If so, 'tis very unkind. No, if I had gone, it had been to have waited
on my neighbour, who has now altered her resolution and goes not
herself. I have no business there, and am so little taken with the place
that I could sit here seven years without so much as thinking once of
going to it. 'Tis not likely, as you say, that you should much persuade
your father to what you do not desire he should do; but it is hard if
all the testimonies of my kindness are not enough to satisfy without my
publishing to the world that I can forget my friends and all my interest
to follow my passion; though, perhaps, it will admit of a good sense,
'tis that which nobody but you or I will give it, and we that are
concerned in't can only say 'twas an act of great kindness and something
romance, but must confess it had nothing of prudence, discretion, nor
sober counsel in't. 'Tis not that I expect, by all your father's offers,
to bring my friends to approve it. I don't deceive myself thus far, but
I would not give them occasion to say that I hid myself from them in the
doing it; nor of making my action appear more indiscreet than it is. It
will concern me that all the world should know what fortune you have,
and upon what terms I marry you, that both may not be made to appear ten
times worse than they are. 'Tis the general custom of all people to make
those that are rich to have more mines of gold than are in the Indies,
and such as have small fortunes to be beggars. If an action take a
little in the world, it shall be magnified and brought into comparison
with what the heroes or senators of Rome performed; but, on the
contrary, if it be once condemned, nothing can be found ill enough to
compare it with; and people are in pain till they find out some
extravagant expression to represent the folly on't. Only there is this
difference, that as all are more forcibly inclined to ill than good,
they are much apter to exceed in detraction than in praises. Have I not
reason then to desire this from you; and may not my friendship have
deserved it? I know not; 'tis as you think; but if I be denied it, you
will teach me to consider myself. 'Tis well the side ended here. If I
had not had occasion to stop there, I might have gone too far, and
showed that I had more passions than one. Yet 'tis fit you should know
all my faults, lest you should repent your bargain when 'twill not be in
your power to release yourself; besides, I may own my ill-humour to you
that cause it; 'tis the discontent my crosses in this business have
given me makes me thus peevish. Though I say it myself, before I knew
you I was thought as well an humoured young person as most in England;
nothing displeased, nothing troubled me. When I came out of France,
nobody knew me again. I was so altered, from a cheerful humour that was
always alike, never over merry but always pleased, I was grown heavy and
sullen, froward and discomposed; and that country which usually gives
people a jolliness and gaiety that is natural to the climate, had
wrought in me so contrary effects that I was as new a thing to them as
my clothes. If you find all this to be sad truth hereafter, remember
that I gave you fair warning.
Here is a ring: it must not be at all wider than this, which is rather
too big for me than otherwise; but that is a good fault, and counted
lucky by superstitious people. I am not so, though: 'tis indifferent
whether there be any word in't or not; only 'tis as well without, and
will make my wearing it the less observed. You must give Nan leave to
cut a lock of your hair for me, too. Oh, my heart! what a sigh was
there! I will not tell you how many this journey causes; nor the fear
and apprehensions I have for you. No, I long to be rid of you, am afraid
you will not go soon enough: do not you believe this? No, my dearest, I
know you do not, whatever you say, you cannot doubt that I am yours.
FOOTNOTES:
[101] The second passage needs little annotation except that Wrest, in
Bedfordshire, where Dorothy met her importunate lover, was the seat of
Anthony Grey, Earl of Kent. There is said to be a picture there of Sir
William Temple--a copy of Lely's. Wrest Park is only a few miles from
Chicksands. In the first "Lady Carlisle" is Lucy Percy or Hay, a "_great
person_" in many ways--beauty, rank, wit, influence etc.--but hardly a
good one. As for "Doralise" Dorothy is quite right. She is one of the
brightest features of the huge _Grand Cyrus_. Perhaps it may be just
necessary to remind readers that "servant" constantly = "lover"; that
"side" refers to the sheet of paper she is using; and that "abuse" =
"deceive," not "misuse" or "vituperate."
JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745)
The Introduction has dealt rather more fully with Swift than
with some others: and a further reference to a dominant
influence or conflict of influences on his letters will be
found below in the head-note on Thackeray. But a little more
may be said here. It is rather unfortunate that we have not
more _early_ letters from him (we have some, if only
fragments, from Thackeray, and they are no small "light").
We should like some concerning that curious career at
Trinity College, Dublin, which was ended _speciali gratia_,
leaving the usual wranglers to their usual wrangle whether
the last word meant "grace" or "_dis_grace." Others, written
in various moods from the time when Sir William Temple
"spoiled a fine gentleman," and Esther Johnson set running a
life-long course of _un_-smooth love, would be more welcome
still. They would no doubt be stumbling-blocks to those apt
to stumble, just as the existing epistles are: but they
would be stepping-stones for the wise. As it is, we have to
do without them and perhaps, like most things that are, it
is better. For the stumblers are saved the sin of stumbling,
and the wise men the nuisance of seeing them do it, and
trying to set them right. And there might have been only
more painful revelations of the time when, to adjust the
words of the famous epitaph "fierce indignation still
_could_ lacerate the heart," that had felt so fondly and so
bitterly what it had to feel.
What follows is characteristic enough[102] and intelligible
enough to those who will give their intelligence fair play,
asking only for information of _facts_. These latter can be
supplied at no great length even to those who are
unacquainted with Swift's biography. "M. D." is the pet name
for Stella, and her rather mysterious companion Mrs. Dingley
who lived with her in Dublin and played something like the
part of the alloys which are used in experimenting with some
metals.[103] "Presto" is Swift himself. "Prior" is the poet.
"Sir A. Fountaine" was a Norfolk squire and a great
collector of artistic things, most of which were sold not
very long ago. "Sterne" (John) was an Irish clergyman and
afterwards a bishop, but not of the same family as the
novelist. "Cousin _Dryden_ Leach" reminds us that Swift was
also a cousin of Dryden the poet. "Oroonoko" refers to Afra
Behn's introduction of the "noble savage" to English
interest. "Patrick" was Swift's very unsatisfactory
man-servant. "Bernage" a French Huguenot refugee. "George
Granville," of the family of the hero of the _Revenge_, was
a great Tory, a peer a little later with the title of
Lansdowne, and a rather better poet than Johnson thought
him. "St. John" and "Harley," if not also "Masham," should
not need annotation. Notice the seven, (literally seven!)
leagued word at the end. Swift calls their attention to it
when beginning his next instalment.
16. TO STELLA
LONDON, January 16, 1710-11.
O faith, young women, I have sent my letter N. 13, without one crumb of
an answer to any of MD's; there's for you now; and yet Presto ben't
angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain next Irish
post, except he sees MD's little hand-writing in the glass frame at the
bar of St James's Coffeehouse, where Presto would never go but for that
purpose. Presto's at home, God help him, every night from six till bed
time, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life at present as any
body in the world, although in full favour with all the ministry. As
hope saved, nothing gives Presto any sort of dream of happiness, but a
letter now and then from his own dearest MD. I love the expectation of
it, and when it does not come, I comfort myself, that I have it yet to
be happy with. Yes, faith, and when I write to MD, I am happy too; it is
just as if methinks you were here, and I prating to you, and telling you
where I have been: Well, says you, Presto, come, where have you been
to-day? come, let 's hear now. And so then I answer; Ford and I were
visiting Mr Lewis, and Mr Prior, and Prior has given me a fine Plautus,
and then Ford would have had me dine at his lodgings, and so I would
not; and so I dined with him at an eating-house; which I have not done
five times since I came here; and so I came home, after visiting Sir
Andrew Fountaine's mother and sister, and Sir Andrew Fountaine is
mending, though slowly.
17. I was making, this morning, some general visits, and at twelve I
called at the coffeehouse for a letter from MD; so the man said he had
given it to Patrick; then I went to the Court of Requests and Treasury
to find Mr Harley, and after some time spent in mutual reproaches, I
promised to dine with him; I staid there till seven, then called at
Sterne's and Leigh's to talk about your box, and to have it sent by
Smyth. Sterne says he has been making inquiries, and will set things
right as soon as possible. I suppose it lies at Chester, at least I hope
so, and only wants a lift over to you. Here has little Harrison been to
complain, that the printer I recommended to him for his Tatler is a
coxcomb; and yet to see how things will happen; for this very printer is
my cousin, his name is Dryden Leach; did you never hear of Dryden Leach,
he that prints the Postman? He acted Oroonoko, he's in love with Miss
Cross.--Well, so I came home to read my letter from Stella, but the dog
Patrick was abroad; at last he came, and I got my letter; I found
another hand had superscribed it; when I opened it, I found it written
all in French, and subscribed Bernage: faith, I was ready to fling it at
Patrick's head. Bernage tells me, had been to desire your recommendation
to me to make him a captain; and your cautious answer, "That he had as
much power with me as you," was a notable one; if you were here, I would
present you to the ministry as a person of ability. Bernage should let
me know where to write to him; this is the second letter I have had
without any direction; however, I beg I may not have a third, but that
you will ask him, and send me how I shall direct to him. In the mean
time, tell him, that if regiments are to be raised here, as he says, I
will speak to George Granville, Secretary at War, to make him a captain;
and use what other interest I conveniently can. I think that is enough,
and so tell him, and don't trouble me with his letters when I expect
them from MD; do you hear, young women, write to Presto.
18. I was this morning with Mr Secretary St John, and we were to dine
at Mr Harley's alone, about some business of importance, but there
were two or three gentlemen there. Mr Secretary and I went together
from his office to Mr Harley's, and thought to have been very wise;
but the deuce a bit: the company staid, and more came, and Harley went
away at seven, and the Secretary and I staid with the rest of the
company till eleven; I would then have had him come away, but he was
in for't; and though he swore he would come away at that flask, there
I left him. I wonder at the civility of these people; when he saw I
would drink no more, he would always pass the bottle by me, and yet I
could not keep the toad from drinking himself, nor he would not let me
go neither, nor Masham, who was with us. When I got home I found a
parcel directed to me, and opening it, I found a pamphlet written
entirely against myself, not by name, but against something I writ: it
is pretty civil, and affects to be so, and I think I will take no
notice of it; 'tis against something written very lately; and indeed I
know not what to say, nor do I care; and so you are a saucy rogue for
losing your money to-day at Stoyte's; to let that bungler beat you, fy
Stella, an't you ashamed? well, I forgive you this once, never do so
again; no, noooo. Kiss and be friends, sirrah.--Come, let me go sleep;
I go earlier to bed than formerly; and have not been out so late these
two months; but the secretary was in a drinking humour. So good night,
myownlittledearsaucyinsolentrogues.
FOOTNOTES:
[102] As such, it has commended itself to other selectors. But
duplication, though it has been sedulously avoided here, is sometimes
almost inevitable.
[103] _I.e._ the part of facilitating the operation, and disappearing in
the results aimed at.
LADY MARY WORTLEY-MONTAGU (1689-1762)
The ratio of importance between life and letters varies a
good deal with different writers: and the circumstances of
the life have seldom been of more importance to the letter
than in the case of "Lady Mary"--Pierrepont as she was born.
When she was a girl she held an unusual place in the house
of her widowed father the Duke of Kingston. Her courtship
by, or with, or of (one doubts as to the preposition) Edward
Wortley-Montagu, a descendant of Pepys's Lord Sandwich, had
peculiarities, and her marriage with him more. She was a
sort of pet at George the First's court; she went with her
husband to Constantinople as Ambassadress; she introduced
inoculation into England; she was, under imperfectly known
circumstances, first the idol and then the abomination of
Pope; she lived for more than twenty years in France and
Italy, having left her husband without, apparently, any
quarrel between them; and she only came home in 1761 to die
next year. Like her predecessor as Queen of letter-writers,
Madame de Sevigne (to whom she was amusingly and rather
femininely unjust), she had a favourite daughter (who became
Lady Bute[104]); but, unlike her, she had a most
objectionable son who was apparently half mad. There was,
however, not the slightest madness about Lady Mary--in fact,
most of the objectors (perhaps unjust ones) to her have
held that her head was very much better than her heart. Her
most popular letters have usually been the Turkish ones,
and, at the other end of her life, her Italian descriptions:
but selections almost invariably pitch on the curious early
one in which she, so to speak, "proposes" to her future
husband rather more than, or at least as much as, she
accepts his proposal. I prefer, both as less popularised and
as more unique still, the following most business-like[105]
plan and programme of an elopement. Like Mr. Foker's fight
with the post-boy it "didn't come off" as first planned; but
Fortune favoured it later.
17. TO MR. WORTLEY-MONTAGU
Saturday morning (August, 1712)
I writ you a letter last night in some passion. I begin to fear again; I
own myself a coward.--You made no reply to one part of my letter
concerning my fortune. I am afraid you flatter yourself that my F.
[father] may be at length reconciled and brought to reasonable terms. I
am convinced, by what I have often heard him say, speaking of other
cases like this, he never will. The fortune he has engaged to give with
me, was settled on my B. [brother's] marriage, on my sister and on
myself; but in such a manner, that it was left in his power to give it
all to either of us, or divide it as he thought fit. He has given it
all to me. Nothing remains for my sister, but the free bounty of my F.
[father] from what he can save; which, notwithstanding the greatness of
his estate, may be very little. Possibly after I have disobliged him so
much, he may be glad to have her so easily provided for, with money
already raised; especially if he has a design to marry himself, as I
hear. I do not speak this that you should not endeavour to come to terms
with him, if you please; but I am fully persuaded it will be to no
purpose. He will have a very good answer to make:--that I suffered this
match to proceed; that I made him make a very silly figure in it; that I
have let him spend L400 in wedding-cloaths; all which I saw without
saying any thing. When I first pretended to oppose this match, he told
me he was sure I had some other design in my head; I denied it with
truth. But you see how little appearance there is of that truth. He
proceeded with telling me that he never would enter into treaty with
another man, &c., and that I should be sent immediately into the North
to stay there; and, when he died, he would only leave me an annuity of
L400. I had not courage to stand this view, and I submitted to what he
pleased. He will now object against me,--why, since I intended to marry
in this manner, I did not persist in my first resolution; that it would
have been as easy for me to run away from T. [Thoresby] as from hence;
and to what purpose did I put him, and the gentleman I was to marry, to
expences, &c.? He will have a thousand plausible reasons for being
irreconcileable, and 'tis very probable the world will be of his side.
Reflect now for the last time in what manner you must take me. I shall
come to you with only a night-gown and petticoat, and that is all you
will get with me. I told a lady of my friends what I intend to do. You
will think her a very good friend when I tell you she has proffered to
lend us her house if we would come there the first night. I did not
accept of this till I had let you know it. If you think it more
convenient to carry me to your lodgings, make no scruple of it. Let it
be where it will: if I am your wife I shall think no place unfit for me
where you are. I beg we may leave London next morning, wherever you
intend to go. I should wish to go out of England if it suits with your
affairs. You are the best judge of your father's temper. If you think it
would be obliging to him, or necessary for you, I will go with you
immediately to ask his pardon and his blessing. If that is not proper at
first, I think the best scheme is going to the Spa. When you come back,
you may endeavour to make your father admit of seeing me, and treat with
mine (though I persist in thinking it will be to no purpose). But I
cannot think of living in the midst of my relations and acquaintance
after so unjustifiable a step:--unjustifiable to the world,--but I think
I can justify myself to myself. I again beg you to hire a coach to be at
the door early Monday morning, to carry us some part of our way,
wherever you resolve our journey shall be. If you determine to go to
that lady's house, you had better come with a coach and six at seven
o'clock tomorrow. She and I will be in the balcony that looks on the
road: you have nothing to do but to stop under it, and we will come down
to you. Do in this what you like best. After all, think very seriously.
Your letter, which will be waited for, is to determine everything. I
forgive you a coarse expression in your last, which, however, I wish had
not been there. You might have said something like it without expressing
it in that manner; but there was so much complaisance in the rest of it
I ought to be satisfied. You can shew me no goodness I shall not be
sensible of. However, think again, and resolve never to think of me if
you have the least doubt, or that it is likely to make you uneasy in
your fortune. I believe to travel is the most likely way to make a
solitude agreeable, and not tiresome: remember you have promised it.
'Tis something odd for a woman that brings nothing to expect anything;
but after the way of education, I dare not pretend to live but in some
degree suitable to it. I had rather die than return to a dependancy upon
relations I have disobliged. Save me from that fear if you love me. If
you cannot, or think I ought not to expect it, be sincere and tell me
so. 'Tis better I should not be yours at all, than, for a short
happiness, involve myself in ages of misery. I hope there will never be
occasion for this precaution; but, however, 'tis necessary to make it. I
depend entirely on your honour, and I cannot suspect you of any way
doing wrong. Do not imagine I shall be angry at any thing you can tell
me. Let it be sincere; do not impose on a woman that leaves all things
for you.
FOOTNOTES:
[104] The likeness, however, ended with the favouritism: for Madame de
Grignan, in spite of good looks and good wits, was apparently detested
by everybody, except her mother, and deserved it: while nobody has
anything to say against Lady Bute.
[105] It is, of course, not _merely_ business-like--the mixture of
something else makes it rather fascinating. They were curiously fond of
elopements in the eighteenth century, Sheridan's satire in _The Rivals_
having ample justification. Nor was this merely due to the more severe
exercise of paternal authority. For they often preferred (as the
philosophical parent of the celebrated Mrs. Greville remarked when his
daughter ran away with Mr. G.) to "get out of the window when there was
not the slightest objection to their passing through the door."
PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EARL OF
CHESTERFIELD (1694-1773)
As was suggested in the Introduction, where perhaps enough
has been said of his actual letters, the fourth Earl of
Chesterfield is too commonly known, or rather _mis_known,
only by Johnson's refusal of his patronage and condemnation
of his manners and morals, by Dickens's caricature, and by
Thackeray's not untrue but merely fragmentary sketch of him
as a gambler. Therefore, though these preliminary notes are
not as a rule biographical, this may be one of the
exceptions; for his life was anything but that of a mere
idler and _grand Seigneur_. He entered the House of Commons
before he was of age, and had much to do with political and
literary as well as Court society before, in 1725, he
succeeded to the peerage. A year or two afterwards he went
as ambassador to the Hague, a post which he held, doing some
important business, for four years. On coming home he became
a formidable opponent of Walpole, and at one time led the
opposition in the Upper House. He was a most successful
Viceroy in Ireland at the difficult period of the "'45," and
a judicious "Secretary for the North" after it. He conducted
the reform of the Calendar through Parliament, and only gave
up active participation in home politics because of his
increasing deafness. In foreign affairs he was an adroit and
successful diplomatist, and made an early and remarkably
clear-sighted anticipation of the French Revolution. It is
not extravagant to say that, if he had had his fortune and
position to make, he might have been one of the foremost
men of his time in politics or letters or both; and that he
was not far below such rank in either. The following letter
is one of the most characteristic of those at which it has
been the fashion to sneer. All one can say of it is, "What a
blessing it would be if a good many people in the twentieth
century, and in places varying from the streets to the House
of Commons, would obey at least some of its precepts!"
18. LORD CHESTERFIELD TO HIS SON
LONDON. Sept. 22, O.S., 1749
Dear Boy,
If I had faith in philters and love potions, I should suspect that you
had given Sir Charles Williams some, by the manner in which he speaks of
you, not only to me, but to everybody else. I will not repeat to you
what he says of the extent and correctness of your knowledge, as it
might either make you vain, or persuade you that you had already enough
of what nobody can have too much. You will easily imagine how many
questions I asked and how narrowly I sifted him upon your subject: he
answered me, and I daresay with truth, just as I could have wished;
till, satisfied entirely with his accounts of your character and
learning, I inquired into other matters, intrinsically indeed of less
consequence, but still of great consequence to every man, and of more to
you than to almost any man; I mean, your address, manners and air. To
these questions, the same truth which he had observed before, obliged
him to give me much less satisfactory answers. And, as he thought
himself in friendship both to you and me, obliged to tell me the
disagreeable as well as the agreeable truths, upon the same principle I
think myself obliged to repeat them to you.
He told me, then, that in company you were frequently most _provokingly_
inattentive, absent, and _distrait_. That you came into a room, and
presented yourself very awkwardly; that at table you constantly threw
down knives, forks, napkins, bread, etc., and that you neglected your
person and dress, to a degree unpardonable at any age, and much more so
at yours.