"Good God!--Maria! But sure she can't be presented. 'Tis impossible!" And
could have bit my silly tongue out when't was said.
He shrugged his shoulders like a Frenchman,--'tis the last grace he picked
up in Paris,--and turned from me to the new lady errant, Miss Chester, who
models herself on the famous Miss Chudleigh.
But nothing could equal the horrid indecency of Miss Chudleigh's habit at
the Ranelagh Masquerade some five years back, when Mrs Montagu, observing
her, said: "Here is Iphigenia for the sacrifice, but so naked the high
priest may inspect the entrails of the victim without more ado." And says
Horry: "Surely, 'tis Andromeda she means herself, and not Iphigenia!" I
thought we should have died laughing. The Maids of Honour were then so
offended not one of 'em would speak to her. They are not such prudes
today, and Miss Chester has as much countenance as she looks for. Alas, it
takes a wise woman, if not a good one, to know just where certainty should
stop and imagination take its place!
But, Kitty child, who do you guess is the new beauty? I give you one, I
give you two, I give you three! And if 'twas three hundred, you'd be never
the wiser. Why, Maria Walpole, you little blockhead! Maria, the daughter
of Sir Edward Walpole, Horry's brother. What think you of that? But Sir
Edward never was married, says you. True for you, Kitty, but don't you
know the story? No, to be sure. There's no scandal in Ireland, for St.
Patrick banished it along with the snakes and their poison, because the
island that has so many misfortunes would have died of another.
Well, take your sampler like a good little girl and hearken to the history
of the lovely Maria that's to blow out the Gunning candles. Let me present
to your la'ship Sir Edward Walpole, brother to the Baron of Strawberry
Hill. A flourish and a sliding bow, and you know one another! Sir Edward,
who resembles not Horry in his love for the twittle-twattle of the town,
is a passable performer on the bass viol, and a hermit--the Hermit of Pall
Mall. But the rules of that Hermitage are not too severe, child. 'Tis
known there were relaxations. And notably one.
The Hermit some years since was lodged in Pall Mall; and in the lower
floors was lodged a dealer in clothes, with prentices to fetch and carry.
Lord! says Kitty, what's this to the purpose? Attend, Madam. The curtain
rises!
'Tis an old story: the virtuous prentice--and the unvirtuous. There was
one of them--Dorothy Clement, a rustic beauty, straw hat tied under the
roguish chin, little tucked-up gown of flowered stuff, handkerchief
crossed over the bosom, ruffled elbows. 'Tis so pretty a dress, that I
protest I marvel women of quality don't use it! However, this demure
damsel looked up at Sir Edward under the hat, and he peeped under the
brim, and when he left the house and returned to his own, what should
happen but the trembling beauty runs to him, one fine day, for protection,
swearing her family and master have all cast her off because 'twas noted
the gentleman had an eye for a charming face.
Well, child, 'tis known hermits do not marry. 'Tis too much to ask of
their Holinesses. But he set a chair at the foot of his table for the
damsel, and bid her share his pulse and crusts; and so 'twas done, and
whether in town or country, the Hermitess kept him company till she died.
Sure the Walpoles are not too fastidious in their women, excepting only
Horry of Strawberry Hill, who has all the finicals of the others rolled up
in his lean body.
Well, Kitty, there were four children: a boy,--nothing to the
purpose,--and Laura, Maria, and Charlotte. And the poor lasses, not having
a rag of legitimacy to cover 'em, must needs fall back on good behaviour
and good looks. I saw Laura, a pretty girl, in the garden at Englefield
some years since, when I was airing in Lady Pomfret's coach; and as we
looked, the little hoyden Maria comes running up in muslin and blue
ribbons, all health and youth and blooming cheeks and brown curls and
eyes--a perfect Hebe. And 'tis she--the milliner's brat--that's to borrow
the Car of Love and set the world afire. But she can't be presented,
Kitty; for our high and mighty Royals frown on vice, and not a single
creature with the bar sinister can creep into Court, however many may
creep out. And that's that!
And now I end with compliments and curtseys to your la'ship, and the glad
tidings that one of the virgin choir of Twickenham, those Muses to which
Mr Horace Walpole is Apollo, has writ an Ode so full of purling streams
and warbling birds, that Apollo says he will provide a sidesaddle for
Pegasus, and no male shall ever bestride him again.
_September, 1758._
O la, la, la! Was you ever at the Bath, child? Here am I just returned,
where was great company, and all the wits and belles, and Miss Biddy
Green, the great city fortune, run off with Harry Howe, and her father
flourishing his gouty stick in the Pump Room and swearing a wicked
aristocracy should have none of his honest guineas. But he'll soften when
he sees her presented at Court, with feathers stuck in her poll and all
the city dames green with spite. 'Tis the way of the world.
But to business. The town is talking with hundred-woman noise on the
marriage that Laura,--by courtesy called Walpole,--the Hermit's eldest
daughter, makes tomorrow. 'Twill astound you, Lady Desmond your Honour, as
much as it did your humble servant. For Miss Laura honours the Church, no
less, with her illegitimate hand, and no less a dignitary than a Canon of
Windsor! Is not this to be a receiver of stolen goods? Does not his
Reverence compound a felony in taking such a bride? What say you? 'Tis
Canon Keppel, brother to Lord Albemarle; and mark you, Kitty--the
Honourable Mrs Keppel has the right to be presented where Miss Laura might
knock at the door in vain! We come up in the world, child; but the
Walpoles had always that secret.
'Twill set the other charming daughters dreaming of bride-cake. All the
world talks of Maria, a shining beauty indeed. Horry Walpole is enchanted
at Miss Laura's match--sure, an illegitimate Walpole, if niece to the
Baron of Strawberry, is worth a dozen of your Cavendishes and Somersets! I
laughed like a rogue in my sleeve when says Horry to me at my drum:--
"Colonel Yorke is to be married to one or both of the Miss Crasteyns,
great city fortunes--nieces to the rich grocer. They have two hundred and
sixty thousand pounds apiece. Nothing comes amiss to the digestion of that
family--a marchioness or a grocer."