commemoration. Dorothy Osborne was twenty-one. She is said to have been
handsome, and there remains abundant proof that she possessed an ample
share of the dexterity, the vivacity, and the tenderness of her sex. Sir
William Temple soon became, in the phrase of that time, her servant, and
she returned his regard. But difficulties as great as ever expanded a
novel to the fifth volume opposed their wishes. When the courtship
commenced, the father of the hero was sitting in the Long Parliament;
the father of the heroine was commanding in Guernsey for King Charles.
Even when the war ended, and Sir Peter Osborne returned to his seat at
Chicksands, the prospects of the lovers were scarcely less gloomy. Sir
John Temple had a more advantageous alliance in view for his son.
Dorothy Osborne was in the meantime besieged by as many suitors as were
drawn to Belmont by the fame of Portia. The most distinguished on the
list was Henry Cromwell. Destitute of the capacity, the energy, the
magnanimity of his illustrious father, destitute also of the meek and
placid virtues of his elder brother, this young man was perhaps a more
formidable rival than either of them would have been. Mrs Hutchinson,
speaking the sentiments of the grave and aged, calls him an "insolent
foole," and "a debauched ungodly cavalier." These expressions probably
mean that he was one who, among young and dissipated people, would pass
for a fine gentleman. Dorothy was fond of dogs of larger and more
formidable breed than those which lie on modern hearthrugs, and Henry
Cromwell promised that the highest functionaries in Dublin should be set
to work to procure for her a fine Irish greyhound. She seems to have
felt his attentions as very flattering, though his father was then only
Lord General, and not yet Protector. Love, however, triumphed over
ambition, and the young lady appears never to have regretted her
decision; though in a letter written just at the time when all England
was ringing with the news of the violent dissolution of the Long
Parliament, she could not refrain from reminding Temple, with pardonable
vanity, "how great she might have been if she had been so wise as to
have taken hold of the offer of Henry Cromwell."
Near seven years did this arduous wooing continue. Temple appears to
have kept up a very active correspondence with his mistress. We would
willingly learn more of the loves of these two. In the seventeenth
century, to be sure, Louis XIV. was a much more important person than
Temple's sweetheart. But death and time equalise all things. Neither the
great king nor the beauty of Bedfordshire, neither the gorgeous paradise
of Marli nor Mrs Osborne's favourite walk "in the common that lay hard
by the house, where a great many young wenches used to keep sheep and
cows, and sit in the shade singing of ballads," is anything to us. Louis
and Dorothy are alike dust. A cotton-mill stands on the ruins of Marli,
and the Osbornes have ceased to dwell under the ancient roof of
Chicksands.
When at last the constancy of the lovers triumphed over all the
obstacles which kinsmen and rivals could oppose to their union, a yet
more serious calamity befell them. Poor Mrs Osborne fell ill of the
small-pox, and though she escaped with life, lost all her beauty. To
this most severe trial, the affection and honour of the lovers of that
age was not unfrequently subjected. Our readers will probably remember
what Mrs Hutchinson tells us of herself. The lofty Cornelia-like spirit
of the aged matron seems to melt into a long forgotten softness when she
relates how her beloved Colonel "married her as soon as she was able to
quit the chamber, when the priest and all that saw her were affrighted
to look on her. But God," she adds, with a not ungraceful vanity,
"recompensed his justice and constancy by restoring her as well as
before." Temple showed on this occasion the same justice and constancy
which did so much honour to Colonel Hutchinson. The date of the marriage
is not exactly known. But Mr Courtenay supposes it to have taken place
about the year 1654. From this time we lose Dorothy, and are reduced to
form our opinion of the terms on which she and her husband were, from
very slight indications, which may easily mislead us.
[Illustration: Drawn by J. Thurston. Engraved by W. Finden.
CATHERINE PHILLIPS.
From an original Picture in the Collection of her Grace the Dutchess
of Dorset.]
CATHERINE PHILIPS.
[BORN 1631. DIED 1664.]
BALLARD.
The celebrated Orinda was the daughter of John Fowler of Bucklersbury.
Her improvement was so early, that whoever reads the account given of
her by M. Aubrey, will look upon all her succeeding progress in learning
to be no more than what might justly be expected. He tells us that she
was very apt to learn, and made verses when she was at school; that she
devoted herself to religious duties when she was very young; that she
would then pray by herself an hour together; that she had read the Bible
through before she was full four years old; that she could say by heart
many chapters and passages of Scripture, was a frequent hearer of
sermons, which she would bring away entire in her memory, and would take
sermons verbatim when she was but ten years old.
She became afterwards a perfect mistress of the French tongue, and
learned the Italian under the tuition of her ingenious and worthy friend
Sir Charles Cottrell. Born with a genius for poetry, she began to
improve it early in life, and composed many poems, upon various
occasions, for her own amusement, in her recess at Cardigan and
retirement elsewhere. These being dispersed among her friends and
acquaintances, were by an unknown hand collected together and published
in 1663, without her knowledge and consent,--an ungenteel and ungenerous
treatment, which proved so oppressive to her great modesty, that it gave
her a severe fit of illness. She poured forth her complaints in a long
letter to Sir Charles Cottrell, in which she laments, in a most
affecting manner, the misfortune and injury which had been done to her
by this surreptitious edition of her poems.
Her remarkable humility, good nature, and agreeable conversation,
greatly endeared her to all her acquaintances, and her ingenious and
elegant writings procured her the friendship and correspondence of many
learned and eminent men, and of persons of the first rank in England.
Upon her going to Ireland with the Viscountess of Dungannon, to transact
her husband's affairs there, her great merit soon made her known to, and
esteemed by, those illustrious persons,--Ormond, Orrery, Roscommon, and
many other persons of distinction,--who paid a great deference to her
worth and abilities, and showed her singular marks of their esteem.
While in Ireland, she was very happy in carrying on a former intimacy
with the famous Dr Jeremy Taylor, the worthy Bishop of Down and Conner,
who addressed to her "A Discourse of the Nature, Offices, and Measures
of Friendship." It is possible that his acquaintance with Mrs Philips
might contribute much towards the good opinion he entertained of the
female sex. It is certain that he was a great admirer of them. "But, by
the way, madam," he says, "you may see how much I differ from the
morosity of those cynics who would not admit your sex into the
communities of a noble friendship. I believe some wives have been the
best friends in the world, and few stories can outdo the nobleness and
piety of that lady that sucked the poisoned purulent matter from the
wound of our brave prince in the holy land, when an assassin had pierced
him with a venomed arrow. And if it be told that women cannot return
counsel, and therefore can be no brave friends, I can best confute them
by the story of Portia. I cannot say that women are capable of all those
excellences by which men can oblige the world; and therefore a female
friend, in some cases, is not so good a counsellor as a wise man, and
cannot so well defend my honour, nor dispose of reliefs and assistances,
if she be under the power of another; but a woman can love as
passionately, and converse as pleasantly, and retain a secret as
faithfully, and be useful in her proper ministries, and she can die for
her friend as well as the bravest Roman knight. A man is the best friend
in trouble, but a woman may be equal to him in the days of joy; a woman
can as well increase our comforts, but cannot so well lessen our
sorrows, and therefore we do not carry women with us when we go to
fight; but, in peaceful cities and times, virtuous women are the
beauties of society and the prettinesses of friendship."
Mrs Philips went for a time into a sort of melancholy retirement,
occasioned, perhaps, by the bad success of her husband's affairs; and,
going to London in order to relieve her oppressed spirits with the
conversation of her friends there, she was seized by the small-pox, and
died in her thirty-third year. Mr Aubrey observes that her person was of
a middle stature, pretty fat, and ruddy complexion.
MADAME DE MAINTENON.
[BORN 1635. DIED 1719.]
ST SIMON.
Born in a prison of America, whither her father had gone as a needy
adventurer, and where he died, Francis d'Aubigne returned to France a
poor orphan. At Rochelle, where she landed, she was taken pity upon by
Madame de Nuillant, an old miser, who degraded the friendless girl by
making her keep the key of the granary, and deal out the corn to the
horses. Going afterwards to Paris, her beauty, wit, and propriety of
conduct procured her friends, and subsequently she married the famous
poet Scarron, then a deformed old man. It was the custom for people who
loved letters, among whom were many courtiers, to repair to Scarron's
house, where they tasted of that wit and fancy which may be discovered
in his works. In all this Madame Scarron participated, making many
acquaintances, whose friendship, after Scarron's death, did not save her
from being a burden on the parish. She afterwards found her way into the
Hotel d'Albret, and that of Richelieu, where she acted as a kind of
upper servant, calling the other domestics, and reporting when such a
one's carriage had arrived. From one thing to another she changed, till
she succeeded in so charming King Louis the Fourteenth's mistress,
Madame de Montespan, that she engaged her to take the charge of her
children. In this office she was in the habit of often meeting the king,
who soon saw how much she excelled, in learning and good sense the other
women who had been devoted to his pleasure. Finally she was privately
married to him.
A woman of strong understanding, Madame Maintenon had learnt, from the
various conditions in which she had been, the art of pleasing,
insinuation, complaisance, and the use of intrigue; an incomparable
grace, an air of perfect ease and self-possession, accompanied by a
reservation and show of respect, which was the consequence of her humble
birth, and so far natural to her, wrought in unison with a soft speech,
the choice of appropriate words, and a species of eloquence kept within
bounds. The prior times in which she had lived were those of precision
and affectation, qualities which she retained, and in some degree
elevated, by an air of dignity and importance, and which, being
favourable to devotion, first inspired in her that feeling, and were
latterly submerged in it.
Yet, withal, the real character of her mind was that of ambition. She
aspired continually after new acquaintances and friends, as well as new
modes of amusement, excepting only some old confidantes whom time had
rendered necessary to her. This inequality in her temper produced many
evils. Easily elevated, she rose to an excess of feeling; as easily
depressed, she relapsed into satiety and even disgust, without being
able to render a reason for the change even to herself. After overcoming
the difficulty of getting into her presence, one had to experience a
volubility resulting from something which happened to please her, and
presently a relapse into indifference, or something worse, so that it
was a task for the visitor to know whether he was in grace or disgrace.
She possessed also the weakness to be regulated by confidences and
confessions, and to submit to be made the dupe of religious societies.
The time absorbed by her visits to convents was incredible. She believed
herself to be a kind of universal abbess, and concerned herself with the
endless details of numerous convents. She even figured herself to be the
mother of the Church, weighing and estimating the merits or demerits of
ecclesiastical officials, not less than those of the female heads of
convents. She was thus plunged in a sea of occupations, frivolous,
deceitful, and painful; of letters and answers to letters, directions to
choice friends, and all sorts of puerilities, which resulted ordinarily
in nothing. [Yet, for thirty years of her life, she played her part so
well that she was the king's most confidential adviser, and shared in
the obloquy of some of his worst acts, such as the revocation of the
edict of Nantes. She was a virtuous woman, a devout and bigoted
Catholic, ambitious and resolute, yet disinterested and charitable. Her
published letters demand for her a creditable place in French
literature.]
COUNTESS DE GRAMMONT.
[1641.]
COUNT A. HAMILTON.
Miss Hamilton, the eldest daughter of Sir George Hamilton, and born in
1641, was at the happy age when the charms of the fair sex begin to
bloom; she had the finest shape, the loveliest neck, and most beautiful
arms in the world; she was majestic and graceful in her movements, and
she was the original after which all the ladies copied in their taste
and air of dress. Her forehead was open, white, and smooth; her hair was
well set, and fell with ease into that natural order which it is so
difficult to imitate. Her complexion was possessed of a certain
freshness not to be equalled by borrowed colours; her eyes were not
large, but they were lively, and capable of expressing whatever she
pleased; her mouth was full of graces, and her contour uncommonly
perfect; nor was her nose, which was small, delicate, and _retrousse_,
the least ornament of so lovely a face.
Her mind was a proper companion for such a form. She did not endeavour
to shine in conversation by those sprightly sallies which only puzzle,
and, with still greater care, she avoided that affected solemnity in her
discourse which produces stupidity; but, without any eagerness to talk,
she just said what she ought and no more. She had an admirable
discernment in distinguishing between solid and false wit; and, far from
making an ostentatious display of her abilities, she was reserved,
though very just, in her decisions. Her sentiments were always noble,
and even lofty to the highest extent, when there was occasion;
nevertheless, she was less prepossessed with her own merit than is
usually the case with those who have so much. Formed as we have
described, she could not fail of commanding love; but so far was she
from courting it, that she was scrupulously nice with respect to those
whose merit might enable them to cherish any pretensions to her.
[Such a portrait (says Mr Davenport Adams) makes one in love with the
woman it professes to represent, and envy might be tempted to conclude
that it was rather the ideal of some poetic Diana, than a transcript of
a veritable flesh and blood beauty. Undoubtedly, the natural partiality
of the brother and the pride of the husband (Count de Grammont), whose
united skill has been exerted to produce so agreeable an _ensemble_,
have filled in the outline with too flattering colours, and heightened
the charms of nature by the graces of art. But when, for this fond
exaggeration, due allowance shall have been made, there will still
remain enough to justify us in regarding Elizabeth Hamilton as one of
the most fascinating women of her age or nation.
The highest in rank, and the most important of her lovers, was the Duke
of York, who had been captivated by a glance at her portrait in Lely's
studio. His proposals, however, being neither flattering nor honourable,
were haughtily rejected. The Duke of Richmond, a gamester and a
drunkard; the heir of Norfolk, a wealthy simpleton; the brave and
handsome Falmouth, who afterwards died a hero's death in one of the
great sea-fights with the Dutch; the two Russels, uncle and nephew; and
the invincible Henry Jermyn, in succession acknowledged the power of her
charms, and offered her their hands. They were refused. The Count de
Grammont next presented himself, and was more successful, though in
moral character he was not superior to his predecessors, and in fortune
was their inferior.
This celebrated wit, who has become so celebrated to us through the
graphic pages of Count Hamilton's Memoirs, was born in 1621. Having been
banished from France by Louis XIV., for entering himself against that
monarch in the lists of love with Mademoiselle La Motte Howdencourt, he
repaired to the court of Charles II., where he immediately became "the
observed of all observers." He was handsome, graceful, and accomplished;
his manners possessed an indescribable fascination; his address was
polished and easy, his conversation light and amusing. But his enemies
accused him of being treacherous in his friendships, cruel in his
jealousies, and trifling in his loves. He was assuredly a man of
unprincipled character, and as false towards a friend as he was fickle
to a mistress; but an undefinable brilliancy of manners, which dazzled
every eye, imposed on the judgment of all whom he came in contact with;
and it was only those whom he had defrauded or betrayed that could
distinguish the _clinquant_ from the pure metal.
After several years of wooing, the fickle Count de Grammont became the
husband of the beautiful Hamilton. But, notwithstanding the apparent
warmth and duration of his addresses, it is doubtful whether he really
intended them seriously; and his marriage is said to have been forced
upon him. Having made his peace with Louis XIV., he had received
permission to return to France. In all haste he set out on his journey,
and, it is said, without bringing matters to a proper conclusion with
Miss Hamilton. Her brothers immediately pursued him, and came up with
him near Dover, resolved to extort from him an explanation, or to obtain
satisfaction with their swords. "Chevalier de Grammont," they exclaimed,
"have you forgotten nothing in London?" "Excuse me," he rejoined, with
his accustomed self-possession, "I forgot to marry your sister." He
returned with them to London, and espoused the fair lady, Charles II.
honouring the nuptials with his presence.... Grammont died at the age of
eighty-six, and his wife survived him but one year.]
MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIERE.
[BORN 1644. DIED 1710.]
DAVENPORT ADAMS.
It must be acknowledged that Louis XIV., in his amours more refined than
his contemporary Charles II. of England, sought for mental gifts no less
than personal charms, and, if caught at first by the eye and the lip,
the bloom of the cheek and the lustre of the hair, could only be held by
the surer and more exquisite fascination of a clear judgment and a
lively wit. He was not content with a dumb Venus. Beauty was required to
wear the robe of Pallas, and to borrow some, at least, of the magical
spells of the Graces. Criminal as were his attachments, and fatal to the
heart and soul of his people by the general levity of manners and morals
which they necessarily seemed to justify, they were clothed with a pomp
and refinement that concealed their most hideous features.
The most romantic of Louis' attachments was that which he professed for
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, born in 1664 of a noble family, which had
been long established in Touraine. While yet a child, she lost her
father, and was brought up at Blois, in the household of Gaston of
Orleans. "Her features," as we learn from Elizabeth of Bavaria, Duchess
of Orleans, "had an inexpressible attraction; her figure was beautiful,
her appearance modest; she limped a little, but this did not ill become
her." Her forehead was smooth and white, and on each side of it
clustered abundant curls of a glossy auburn. The soft languishing eyes,
the straight nose, the exquisite mouth and the dimpled chin, with a
certain eloquent air of love and gentleness, made up a most fascinating
countenance. All the figure was firm and plump--not one of your angular
forms, that bristle with sharp points, but the shape of a Venus, rich in
graceful curves, and softly rounded. There was a peculiar charm in her
conversation; it so sparkled with that light, effervescing humour, which
in the mouth of a pretty woman is accounted wit, while it breathed an
air of refinement that indicated a graceful and accomplished mind. A
sweet temper and a gentle disposition won the affection of all her
companions. She was capable of a passionate love, a deep and unalterable
love, devoted to its object, and utterly regardless of itself. She was
not ambitious, except of being loved; and that is an ambition which a
man willingly forgives to beauty. Envy and jealousy shrunk afar from her
generous soul. Finally, La Valliere had all the softness if she lacked
the purity of Imogen, the self-abandonment of Juliet, the passionate
fidelity of Ophelia; but nature had rendered it impossible for her to
play the part of a Cleopatra. She was formed to yield, to obey, to
suffer in silence; and the secret of her power lay in the simplicity of
her devotion.
The beautiful La Valliere is still the heroine of the people. Her story
is a tale of passion, of guilt, sorrow, and penitence; it has had
peculiar attractions for the popular mind; and, while it has contributed
poem, romance, and history to French literature, it has not been
neglected by the English writer. It certainly possesses the most
striking features of romance. Consider the quality of the actors--a
powerful sovereign in the flush of youthful pride, contrasted with a
young and simple maid of honour. Consider the startling variety of the
passions--ardent and aspiring love, triumphant possession; satiety on
the one side, and sorrow on the other, remorse, and a long repentance.
Consider the picturesque character of the scenes--the glittering pomp of
a palace, the austere simplicity of a convent. And then there is thrown
over the whole the bewildering atmosphere of splendour; nobles and
pages, statesmen and beauties, priests and councillors,--music and
flowers, and the glow of a thousand lights,--the fall of powerful
ministers, the intrigues of subtle courtiers,--all blend in the exciting
movement of this passionate and fantastic drama. And yet it is an old,
old story,--the brief madness of love, the prolonged penitence of
remorse. It is a fine commentary on the exultant sin,--this dreary old
age of shattered hopes that closes all.
MADAME DACIER.
[BORN 1654. DIED 1720.]
HALLAM.
One whom Bentley calls the most learned of women, Tanaquil Faber, thus
better known than by his real name, Tanneguy le Fevre, a man learned,
animated, acquired a considerable name among French critics by several
editions, as well as by other writings in philology. But none of his
literary productions were so celebrated as those of his daughter, Anne
le Fevre, afterwards Madame Dacier.
The knowledge of Greek, though once not very uncommon in a woman, had
become prodigious in the days of Louis XIV.; and when this distinguished
lady taught Homer and Sappho to speak French prose, she appeared a
phoenix in the eyes of her countrymen. She was undoubtedly a person of
very rare talents and estimable character; her translations are
numerous, and reputed to be correct, though Niceron has observed that
she did not raise Homer in the eyes of those who were not prejudiced in
his favour. Her husband was a scholar of kindred mind and the same
pursuits. Their union was facetiously called the wedding of Latin and
Greek. But each of this learned couple was skilled in both languages.
Dacier was a great translator: his Horace is perhaps the best known of
his versions; but the Poetics of Aristotle have done him most honour.