insane ; * I am too much agitated and disifmt (as Lord Chesterfield would say) to read anything that is not very desultory; I cannot play at cards ; I could never learn to smoke ; and my musical days are over : my first excursion, if ever I make any, must be to Gordon Castle.' There he found what is indispensable to such a man — con- geniality. Amusement was not what he required ; it was soothing. It was in the duchess's presence that he wrote the following * Lines to a Pen ' — • Go, and be guided by the brightest eyes, And to the softest hand thine aid impart ; To trace the fair ideas as they arise, Warm from the purest, gentlest, noblest heart ; lines in which the praise is worth more than the poetry. The duchess sent him a copy by Smith of her portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, a picture to which reference has been already made. In 1782 the duchess grieved for the death of Lord Kaimes, for whom she had a sincere friendship, although the religious opinions of that celebrated man diff'ered greatly from those of Beattie. Lord Kaimes was always at variance with the eccen- tric Lord Alonboddo, the author of the theory that men have had tails. Lord Kaimes passed some days at Gordon Castle shortly before his death. Monboddo and he detested each other, and squabbled incessantly. Lord Kaimes understood no Greek : and Monboddo, who was as mad and as tiresome about Greek and Aristotle, and as absurd and peculiar on that TJie DucJiess's Son, 277 score as Don Quixote was about chivalry, told him that without understanding Greek he could not write a page of good English. Their arguments must have been highly diverting. Lord Kaimes, on his death-bed, left a remembrance to the Duchess of Gordon, who had justly appreciated him, and defended him from the charge of scepticism. Lord Monboddo compared the duchess to Helen of Troy, whom he asserted to have been seven feet high ; but whether in stature, in beauty, or in the circumstances of her life, does not appear. The happiness of the duchess was perfected by the ble&sings granted to her in her family. In 1770 the birth of her eldest son George, long beloved in Scodand whilst Marquis of Huntley, took place. Dr. Beattie describes him as ' the best and most beautiful boy that was ever born :' he proved to be one of the most popular of the young nobility of that period. Dr. Beattie strongly advised the duchess to engage an English tutor, a clergyman, for him, recommended either by the Arch- bishop of York, or by the Provost of Eton. When it after- wards became a question whether the young heir should go to Oxford or to Cambridge, the doctor, who seems to have been an universal authority, allowed that Cambridge was the best for a man of study, whilst Oxford had more dash and spirit in it : so little are matters altered since that time. Fifteen years appear to have elapsed before the birth of a second son, Alexander. Both these scions of this ducal house became military men: the young marquis was colonel of the Scots Fusileer Guards, served in the Peninsular war, and be- came eventually Governor of Edinburgh Castle. Long was he remembered by many a brother officer, many an old soldier, as a gallant, courteous, gay-hearted man; with some of the faults and all the virtues of the military character. He mar- ried late in life Elizabeth, daughter of Alexander Brodie, Esq., of Arnhall, N.B., who survived him. Lord Alexander Gordon died unmarried ; but five daughters added to the family lustre by noble and wealthy alliances. Wraxall remarks ' that the conjugal duties of the Duchess of Gordon pressed on her heart with less force than did her maternal solicitudes.' For the elevation of her daughters she 273 A Pit for PiiL thought, indeed, no sacrifice too great, and no efforts too labo- rious. In tlie success of her matrimonial speculations she has been compared to Sarah Duchess of Marlborough, who num- bered among her sons-in-law two dukes and three earls. But the daughters of tlie proud Sarah were, it has been observed, the children of John Churcliill, and on them were settled, suc- cessively, Blenheim and the dukedom. The Ladies Gordon were portionless, and far less beautiful than their mother. To her skilful diplomacy alone v/ere these brilliant fortunes owing. Lady Charlotte, the eldest, was eighteen years of age when her mother first entertained matrimonial projects for her, and chose for their object no less a personage than Pitt, then prime minister. Ker schemes might have proved successful had not Pitt had that sure impediment to maternal management — a friend. This friend was the subtle Henry Dundas, afterwards Lord Melville; one of those men who, under the semblance of unguarded manners and a free open bearing, conceal the deepest designs of personal aggrandisement Governing India, governing Scotland, the vicegerent in Edinburgh for places and pensions, Dundas was looking forward to a peerage \ and kept his eye steadily on Pitt, whom he guided in many matters, adapting his conduct and his conversation to the peculiar tone of the minister's mind. Flatteiy he never used — dictation he carefully avoided : both would have been detrimental to his influence with the reserved statesman. Pitt was by no means calculated to win the affection of a blooming girl of eighteen, who, whatever Wraxali may have thought, lived to be one of the most beautiful and graceful women of her time. Many years ago, during the life of Sir Thomas Lawrence, his portrait ot the Duchess of Richmond, formerly Lady Charlotte Gordon, was exhibited at Somerset House. So exquisite were the feminine charms of that lovely face, so elegant the form he had portrayed, that all crowded to look upon that delineation of a woman no longer young; whilst beauties in the bloom of youth were passed by as they hung on the walls in all the glowing colours of girlhood. On most intimate terms with the duchess, Pitt seems to have been touched witli the attractions of Lady Charlotte, and to Pitt Outwitted. 279 have paid her some attentions. He was one of the stiffest and sh\'esc of men : finely formed in figure, but plain in face ; the last man to be fascinated, the last to fascinate. Drives to Dundas's house at Wimbledon when Pitt was there ; evenings at home, in easy converse v/ith these two politicians ; suppers, at which the premier always finished his bottle, as well as the hardier Scotchman, failed to bring forward the reserved William Pitt. The fact was, that Dandas could not permit any one, far less the Duchess of Gordon, to have the ascendancy over the prime minister that so near a relationship would occasion. He trembled for his ov/n influence. A widower at that time — his wife, a Miss Rennie of Melville, who had been divorced from him, being dead — he affected to lay his own person and fortune at Lady Charlotte's feet Pitt instantly retired, and the sacrifice cost him little; and Dundas's object being answered, his pre- tensions also dropped through. Two years afterwards. Lady Charlotte became the wife of Colonel Lennox, afterwards Duke of Richmond, and in the course of time the mother of fourteen children : one of whom, Henry Adam, a midshipman, fell over- board from the 'Blake' in 181 2, and was drowned. According to Wraxall, the Duke of Richmond had to pay the penalty of what he calls ' this imprudent, if not unfortunate marriage,' in being banished to the snowy banks of St. Lawrence under the name of governor. In modern times, our young nobility of promise have learned the important truth ably enforced by Thomas Carlyle, that wot-k is not only man's appointed lot, but his highest blessing and safeguard. The rising members of various noble families have laid this axiom to heart; and, when not engaged in public business, have come grandly forward to protect the unhappy, to provide for the young, to solace the old. The name of Shaftes- bury carries with it gratitude and comfort in its sound ; whilst that of him who figured of old in the cabal, the Shaftesbury of Charles IL's time, is, indeed, not forgotten, but remembered with detestation. Ragged schools ; provident schools; asylums for the aged governess ; homes in which the consumptive may- lay their heads in peace and die ; asylums for the penitent ; asylums for the idiot ; homes where the houseless may repose ; 2 So True Nobility. — these are the monuments to our Shaftesbury, to our younger sons. The mere poHtical ascendancy — the garter or the coro- net — are distinctions which pale before these, as does the moon when dawn has touched the mountains' tops with floods of light As lecturers amid their own people, as the best friends and counsellors of the indigent, as man bound to man by com- munity of interest, our noblemen in many instances stand before us — Catholic and Protestant zealous alike. *Jock of Norfolk ' is represented by a descendant of noble impulses. Elgin, Carlisle, Stanley — tlie Bruce, the Howard, the Stanley of fomier days — are our true heroes of society, men of great aims and great powers. The Duchess of Gordon was indefatigable in her ambition, but she could not always entangle dukes. Her second daughter, Madelina, was married first to Sir Robert Sinclair : and secondly, to Charles Fyshe Palmer, Esq., of Luckley Hall, Berkshire. Lady Madelina was not handsome, but extremely agreeable, animated, and intellectual. Among her other conquests was the famous Samuel Parr, of Hatton, who used to delight in sounding her praises, and recording her perfections with much of that eloquence which is now fast dying out of remembrance, but which was a thing a paii in that celebrated Grecian. Susan, the third daughter of the duke and duchess, married William Duke of Manchester, thus becoming connected with a descen- dant of John Duke of Marlborough. Louisa, the fourth daughter, married Charles, second Marquis Cornwallis, and son of the jusdy celebrated Governor of India ; and Georgiana, the fifth and youngest, became the wife of John the late Duke of Bedford. Such alliances midit have satisfied the ambition of most mothers ; but for her youngest and most beautiful daughter the Duchess of Bedford, the Duchess of Gordon had even en- tertained what she thought higher views. In 1802, whilst Bonaparte was first Consul, and anticipating an imperial crown, the Duchess of Gordon visited Paris, and received there such distinctions from Napoleon Bonaparte, then First Consul, as excited hopes in her mind of an alliance with that man whom, Paris in 1802. 28 1 but a few years previously, she would probably have termed an adventurer ! Paris was then, during the short peace, engrossed with fetes, reviews, and dramatic amusements, the account of which makes one almost fancy oneself in the year 1852, that of the coup d'etat, instead of the period of 1S02. The whirlwinds of re- volution seemed then, as now, to liave left all unchanged : the character of the people, who were still devoted to pleasure, and sanguine, was, on the surface, gay and buoyant as ever. Bona- parte holding his levees at the Tuileries, with all the splendour of majesty, reminds one of his nephew performing similar cere- monies at the Elysee, previously to his assuming the purple. All republican simplicity was abandoned, and the richest taste displayed on public occasions in both eras. Let us picture to ourselves the old, quaint palace of the Tuileries on a reception day then; and the impression made on the senses will serve for the modern drama ; be it comedy, or be it tragedy, which is to be played out in those stately rooms wherein so many actors have passed and repassed to their doom. It is noon, and the First Consul is receiving a host of am- bassadors within the consular apartment, answering probably to the ^ Salle des Marechaux'' of Napoleon III. Therein the envoys from eveiy European state are attempting to compre- hend, what none could ever fathom, the consul's mind. Let us not intermeddle with their conference, but look around us, and view the gallery in which we are waiting until he, who was yesterday so small, and who is to-day so great, should come forth amonc^st us. How gorgeous is the old galler}', with its many windows, its rich roof, and gilded panels ! The footmen of the First Consul, in splendid liveries, are bringing chairs for the ladies who are awaiting the approach of that schoolmaster's son : they are waiting until the weighty conference within is terminated. Peace-officers, superbly bedizened, are walking up and down to keep ladies to their seats and gentlemen to the ranks, so as to form a passa.ge for the First Consul to pass down. Pages of the back stairs, dressed in black, and with gold chains hanging round their necks, are standing by the door to guard it, or to 282 Enter Bonaparte. open it when he on whom all thoughts are fixed should come forth. But what is beyond everything striking is the array ot Bona- parte's aides-de-camp — fine fellows — war-worn — men such as he, and he alone, would chose : and so gorgeous, so radiant are their uniforms, that all else seem as if in shadow in com- parison. The gardens of the Tuilerles meantime are filling with troops whom the First Consul is going to review. There are no Zouaves there ; but these are men whom the suns of the tropics have embrowned ; little fellows, many of them, of all heights, such as we might make drummers of in our stalwart ranks : but see how muscular, active, and full of fire they are ; fierce as hawks, relentless as tigers. See the horse-soldiers on their scraggy steeds ; watch their evolutions, and you will own, with a young guardsman who stood gazing fifty years afterwards on the trooi)S which followed Napoleon III. into Paris, that * they are worth looking at* The long hour is past; the pages in black are evidently on the watch ; the double door which leads into the Salle des Marechaux is opened from within ; a stricter line is instantly kept by the ofiicers in the gallery. Fair faces, many an English one among them, are flushed. Anon he appears, whilst an ofticer at the door, with one hand raised above his head and the other extended, exclaims, * Le Fretnkr Consul* Forth he walks, a firm, short, stolid form, with falling shoul- ders beneath his tight, deep-blue frock. His tread is heavy rather than majestic — that of a man who has a purpose in walking, not merely to show himself as a parade. His head is large, and formed with a perfection which we call classic : his features are noble, modelled by that hand of Nature which framed this man * fearfully,' indeed, and ' wonderfully.' Nothing was ever finer than his mouth — nothing more disappointing than his eye : it is heavy, almost mournful. His face is pale, almost sallow, while — let one speak who beheld him — ' not only in the eye, but in ever>^ feature, care, thought, melancholy and meditation are strongly marked with so much of character, Etigene Beaiihariiais. 2 S3 nay, genius, and so penetrating a seriousness, or rather sadness, as powerfully to sink into an observer's mind.' It is the countenance of a student, not of a v/anior ; of one deep in unpractical meditation, not of one whose every act and plan had then been but a tissue of successes. It is the face of a man wedded to deep thought, not of the hero of the battle-field, the ruler of assemblies ; and, as if to perfect the contrast, whilst all around is gorgeous and blazing, he passes along without a single decoration on his plain dress, not even a star to mark out the First Consul. It is well : there can but be one Napoleon in the world, and he wants no distinction. He is followed by diplomatists of every European power, vassals, all, more or less, save England ; and to England, and to her sons and dausfhters, are the most cherished courtesies directed. Does not that recall the present policy ? By his side Avalks a handsome youth whom he has just been presenting to the Bavarian minister — that envoy from a strange, wild country, little known save by the dogged valour of its mountaineers. The ruler of that land, until now an Elector, has been saluted King by Napoleon the powerful. On the youth who addresses him as monpere, a slight glance is allowed even from those downcast eyes which none may ever look into completel3^ Eugene Beauharnais, his step-son, the son of his ever-loved Josephine, has a place in that remorseless heart. * All are not evil.' Is it some inkling of the paternal love, is it ambition, that causes the First Consul to be always accompanied by that handsome youth, fascinating as his mother, libertine as his step-father, but destitute at once of the sensibilities of the former and of the powerful intelligence of the latter ? It is on him — on Eit^hie Beauharnais — that the hopes of the proud Duchess of Gordon rest. Happily for her whom she would willingly have given to him as a bride, her scheme was frustrated. Such a sacrifice was incomplete. Look now from the windows of that gallery ; let your gaze rest on the parade below, in the Rue de Rivoli, through which Bonaparte is riding at the head of his stafi:' to the review. He has mounted a beautiful white horse ; his aides-de-camp are by 284 Marriage of Eugene Beauharnals. his side, followed by his generals. He rides on so carelessly that an ordinary judge would call him an indiflerent equestrian. He holds his bridle first in one hand, then in another, yet he has the animal in perfect control : he can master it by a single movement. As he presents some swords of honour, the whole bearing and aspect of the man change. He is no longer the melancholy student : stretching out his arm, the severe, scho- lastic mien assumes instantly a military and commanding air. Then the consular band strike up a march, and the troops follow in grand succession towards the Champs Elyse'es. The crowds within the gallery disappear : I look around me : the hedges of human beings, who had been standing back to let the hero pass are broken, and all are hurrying away. The pages are lounging ; the aides-de-camp are gone ; already is silence creeping over tliet vast gallery of old historic remembrances. Do not our hearts sink ? Here, in this centre window, Marie Antoinette showed her little son to the infuriated mob below. She stood before unpitying eyes. Happier had it been for him, for her, had they died then. Will those scenes, we thought, ever recur? They have — they have I mercifully mitigated, it is true : yet ruthless hands have torn from those walls their rich hang- ings. By yon door did the son of Egalite escape. Twice has that venerable pile been desecrated. Even in 1852, when crowds hastened to the first ball given by Napoleon IH., the traces of the last Revolution were pointed out to the dancers. They have darkened the floors ; all is, it is true, not only reno- vated, but embellished, so as to constitute tlie most gorgeous of modern palaces ; yet for how long? It is, indeed, in mercy that many of our wishes are denied us. Eugene Beauharnais was, even then, destined to a bride whom he had never seen, the eldest daughter of that Elector of Bavaria to whom Bonaparte had given royalty ; and the sister of Ludwig, the ex-King of Bavaria, was the destined fair one. They were married; and she, at all events, was fond, faithful, nay, even devoted. He was created Duke of Leuch- tenberg, and Marie of Leuchtenberg was beautiful, majestic, pious, graceful ; but she could not keep his heart. So fair was she, with those sweet blue eyes, that pearl-like skin, tliat fine The Father of Lord John RiissclL 2Z^ form, made to show off the ^ariires of jevrels which poor Josephine bequeathed to her — so fair was she, that v/hen Bona- parte saw her before her bridal, he uttered these few words : * Had I kfiown, I would have married her myself Still she was but second, perhaps third, perhaps fourth ('tis a way they have in France) in Eugene's affections ; nevertheless, when he died, and it was in his youth, and Tliorv/aldsen has executed a noble monument of him in the Dom Kirche at Munich — when that last separation came, preceded by many a one that had been voluntary on his part — his widow mourned, and no second bridal ever tempted her to cancel the remembrance of Eugene Beauharnais. For Lady Georgiana Gordon a happier fate was reserved. She married, in 1803, John, the sixth Duke of Bedford, a noble- man whose character would have appeared in a more re- splendent light had he not succeeded a brother singularly en- dowed, and whose death was considered to be a public calamity. Of Francis Duke of Bedford, who was summoned away in his thirty-seventh year, Fox said : * In his friendships, not only was he disinterested and sincere, but in him were to be found united all the characteristic excellencies that have ever distinguished the men most renowned for that virtue. Some are warm, but volatile and inconstant ; he was warm too, but steady and un- changeable. Wl:^re his attachment was placed, there it re- mained, or rather there it grew.' * * * * If he loved you at the beginning of the year, and you did nothing to lose his esteem, he would love you more at the end of it ; such was the uniformly progressive state of his affections, no less than of his virtue and friendship.' John Duke of Bedford was a widower of thirty-seven when he married Georgiana, remembered as the most graceful, ac- complished, and charming of women. The duke had then five sons, the youngest of whom was Lord John Russell, and the eldest Francis, the late duke. By his second duchess, Georgi- ana, the duke had also a numerous family. She survived until 1853. The designs formed by the duchess to marry Lady Georgiana to Pitt first, and then to Eugene Beauharnais, rest on the authority of VYraxall, who knew the family of the Duke 2 86 The Prince of Wales, of Gordon personally ; but he does not state them as coming from his own knowledge. *! have good reason,' he says, 'for believing them to be founded in truth. They come from very high authority.* Notwithstanding the preference evinced by the Prince of Wales for the Duchess of Devonshire, he was at this time on very intimate terms with her rival in the sphere of fashion, and passed a part of almost every evening in the society of the Duchess of Gordon. She treated him with tlie utmost fam.i- liarity, and even on points of great delicacy expressed her- self very freely. The attention of the public had been for some tim.e directed towards the complicated difficulties of the Prince of Wales's situation. Kis debts had now become an in- tolerable burden : and all applications to his royal father being unavailing, it was determined by his friends to throw his Royal Highness on the generosity of the House of Commons. At the head of those who hoped to relieve the prince of his em- barrassments were Lord Loughborough, Fox, and Sheridan. The ministerial party were under the guidance of Pitt, who avowed his determination to let the subject come to a strict investigation. This investigation referred chiefly to the prince's marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert, who, being a Rom.an Catholic, was peculiarly obnoxious both to the court and to the country, notwithstanding her virtues, her salutary influence over the prince, and her injuries. During this conjuncture the Duchess of Gordon acted as mediator between the two conflicting parties, alternately ad- vising, consoling, and even reproving the prince, who threw himself on her kindness. Nothing could be more hopeless than the prince's affairs if an investigation into the source of his difficulties took place ; nothing could be less desired by his royal parents than a public exposure of his life and habits. The world already knew enough and too much, and were satis- fied that he was actually married to Mrs. Fitzherbert At this crisis, the base falsehood which denied that union was autho- rised by the prince, connived at by Sheridan, who partly gave it out in the house, and consummated by Fox, A memorable, A Public Lie. 287 a melanclioly scene was enacted in the House of Commons on the 8th of April, 1787 — a day that the admirers of the Whig leaders would gladly blot out from the annals of the country. Rolle, afterwards Lord Rolle, having referred to the marriage, Fox adverted to his allusion, stating it to be a low, malicious calumny. Rolle, in reply, admitted the legal impossibility of the marriage, but maintained ' that there were modes in which it might have taken place.' Fox replied that he denied it in point of /(7^, as well as oi law, the thing never having been done in any way. Rolle then asked if he spoke from autho- rity. Fox answered in the affinnative, and here the dialogue ended, a profound silence reigning throughout the house and the galleries, which were crowded to excess. This body of English gentlemen expressed their contempt more fully by that ominous stillness, so unusual in that assembly, than any elo- quence could have done. Pitt stood aloof: dignified, con- temptuous, and silent Sheridan challenged from Rolle some token of satisfaction at the information ; but Rolle merely re- turned that he had indeed received an answer, but that the house must form their own opinion on it In the discussions which ensued a channel was nevertheless opened for mutual "concessions — which ended eventually in the relief of the prince from pecuniary embarrassments, part of which were ascribed to the king's having appropriated to his own use the revenues of the Duchy of Cornwall, and refusing to render any account of them on the prince's coming of age. It was the mediation of the Duchess of Gordon that brought the matter promptly to a conclusion ; and through her representations, Dundas was sent to Carlton House, to ascertain from the prince the extent of his liabilities ; an assurance was given that immediate steps would be taken to relieve his Royal Highness. The interview was enlivened by a considerable quantity of \vine ; and after a pretty long flow of the generous bowl, Dundas's promises were energetically ratified. Never was there a man more ' malleable,' to use Wraxali's expression, than Harry Dundas. Pitt soon afterwards had an audience equally amicable with the prince. From this period until after the death of Pitt, in 1805, the Duchess of Gordon's influence remained in the ascendant The 288 Death of the Duchess. last years of the man whom she had destined for her son-in-law, and who had ever been on terms of the greatest intimacy with her, were clouded. Pitt had the misfortune not only of being a public man — for to say that is to imply a sacrifice of happi- ness — but to be a public man solely. He would turn neither to marriage, nor to books, nor to agriculture, nor even to friend- ship, for the repose of a mind that could not, from insatiable ambition, find rest. He died involved in debt — in teiTor and grief for his country. He is said never to have been in love. At twenty-four he had the sagacity, the prudence, the reserve of a man of fifty. His excess in wine undermined his constitution, but was a source of few comments when his companions drank more freely than men in ofiice had ever been known to do since the time of Charles H. Unloved he Hved ; and alone, uncared for, unwept, he died. That he was nobly indifferent to money, that he had a contempt for everything mean, or venal, or false, was in those days no ordinary merit. During the whirl of gaiety, politics, and match-making, the Duchess of Gordon continued to read, and to correspond with Beattie upon topics of less perishable interest than the factions of the hour. Beattie sent her his * Essay on Beauty' to reac^ in manuscript ; he wrote to her about Petrarch, about Lord Monboddo's works, and Burke's book on the French Revolu- tion ; works which the duchess found time to read and wished to analyze. Their friendship, so honoured to Jier^ continued until his death in 1803. The years of life that remained to the Duchess of Gordon must have been gladdened by the birth of her grandchildren, and by the promise of her sons George, afterwards Duke of Gordon, and Alexander. The illness of George IH., the trials of Hastings and of Lord Melville, the general war, were the events that most varied the political world, in which she ever took a keen interest She died in 181 2, and the duke married soon afterwards Mrs. Christie, by whom he had no children. The dukedom of Gordon became extinct at his death ; and the present representative of this great family is the Marquis of Huntly. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES ^ 0315022900 nr.T2 t975