AMBITIOUS PROJECTS.
IT is not my intention to write a political history, instead of a
private biography. No doubt in the next century there will be volumes
enough written in celebration of that era which my contemporaries are
pleased to term the greatest that in modern times has ever existed.
Besides, in the private and more concealed intrigues with which I was
engaged with St. John, there was something which regard for others would
compel me to preserve in silence. I shall therefore briefly state that
in 1712 St. John dignified the peerage by that title which his exile and
his genius have rendered so illustrious.
I was with him on the day this honour was publicly announced. I found
him walking to and fro his room, with his arms folded, and with a very
peculiar compression of his nether lip, which was a custom he had when
anything greatly irritated or disturbed him.
"Well," said he, stopping abruptly as he saw me,--"well, considering the
peacock Harley brought so bright a plume to his own nest, we must admire
the generosity which spared this gay dunghill feather to mine!"
"How?" said I, though I knew the cause of his angry metaphor. St. John
used metaphors in speech scarcely less than in writing.
"How?" cried the new peer, eagerly, and with one of those flashing looks
which made his expression of indignation the most powerful I ever saw;
"how! Was the sacred promise granted to me of my own collateral earldom
to be violated; and while the weight, the toil, the difficulty, the
odium of affairs, from which Harley, the despotic dullard, shrank alike
in imbecility and fear, had been left exclusively to my share, an insult
in the shape of an honour to be left exclusively to my reward? You know
my disposition is not to overrate the mere baubles of ambition; you know
I care little for titles and for orders in themselves: but the most
worthless thing becomes of consequence if made a symbol of what is of
value, or designed as the token of an affront. Listen: a collateral
earldom falls vacant; it is partly promised me. Suddenly I am dragged
from the House of Commons, where I am all powerful; I am given--not this
earldom, which, as belonging to my house, would alone have induced me to
consent to a removal from a sphere where my enemies allow I had greater
influence than any single commoner in the kingdom,--I am given, not
this, but a miserable compromise of distinction, a new and an inferior
rank; given it against my will; thrust into the Upper House to defend
what this pompous driveller, Oxford, is forced to forsake; and not only
exposed to all the obloquy of a most infuriate party opposed to me, but
mortified by an intentional affront from the party which, heart and
soul, I have supported. You know that my birth is to the full as noble
as Harley's; you know that my influence in the Lower House is far
greater; you know that my name in the country, nay, throughout Europe,
is far more popular; you know that the labour allotted to me has been
far more weighty; you know that the late Peace of Utrecht is entirely my
framing, that the foes to the measure direct all their venom against me,
that the friends of the measure heap upon me all the honour: when,
therefore, this exact time is chosen for breaking a promise formerly
made to me; when a pretended honour, known to be most unpalatable to me,
is thrust upon me; when, at this very time, too, six vacant ribbons of
the garter flaunt by me,--one resting on the knee of this Harley, who
was able to obtain an earldom for himself,--the others given to men of
far inferior pretensions, though not inferior rank to my own,--myself
markedly, glaringly passed by: how can I avoid feeling that things
despicable in themselves are become of a vital power, from the evident
intention that they should be insults to me? The insects we despise as
they buzz around us become dangerous when they settle on ourselves and
we feel their sting! But," added Bolingbroke, suddenly relapsing into a
smile, "I have long wanted a nickname: I have now found one for myself.
You know Oxford is called 'The Dragon;' well, henceforth call me 'St.
George;' for, as sure as I live, will I overthrow the Dragon. I say
this in jest, but I mean it in earnest. And now that I have discharged
my bile, let us talk of this wonderful poem, which, though I have read
it a hundred times, I am never wearied of admiring."
"Ah--'The Rape of the Lock'. It is indeed beautiful, but I am not fond
of poetry now. By the way, how is it that all our modern poets speak to
the taste, the mind, the judgment, and never to the /feelings/? Are
they right in doing so?"
"My friend, we are now in a polished age. What have feelings to do with
civilization?"
"Why, more than you will allow. Perhaps the greater our civilization,
the more numerous our feelings. Our animal passions lose in excess, but
our mental gain; and it is to the mental that poetry should speak. Our
English muse, even in this wonderful poem, seems to me to be growing,
like our English beauties, too glitteringly artificial: it wears /rouge/
and a hoop!"
"Ha! ha!--yes, they ornament now, rather than create; cut drapery,
rather than marble. Our poems remind me of the ancient statues.
Phidias made them, and Bubo and Bombax dressed them in purple. But this
does not apply to young Pope, who has shown in this very poem that he
can work the quarry as well as choose the gems. But see, the carriage
awaits us. I have worlds to do; first there is Swift to see; next,
there is some exquisite Burgundy to taste; then, too, there is the new
actress: and, by the by, you must tell me what you think of Bentley's
Horace; we will drive first to my bookseller's to see it; Swift shall
wait; Heavens! how he would rage if he heard me. I was going to say
what a pity it is that that man should have so much littleness of
vanity; but I should have uttered a very foolish sentiment if I had!"
"And why?"
"Because, if he had not so much littleness perhaps he would not be so
great: what but vanity makes a man write and speak, and slave, and
become famous? Alas!" and here St. John's countenance changed from
gayety to thought; "'tis a melancholy thing in human nature that so
little is good and noble, both in itself and in its source! Our very
worst passions will often produce sublimer effects than our best.
Phidias (we will apply to him for another illustration) made the
wonderful statue of Minerva for his country; but, in order to avenge
himself on that country, he eclipsed it in the far more wonderful statue
of the Jupiter Olympius. Thus, from a vicious feeling emanated a
greater glory than from an exalted principle; and the artist was less
celebrated for the monument of his patriotism than for that of his
revenge! But, /allons, mon cher/, we grow wise and dull. Let us go to
choose our Burgundy and our comrades to share it."
However with his characteristic affectation of bounding ambition, and
consequently hope, to no one object in particular, and of mingling
affairs of light importance with those of the most weighty, Lord
Bolingbroke might pretend not to recur to, or to dwell upon, his causes
of resentment, from that time they never ceased to influence him to a
great, and for a statesman an unpardonable, degree. We cannot, however,
blame politicians for their hatred, until, without hating anybody, we
have for a long time been politicians ourselves; strong minds have
strong passions, and men of strong passions must hate as well as love.
The next two years passed, on my part, in perpetual intrigues of
diplomacy, combined with an unceasing though secret endeavour to
penetrate the mystery which hung over the events of that dreadful night.
All, however, was m vain. I know not what the English police may be
hereafter, but, in my time, its officers seem to be chosen, like honest
Dogberry's companions, among "the most senseless and fit men." They
are, however, to the full, as much knaves as fools; and perhaps a wiser
posterity will scarcely believe that, when things of the greatest value
are stolen, the owners, on applying to the chief magistrate, will often
be told that no redress can be given there, while one of the officers
will engage to get back the goods, upon paying the thieves a certain sum
in exchange: if this is refused, your effects are gone forever! A
pretty state of internal government!
It was about a year after the murder that my mother informed me of an
event which tore from my heart its last private tie; namely, the death
of Aubrey. The last letter I had received from him has been placed
before the reader; it was written at Devereux Court, just before he left
it forever. Montreuil had been with him during the illness which proved
fatal, and which occurred in Ireland. He died of consumption; and when
I heard from my mother that Montreuil dwelt most glowingly upon the
devotion he had manifested during the last months of his life, I could
not help fearing that the morbidity of his superstition had done the
work of physical disease. On this fatal news, my mother retired from
Devereux Court to a company of ladies of our faith, who resided
together, and practised the most ascetic rules of a nunnery, though they
gave not to their house that ecclesiastical name. My mother had long
meditated this project, and it was now a melancholy pleasure to put it
into execution. From that period I rarely heard from her, and by little
and little she so shrank from all worldly objects that my visits, and I
believe even those of Gerald, became unwelcome and distasteful.
As to my lawsuit, it went on gloriously, according to the assertions of
my brisk little lawyer, who had declared so emphatically that he liked
making quick work of a suit. And, at last, what with bribery and feeing
and pushing, a day was fixed for the final adjustment of my claim. It
came--the cause was heard and lost! I should have been ruined, but for
one circumstance; the old lady, my father's godmother, who had witnessed
my first and concealed marriage, left me a pretty estate near Epsom. I
turned it into gold, and it was fortunate that I did so soon, as the
reader is about to see.
The queen died; and a cloud already began to look menacing to the eyes
of the Viscount Bolingbroke, and therefore to those of the Count
Devereux. "We will weather out the shower," said Bolingbroke.
"Could not you," said I, "make our friend Oxford the Talapat?"* and
Bolingbroke laughed. All men find wit in the jests broken on their
enemies!
* A thing used by the Siamese for the same purpose as we now use the
umbrella. A work descriptive of Siam, by M. de la Loubere, in which the
Talapat is somewhat minutely described, having been translated into
English, and having excited some curiosity, a few years before Count
Devereux now uses the word, the allusion was probably familiar.--ED.
One morning, however, I received a laconic note from him, which,
notwithstanding its shortness and seeming gayety, I knew well signified
that something not calculated for laughter had occurred. I went, and
found that his new Majesty had deprived him of the seals and secured his
papers. We looked very blank at each other. At last, Bolingbroke
smiled. I must say that, culpable as he was in some points as a
politician,--culpable, not from being ambitious (for I would not give
much for the statesman who is otherwise), but from not having
inseparably linked his ambition to the welfare of his country, rather
than to that of a party; for, despite of what has been said of him, his
ambition was never selfish,--culpable as he was when glory allured him,
he was most admirable when danger assailed him!* and, by the shade of
that Tully whom he so idolized, his philosophy was the most conveniently
worn of any person's I ever met. When it would have been in the way--at
the supper of an actress, in the /levees/ of a court, in the boudoir of
a beauty, in the arena of the senate, in the intrigue of the
cabinet--you would not have observed a seam of the good old garment.
But directly it was wanted--in the hour of pain, in the day of peril, in
the suspense of exile, in (worst of all) the torpor of tranquillity--my
extraordinary friend unfolded it piece by piece, wrapped himself up in
it, sat down, defied the world, and uttered the most beautiful
sentiments upon the comfort and luxury of his raiment, that can possibly
be imagined. It used to remind me, that same philosophy of his, of the
enchanted tent in the Arabian Tale, which one moment lay wrapped in a
nut-shell, and the next covered an army.
* I know well that it has been said otherwise, and that Bolingbroke has
been accused of timidity for not staying in England, and making Mr.
Robert Walpole a present of his head. The elegant author of "De Vere"
has fallen into a very great though a very hackneyed error, in lauding
Oxford's political character, and condemning Bolingbroke's, because the
former awaited a trial and the latter shunned it. A very little
reflection might perhaps have taught the accomplished novelist that
there could be no comparison between the two cases, because there was no
comparison between the relative danger of Oxford and Bolingbroke.
Oxford, as their subsequent impeachment proved, was far more numerously
and powerfully supported than his illustrious enemy: and there is really
no earthly cause for doubting the truth of Bolingbroke's assertion;
namely, that "He had received repeated and certain information that a
resolution was taken, by those who had power to execute it, to pursue
him to the scaffold." There are certain situations in which a brave and
a good man should willingly surrender life--but I humbly opine that
there may sometimes exist a situation in which he should preserve it;
and if ever man was placed in that latter situation, it was Lord
Bolingbroke. To choose unnecessarily to put one's head under the axe,
without benefiting any but one's enemies by the act, is, in my eyes, the
proof of a fool, not a hero; and to attack a man for not placing his
head in that agreeable and most useful predicament--for preferring, in
short, to live for a world, rather than to perish by a faction--appears
to be a mode of arguing that has a wonderful resemblance to nonsense.
When Lord Bolingbroke was impeached, two men only out of those numerous
retainers in the Lower House who had been wont so loudly to applaud the
secretary of state, in his prosecution of those very measures for which
he was now to be condemned,--two men only, General Ross and Mr.
Hungerford, uttered a single syllable in defence of the minister
disgraced.--ED.
Bolingbroke smiled, and quoted Cicero, and after an hour's conversation,
which on his part was by no means like that of a person whose very head
was in no enviable state of safety, he slid at once from a sarcasm upon
Steele into a discussion as to the best measures to be adopted. Let me
be brief on this point. Throughout the whole of that short session, he
behaved in a manner more delicately and profoundly wise than, I think,
the whole of his previous administration can equal. He sustained with
the most unflagging, the most unwearied, dexterity, the sinking spirits
of his associates. Without an act, or the shadow of an act, that could
be called time-serving, he laid himself out to conciliate the king, and
to propitiate Parliament; with a dignified prudence which, while it
seemed above petty pique, was well calculated to remove the appearance
of that disaffection with which he was charged, and discriminated justly
between the king and the new administration, he lent his talents to the
assistance of the monarch by whom his impeachment was already resolved
on, and aided in the settlement of the civil list while he was in full
expectation of a criminal accusation.
The new Parliament met, and all doubt was over. An impeachment of the
late administration was decided upon. I was settling bills with my
little lawyer one morning, when Bolingbroke entered my room. He took a
chair, nodded to me not to dismiss my assistant, joined our
conversation, and when conversation was merged in accounts, he took up a
book of songs, and amused himself with it till my business was over and
my disciple of Coke retired. He then said, very slowly, and with a
slight yawn, "You have never been at Paris, I think?"
"Never: you are enchanted with that gay city."
"Yes, but when I was last there, the good people flattered my vanity
enough to bribe my taste. I shall be able to form a more unbiased and
impartial judgment in a few days."
"A few days!"
"Ay, my dear Count: does it startle you? I wonder whether the pretty De
Tencin will be as kind to me as she was, and whether /tout le monde/
(that most exquisite phrase for five hundred people) will rise now at
the Opera on my entrance. Do you think that a banished minister can
have any, the smallest resemblance to what he was when in power? By
Gumdragon, as our friend Swift so euphoniously and elegantly says, or
swears, by Gumdragon, I think not! What altered Satan so after his
fall? what gave him horns and a tail? Nothing but his disgrace. Oh!
years, and disease, plague, pestilence, and famine never alter a man so
much as the loss of power."
"You say wisely; but what am I to gather from your words? is it all over
with us in real earnest?"
"Us! with /me/ it is indeed all over: /you/ may stay here forever. I
must fly: a packet-boat to Calais, or a room in the Tower, I must choose
between the two. I had some thoughts of remaining and confronting my
trial: but it would be folly; there is a difference between Oxford and
me. He has friends, though out of power: I have none. If they impeach
him, he will escape; if they impeach me, they will either shut me up
like a rat in a cage, for twenty years, till, old and forgotten, I tear
my heart out with my confinement, or they will bring me at once to the
block. No, no: I must keep myself for another day; and, while they
banish me, I will leave the seeds of the true cause to grow up till my
return. Wise and exquisite policy of my foes,--'/Frustra Cassium
amovisti, si gliscere et vigere Brutorum emulos passurus es.'* But I
have no time to lose: farewell, my friend; God bless you; you are saved
from these storms; and even intolerance, which prevented the exercise of
your genius, preserves you now from the danger of having applied that
genius to the welfare of your country. Heaven knows, whatever my
faults, I have sacrificed what I loved better than all things--study and
pleasure--to her cause. In her wars I served even my enemy Marlborough,
in order to serve her; her peace I effected, and I suffer for it. Be it
so, I am
"'Fidens animi atque in utrumque paratus.'**
"Once more I embrace you; farewell."
* "Vainly have you banished Cassius, if you shall suffer the rivals of
the Brutuses to spread themselves and flourish."
** "Confident of soul and prepared for either fortune."
"Nay," said I, "listen to me; you shall not go alone. France is
already, in reality, my native country: there did I receive my birth; it
is no hardship to return to my /natale solum/; it is an honour to return
in the company of Henry St. John. I will have no refusal: my law case
is over; my papers are few; my money I will manage to transfer.
Remember the anecdote you told me yesterday of Anaxagoras, who, when
asked where his country was, pointed with his finger to heaven. It is
applicable, I hope, as well to me as to yourself: to me, uncelebrated
and obscure; to you, the senator and the statesman."
In vain Bolingbroke endeavoured to dissuade me from this resolution; he
was the only friend fate had left me, and I was resolved that misfortune
should not part us. At last he embraced me tenderly, and consented to
what he could not resist. "But you cannot," he said, "quit England
to-morrow night, as I must."
"Pardon me," I answered, "the briefer the preparation, the greater the
excitement, and what in life is equal to /that/?"
"True," answered Bolingbroke; "to some natures, too restless to be
happy, excitement can compensate for all,--compensate for years wasted,
and hopes scattered,--compensate for bitter regret at talents perverted
and passions unrestrained. But we will talk philosophically when we
have more leisure. You will dine with me to-morrow: we will go to the
play together; I promised poor Lucy that I would see her at the theatre,
and I cannot break my word; and an hour afterwards we will commence our
excursion to Paris. And now I will explain to you the plan I have
arranged for our escape."