THE STRAND.
Ancient State of the Strand -- Butcher Row -- Death of Lee, the
dramatic Poet -- Johnson at an Eating-House -- Essex Street --
House and History of the favourite Earl of Essex -- Spenser's
Visit there -- Essex, General of the Parliament -- Essex Head
Club -- Devereux Court -- Grecian Coffee-House -- Twining, the
accomplished Scholar -- St. Clement Danes -- Clement's Inn --
Falstaff and Shallow -- Norfolk, Arundel, Surrey, and Howard
Streets -- Norfolk House -- Essex's Ring and the Countess of
Nottingham -- William Penn -- Birch -- Dr. Brocklesby --
Congreve, and his Will -- Voltaire's Visit to him -- Mrs.
Bracegirdle -- Tragical End of Mountford the Player -- Ancient
Cross -- Maypole -- New Church of St. Mary-le-Strand -- Old
Somerset House -- Henrietta Maria and her French Household --
Waller's Mishap at Somerset Stairs -- New Somerset House --
Royal Society, Antiquarian Society, and Royal Academy -- Death
of Dr. King -- Exeter Street -- Johnson's first Lodging in
London -- Art of living in London -- Catherine Street --
Unfortunate Women -- Wimbledon House -- Lyceum and Beef-steak
Club -- Exeter Change -- Bed and Baltimore -- The Savoy --
Anecdotes of the Duchess of Albemarle -- Beaufort Buildings --
Lillie, the Perfumer -- Aaron Hill -- Fielding -- Southampton
Street -- Cecil and Salisbury Streets -- Durham House --
Raleigh -- Pennant on the Word Place or Palace -- New Exchange
-- Don Pantaleon Sa -- The White Milliner -- Adelphi -- Garrick
and his Wife -- Beauclerc -- Society of Arts, and Mr. Barry --
Bedford Street -- George, Villiers, and Buckingham Streets --
York House and Buildings -- Squabble between the Spanish and
French Ambassadors -- Hungerford Market -- Craven Street --
Franklin -- Northumberland House -- Duplicity of Henry, Earl of
Northampton -- Violence of Lord Herbert of Cherbury -- Percy,
Bishop of Dromore -- Pleasant mistake of Goldsmith.
In going through Fleet Street and the Strand, we seldom think that the
one is named after a rivulet, now running under ground, and the other
from its being on the banks of the river Thames. As little do most of
us fancy that there was once a line of noblemen's houses on the one
side, and that, at the same time, all beyond the other side, to
Hampstead or Highgate, was open country, with the little hamlet of St.
Giles's in a copse. So late as the reign of Henry VIII. we have a
print containing the vill a of Charing. Citizens used to take an
evening stroll to the well now in St. Clement's Inn.
In the reign of Edward III. the Strand was an open country road, with
a mansion here and there, on the banks of the river Thames, most
probably a castle or stronghold. In this state it no doubt remained
during the greater part of the York and Lancaster period. From Henry
VII.'s time the castles most likely began to be exchanged for mansions
of a more peaceful character. These gradually increased; and in the
reign of Edward VI. the Strand consisted, on the south side, of a line
of mansions with garden walls; and on the north, of a single row of
houses, behind which all was field. The reader is to imagine wall all
the way from Temple Bar to Whitehall, on his left hand, like that of
Kew Palace, or a succession of Burlington Gardens; while the line of
humbler habitations stood on the other side, like a row of servants in
waiting.
As wealth increased, not only the importance of rank diminished, and
the nobles were more content to recollect James's advice of living in
the country (where, he said, they looked like ships in a river,
instead of ships at sea), but the value of ground about London,
especially on the river side, was so much augmented, that the
proprietors of these princely mansions were not unwilling to turn the
premises into money. The civil wars had given another jar to the
stability of their abodes in the metropolis; and in Charles the
Second's time the great houses finally gave way, and were exchanged
for streets and wharfs. An agreeable poet of the last century lets us
know that he used to think of this great change in going up the
Strand.
"Come, Fortescue, sincere, experienc'd friend,
Thy briefs, thy deeds, and e'en thy fees suspend;
Come, let us leave the Temple's silent walls;
Me, business to my distant lodging calls;
Through the long Strand together let us stray;
With thee conversing, I forget the way.
Behold that narrow street which steep descends,
Whose building to the slimy shore extends;
Here Arundel's fam'd structure rear'd its fame:
The street alone retains the empty name.
Where Titian's glowing paint the canvass warmed,
And Raphael's fair design with judgment charmed,
Now hangs the bellman's song; and pasted here
The coloured prints of Overton appear.
Where statues breathed, the works of Phidias' hands,
A wooden pump, or lonely watch-house stands.
There Essex's stately pile adorned the shore,
There Cecil's, Bedford's, Villiers',--now no more."[127]
As the aspect in this quarter is so different from what it was, and
the quarter is one of the most important in the metropolis, we may add
what Pennant has written on the subject:--
"In the year 1353, that fine street the Strand was an open
highway, with here and there a great man's house, with gardens
to the water's side. In that year it was so ruinous, that
Edward III., by an ordinance, directed a tax to be raised upon
wool, leather, wine, and all goods carried to the staple at
Westminster, from Temple Bar to Westminster Abbey, for the
repair of the road; and that all owners of houses adjacent to
the highway should repair as much as lay before their doors.
Mention is also made of a bridge to be erected near the royal
palace at Westminster, for the conveniency of the said staple;
but the last probably meant no more than stairs for the landing
of the goods, which I find sometimes went by the name of a
bridge.
"There was no continued street here till about the year 1533;
before that it entirely cut off Westminster from London, and
nothing intervened except the scattered houses, and a village,
which afterwards gave name to the whole. St. Martin's stood
literally in the fields. But about the year 1560 a street was
formed, loosely built, for all the houses on the south side had
great gardens to the river, were called by their owners' names,
and in after times gave name to the several streets that
succeeded them, pointing down to the Thames; each of them had
stairs for the conveniency of taking boat, of which many to
this day bear the names of the houses. As the court was for
centuries either at the palace at Westminster, or Whitehall, a
boat was the customary conveyance of the great to the presence
of their sovereign. The north side was a mere line of houses
from Charing-cross to Temple Bar; all beyond was country. The
gardens which occupied part of the site of Covent Garden were
bounded by fields, and St. Giles's was a distant country
village. These are circumstances proper to point out, to show
the vast increase of our capital in little more than two
centuries."[128]
The aspect of the Strand, on emerging through Temple Bar, is very
different from what it was forty years ago. "A stranger who had
visited London in 1790, would on his return in 1804," says Mr.
Malcolm, "be astonished to find a spacious area (with the church
nearly in the centre) on the site of Butcher Row, and some other
passages undeserving of the name of streets, which were composed of
those wretched fabrics, overhanging their foundations, the receptacles
of dirt in every corner of their projecting stories, the bane of
ancient London, where the plague, with all its attendant horrors,
frowned destruction on the miserable inhabitants, reserving its forces
for the attacks of each returning summer."[129]
The site of Butcher Row, thus advantageously thrown open, is called
Pickett Street, after the alderman who projected the improvements.
Unfortunately they turned out to be on too large a scale; that is to
say, the houses were found to be too large and expensive for the right
side of the Strand in this quarter; the tide of traffic between the
city and Westminster flowing the other side of the way. The
consequence is, that the houses are under-let, and that something of
the old squalid look remains in the turning towards Clement's Inn, in
spite of the pillared entrance.
Butcher Row, however squalid, contained houses worth eating and
drinking in. Johnson frequented an eating-house there; and, according
to Oldys, it was "in returning from the Bear and Harrow in Butcher
Row, through Clare Market, to his lodgings in Duke Street, that Lee,
the dramatic poet, overladen with wine, fell down (on the ground, as
some say--according to others, on a bulk), and was killed, or stifled
in the snow. He was buried in the parish church of St. Clement Danes,
aged about thirty-five years."[130] "He was a very handsome as well as
ingenious man," says Oldys, "but given to debauchery, which
necessitated a milk diet. When some of his university comrades visited
him, he fell to drinking out of all measure, which, flying up into his
head, caused his face to break out into those carbuncles which were
afterwards observed there; and also touched his brain, occasioning
that madness so much lamented in so rare a genius. Tom Brown says, he
wrote, while he was in Bedlam, a play of twenty-five acts; and Mr.
Bowman tells me that, going once to visit him there, Lee showed him a
scene, 'in which,' says he, 'I have done a miracle for you.' 'What's
that?' said Bowman. 'I have made you a good priest.'"
Oldys mentions another of his mad sayings, but does not tell us with
whom it passed.
"I've seen an unscrewed spider spin a thought,
And walk away upon the wings of angels!"
"What say you to that, doctor?" "Ah, marry, Mr. Lee, that's
superfine indeed. The thought of a winged spider may catch
sublime readers of poetry sooner than his web, but it will need
a commentary in prose to render it intelligible to the
vulgar."[131]
Lee's madness does not appear to have been melancholy, otherwise these
anecdotes would not bear repeating. There are various stories of the
origin of it; but, most probably, he had an over-sanguine
constitution, which he exasperated by intemperance. Though he died so
young, the author of _A Satyr on the Poets_ gives us to understand
that he was corpulent.
"Pembroke loved tragedy, and did provide
For the butchers' dogs, and for the whole Bank-side:
The bear was fed; but dedicating Lee
Was thought to have a greater paunch than he."[132]
This Pembroke, who loved a bear-garden, was the seventh earl of that
title. His daughter married the son of Jefferies. Lee, on a visit to
the earl at Wilton, is said to have drunk so hard, that "the butler
feared he would empty the cellar." The madness of Lee is almost
visible in his swelling and overladen dramas; in which, however, there
is a good deal of true poetic fire, and a vein of tenderness that
makes us heartily pity the author.
The social Boswell, in speaking of Johnson's eating-house in Butcher
Row, does not approve of establishments of that sort. We shall see, by
and by, that he was wrong.
"Happening to dine," says he, "at Clifton's eating-house in
Butcher Row, I was surprised to see Johnson come in and take
his seat at another table. The mode of dining, or rather being
fed, at such houses in London, is well known to many to be
peculiarly unsocial, as there is no ordinary or united company,
but each person has his own mess, and is under no obligation to
hold any intercourse with any one. A liberal and full-minded
man, however, who loves to talk, will break through this
churlish and unsocial restraint. Johnson and an Irish gentleman
got into a dispute concerning the cause of some part of mankind
being black. 'Why, sir (said Johnson), it has been accounted
for in three ways: either by supposing that they are the
posterity of Ham, who was cursed; or that God at first created
two kinds of men, one black and another white; or that, by the
heat of the sun, the skin is scorched, and so acquires a sooty
hue. This matter has been much canvassed among naturalists, but
has never been brought to any certain issue.' What the Irishman
said is totally obliterated from my mind; but I remember that
he became very warm and intemperate in his expressions; upon
which Johnson rose, and quietly walked away. When he had
retired, his antagonist took his revenge, as he thought, by
saying, 'He has a most ungainly figure, and an affectation of
pomposity unworthy of a man of genius.'"[133]
The ungainly figure might have been pardoned by the Irishman; who, we
suppose, was equally fiery and elegant. As to Johnson's pompous
manner, the most excusable part of it originated, doubtless, in his
having decided opinions. The rest may have been an instinct of
self-defence, arising from the "ungainly figure," not without a sense
of the dignity of his calling. He certainly lost nothing by it, upon
the whole. At all events, one is willing to think the best of what was
accompanied by so much excellence. Affectation it was not; for nobody
despised pretension of any kind more than he did. Johnson was a sort
of born bishop in his way, with high judgments and cathedral notions
lording it in his mind; and _ex cathedrâ_ he accordingly spoke.
In Butcher Row, one day, Johnson met, in advanced life, a
fellow-collegian, of the name of Edwards, whom he had not seen since
they were at the university. Edwards annoyed him by talking of their
age. "Don't let us discourage one another," said Johnson. It was this
Edwards, a dull but good man, who made that _naïve_ remark, which was
pronounced by Burke and others to be an excellent trait of
character:--"You are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson," said he: "I have
tried in my time to be a philosopher; but, I don't know how,
cheerfulness was always breaking in."[134]
Before we come to St. Clement's, we arrive, on the left-hand side of
the way, at Essex Street; a spot once famous for the residence of the
favourite Earl of Essex. We have mentioned an Outer Temple, which
originally formed a companion to the Inner and Middle Temples, the
whole constituting the tenements of the knights. This Outer Temple
stretched beyond Temple Bar into the ground now occupied by Essex
Street and Devereux Court; and after being possessed (Dugdale
supposes) by the Prior and Canons of the Holy Sepulchre, was
transferred by them, in the time of Edward III., to the Bishops of
Exeter, who occupied it till the reign of Henry VI., and called it
Exeter House. Sir William Paget (afterwards Lord Paget) then had it,
and did "re-edify the same," calling it Paget Place. After this it was
occupied by the Duke of Norfolk, who was executed for his dealings
with Mary, Queen of Scots; then by Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the
favourite, who called it Leicester House, and bequeathed it to his
"son, Sir Robert;" and then by the other favourite, Leicester's
son-in-law, Essex, from whom it retained the name of Essex House. It
was occasionally tenanted by men of rank till some time after the
Restoration, when it was pulled down, and the site converted into the
present street and court. The only remnant of it supposed to exist is
the present Unitarian Chapel, which, before it became such, was
called Essex House, and latterly contained an auction room.[135]
The repose enjoyed in this precinct since the Restoration has been
like silence after a succession of storms, for the house was of a
turbulent reputation. The first bishop who had it after the Templars,
being a favourite of Edward II., was seized by the mob, hurried to
Cheapside, where they beheaded him, and then carried back a corpse,
and buried in a heap of sand at his door. Lord Paget got into trouble,
together with his friend the Duke of Somerset, who was accused of
intending to assassinate Northumberland and others at this house.
Norfolk possessed it while he formed his designs on Mary, Queen of
Scots, for which he was brought to the scaffold; Leicester was always
having some ill design or other--perhaps poisoned a visitor or so
occasionally (for he is said to have thought nothing of that gentle
expediency); and Essex made the house famous by standing a siege in it
against the troops of his mistress. The siege was not long, nor any of
his actions in the business very wise, though he was a man of an
exalted nature. Essex got into his troubles partly from heat and
ambition, partly from the inferior and more cunning nature of some of
his rivals at court. There is no doubt that all these causes, together
with his confidence in Elizabeth's inability to proceed to
extremities, conspired to lead him into rebellion. His first offence
that we hear of, next to a general petulance of manner, which the
Queen's own mixture of fondness and petulance was calculated enough to
provoke, was a quarrel with some young lords for her favour; the
second, his joining the expedition to Cadiz without leave; and the
third, his marriage with the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham: for
Elizabeth never thought it proper that her favourites should be
married to any thing but her "fair idea."
His next dispute with her, which was on the subject of an assistant in
the affairs of Ireland, to which he was going as lord deputy,
terminated in the singular catastrophe of his receiving from her a box
on the ear, with the encouraging addition of bidding him "Go, and be
hanged." It is said to have been occasioned by his turning his back
upon her. He clapped his hand to his sword, and swore he would not
have put up with such an insult from her father. His fall is generally
dated from this circumstance, and it is thought he never forgave it.
But surely this is not a correct judgment: for the blow which might
have been intolerable from the hand of a king, implied, in its very
extravagance, something not without flattery and self-abasement from
that of a princess. It was as if Elizabeth had put herself into the
situation of a termagant wife. The quarrel preceded the violence.
Essex went to Ireland against the rebels, but apparently with great
unwillingness, calling it, in a letter to the Queen, the "cursedest of
all islands," and insinuating that the best thing that could happen
both to please her and himself was the loss of his life in battle. The
conclusion of this letter is a remarkable instance of the mixture of
romance with real life in those days. It is in verse, terminating with
the following pastoral sentiment. Essex wishes he could live like a
hermit, "in some unhaunted desert most obscure"--
"From all society, from love and hate
Of worldly folk; then should he sleep secure,
Then wake again, and yield God every praise,
Content with hips and hawes, and bramble-berry;
In contemplation parting out his days,
And change of holy thoughts to make him merry.
Who when he dies, his tomb may be a bush,
Where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.
Your Majesty's exiled servant,
"ROBERT ESSEX."
Think of this being a letter from a lord lieutenant of Ireland to his
sovereign! Warton says, from the evidence of some sonnets preserved in
the British Museum, that although Essex was "an ingenious and elegant
writer of prose," he was no poet. There is an ungainliness in the
lines we have just quoted, and he was probably too much given to
action to be a poet; but there is something in him that relished of
the truth and directness of poetry, when he had to touch upon any
actual emotion. Poetry is nothing but the voluntary power to get at
the inner spirit of what is felt, with imagination to embody it. It
was supposed that Essex's enemies first got him into the office of
lord lieutenant, and then took advantage of his impatience under it
to ruin him. He was accused of tampering with the rebels, and
meditating his return into England with the troops under his charge;
with a view to which object he is said to have described his army as a
force with which he "would make the earth to tremble as he went." He
came over, with the passion of an injured man, and presented himself
before the Queen, who gave him a tolerable reception, but afterwards
confined him to the house of the lord keeper. It was then, according
to his confession before his death, that he first contemplated violent
measures against the throne, though always short of treason. Before
his liberation, he was soured by his ineffectual attempts to renew his
facility of admission to the presence chamber; and he let fall an
expression which his enemies greedily seized at, to wit, that the
"Queen grew old and cankered, and that her mind was become as crooked
as her carcase." This was exactly in his style, which was off-hand and
energetic, with a gusto of truth in it. Meantime he began to have his
friends about him more than ever, and to affect a necessity for it;
and a summons being sent him to attend the council, he was driven by
anger and fear to decline it, and to fortify himself in his house. His
chief and most generous companion on this occasion was Henry, Earl of
Southampton, the friend of Shakspeare. There was some little
resistance; and the Lord Keeper, with the Lord Chief Justice and the
Earl of Worcester, coming to summon him to his allegiance, he locked
them up in a room, on pretence of taking care of their persons, and
then sallied through Fleet Street into the city, where he expected a
rising in his favour; for he was the most popular noble, perhaps, that
England had ever seen, and the city had been disgusted by repeated
levies on its purse, under pretence of invasions from Spain: though,
according to Essex, Spain had never been so much in favour. The
levies, in truth, were made against himself. He was disappointed:
heard himself proclaimed a traitor by sound of trumpet in Gracechurch
Street, and after a little more scuffling on the part of his
adherents, returned by water from Queenhithe, and surrendered himself;
being partly moved, he said, by the "cries of ladies." It is clear
that he did not know what to be at. He expected, most likely, every
moment, that the Queen's tenderness would interfere, fearful of seeing
her once beloved favourite in danger. But the Cecils and others aided
her good sense in keeping her quiet. Essex had certainly acted in a
way incompatible with the duty of a subject, and such as no sovereign
could tolerate. He was tried in Westminster Hall, and convicted of an
intention to seize the court and the Tower, to surprise the Queen in
her apartments, and then to summon a parliament for a "redress of
grievances;" which, he said, should give his enemies "a fair trial."
Southampton was acquitted, no doubt from a sense that he intended
nothing but a romantic adherence to his friend.
How a man of Essex's understanding could give into these preposterous
attempts, it would be difficult to conceive, if every day's experience
did not show how powerful a succession of little circumstances is to
bring people into situations which themselves might have least looked
for. Essex evidently expected pardon to the last. When Lord Grey's
name was read over among the peers who were to try him, he smiled and
jogged the elbow of Southampton, for offending whom Grey had been
punished. He was at his ease throughout the trial. He said to the
Attorney-General (Coke), who had told him in the course of his speech
that he should be "Robert the Last" of an earldom, instead of "Robert
the First" of a kingdom--"Well, Mr. Attorney, I thank God you are not
my judge this day, you are so uncharitable."
"_Coke._ Well, my lord, we shall prove you anon, what you are;
which your pride of heart, and aspiring mind, hath brought you
unto.
_Essex._ Ah, Mr. Attorney, lay your hand upon your heart, and
pray to God to forgive us _both_."[136]
And when sentence was passed, though it is not true that he refused to
ask for mercy, for he did it after the best fashion of his style,
"kneeling (he said) upon the very knees of his heart," yet he seemed
to threaten Elizabeth, in a tender way, with his resolution to die.
She left him, like a politic sovereign, to his fate; but is thought
never to have recovered it, as a friend. The romantic story of her
visiting the Countess of Nottingham, who had kept back a ring which
Essex sent her after his condemnation, of her shaking her on her
deathbed, and crying out that "God might forgive, but she could not,"
is more and more credited as documents transpire. The ring, it is
said, had been given to Essex, with a promise that it should serve him
in need under any circumstances, if he did but send it. It is supposed
that the non-appearance of it hurt the proud heart of Elizabeth, and
finally allowed her to let him die. Yet she was a great sovereign, and
might have suffered the law to take its course, with whatever sorrow.
She was jealous of her reputation with the old and cool-headed lords
about her. When the death, however, had taken place, she might have
fancied otherwise. Something preyed strongly on her mind towards her
decease, which happened within two years after his execution. She
refused to go to bed for ten days and nights before her death, lying
upon the carpet with cushions about her, and absorbed in the
profoundest melancholy. To be sure, this may have been disease. A
princess like Elizabeth, possessed of sovereign power, which had been
sharply exercised on some doubtful occasions, might have had
misgivings when going to die. Two certain causes of regret she must
have had for Essex. She must have been well aware that she had
alternately encouraged and irritated him over much; and she must have
known that he was a better man than many who assisted in his
overthrow, and that if he had been less worthy of regard, he probably
would have survived her, as they did.
It may easily be imagined that Essex was a man for whom a strong
affection might be entertained. He excited interest by his character,
and could maintain it by his language. In everything he did there was
a certain excess, but on the liberal side. When a youth, he plunged
into the depths of rural pleasures and books; he was lavish of his
money and good words for his friends; he said everything that came
uppermost, but then it was worth saying, only his enemies were not as
well pleased with it as his friends, and they never forgot it: in
fine, he was romantic, brave, and impassioned. He is so like a _preux
chevalier_, that till we call to mind other gallant knights who have
not been handsome, we are somewhat surprised to hear that he was not
well made, and that nothing is said of his face but that it looked
reserved--a seeming anomaly, which deep thought sometimes produces in
the countenances of open-hearted men. These were no hindrances,
however, to the admiration entertained of him by the ladies; and he
was so popular with authors and with the public, that Warton says he
could bring evidence of his scarcely ever quitting England or even the
metropolis, on the most frivolous enterprise, without a pastoral or
other poetical praise of him, which was sold and sung in the streets.
He was the friend of Spenser, most likely of Shakspeare too. being
the friend of Southampton. Spenser was well acquainted with Essex
House. In his '_Prothalamion_,' published in 1596, he has left
interesting evidence of his having visited Leicester there; and he
follows up the record with a panegyric on Leicester's successor, which
was probably his first hint to Essex that he was still in want of such
assistance as he had received from his father-in-law. The two passages
taken together render the hint rather broad, and such as would make
one a little jealous for the dignity of the great poet, were not the
manners of that time different in this respect from what they are now.
Speaking of the Temple, in the lines quoted in our last chapter, he
goes on to say--
"Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace
Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell.
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case:
But, ah! here fits not well
Olde woes, but ioyes, to tell
Against the bridale daye, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly till I end my song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder,
Whose dreadful name late through all Spaine did thunder,
And Hercules' two pillars standing near
Did make to quake and feare:
Faire branch of honour, flower of chevalrie;
That fillest England with thy triumph's fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victorie."
Essex no doubt took the poet at his word, both for his panegyric and
his hint: for it was he that gave Spenser his funeral in Westminster,
and he was not of a spirit to treat a great poet, as poets have
sometimes been treated--with neglect in their lifetime, and
self-complacent monuments to them after their death.
We shall close this notice (in which we have endeavoured to
concentrate all the interest we could) of the once great and applauded
Essex, whose memory long retained its popularity, and gave rise to
several tragedies, with a letter of his to the Lord Keeper Egerton, in
which there is one of his finest sentiments expressed with his most
passionate felicity. Egerton's eldest son had accompanied Essex into
Ireland, and died there, which is the subject of the letter. As
Spenser's death also happened just before the earl set out for that
country, at a moment when he might have been of political as well as
poetical use to him (for Spenser was a politician, and had been
employed in the affairs of Ireland), Mr. Todd thinks, that among the
friends alluded to, part of the regret may have been for him:
"Whatt can you receave from a cursed country butt vnfortunate
newes? whatt can be my stile (whom heaven and earth are agreed
to make a martyr) butt a stile of mourning? nott for myself
thatt I smart, _for I wold I had in my hart the sorow of all my
frends_, but I mourn that my destiny is to overlive my deerest
frendes. Of yr losse yt is neither good for me to write nor
you to reade. But I protest I felt myself sensibly dismembered,
when I lost my frend. Shew yr strength in lyfe. Lett me, yf yt
be God's will, shew yt in taking leave of the world, and
hasting after my frends. Butt I will live and dy
"More yr lp's then any
"man's living,
"ESSEX."
"_Arbrachan, this last day of August_" [1599].
"Little,"[137] says Mr. Todd, "did the generous but unfortunate
Essex then imagine, that the learned statesman, to whom this
letter of condolence was addressed, would be directed very soon
afterwards to issue an order for his execution. The original
warrant, to which the name of Elizabeth is prefixed, is now in
the possession of the Marquis of Stafford; and the queen has
written her name, not with the firmness observable in numerous
documents existing in the same and other collections, but with
apparent tremor and hesitation."
In Essex House was born another Robert, Earl of Essex, son of the
preceding, well known in history as general of the Parliament. He was
a child when his father died; and was in the hands, first, of his
grandmother, Lady Walsingham, and, secondly, of Henry Saville
(afterwards Sir Henry), under whose severe discipline he was educated
at Eton. We mention these circumstances, because they tended to keep
him in that Presbyterian interest, which his father patronised out of
a love of toleration and popularity. Perhaps, also, they did him no
good with his wives; for he married two, and was singularly
unfortunate in both. To the first, Lady Frances Howard, he was
betrothed when a boy. He travelled, returned, and married her, with
little love on his own side, and none on hers. Her connection with
Car, Earl of Somerset, and all the infamy, crime, and wretchedness it
brought upon her, are well known. Her best excuse, which is the
ordinary one in cases of great wickedness (and it is a comfort to
human nature that it is so), is, that she was a great fool. Her
dislike of her first husband was not, perhaps, the least excusable
part of her conduct, first, because she was a child like himself when
they were betrothed; and secondly, because his second wife appears to
have liked him no better. The latter was divorced also. After this,
Essex took to a country retirement, and subsequently to an active part
in the Civil Wars, during which his love of justice and affability to
his inferiors rendered him extremely popular. He was of equivocal
service, however, to the Parliament. He was a better general than
politician, not of a commanding genius in any respect, and was
suspected, not without reason, of an overweening desire to accommodate
matters too much, partly out of ignorance of what the nature of the
quarrel demanded, and partly from an affectation of playing the part
of an amicable dictator for his own aggrandisement. So the Parliament
got rid of him by the famous self-denying ordinance. Clarendon says,
that when he resigned his commission, the whole Parliament went the
day following to Essex House, to return him thanks for his great
services; but a late historian of the commonwealth says, there is no
trace of this compliment on the journals.[138] Next year they attended
him to his grave. Essex's character was a prose-copy of his father's,
with the love and romance left out.
Dr. Johnson, the year before he died, founded in Essex Street one of
his minor clubs. The Literary Club did not meet often enough for his
want of society, was too distant, and perhaps had now become too much
for his conversational ambition. He wanted a mixture of inferior
intellects to be at ease with. Accordingly, this club, which was held
at the Essex Head, then kept by a servant of Mr. Thrale, was of a more
miscellaneous nature than the other, and made no pretension to
expense. One cannot help smiling at the modest and pensive tone of the
letter which Johnson sent to Sir Joshua, inviting him to join it. "The
terms are lax, and the expenses light. We meet thrice a-week; and he
who misses, forfeits two-pence."[139] This stretch of philosophy seems
to have startled the fashionable painter, who declined to become a
member. When we find, however, in the list the names of Brocklesby,
Horsley, Daines Barrington, and Windham, Boswell has reason to say
that Sir John Hawkins's charge of its being a "low ale-house
association" appears to be sufficiently obviated. But the names might
have been subscribed out of civility without any further intention.
The club, nevertheless, was in existence when Boswell wrote, and went
on, he says, happily. Johnson said of him, when he was proposed,
"Boswell is a very _clubable_ man."
In Devereux Court, through which there is a passage round into the
Temple, is the Grecian Coffee House, supposed to be the oldest in
London. We should rather say the revival of the oldest, for the
premises were burnt down and rebuilt. The Grecian was the house from
which Steele proposed to date his learned articles in the _Tatler_.
In this court are the premises of the eminent tea-dealers, Messrs.
Twining, the front of which, surmounted with its stone figures of
Chinese, has an elegant appearance in the Strand. We notice the house,
not only on this account, but because the family have to boast of a
very accomplished scholar, the translator of the _Poetics_ of
Aristotle. Mr. Twining was contemporary with Gray and Mason at
Cambridge; and besides his acquirements as a linguist (for, in
addition to his knowledge of Greek and Latin, he wrote French and
Italian with idiomatic accuracy), was a musician so accomplished as to
lead the concerts and oratorios that were performed during term-time,
when Bate played the organ and harpsichord. He was also a lively
companion, full of wit and playfulness, yet so able to content himself
with country privacy, and so exemplary a clergyman, that for the last
forty years of his life he scarcely allowed himself to be absent from
his parishioners more than a fortnight in a year.
The church of St. Clement Danes, which unworthily occupies the open
part of the Strand, to the west of Essex Street, was the one most
frequented by Dr. Johnson. It is not known why this church was called
St. Clement _Danes_. Some think because there was a massacre of the
Danes thereabouts; others because Harold Harefoot was buried there;
and others, because the Danes had the quarter given them to live in,
when Alfred the Great drove them out of London, the monarch at the
same time building the church, in order to assist their conversion to
Christianity. The name _St. Clement_ has been derived with probability
from the patron saint of Pope Clement III., a great friend of the
Templars, to whom the church at one time belonged. St. Clement's was
rebuilt towards the end of the century before last by Edward Pierce,
under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren, but is a very incongruous
ungainly edifice. Its best aspect is at night-time in winter, when
the deformities of its body are not seen, and the pale steeple rises
with a sort of ghastliness of grandeur through the cloudy atmosphere.
The chimes may still be heard at midnight, as Falstaff describes
having heard them with Justice Shallow. If they did not execute one of
Handel's psalm-tunes, we should take them to be the very same he
speaks of, and conclude that they had grown hoarse with age and
sitting-up; for to our knowledge they have lost some of their notes
these twenty years, and the rest are falling away. A steeple should
set a better example.
A few years back, when the improvements on the north side, in this
quarter, had not been followed by those on the south, Gay's picture of
the avenue between the church and the houses was true in all its
parts. We remember the "combs dangling in our faces," and almost
mourned their loss for the sake of the poet.
"Where the fair columns of St. Clement stand,
Whose straiten'd bounds encroach upon the Strand;
Where the low penthouse bows the walker's head,
And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread;
Where not a post protects the narrow space,
And, strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face;
Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care,
Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware.
Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier's steeds
Drag the black load; another cart succeeds;
Team follows team, crowds heap'd on crowds appear,
And wait impatient till the road grow clear."
Everybody can testify to the truth of this description. A little
patience, however, is well repaid by the sight of the noble creatures
dragging up the loads. The horses of the colliers and brewers of
London are worth notice at all times for the magnificence of their
_build_. Gay proceeds to other particulars, now no longer to be
encountered. He cautions you how you lose your sword; and adds a
pleasant mode of theft, practised in those times:--
"Nor is the flaxen wig with safety worn:
High on the shoulder, in a basket borne,
Lurks the sly boy, whose hands, to rapine bred,
Plucks off the curling honours of thy head."[140]
Clement's Inn is named from the church. The device over the gate, of
an anchor and the letter C, is supposed to allude to the martyrdom of
St. Clement, who is said to have been tied to an anchor and thrown
into the sea, by order of the Emperor Trajan.
"The hall is situated on the south side of a neat but small
quadrangle. It is a Tuscan diminutive building, with a very
large Corinthian door, and arched windows, erected in 1715.
Another irregular area is surrounded by convenient houses, in
which are the possessor's chambers. Part of this is a pretty
garden, with a kneeling African, of considerable merit,
supporting a dial, on the eastern side."[141]
In Knox's _Elegant Extracts_ are some lines on this negro, which have
often been repeated:--
"In vain, poor sable son of woe,
Thou seek'st the tender tear;
For thee in vain with pangs they flow;
For mercy dwells not here.
From cannibals thou fledst in vain;
Lawyers less quarter give;
The first won't eat you till you're slain,
The last will do't alive."
This inn, like all the other inns of court, is of great antiquity.
Dugdale states it to have been an inn of Chancery in the reign of
Edward II. Some have conjectured, according to Mr. Moser, "that near
this spot stood an inn, as far back as the time of King Ethelred, for
the reception of penitents who came to St. Clement's Well; that a
religious house was in process of time established, and that the
church rose in consequence." Be this as it may, the holy brotherhood
was probably removed to some other institution; the Holy Lamb, an inn
on the west side of the lane, received the guests; and the monastery
was converted, or rather perverted, from the purposes of the gospel to
those of the law, and was probably, in this profession, considered as
a house of considerable antiquity in the days of Shakspeare; for he,
who with respect to this kind of chronology may be safely quoted,
makes in the second act of Henry IV. one of his justices a member of
that society:--
"He must to the Inns of Court. I was of Clement's once myself,
where they talk of Mad Shallow still."
A pump now covers St. Clement's Well. Fitzstephen, in his description
of London, in the reign of Henry II., speaks of certain "excellent
springs at a small distance" from the city, "whose waters are sweet,
salubrious, and clear, and whose runnels murmur o'er the shining
stones: among these," he continues, "Holywell, Clerkenwell, and St.
Clement's Well may be esteemed the principal, as being much the most
frequented, both by the scholars from the school (Westminster) and the
youth from the city, when on a summer's evening they are disposed to
take an airing."
Six hundred years and upwards have elapsed since Fitzstephen wrote. It
is pleasant to think that the well has lasted so long, and that the
place is still quiet.
The Clare family, who have left their name to Clare Market, appear to
have occupied Clement's Inn during part of the reign of the Tudors.
From their hands it reverted to those of the law. It is an appendage
to the Inner Temple. We are not aware of any greater legal personage
having been bred there, than the one just mentioned. Shallow takes
delight in his local recollections, particularly of this inn. In one
of the masterly scenes of this kind, Falstaff's corroboration of a
less pleasant recollection, and Shallow's anger against the cause of
it, after such a lapse of time, are very ludicrous.
"_Shallow._ Oh, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all
night in the windmill in St. George's Fields?
"_Fals._ No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more of that.
"_Shal._ Ha, it was a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive?
"_Fals._ She lives, Master Shallow.
"_Shal._ She never could away with me.
"_Fals._ Never, never; she would always say she could not abide
Master Shallow.
"_Shal._ By the mass. I could anger her to the heart. She was
then a bonaroba. Doth she hold her own well?--and had Robin
Nightwork by old Nightwork, before I came to Clement's Inn.
"_Silence._ That's fifty-five years ago.
"_Shal._ Ha, Cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that
this knight and I have seen! Ah, Sir John, said I well?
"_Fals._ We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.
"_Shal._ That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith,
Sir John, we have; our watchword was, _Hem, boys_! Come, let's
to dinner: come, let's to dinner: Oh, the days that we have
seen! Come, come."[142]
The sites of Arundel, Norfolk, Surrey, and Howard Streets (the last of
which crosses the others), were formerly occupied by the house and
grounds originally constituting the town residence of the Bishop of
Bath and Wells, then of the Lord High Admiral Seymour, and afterwards
of the Howards Earls of Arundel, from whom it came into possession of
the Duke of Norfolk. It was successively called Bath's Inn (Hampton
Place, according to some, but we know not why), Seymour Place, Arundel
House, and Norfolk House. It was a wide low house, but according to
Sully, who lodged in it when he was ambassador to James I., very
convenient, on account of the multitude of rooms on the same floor.
In this house the Lord High Admiral, Thomas Seymour, brother of the
Protector Somerset, in the reign of Edward VI., contrived to place the
Princess (afterwards Queen) Elizabeth, with a design of possessing her
person, and sharing her succession to the Crown. No doubt is
entertained of these views by the historians. Elizabeth was not averse
to him, though he had lately married the Queen Dowager (Catherine
Parr); and some gossipping stories transpired of the evidences of
their good-will. Catherine's death increased the suspicion, and she
herself expressed it on her death-bed. Seymour's ambition, however,
shortly brought him to the scaffold, and saved us from a King Thomas
I., who would probably, as Pennant thinks, have been a very bad one.
We have mentioned the Countess of Nottingham who withheld from
Elizabeth the ring sent her by Essex. It was in this house she died.
Her husband was a Howard, and, probably, she was on a visit there. We
take an opportunity, therefore, of relating the particulars of that
romantic story, as collected by the accurate Dr. Birch, and repeated
in the _Memoirs of the Peers of England during the reign of James I._
"The following curious story," says the compiler of this work, "was
frequently told by Lady Elizabeth Spelman, great grand-daughter of Sir
Robert Carey, brother of Lady Nottingham, and afterwards Earl of
Monmouth, whose curious memoirs of himself were published a few years
ago by Lord Corke."
"When Catherine, Countess of Nottingham, was dying (as she did,
according to his lordship's own account, about a fortnight
before Queen Elizabeth), she sent to her Majesty to desire that
she might see her, in order to reveal something to her Majesty
without the discovery of which she could not die in peace. Upon
the Queen's coming, Lady Nottingham told her, that, while the
Earl of Essex lay under sentence of death, he was desirous of
asking her Majesty's mercy, in the manner prescribed by
herself, during the height of his favour; the Queen having
given him a ring, which being sent to her as a token of his
distress, might entitle him to her protection. But the earl,
jealous of those about him, and not caring to trust any of them
with it, as he was looking out of his window one morning, saw a
boy, with whose appearance he was pleased; and engaging him by
money and promises, directed him to carry the ring, which he
took from his finger and threw down, to Lady Scroope, a sister
of the Countess of Nottingham, and a friend of his lordship,
who attended upon the Queen; and to beg of her that she would
present it to her Majesty. The boy, by mistake, carried it to
Lady Nottingham, who showed it to her husband, the admiral, an
enemy of Lord Essex, in order to take his advice. The admiral
forbid her to carry it, or return any answer to the message;
but insisted upon her keeping the ring.
"The Countess of Nottingham, having made this discovery, begged
the Queen's forgiveness; but her Majesty answered, '_God may
forgive you, but I never can_,' and left the room with great
emotion. Her mind was so struck with the story that she never
went into bed, nor took any sustenance from that instant, for
Camden is of opinion, that her chief reason for suffering the
earl to be executed, was his supposed obstinacy in not applying
to her for mercy."[143]
"In confirmation of the time of the countess's death,"
continues the compiler, "it now appears from the parish
register of Chelsea, extracted by Mr. Lysons (_Environs of
London_, vol. ii., p. 120), that she died at Arundel House,
London, February 25, and was buried the 28th, 1603. Her funeral
was kept at Chelsea, March 21st; and Queen Elizabeth died three
days afterwards."
Clarendon gives a singular character of this house and its master when
it was in possession of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel. He says that
the earl
"Seemed to live, as it were, in another nation, his house being
a place to which all people resorted, who resorted to no other
place; strangers, or such as affected to look like strangers,
and dressed themselves accordingly. He was willing to be
thought a scholar, and to understand the most mysterious parts
of antiquity, because he made a wonderful and costly purchase
of excellent statues whilst in Italy and in Rome (some whereof
he could never obtain permission to remove out of Rome, though
he had paid for them), and had a rare collection of medals. As
to all parts of learning, he was almost illiterate, and thought
no other part of history so considerable as what related to his
own family, in which, no doubt, there had been some very
memorable persons. It cannot be denied that he had in his own
person, in his aspect and countenance, the appearance of a
great man, which he preserved in his gait and motion. He wore
and affected a habit very different from that of the time, such
as men had only beheld in pictures of the most considerable
men; all which drew the eyes of most, and the reverence of
many, towards him, as the image and representative of the
ancient nobility, and native gravity of the nobles, when they
had been most venerable; but this was only his outside, his
nature and true humour being much disposed to levity and
delights, which indeed were very despicable and childish."
The marbles here mentioned, now at Oxford, were collected at Arundel
House. This character from the pen of Clarendon has been thought too
severe. Perhaps the earl had given the noble historian a repulse when
he was nothing but plain Mr. Hyde; for personal resentments of this
sort are apparent in his writings. The last Duke of Norfolk but one,
who wrote anecdotes on the Howard family, asks how the man who
collected the Oxford marbles could be the slave of such family
self-love as Clarendon describes, and how it was that he held the
first places in the state, and the most important commissions abroad.
It is well-known, however, that a man may do all this, and yet be more
fortunate than wise. Arundel was certainly proud, if not dull; and the
proudest men are not apt to be the brightest. It was he that, in a
dispute with Lord Spenser, in the Upper House, when the latter spoke
of the treason of the earl's ancestors, said, "My lord, my lord, while
my ancestors were plotting treason, yours were keeping sheep." He
little thought that his marbles would help to bring about a time, when
an historian, by no means indifferent to rank and title, should regard
a romantic poem as the "brightest jewel" in a ducal coronet, and that
coronet be a Spenser's.[144]
At the south-west corner of Norfolk Street lived at one time the
famous Penn, who from being a coxcomb in his youth became a Quaker and
a founder of a state. However, his coxcombry was a falling-off from
early seriousness. His father was a rough admiral, who could not for
the life of him conceive why his son should relapse into a preciseness
so unlike the rest of the world, and so unfitted to succeed at court.
Voltaire says,[145] that young Penn (for he was little more than
twenty years of age) appeared suddenly before his father in a Quaker
dress, and to the old man's astonishment and indignation said, without
moving his hat, "Friend Penn, how dost thee do?" But, according to
more serious biographers, the change was not so sudden. The hat,
however, was a great matter of contention between them, the admiral
wishing to stipulate that his son should uncover to the King (Charles
II.), the King's brother, and himself; but Penn having recourse to
"fasting and supplication," found that his hat was not to be moved.
These were the weaknesses of a young enthusiast. His enthusiasm
remained for greater purposes; but he is understood to have grown
wiser with regard to the rest, though he continued a Quaker for life.
Penn, though a legislator, never seems to have given up a taste for
good living. His appearance in the portraits of him, notwithstanding
his garb, is fat and festive; and he died of apoplexy.
In the same house, we believe, that had been occupied by Penn[146],
resided an author who must not be passed over in a work of this kind;
to wit, the indefatigable and honest antiquary, Dr. Birch. He came of
a Quaker stock. Birch astonished his friends by going a great deal
into company; but the secret of his uniting sociality with labour, was
his early rising. This, which appears to be one of the main secrets of
longevity, ought to have kept him older, for he died at the age of
sixty-one: but he was probably festive as well social, and should have
taken more exercise. Being a bad horseman, he was thrown on the
Hampstead road, and killed on the spot; but the doctors were uncertain
whether apoplexy had not a hand in the disaster. In speaking of Birch,
nobody should omit a charming billet, written to him by his first
wife, almost in the article of death. The death took place within a
year after their marriage, and was accelerated by childbed.
"This day I return you, my dearest life, my sincere hearty
thanks for every favour bestowed on your most faithful and
obedient wife.
"_July 31, 1729._" "HANNAH BIRCH."[147]
In Norfolk Street, for upwards of thirty years, lived Dr. Brocklesby,
the friend and physician of Dr. Johnson. Physicians of this class may,
_par excellence_, be styled the friends of men of letters. They
partake of their accomplishments, understand their infirmities,
sympathise with their zeal to do good, and prolong their lives by the
most delicate and disinterested attentions. Between no two professions
has a more liberal and cordial intimacy been maintained than between
literature and medicine. Brocklesby was an honour to the highest of
his calling.
"In the course of his practice," we are told that "his advice,
as well as his purse, was ever accessible to the poor, as well
as to men of merit who stood in need of either. Besides giving
his advice to the poor of all descriptions, which he did with
an active and unwearied benevolence, he had always upon his
list two or three poor widows, to whom he granted small
annuities; and who, on the quarter-day of receiving their
stipends, always partook of the hospitalities of his table. To
his relations, who wanted his assistance in their business or
professions, he was not only liberal, but so judicious in his
liberalities as to supersede the necessity of a repetition of
them. To his friend Dr Johnson (when it was in agitation
amongst his friends to procure an enlargement of his pension,
the better to enable him to travel for the benefit of his
health), he offered an establishment of one hundred pounds per
year during his life; and upon Dr. Johnson's declining it
(which he did in the most affectionate terms of gratitude and
friendship), he made him a second offer of apartments in his
own house, for the more immediate benefit of medical advice. To
his old and intimate friend Edmund Burke, he had many years
back bequeathed by will the sum of one thousand pounds; but
recollecting that this event might take place (which it
afterwards did) when such a legacy could be of no service to
him, he, with that judicious liberality for which he was always
distinguished, gave it to him in advance, '_ut pignus
amicitæ_:' it was accepted as such by Mr. Burke, accompanied
with a letter, which none but a man feeling the grandeur and
purity of friendship like him could dictate."[148]
If it be dangerous in the present condition of society, to incur
pecuniary obligations, particularly for those who are more qualified
to think than to act, and who may ultimately startle to find
themselves in positions in which they can neither prove the benefit
done them, nor the good feelings which allowed them to receive it,
nobody can doubt the generosity of such a man as Brocklesby; who, so
far from being a mere patron, jealous of being obliged himself, was
equally as prepared to receive kindness as to show it. Proposing just
before he died to go down to Burke's house at Beaconsfield, and
somebody hinting to him the danger of being fatigued, and of lying out
of his own bed, he replied with his usual calmness, "My good friend,
I perfectly understand your hint, and am thankful to you for it; but
where's the difference, whether I die _at a friend's house_, at an
inn, or in a postchaise? I hope I am every way prepared for such an
event, and perhaps it is as well to elude the expectation of it." This
was said like a man, and a friend. Brocklesby was not one who would
cant about giving trouble at such a moment--the screen of those who
hate to be troubled; neither would he grudge a friend the melancholy
satisfaction of giving him a bed to die in. He better understood the
first principles which give light and life to the world, and left
jealousy and misgiving to the vulgar.
Dr. Brocklesby died at his house in the street above mentioned, and
was buried in the churchyard. Lee was buried, "at St. Clement Danes;"
probably, therefore, in the churchyard also. There are now in that
spot some trees, by far the best things about the church. The reader
may imagine them to shade the places where the poet and the physician
lie.
Arundel or Norfolk House, after the great fire, became the temporary
place of meeting for the Royal Society, previously to its return to
Gresham College. It was pulled down on their leaving it, the century
before last, and the streets before mentioned built in its room. They
appear to have been favourite places of residence with persons
connected with the drama. Congreve lived in Surrey Street, Mountford
the player in Norfolk Street, Mrs. Bracegirdle in Howard Street, and
Mrs. Barry somewhere near her.
Congreve died where he had lived (Jan. 29, 1728-9), after having been
for several years afflicted with blindness and gout; of which,
however, he seems to have made the best he could, by the help of good
sense and naturally good spirits. If his wits ever failed him, it was
in the propensity to a love of rank and fashion, which, in spite of
all that he had seen in the world, never forsook him. It originated
probably in the need he thought he had of them, when he first set out
in life. The finest sense of men of his cast does not rise above a
graceful selfishness. It was most probably in Surrey Street (for he
had come to the "verge of life"), that he had a visit paid him by
Voltaire, who has recorded the disgust given him by an ebullition of
his foppery: for the Frenchman had a great admiration of him as a
writer. "Congreve spoke of his works," says Voltaire, "as of trifles
that were beneath him; and hinted to me, in our first conversation,
that I should visit him upon no other foot than upon that of a
gentleman, who led a life of plainness and simplicity. I answered,
_that had he been so unfortunate as to be a mere gentleman_, I should
never have come to see him; and I was very much disgusted at so
unseasonable a piece of vanity."[149] Our readers will admire the
fineness of this rebuke.
But the most glaring instance of this propensity was his leaving the
bulk of his fortune to a duchess, when he had poor relations in want
of it.
"Having lain in state," says Johnson, "in the Jerusalem
Chamber, he was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument
is erected to his memory by Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough,
to whom, for reasons either not known or not mentioned, he
bequeathed a legacy of about ten thousand pounds, the
accumulation of attentive parsimony, which, though to her
superfluous and useless, might have given great assistance to
the ancient family from which he descended; at that time, by
the imprudence of his relation, reduced to difficulties and
distress."[150]
"Congreve," says Dr. Young, "was very intimate for years with
Mrs. Bracegirdle, who lived in the same street--his house very
near hers; until his acquaintance with the young Duchess of
Marlborough. He then quitted that house. The duchess showed me
a diamond necklace (which Lady Di. used afterwards to wear),
that cost seven thousand pounds, and was purchased with the
money Congreve left her. How much better would it have been to
have given it to poor Mrs. Bracegirdle!"[151]
Yet this dramatist, throughout his life, had had the good word of
everybody. All parties praised him: all parties kept him in office (he
had some places that are said to have produced him twelve hundred a
year): Pope dedicated his _Iliad_ to him; called him, after his death,
_Ultimus Romanorum_; and added that "Garth, Vanbrugh, and he were the
three most honest-hearted, real good men of the Kit-Kat Club!"[152]
The secret of this is, that Congreve loved above all things to be at
ease, and spoke politicly of everybody. He had a bad opinion of
mankind, as we may see by his comedies; and he made the best of it, by
conversing with them as if he took heed of their claws. The only
person, we believe, that he ever opposed, was Collier, who attacked
the stage with more spirit than elegance, and who was at enmity with
the whole world of wit and fashion. We are far from thinking with
Collier, that the abuses of the stage outweigh the benefit it does to
the world; nor do we think the world by any means so bad as Congreve
supposed it, nor himself either: but it is useful to know the
tendencies of those who have a habit of thinking otherwise.
Congreve's bequest created a good deal of gossip. Curll, the principal
scandal-monger of those times, got up a catch-penny life of him,
professing to be written by "Charles Wilson, Esq.," but supposed to be
the work of Oldmixon. There is no relying upon Charles Wilson; but,
from internal evidence, we may take his word occasionally; and we may
believe him when he says that the duchess and her friends were alarmed
at the threatened book. The picture which he draws of her manner has
also an air like a woman of quality. She had demanded a sight of the
documents on which the book was founded; and being refused, asked what
authority they had, and what pieces contained in it were genuine.
"Upon being civilly told there would be found several essays, letters,
and characters of that gentleman's writing," says Mr. Wilson, "she,
with a most affected, extraordinary, dramatic drawl, cried out, 'Not
one single sheet of paper, I dare to swear.'"[153] Mr. Wilson's own
grand air in return is very amusing. He speaks of Arbuthnot's coming
with "expresses," probably to Curll's; and adds, that if he be
despatched with any more, "he may, if he please, come to me, who am as
easily to be found in Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury, _when in
town_, as he is in Burlington Gardens.--Cha. Wilson."
Mr. Wilson's book opens with a copy of the will, in which 500_l._ are
left among the Congreves; about 500_l._ more to friends and domestics,
&c. (not omitting 200_l._ to Mrs. Bracegirdle); and all the rest (with
power to annul or increase the complimentary part of the legacies) to
the Duchess of Marlborough. We know not that anybody could have
brought forward grounds for objecting to this will, had the duchess
been poor herself; for his relations may or may not have had claims
upon him--relations, as such, not being of necessity friends, though
it is generally fit that they should partake of the family prosperity.
We except, of course, a man's immediate kindred, particularly those
whom he has brought into the world. But here was a woman, rolling in
wealth, and relatives neither entirely forgotten, nor yet, it seems,
properly assisted. The bequest must, therefore, either have been a
mere piece of vanity, or the consequence of habitual subjection to a
woman's humours. The duchess was not ungrateful to his memory. She
raised him, as we have seen, a monument; and it is related in Cibber's
_Lives of the Poets_,[154] we know not on what authority, that she
missed his company so much, as to cause "an image of him to be placed
every day on her toilet-table, to which she would talk as to the
living Mr. Congreve, with all the freedom of the most _polite_ and
_unreserved_ conversation." There is something very ludicrous in this
way of putting a case, which might otherwise be affecting. It is as if
there had been a sort of polite mania on both sides.
Congreve's plays are exquisite of their kind, and the excessive
heartlessness and duplicity of some of his characters are not to be
taken without allowance for the _ugly ideal_. There is something not
natural, both in his characters and wit; and we read him rather to see
how entertaining he can make his superfine ladies and gentlemen, and
what a pack of sensual busybodies they are, like insects over a pool,
than from any true sense of them as "men and women." As a companion he
must have been exquisite to a woman of fashion. We can believe that
the duchess, in ignorance of any tragic emotion but what was mixed
with his loss, would really talk with a waxen image of him in a
peruke, and think the universe contained nothing better. It was
carrying wit and politeness beyond the grave. Queen Constance in
Shakspeare makes grief put on the pretty looks of her lost child: the
Duchess of Marlborough made it put on a wig and jaunty air, such as
she had given her friend in his monument in Westminster Abbey. No
criticism on his plays could be more perfect. Congreve's serious
poetry is a refreshment, from its extreme insipidity and common-place.
Everybody is innocent in some corner of the mind, and has faith in
something. Congreve had no faith in his fellow-creatures, but he had a
scholar's (not a poet's) belief in nymphs and weeping fauns; and he
wrote elegies full of them, upon queens and marquisses. If it be true
that he wrote the character of Aspasia (Lady Elizabeth Hastings), in
the _Tatler_ (No. 42), he had indeed faith in something better; for in
that paper is not only given an admiring account of a person of very
exalted excellence, but the author has said of her one of the finest
things that a sincere heart could utter; namely, that "to love her was
a liberal education." We cannot help thinking, however, that the
generous and trusting hand of Steele is very visible throughout this
portrait; and in the touch just mentioned, in particular.
The engaging manners of Mrs. Bracegirdle gave rise to a tragical
circumstance in Howard Street--the death of Mountford her
fellow-player. Mrs. Bracegirdle, one of the most popular actresses of
that time, was a brunette, not remarkable for her beauty, but so much
so for the attractiveness superior to beauty, that Cibber calls her
the "darling of the stage," and says it was a kind of fashion for the
young men about town to have a tenderness for her. This general regard
she preserved by setting a value on herself, not so common with
actresses at that time as it has been since. Accordingly, some made
honourable proposals, which were then still more remarkable. In Rowe's
poems, there is a bantering epistle to an Earl of S----, advising him
not to care for what people might think, but to pursue his
inclinations to that effect. Among others a Captain Hill made
desperate love, professing the same intentions; but he was a man of
bad character, and the lady would have nothing to say to him. The
captain, like a proper coxcomb, took it into his head that nothing
could have prevented his success, but some other person; and he fixed
upon Mountford as the happy man. Mountford was the best lover and
finest gentleman then on the stage, as Mrs. Bracegirdle was the most
charming heroine; but it does not appear that Hill had any greater
ground for his suspicion than their frequent performance in the same
play, which, however, to a jealous man, must have been extremely
provoking. They used to act Alexander and Statira together. In
Mountford's Alexander, according to Cibber, there were seen "the
great, the tender, the penitent, the despairing, the transported, and
the amiable, in the highest perfection;" and "if anything," he said,
"could excuse that desperate extravagance of love, that almost frantic
passion," it was when Mrs. Bracegirdle was the Statira. Imagine a
dark-souled fellow in the pit thinking himself in love with this
Statira, and that the passion between her and the Alexander was real.
This play was acted a few nights before the catastrophe which we are
about to relate.
Hill was intimate with another man of bad character, Lord Mohun; who
agreed to assist him in carrying off Mrs. Bracegirdle. The captain had
often said that he would be "revenged" upon Mountford; and dining with
Lord Mohun on the day when they attempted the execution of their plot,
he said, further, that he would "stab" him "if he resisted;" upon
which Mohun said that he would "stand by his friend."
Mohun and Hill met at the playhouse at six o'clock, changed clothes
there, and waited some time for Mrs. Bracegirdle; but not finding her
come, they took a coach which they had ordered to be ready, drove
towards her lodgings in Howard Street, and then back to Drury Lane,
where they directed the coach to stop near Lord Clare's house (by the
present Craven Buildings). Mrs. Bracegirdle had been supping at a Mr.
Page's, in Princess Street, Drury Lane. She came out, accompanied by
her mother, brother, and Mr. Page, and was seized by Hill, who, with
the aid of a number of soldiers, endeavoured to force her into the
coach. In the coach was Lord Mohun, with seven or eight pistols. Old
Mrs. Bracegirdle threw her arms round her daughter's waist; her other
friends, and at length the passengers, interfered; and our heroine
succeeded in getting into her lodgings in Howard Street, Hill and
Mohun following them on foot. When they all came to the door, Hill
would have spoken with Page, but the latter refused; and the door was
shut. A witness, at the trial of Lord Mohun, deposed, that they
knocked several times at the door, and then the captain entreated to
beg pardon of Mrs. Bracegirdle for having affronted her, but in vain.
Hill and Mohun remained in the street. They sent to a tavern for a
bottle of wine, and perambulated before the door with drawn swords.
Mrs. Browne, the mistress of the house, came out to know what they did
there; upon which Hill said that he would light upon Mountford some
day or other, and that he would be revenged on him. The people
in-doors, upon this, sent to Mountford's house in Norfolk Street, to
inform his wife; and she despatched messengers to all the places where
he was likely to be found, to warn him of his danger, but they could
not meet with him. Meanwhile the constables and watchmen come up and
ask the strangers what they mean. They say they are drinking a bottle
of wine. Lord Mohun adds that he is ready to put up his sword,
remarking, withal, that he is a "peer of the realm." Upon asking why
the other gentleman did not put up his, his lordship tells them, that
his friend had lost the scabbard. The watchmen, like "ancient and
quiet watchmen," go away to the tavern to "examine who they are;" and
in the meantime Mountford makes his appearance coming up the street.
Mountford lived in Norfolk Street, but he turned out of the path that
led to his own house, and was coming towards Mrs. Bracegirdle's--whether
to her house, or to any other, does not appear. By this time two hours
had elapsed. Mrs. Browne, who seems to have remained watching at the
door, caught sight of Mountford, and hastened to warn him how he
advanced. She was either not quick enough, or Mountford (which appears
most likely) pressed on in spite of what she said, and, according to
her statement, the following dialogue took place between him and Lord
Mohun:--
"Your humble servant, my lord."
"Your servant, Mr. Mountford. I have a great respect for you,
Mr. Mountford, and would have no difference between us; but
there is a thing fallen out between Mr. Hill and Mrs.
Bracegirdle."
"My lord, has my wife disobliged your lordship? if she has, she
shall ask your pardon. But Mrs. Bracegirdle is no concern of
mine: I know nothing of this matter; I come here by accident.
But I hope your lordship will not vindicate Hill in such
actions as these are."
Upon this, according to Mrs. Browne's statement, Hill bade Mountford
draw; which the other said he would; but whether he received his wound
before or after she could not tell, owing to its being night-time.
Another female witness, who lived next door, gives the dialogue as
follows. Lord Mohun begins:--
"Mr. Mountford, your humble servant. I am glad to see you"
(embracing him).
"Who is this? my Lord Mohun?"
"Yes, it is."
"What bringeth your lordship here at this time of night?"
"I suppose you were sent for, Mr. Mountford?"
"No, indeed; I came by chance."
"You have heard of the business of Mrs. Bracegirdle?"
_Hill_ (interfering). "Pray, my lord, hold your tongue, This is
not a convenient time to discuss this business." (On saying
which, the witness adds, that he would have drawn Mohun away.)
_Mountford._ "I am very sorry, my lord, to see that your
lordship should assist Captain Hill in so ill an action as
this: pray let me desire your lordship to forbear."
As soon as he had uttered these words Hill, according to the witness,
came up and struck Mountford a box on the ear; upon which the latter
demanded with an oath, "what that was for;" and then she gives a
confused account of the result, which was the receipt of a mortal
wound by the poor actor. It was agreed that Mountford's sword was not
drawn in the first instance, and that Hill's was; and the question was
settled by the dying deposition of Mountford, who stated several times
over, that Lord Mohun offered him no violence, but that Hill struck
him with his left hand, and then ran him through the body, before he
had time to draw in defence.
Mountford died next day. Hill fled at the time, and we hear no more of
him. Mohun was tried for his life, but acquitted, for want of
evidence, of malice prepense. The truth is, he was a great fool, and
Hill appears to have been another. The captain himself, probably, did
not know what he intended, though his words would have hung him had he
been caught. They were a couple of box-lobby swaggerers, who had
heated themselves with wine; and Hill, who told the constables "they
might knock him down if they liked," and was for drawing Mohun away on
Mountford's appearance, was most likely overcome with rage and
jealousy at hearing the latter speak of him with rebuke. Mohun was at
that time very young. He never ceased, however, hankering after this
sort of excitement to his dulness, till he got killed in a duel about
an estate with the Duke of Hamilton, who was at the same time mortally
wounded. Swift, in a letter about it, calls Mohun a "dog." Pennant
says, that when his body was taken home bleeding (to his house in
Gerrard Street), "Lady Mohun was very angry at its being flung upon
the best bed."[155]
In front of the spot now occupied by St. Mary-le-Strand, commonly
called the New Church, anciently stood a cross, at which, says Stowe,
"in the year 1294, and other times, the justices itinerant sat without
London." In the place of this cross was set up a May-pole, by a
blacksmith named John Clarges, whose daughter Ann became the wife of
Monk, Duke of Albemarle. It was for a long time in a state of decay,
and having been taken down in 1713, a new one was erected opposite
Somerset House. This second May-pole had two gilt balls and a vane on
the summit, and was decorated on holidays with flags and garlands.
The races in the "Dunciad" take place
"Where the tall May-pole overlook'd the Strand."
It was removed in 1718, probably being thought in the way of the new
church, which was then being finished. Sir Isaac Newton begged it of
the parish, and afterwards sent it to the Rector of Wanstead, who set
it up in Wanstead Park to support the then largest telescope in
Europe. The gift of John Clarges came a day too late. In old times,
May had been a great holiday in the streets of London. We shall speak
further of it when we come to the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft, so
called from a May-pole higher than the church. But though the holiday
returned with the Restoration, it never properly recovered the disuse
occasioned by the civil wars, and the contempt thrown on it by the
spirit of puritanism. We gained too many advantages by the
thoughtfulness generated in those times to quarrel with their
mistakes; and have no doubt that the progress of knowledge to which
they gave an impulse, will bring back the advantages they omitted by
the way.[156]
The New Church, or, more properly, the Church of St. Mary-le-Strand,
was built by Gibbs, the architect of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. It was
one of the "fifty," improperly so called, that are said to have been
built in the reign of Queen Anne; for though fifty were ordered, the
number was not completed. The old church in this quarter, which stood
at a little distance to the south, was removed by the Protector
Somerset, to make way for Somerset House, and has never been restored.
The parishioners went to the neighbouring churches. The New Church is
in the pretty, over-ornamented style, very different from that of St.
Martin's with its noble front: and though far better than St.
Clement's, and as superior to many places of worship built lately[157]
as art is superior to ignorance, yet it surely is not worthy of its
advantageous situation. It is one of those toys of architecture which
have been said to require glass cases. For the superfluous height of
the steeple, Gibbs offered an excuse. A column was to have been
erected near the church in honour of Queen Anne, but, as the Queen
died, she was no longer thought deserving the column, and the
architect was ordered to make a steeple with the materials, whereas he
had intended only a belfry. Now, to render the steeple fitting, the
church should have had a wider base; but the structure was already
begun, and there was no changing the plan of it. It might be still
argued, that the steeple should not have been made so high: but then,
what was to be done with the stones? This, in the mouth of parish
virtù, was a triumphant reply. After all, however, the artist need not
have spoilt his church with ornament. He said, that being situated in
a very public place, "the parishioners" spared no cost to beautify it;
but to beautify a church is not to make it a piece of confectionery.[158]
Somerset House occupies the site of a princely mansion built by
Somerset the Protector, brother of Lady Jane Seymour, and uncle to
King Edward VI. His character is not sufficiently marked to give any
additional interest to the spot. He was great by accident; lost and
gained his greatness, according as others acted upon it; and
ultimately resigned it on the scaffold. The house he left became the
property of the Crown, and was successively in possession of Queen
Elizabeth and of the queens of James I., Charles I., and Charles II.
The rooms in this house witnessed many joyous scenes and many anxious
ones. Somerset had not long inhabited it when he was taken to the
scaffold. Elizabeth, in her wise economy, lent it to her cousin Lord
Hunsdon, whom she frequently visited within its walls.
During its occupation by James's queen, Anne of Denmark (from whose
family it was called Denmark House), Wilson says, that a constant
masquerade was going on, the Queen and her ladies, "like so many
sea-nymphs, or nereids," appearing in various dresses, "to the
ravishment of the beholders."[159]
Here began the struggle for mastery between Charles I. and Henrietta
Maria, which terminated in favour of the latter, though the King
behaved himself manfully at first. Henrietta had brought over with her
a meddling French household which, after repeated grievances, his
Majesty was obliged to send "packing." He summoned them all together
one evening in the house, and addressed them as follows:--
"Gentlemen and ladies,