The conversation before related was agreeable only to Miss Hobart; for
if Miss Temple was entertained with its commencement, she was so much
the more irritated by its conclusion this indignation was succeeded by
the curiosity of knowing the reason why, if Sidney had a real esteem for
her, she should not be allowed to pay some attention to him.
As soon as they retired from the closet, Miss Sarah came out of the
bath, where during all this conversation, she had been almost perished
with cold, without daring to complain. This little gipsy had, it seems,
obtained leave of Miss Hobart’s woman to bathe herself unknown to her
mistress; and having, I know not how, found means to fill one of the
baths with cold water, Miss Sarah had just got into it, when they
were both alarmed with the arrival of the other two. A glass partition
enclosed the room where the baths were, and Indian silk curtains, which
drew on the inside, screened those that were bathing. Miss Hobart’s
chamber-maid had only just time to draw these curtains, that the girl
might not be seen to lock the partition door, and to take away the key,
before her mistress and Miss Temple came in.
These two sat down on a couch placed along the partition, and Miss
Sarah, notwithstanding her alarms, had distinctly heard, and perfectly
retained the whole conversation. As the little girl was at all this
trouble to make herself clean, only on Lord Rochester’s account, as
soon as ever she could make her escape she regained her garret; where
Rochester, having repaired thither at the appointed hour, was fully
informed of all that had passed in the bathing room. He was astonished
at the audacious temerity of Hobart, in daring to put such a trick upon
him; but, though he rightly judged that love and jealousy were the real
motives, he would not excuse her. Little Sarah desired to know whether
he had a real affection for Miss Temple, as Miss Hobart said she
supposed that was the case. “Can you doubt it,” replied he, “since that
oracle of sincerity has affirmed it? But then you know that I am not now
capable of profiting by my perfidy, were I even to gain Miss Temple’s
compliance, since my debauches and the street-walkers have brought me to
order.”
This answer made Miss Sarah very easy, for she concluded that the first
article was not true, since she knew from experience that the latter
was false. Lord Rochester was resolved that very evening to attend the
duchess’s court, to see what reception he would meet with after the fine
portrait Miss Hobart had been so kind as to draw of him. Miss Temple did
not fail to be there likewise, with the intention of looking on him with
the most contemptuous disdain possible, though she had taken care to
dress herself as well as she could. As she supposed that the lampoon
Miss Hobart had sung to her was in everybody’s possession, she was under
great embarrassment lest all those whom she met should think her such
a monster as Lord Rochester had described her. In the mean time, Miss
Hobart, who had not much confidence in her promises never more to speak
to him, narrowly watched her. Miss Temple never in her life appeared so
handsome every person complimented her upon it; but she received all
the civilities with such an air, that every one thought she was mad; for
when they commended her shape, her fresh complexion, and the brilliancy
of her eyes: “Pshaw,” said she, “it is very well known that I am but a
monster, and formed in no respect like other women: all is not gold
that glisters; and though I may receive some compliments in public, it
signifies nothing.” All Miss Hobart’s endeavours to stop her tongue were
ineffectual; and continuing to rail at herself ironically, the whole
court was puzzled to comprehend her meaning.
When Lord Rochester came in, she first blushed, then turned pale, made
a motion to go towards him, drew back again, pulled her gloves one
after the other up to the elbow; and after having three times violently
flirted her fan, she waited until he paid his compliments to her as
usual, and as soon as he began to bow, the fair one immediately turned
her back upon him. Rochester only smiled, and being resolved that her
resentment should be still more remarked, he turned round and posting
himself face to face: “Madam,” said he, “nothing can be so glorious as
to look so charming as you do, after such a fatiguing day: to support
a ride of three long hours, and Miss Hobart afterwards, without being
tired, shows indeed a very strong constitution.”
Miss Temple had naturally a tender look, but she was transported with
such a violent passion at his having the audacity to speak to her, that
her eyes appeared like two fireballs when she turned them upon him.
Hobart pinched her arm, as she perceived that this look was likely to be
followed by a torrent of reproaches and invectives.
Lord Rochester did not wait for them, and delaying until another
opportunity the acknowledgments he owed Miss Hobart, he quietly retired.
The latter, who could not imagine that he knew anything of their
conversation at the bath, was, however, much alarmed at what he had
said; but Miss Temple, almost choked with the reproaches with which she
thought herself able to confound him and which she had not time to give
vent to, vowed to ease her mind of them upon the first opportunity,
notwithstanding the promise she had made; but never more to speak to him
afterwards.
Lord Rochester had a faithful spy near these nymphs: this was Miss
Sarah, who, by his advice, and with her aunt’s consent, was reconciled
with Miss Hobart, the more effectually to betray her: he was informed by
this spy, that Miss Hobart’s maid, being suspected of having listened
to them in the closet, had been turned away; that she had taken another,
whom in all probability, she would not keep long, because, in the first
place, she was ugly, and, in the second, she eat the sweetmeats that
were prepared for Miss Temple. Although this intelligence was not
very material, Sarah was nevertheless praised for her punctuality
and attention; and a few days afterwards she brought him news of real
importance.
Rochester was by her informed, that Miss Hobart and her new favourite
designed, about nine o’clock in the evening to walk in the Mall, in
the Park; that they were to change clothes with each other, to put on
scarfs, and wear black-masks: she added, that Miss Hobart had strongly
opposed this project, but that she was obliged to give way at last, Miss
Temple having resolved to indulge her fancy.
Upon the strength of this intelligence, Rochester concerted his
measures: he went to Killegrew, complained to him of the trick which
Miss Hobart had played him, and desired his assistance in order to be
revenged: this was readily granted, and having acquainted him with the
measures he intended to pursue, and given him the part he was to act in
this adventure, they went to the Mall.
Presently after appeared our two nymphs in masquerade: their shapes were
not very different, and their faces, which were very unlike each other,
were concealed with their masks. The company was but thin in the Park;
and as soon as Miss Temple perceived them at a distance, she quickened
her pace in order to join them, with the design, under her disguise,
severely to reprimand the perfidious Rochester; when Miss Hobart
stopping her: “Where are you running to?” said she; “have you a mind to
engage in conversation with these two devils, to be exposed to all
the insolence and impertinence for which they are so notorious?” These
remonstrances were entirely useless: Miss Temple was resolved to try the
experiment: and all that could be obtained from her, was, not to answer
any of the questions Rochester might ask her.
They were accosted just as they had done speaking: Rochester fixed
upon Hobart, pretending to take her for the other; at which she was
overjoyed; but Miss Temple was extremely sorry she fell to Killegrew’s
share, with whom she had nothing to do: he perceived her uneasiness,
and, pretending to know her by her clothes: “Ah! Miss Hobart,” said he,
“be so kind as look this way if you please: I know not by what chance
you both came hither, but I am sure it is very apropos for you, since I
have something to say to you, as your friend and humble servant.”
This beginning raising her curiosity, Miss Temple appeared more inclined
to attend him; and Killegrew perceiving that the other couple had
insensibly proceeded some distance from them: “In the name of God,” said
he: “what do you mean by railing so against Lord Rochester, whom
you know to be one of the most honourable men at court, and whom you
nevertheless described as the greatest villain, to the person whom of
all others he esteems and respects the most? What do you think would
become of you, if he knew that you made Miss Temple believe she is the
person alluded to in a certain song, which you know as well as myself
was made upon the clumsy Miss Price, above a year before the fair Temple
was heard of? Be not surprised that I know so much of the matter; but
pay a little attention, I pray you, to what I am now going to tell you
out of pure friendship: your passion and inclinations for Miss Temple
are known to every one but herself; for whatever methods you used to
impose upon her innocence, the world does her the justice to believe
that she would treat you as Lady Falmouth did, if the poor girl knew
the wicked designs you had upon her: I caution you, therefore, against
making any farther advances, to a person, too modest to listen to them:
I advise you likewise to take back your maid again, in order to silence
her scandalous tongue; for she says everywhere, that she is with child,
that you are the occasion of her being in that condition, and accuses
you of behaving towards her with the blackest ingratitude, upon trifling
suspicions only: you know very well, these are no stories of my own
invention; but that you may not entertain any manner of doubt, that I
had all this from her own mouth, she has told me your conversation in
the bathing-room, the characters you there drew of the principal men at
court, your artful malice in applying so improperly a scandalous song
to one of the loveliest women in all England; and in what manner the
innocent girl fell into the snare you had laid for her, in order to
do justice to her charms. But that which might be of the most fatal
consequences to you in that long conversation, is the revealing certain
secrets, which, in all probability, the duchess did not entrust you
with, to be imparted to the maids of honour: reflect upon this, and
neglect not to make some reparation to Sir Lyttleton, for the ridicule
with which you were pleased to load him. I know not whether he had his
information from your femme-de-chambre, but I am very certain that he
has sworn he will be revenged, and he is a man that keeps his word;
for after all, that you may not be deceived by his look, like that of a
Stoic, and his gravity, like that of a judge, I must acquaint you, that
he is the most passionate man living. Indeed, these invectives are of
the blackest and most horrible nature: he says it is most infamous, that
a wretch like yourself should find no other employment than to blacken
the characters of gentlemen, to gratify your jealousy; that if you
do not desist from such conduct for the future, he will immediately
complain of you; and that if her royal highness will not do him justice,
he is determined to do himself justice, and to run you through the body
with his own sword, though you were even in the arms of Miss Temple; and
that it is most scandalous that all the maids of honour should get into
your hands before they can look around them.
“These things, madam, I thought it my duty to acquaint you with: you are
better able to judge than myself, whether what I have now advanced be
true, and I leave it to your own discretion to make what use you think
proper of my advice; but were I in your situation, I would endeavour to
reconcile Lord Rochester and Miss Temple. Once more I recommend to you
to take care that your endeavours to mislead her innocency, in order
to blast his honour, may not come to his knowledge; and do not estrange
from her a man who tenderly loves her, and whose probity is so great,
that he would not even suffer his eyes to wander towards her, if his
intention was not to make her his wife.”
Miss Temple observed her promise most faithfully during this discourse:
she did not even utter a single syllable, being seized with such
astonishment and confusion, that she quite lost the use of her tongue.
Miss Hobart and Lord Rochester came up to her, while she was still
in amazement at the wonderful discoveries she had made; things in
themselves, in her opinion, almost incredible, but to the truth of
which she could not refuse her assent, upon examining the evidences and
circumstances on which they were founded. Never was confusion equal to
that with which her whole frame was seized by the foregoing recital.
Rochester and Killegrew took leave of them before she recovered from her
surprise; but as soon as she had regained the free use of her senses,
she hastened back to St. James, without answering a single question that
the other put to her; and having locked herself up in her chamber, the
fast thing she did, was immediately to strip off Miss Hobart’s clothes,
lest she should be contaminated by them; for after what she had been
told concerning her, she looked upon her as a monster, dreadful to the
innocence of the fair sex, of whatever sex she might be: she blushed at
the familiarities she had been drawn into with a creature, whose maid
was with child, though she never had been in any other service but hers:
she therefore returned her all her clothes, ordered her servant to bring
back all her own, and resolved never more to have any connection with
her. Miss Hobart, on the other hand, who supposed Killegrew had mistaken
Miss Temple for herself, could not comprehend what could induce her to
give herself such surprising airs, since that conversation; but being
desirous to come to an explanation, she ordered Miss Temple’s maid to
remain in her apartments, and went to call upon Miss Temple herself,
instead of sending back her clothes; and being desirous to give her some
proof of friendship before they entered upon expostulations, she slipt
softly into her chamber, when she was in the very act of changing her
linen, and embraced her. Miss Temple finding herself in her arms before
she had taken notice of her, everything that Killegrew had mentioned,
appeared to her imagination: she fancied that she saw in her looks
the eagerness of a satyr, or, if possible, of some monster still more
odious; and disengaging herself with the highest indignation from her
arms, she began to shriek and cry in the most terrible manner, calling
both heaven and earth to her assistance.
The first whom her cries raised were the governess and her niece. It
was near twelve o’clock at night: Miss Temple in her shift, almost
frightened to death, was pushing back with horror Miss Hobart, who
approached her with no other intent than to know the occasion of those
transports. As soon as the governess saw this scene, she began to
lecture Miss Hobart with all the eloquence of a real duenna: she
demanded of her, whether she thought it was for her that her royal
highness kept the maids of honour? whether she was not ashamed to come
at such an unseasonable time of night into their very apartments to
commit such violences? and swore that she would, the very next day,
complain to the duchess. All this confirmed Miss Temple in her mistaken
notions: and Hobart was obliged to go away at last, without being able
to convince or bring to reason creatures, whom she believed to be either
distracted or mad. The next day Miss Sarah did not fail to relate this
adventure to her lover, telling him how Miss Temple’s cries had alarmed
the maids of honour’s apartment, and how herself and her aunt, running
to her assistance, had almost surprised Miss Hobart in the very act.
Two days after, the whole adventure, with the addition of several
embellishments, was made public: the governess swore to the truth of
it, and related in every company what a narrow escape Miss Temple had
experienced, and that Miss Sarah, her niece, had preserved her honour,
because, by Lord Rochester’s excellent advice, she had forbidden her
all manner of connection with so dangerous a person. Miss Temple was
afterwards informed, that the song that had so greatly provoked her,
alluded to Miss Price only: this was confirmed to her by every person,
with additional execrations against Miss Hobart, for such a scandalous
imposition. Such great coldness after so much familiarity, made many
believe, that this adventure was not altogether a fiction.
This had been sufficient to have disgraced Miss Hobart at court, and to
have totally ruined her reputation in London, had she not been, upon the
present, as well as upon a former occasion, supported by the duchess:
her royal highness pretended to treat the whole story as romantic
and visionary, or as solely arising from private pique: she chid Miss
Temple, for her impertinent credulity: turned away the governess and
her niece, for the lies with which she pretended they supported the
imposture; and did many improper things in order to re-establish Miss
Hobart’s honour, which, however, she failed in accomplishing. She had
her reasons for not entirely abandoning her, as will appear in the
sequel.
Miss Temple, who continually reproached herself with injustice, with
respect to Lord Rochester, and who, upon the faith of Killegrew’s word,
thought him the most Honourable man in England, was only solicitous
to find out some opportunity of easing her mind, by making him some
reparation for the rigour with which she had treated him: these
favourable dispositions, in the hands of a man of his character, might
have led to consequences of which she was not aware; but heaven did not
allow him an opportunity of profiting by them.
Ever since he had first appeared at court he seldom failed being
banished from it, at least once in the year; for whenever a word
presented itself to his pen, or to his tongue, he immediately committed
it to paper, or produced it in conversation, without any manner of
regard to the consequences the ministers, the mistresses, and even the
king himself, were frequently the subjects of his sarcasms; and had
not the prince, whom he thus treated, been possessed of one of the most
forgiving and gentle tempers, his first disgrace had certainly been his
last.
Just at the time that Miss Temple was desirous of seeing him, in order
to apologize for the uneasiness which the infamous calumnies and black
aspersions of Miss Hobart had occasioned both of them, he was forbid the
court for the third time: he departed without having seen Miss Temple,
carried the disgraced governess down with him to his country seat, and
exerted all his endeavours to cultivate in her niece some dispositions
which she had for the stage; but though she did not make the same
improvement in this line, as she had by his other instructions, after
he had entertained both the niece and the aunt for some months in the
country, he got her entered in the king’s company of comedians the next
winter; and the public was obliged to him for the prettiest, but at the
same time, the worst actress in the kingdom.
[Though no name is given to this lady, there are circumstances
enough mentioned to fix on the celebrated Mrs. Barry, as the person
intended by the author. Mrs. Barry was introduced to the stage by
Lord Rochester, with whom she had an intrigue, the fruit of which
was a daughter, who lived to the age of thirteen years, and is often
mentioned in his collection of love-letters, printed in his works,
which were written to Mrs. Barry. On her first theatrical attempts,
so little hopes were entertained of her, that she was, as Cibber
declares, discharged the company at the end of the first year, among
others that were thought to be a useless expense to it. She was
well born; being daughter of Robert Barry, Esq., barrister at law; a
gentleman of an ancient family and good estate, who hurt his fortune
by his attachment to Charles I.; for whom he raised a regiment at
his own expense. Tony Aston, in his Supplement to Cibber’s Apology,
says, she was woman to lady Shelton of Norfolk, who might have
belonged to the court. Curl, however, says, she was early taken
under the patronage of Lady Davenant. Both these accounts may be
true. The time of her appearance on the stage was probably not much
earlier that 1671; in which year she performed in Tom Essence, and
was, it may be conjectured, about the age of nineteen. Curl
mentions the great pains taken by Lord Rochester in instructing her;
which were repaid by the rapid progress she daily made in her
profession. She at last eclipsed all her competitors, and in the
part of Monimia established her reputation. From her performance in
this character, in that of Belvidera, and of Isabella, in the Fatal
Marriage, Downes says she acquired the name of the famous Mrs.
Barry, both at court and in the city. “Mrs. Barry,” says Dryden, in
his Preface to Cleomenes, “always excellent, has in this tragedy
excelled herself, and gained a reputation beyond any woman I have
ever seen on the theatre.” “In characters of greatness,” says
Cibber, “Mrs. Barry had a presence of elevated dignity; her mien
and motion superb, and gracefully majestic; her voice full, clear,
and strong; so that no violence of passion could be too much for
her; and when distress or tenderness possessed her, she subsided
into the most affecting melody and softness. In the art of exciting
pity, she had a power beyond all the actresses I have yet seen, or
what your imagination can conceive. In scenes of anger, defiance,
or resentment, while she was impetuous and terrible, she poured out
the sentiment with an enchanting harmony; and it was this particular
excellence for which Dryden made her the above-recited compliment,
upon her acting Cassandra in his Cleomenes. She was the first
person whose merit was distinguished by the indulgence of having an
annual benefit play, which was granted to her alone in King James’s
time, and which did not become common to others till the division of
this company, after the death of King William and Queen Mary.”]
About this time Talbot returned from Ireland: he soon felt the absence
of Miss Hamilton, who was then in the country with a relation, whom
we shall mention hereafter. A remnant of his former tenderness still
subsisted in his heart, notwithstanding his absence, and the promises
he had given the Chevalier de Grammont at parting: he now therefore
endeavoured to banish her entirely from his thoughts, by fixing his
desires upon some other object; but he saw no one in the queen’s new
court whom he thought worthy of his attention: Miss Boynton, however,
thought him worthy of hers. Her, person was slender and delicate, to
which a good complexion and large motionless eyes gave at a distance an
appearance of beauty, that vanished upon nearer inspection: she affected
to lisp, to languish, and to have two or three fainting-fits a day. The
first time that Talbot cast his eyes upon her she was seized with one
of these fits: he was told that she swooned away upon his account: he
believed it, was eager to afford her assistance; and ever after that
accident showed her some kindness, more with the intention of saving
her life, than to express any affection he felt for her. This seeming
tenderness was well received, and at first she was visibly affected by
it. Talbot was one of the tallest men in England, and in all appearance
one of the most robust; yet she showed sufficiently that she was willing
to expose the delicacy of her constitution, to whatever might happen,
in order to become his wife; which event perhaps might then have taken
place, as it did afterwards, had not the charms of the fair Jennings at
that time, proved an obstacle to her wishes.
I know not how it came to pass that he had not yet seen her; though he
had heard her much praised, and her prudence, wit, and vivacity equally
commended; he believed all this upon the faith of common report. He
thought it very singular that discretion and sprightliness should be so
intimately united in a person so young, more particularly in the midst
of a court where love and gallantry were so much in fashion; but he
found her personal accomplishments greatly to exceed whatever fame had
reported of them.
As it was not long before he perceived he was in love, neither was
it long before he made a declaration of it: as his passion was likely
enough to be real, Miss Jennings thought she might believe him, without
exposing herself to the imputation of vanity. Talbot was possessed of
a fine and brilliant exterior, his manners were noble and majestic:
besides this, he was particularly distinguished by the favour and
friendship of the duke; but his most essential merit, with her, was his
forty thousand pounds a-year, landed property, besides his employments.
All these qualities came within the rules and maxims she had resolved to
follow with respect to lovers: thus, though he had not the satisfaction
to obtain from her an entire declaration of her sentiments, he had at
least the pleasure of being better received than those who had paid
their addresses to her before him.
No person attempted to interrupt his happiness; and Miss Jennings,
perceiving that the duchess approved of Talbot’s pretensions; and after
having well weighed the matter, and consulted her own inclinations,
found that her reason was more favourable to him than her heart, and
that the most she could do for his satisfaction was to marry him without
reluctance.
Talbot, too fortunate in a preference which no man had before
experienced, did not examine whether it was to her heart or to her head
that he was indebted for it, and his thoughts were solely occupied in
hastening the accomplishment of his wishes: one would have sworn that
the happy minute was at hand; but love would no longer be love, if he
did not delight in obstructing, or in overturning the happiness of those
who live under his dominion.
Talbot, who found nothing reprehensible either in the person, in the
conversation, or in the reputation of Miss Jennings, was however rather
concerned at a now acquaintance she had lately formed; and having taken
upon him to give her some cautions upon this subject, she was much
displeased at his conduct.
Miss Price, formerly maid of honour, that had been set aside, as we have
before mentioned, upon her leaving the duchess’s service, had recourse
to Lady Castlemaine’s protection: she had a very entertaining wit:
her complaisance was adapted to all humours, and her own humour was
possessed of a fund of gaiety and sprightliness which diffused universal
mirth and merriment wherever she came. Her acquaintance with Miss
Jennings was prior to Talbot’s.
As she was thoroughly acquainted with all the intrigues of the court,
she related them without any manner of reserve to Miss Jennings, and her
own with the same frankness as the others: Miss Jennings was extremely
well pleased with her stories; for though she was determined to make no
experiment in love, but upon honourable terms, she however was desirous
of knowing from her recitals, all the different intrigues that were
carrying on: thus, as she was never wearied with her conversation, she
was overjoyed whenever she could see her.
Talbot, who remarked the extreme relish she had for Miss Price’s
company, thought that the reputation such a woman had in the world might
prove injurious to his mistress, more especially from the particular
intimacy there seemed to exist between them: whereupon, in the tone of
a guardian rather than a lover, he took upon him to chide her for
the disreputable company she kept. Miss Jennings was haughty beyond
conception, when once she took it into her head; and as she liked Miss
Price’s conversation much better than Talbot’s, she took the liberty
of desiring him “to attend to his own affairs, and that if he only
came from Ireland to read lectures about her conduct, he might take the
trouble to go back as soon as he pleased.” He was offended at a sally
which he thought ill-timed, considering the situation of affairs between
them; and went out of her presence more abruptly than became the respect
due from a man greatly in love. He for some time appeared offended;
but perceiving that he gained nothing by such conduct, he grew weary of
acting that part, and assumed that of an humble lover, in which he
was equally unsuccessful; neither his repentance nor submissions could
produce any effect upon her, and the mutinous little gipsy was still in
her pouts when Jermyn returned to court.
It was above a year since he had triumphed over the weakness of
Lady Castlemaine, and above two since the king had been weary of his
triumphs: his uncle, being vile of the first who perceived the king’s
disgust, obliged him to absent himself from court, at the very time that
orders were going to be issued for that purpose; for though the king’s
affections for Lady Castlemaine were now greatly diminished, yet he did
not think it consistent with his dignity that a mistress, whom he had
honoured with public distinction, and who still received a considerable
support from him, should appear chained to the car of the most
ridiculous conqueror that ever existed. His majesty had frequently
expostulated with the countess upon this subject: but his expostulations
were never attended to; it was in one of these differences that
he, advising her rather to bestow her favours upon Jacob Hall, the
rope-dancer, who was able to return them, than lavish away her money
upon Jermyn to no purpose, since it would be more honourable for her to
pass for the mistress of the first, than for the very humble servant of
the other, she was not proof against his raillery. The impetuosity of
her temper broke forth like lightning: she told him “that it very ill
became him to throw out such reproaches against one, who, of all the
women in England, deserved them the least; that he had never ceased
quarrelling thus unjustly with her, ever since he had betrayed his own
mean low inclinations; that to gratify such a depraved taste as his,
he wanted only such silly things as Stewart, Wells, and that pitiful
strolling actress,--[Probably Nell Gwyn.]--whom he had lately introduced
into their society.” Floods of tears from rage, generally attended these
storms; after which, resuming the part of Medea, the scene closed with
menaces of tearing her children in pieces, and setting his palace on
fire. What course could he pursue with such an outrageous fury, who,
beautiful as she was, resembled Medea less than her dragons, when she
was thus enraged!
The indulgent monarch loved peace; and as he seldom contended for it on
these occasions without paying something to obtain it, he was obliged
to be at great expense, in order to reconcile this last rupture: as they
could not agree of themselves, and both parties equally complained, the
Chevalier de Grammont was chosen, by mutual consent, mediator of the
treaty. The grievances and pretensions on each side were communicated
to him, and what is very extraordinary, he managed so as to please them
both. Here follow the articles of peace, which they agreed to:
“That Lady Castlemaine should for ever abandon Jermyn; that as a proof
of her sincerity, and the reality of his disgrace, she should consent
to his being sent, for some time, into the country; that she should
not rail any more against Miss Wells, nor storm any more against Miss
Stewart; and this without any restraint on the king’s behaviour towards
her that in consideration of these condescensions, his majesty should
immediately give her the title of duchess, with all the honours and
privileges thereunto belonging, and an addition to her pension, in order
to enable her to support the dignity.”
[The title of Duchess of Cleveland was conferred on her 3rd August,
22 Charles II., 1670.]
As soon as this peace was proclaimed, the political critics, who, in all
nations, never fail to censure all state proceedings, pretended that the
mediator of this treaty, being every day at play with Lady Castlemaine,
and never losing, had, for his own sake, insisted a little too strongly
upon this last article.
Some days after, she was created Duchess of Cleveland, and little Jermyn
repaired to his country-seat: however, it was in his power to have
returned in a fortnight; for the Chevalier de Grammont, having procured
the king’s permission, carried it to the Earl of St. Alban’s: this
revived the good old man; but it was to little purpose he transmitted it
to his nephew; for whether he wished to make the London beauties deplore
and lament his absence, or whether he wished them to declaim against
the injustice of the age, or rail against the tyranny of the prince,
he continued above half a year in the country, setting up for a little
philosopher, under the eyes of the sportsmen in the neighbourhood, who
regarded him as an extraordinary instance of the caprice of fortune.
He thought the part he acted so glorious, that he would have continued
there much longer had he not heard of Miss Jennings: he did not,
however, pay much attention to what his friends wrote to him concerning
her charms, being persuaded he had seen equally as great in others: what
was related to him of her pride and resistance, appeared to him of far
greater consequence; and to subdue the last, he even looked upon as an
action worthy of his prowess; and quitting his retreat for this purpose,
he arrived in London at the time that Talbot, who was really in love,
had quarrelled, in his opinion, so unjustly with Miss Jennings.
She had heard Jermyn spoken of as a hero in affairs of love and
gallantry. Miss Price, in the recital of those of the Duchess of
Cleveland, had often mentioned him, without in any respect diminishing
the insignificancy with which fame insinuated he had conducted himself
in those amorous encounters: she nevertheless had the greatest curiosity
to see a man, whose entire person, she thought, must be a moving trophy,
and monument of the favours and freedoms of the fair sex.
Thus Jermyn arrived at the right time to satisfy her curiosity by his
presence; and though his brilliancy appeared a little tarnished by his
residence in the country; though his head was larger, and his legs more
slender than usual, yet the giddy girl thought she had never seen any
man so perfect; and yielding to her destiny, she fell in love with him,
a thousand times more unaccountably than all the others had done before
her. Everybody remarked this change of conduct in her with surprise;
for they expected something more from the delicacy of a person who, till
this time, had behaved with so much propriety in all her actions.
Jermyn was not in the least surprised at this conquest, though not a
little proud of it; for his heart had very soon as great a share in
it as his vanity. Talbot, who saw with amazement the rapidity of this
triumph, and the disgrace of his own defeat, was ready to die with
jealousy and spite; yet he thought it would be more to his credit to die
than to vent those passions unprofitably; and shielding himself under
a feigned indifference, he kept at a distance to view how far such an
extravagant prepossession would proceed.
In the mean time Jermyn quietly enjoyed the happiness of seeing the
inclinations of the prettiest and most extraordinary creature in
England declared in his favour. The duchess, who had taken her under her
protection ever since she had declined placing herself under that of the
duke, sounded Jermyn’s intentions towards her, and was satisfied
with the assurances she received from a man, whose probity infinitely
exceeded his merit in love: he therefore let all the court see that he
was willing to marry her, though, at the same time, he did not appear
particularly desirous of hastening the consummation. Every person now
complimented Miss Jennings upon having reduced to this situation the
terror of husbands, and the plague of lovers: the court was in full
expectation of this miracle, and Miss Jennings of a near approaching
happy settlement: but in this world one must have fortune in one’s
favour, before one can calculate with certainty upon happiness.
The king did not use to let Lord Rochester remain so long in exile: he
grew weary of it, and being displeased that he was forgotten, he posted
up to London to wait till it might be his majesty’s pleasure to recall
him.
He first took up his habitation in the city, among the capital tradesmen
and rich merchants, where politeness indeed is not so much cultivated
as at court; but where pleasure, luxury, and abundance reign with less
confusion, and more sincerity. His first design was only to be initiated
into the mysteries of those fortunate and happy inhabitants: that is to
say, by changing his name and dress, to gain admittance to their feasts
and entertainments; and, as occasion offered, to those of their loving
spouses; as he was able to adapt himself to all capacities and humours,
he soon deeply insinuated himself into the esteem of the substantial
wealthy aldermen, and into he affections of their more delicate,
magnificent, and tender ladies: he made one in all their feasts, and
at all their assemblies; and, whilst in the company of the husbands, he
declaimed against the faults and mistakes of government, he joined their
wives in railing against the profligacy of the court ladies, and in
inveighing against the king’s mistresses: he agreed with them, that the
industrious poor were to pay for these cursed extravagances; that the
city beauties were not inferior to those of the other end of the town,
and yet a sober husband in this quarter of the town was satisfied with
one wife; after which, to out-do their murmurings, he said, that he
wondered Whitehall was not yet consumed by fire from heaven, since such
rakes as Rochester, Killegrew, and Sidney were suffered there, who had
the impudence to assert that all married men in the city were cuckolds,
and all their wives painted. This conduct endeared him so much to the
cits, and made him so welcome at their clubs, that at last he grew sick
of their cramming and endless invitations.
But, instead of approaching nearer the court, he retreated into one of
the most obscure corners of the city: where, again changing both his
name and his dress, in order to act a new part, he caused bills to
be dispersed, giving notice of “The recent arrival of a famous German
doctor, who, by long application and experience, had found out wonderful
secrets, and infallible remedies.”
[Bishop Burnet confirms this account.--“Being under an unlucky
accident, which obliged him to keep out of the way, he disguised
himself so, that his nearest friends could not have known him, and
set up in Tower Street for an Italian mountebank, where he practised
physic for some weeks, not without success. In his latter years he
read books of history more. He took pleasure to disguise himself as
a porter, or as a beggar; sometimes to follow some mean amours,
which, for the variety of them, he affected. At other times, merely
for diversion, he would go about in odd shapes; in which he acted
his part so naturally, that even those who were in the secret, and
saw him in these shapes, could perceive nothing by which he might be
discovered.”--Burnet’s Life of Rochester, ed. 1774, p. 14.]
His secrets consisted in knowing what was past, and foretelling what was
to come, by the assistance of astrology: and the virtue of his remedies
principally consisted in giving present relief to unfortunate young
women in all manner of diseases, and all kinds of accidents incident to
the fair sex, either from too unbounded charity to their neighbours, or
too great indulgence to themselves.
His first practice being confined to his neighbourhood, was not very
considerable; but his reputation soon extending to the other end of the
town, there presently flocked to him the women attending on the court,
next, the chamber-maids of ladies of quality, who, upon the wonders
they related concerning the German doctor, were soon followed by some of
their mistresses.
Among all the compositions of a ludicrous and satirical kind, there
never existed any that could be compared to those of Lord Rochester,
either for humour, fire, or wit; but, of all his works, the most
ingenious and entertaining is that which contains a detail of the
intrigues and adventures in which he was engaged while he professed
medicine and astrology in the suburbs of London.
The fair Jennings was very near getting a place in this collection; but
the adventure that prevented her from it, did not, however, conceal from
the public her intention of paying a visit to the German doctor.
The first chamber-maids that consulted him were only those of the maids
of honour; who had numberless questions to ask, and not a few doubts
to be resolved, both upon their own and their mistresses’ accounts.
Notwithstanding their disguise, he recognised some of them, particularly
Miss Temple’s and Miss Price’s maids, and her whom Miss Hobart had
lately discarded: these creatures all returned either filled with
wonder and amazement, or petrified with terror and fear. Miss Temple’s
chamber-maid deposed that he assured her she would have the small-pox,
and her mistress the great, within two months at farthest, if her
aforesaid mistress did not guard against a man in woman’s clothes. Miss
Price’s woman affirmed that, without knowing her, and only looking in
her hand, he told her at first sight that, according to the course of
the stars, he perceived that she was in the service of some good-natured
lady, who had no other fault than loving wine and men. In short, every
one of them, struck with some particular circumstance relating to their
own private affairs, had either alarmed or diverted their mistresses
with the account, not failing, according to custom, to embellish the
truth, in order to enhance the wonder.
Miss Price, relating these circumstances one day to her new friend, the
devil immediately tempted her to go in person, and see what sort of a
creature this new magician was. This enterprise was certainly very rash;
but nothing was too rash for Miss Jennings, who was of opinion that a
woman might despise appearances, provided she was in reality virtuous.
Miss Price was all compliance, and thus having fixed upon this glorious
resolution, they only thought of the proper means of putting it into
execution.
It was very difficult for Miss Jennings to disguise herself, on account
of her excessive fair and bright complexion, and of something particular
in her air and manner: however, after having well considered the matter
the best disguise they could think of was to dress themselves like
orange girls.
[These frolics appear to have been not unfrequent with persons of
high rank at this period. In a letter from Mr. Henshaw to Sir
Robert Paston, afterwards Earl of Yarmouth, dated October 13, 1670,
we have the following account: “Last week, there being a faire
neare Audley-end, the queen, the Dutchess of Richmond, and the
Dutchess of Buckingham, had a frolick to disguise themselves like
country lasses, to red petticoats, wastcotes, &c., and so goe see
the faire. Sir Barnard Gascoign, on a cart jade, rode before the
queen; another stranger before the Dutchess of Buckingham; and Mr.
Roper before Richmond. They had all so overdone it in their
disguise, and looked so much more like antiques than country volk,
that, as soon as they came to the faire, the people began to goe
after them; but the queen going to a booth, to buy a pair of yellow
stockings for her sweet hart, and Sir Bernard asking for a pair of
gloves sticht with blew, for his sweet hart, they were soon, by
their gebrish, found to be strangers, which drew a bigger flock
about them. One amongst them had seen the queen at dinner, knew
her, and was proud of her knowledge. This soon brought all the
faire into a crowd to stare at the queen. Being thus discovered,
they, as soon as they could, got to their horses; but as many of the
faire as had horses got up, with their wives, children, sweet harts,
or neighbours, behind them, to get as much gape as they could, till
they brought them to the court gate. Thus, by ill conduct, was a
merry frolick turned into a penance.”--I’ve’s Select Papers, p. 39.
Bishop Burnet says, “at this time, (1668) the court fell into much
extravagance in masquerading: both the king and queen, all the
court, went about masked, and came into houses unknown, and danced
there, with a great deal of wild frolic. In all this people were so
disguised, that, without being in the secret, none could distinguish
them. They were carried about in hackney chairs. Once the queen’s
chairmen, not knowing who she was, went from her. So she was alone,
and was much disturbed, and came to Whitehall in a hackney coach;
some say in a cart.”--Burnet’s History, vol. i., p. 368.]
This was no sooner resolved upon, but it was put in execution they
attired themselves alike, and, taking each a basket of oranges under
their arms, they embarked in a hackney coach, and committed themselves
to fortune, without any other escort than their own caprice and
indiscretion.
The duchess was gone to the play with her sister: Miss Jennings had
excused herself under pretence of indisposition she was overjoyed at
the happy commencement of their adventure; for they had disguised
themselves, had crossed the Park, and taken their hackney coach at
Whitehall gate, without the least accident. They mutually congratulated
each other upon it, and Miss Price, taking a beginning so prosperous as
a good omen of their success, asked her companion what they were to do
at the fortune-teller’s, and what they should propose to him.
Miss Jennings told her that, for her part, curiosity was her principal
inducement for going thither; that, however, she was resolved to ask
him, without naming any person, why a man, who was in love with a
handsome young lady, was not urgent to marry her, since this was in his
power to do, and by so doing he would have an opportunity of gratifying
his desires. Miss Price told her, smiling, that, without going to the
astrologer, nothing was more easy than to explain the enigma, as she
herself had almost given her a solution of it in the narrative of the
Duchess of Cleveland’s adventures.
Having by this time nearly arrived at the playhouse, Miss Price, after
a moment’s reflection, said, that since fortune favoured them, a fair
opportunity was now offered to signalize their courage, which was to go
and sell oranges in the very playhouse, in the sight of the duchess and
the whole court. The proposal being worthy of the sentiments of the one,
and of the vivacity of the other, they immediately alighted, paid off
their hack, and, running through the midst of an immense number of
coaches, with great difficulty they reached the playhouse door. Sidney,
more handsome than the beautiful Adonis, and dressed more gay than
usual, alighted just then from his coach: Miss Price went boldly up to
him, as he was adjusting his curls; but he was too much occupied with
his own dear self to attend to anything else, and so passed on without
deigning to give her an answer. Killegrew came next, and the fair
Jennings, partly encouraged by the other’s pertness, advanced towards
him, and offered him her basket, whilst Price, more used to the
language, desired him to buy her fine oranges. “Not now,” said he,
looking at them with attention; “but if thou wilt to-morrow morning
bring this young girl to my lodgings, I will make it worth all the
oranges in London to thee” and while he thus spoke to the one he chucked
the other under the chin, examining her bosom. These familiarities
making little Jennings forget the part she was acting, after having
pushed him away with all the violence she was able, she told him with
indignation that it was very insolent to dare--“Ha! ha!” said he,
“here’s a rarity indeed! a young w----, who, the better to sell her
goods, sets up for virtue, and pretends innocence!”
Price immediately perceived that nothing could be gained by continuing
any longer in so dangerous a place; and, taking her companion under the
arm, she dragged her away, while she was still in emotion at the insult
that had been offered to her.
Miss Jennings, resolving to sell no more oranges on these terms, was
tempted to return, without accomplishing the other adventure; but Price
having represented to her the disgrace of such cowardly behaviour, more
particularly after having before manifested so much resolution, she
consented to go and pay the astrologer a short visit, so as they might
be enabled to regain the palace before the play was ended.
They had one of the doctor’s bills for a direction, but there was no
occasion for it; for the driver of the coach they had taken told them he
knew very well the place they wanted, for he had already carried above
an hundred persons to the German doctor’s: they were within half a
street of his house, when fortune thought proper to play them a trick.
Brounker had dined by chance with a merchant in that part of the city,
and just as he was going away they ordered their coach to stop, as
ill-luck would have it, just opposite to him. Two orange girls in
a hackney coach, one of whom appeared to have a very pretty face,
immediately drew his attention; besides, he had a natural curiosity for
such objects.
[Gentleman of the chamber to the Duke of York, and brother to Lord
Viscount Brounker, president of the royal society. Lord Clarendon
imputes to him the cause of the great sea-fight, in 1665, not being
so well improved as it might have been, and adds, “nor did the duke
come to hear of it till some years after, when Mr. Brounker’s ill
course of life, and his abominable nature, had rendered him so
odious, that it was taken notice of in parliament, and, upon
examination, found to be true, as is here related; upon which he was
expelled the house of commons, whereof he was a; member, as an
infamous person, though his friend Coventry adhered to him, and used
many indirect acts to have protected him, and afterwards procured
him to have more countenance from the king than most men thought he
deserved; being a person, throughout his whole life, never notorious
for anything but the highest degree of impudence, and stooping to
the most infamous offices, and playing very well at chess, which
preferred him more than the most virtuous qualities could have
done.”--Continuation of Clarendon’s Life, p. 270.]
Of all the men at court, he had the least regard for the fair sex, and
the least attention to their reputation: he was not young, nor was his
person agreeable; however, with a great deal of wit he had a violent
passion for women. He did himself justice respecting his own merit; and,
being persuaded that he could only succeed with those who were desirous
of having his money, he was at open war with all the rest. He had a
little country-house four or five miles from London always well stocked
with girls: in other respects he was a very honest man, and the best
chess-player in England.
Price, alarmed at being thus closely examined by the most dangerous
enemy they could encounter, turned her head the other way, bid her
companion do the same, and told the coachman to drive on. Brounker
followed them unperceived on foot; and the coach having stopped twenty
or thirty yards farther up the street, they alighted. He was just
behind them, and formed the same judgment of them which a man much more
charitable to the sex must unavoidably have done, concluding that Miss
Jennings was a young courtesan upon the look-out, and that Miss Price
was the mother-abbess. He was, however, surprised to see them have much
better shoes and stockings than women of that rank generally wear, and
that the little orange girl, in getting out of a very high coach, showed
one of the handsomest legs he had ever seen: but as all this was no
obstruction to his designs, he resolved to purchase her at any rate, in
order to place her in his seraglio.
He came up to them, as they were giving their baskets in guard to the
coachman, with orders to wait for them exactly in that place. Brounker
immediately pushed in between them: as soon as they saw him, they gave
themselves up for lost; but he, without taking the least notice of their
surprise, took Price aside with one hand, and his purse with the other,
and began immediately to enter upon business, but was astonished to
perceive that she turned away her face, without either answering or
looking at him: As this conduct appeared to him unnatural, he stared her
full in the face, notwithstanding all her endeavours to prevent him:
he did the same to the other: and immediately recognised them, but
determined to conceal his discovery.
The old fox possessed a wonderful command of temper on such occasions,
and having teazed them a little longer to remove all suspicions he
quitted them, telling Price; “That she was a great fool to refuse his
offers, and that her girl would not, perhaps, get so much in a year,
as she might with him in one day; that the times were greatly changed,
since the queen’s and the duchess’s maids of honour forestalled the
market, and were to be had cheaper than the town ladies.” Upon this he
went back to his coach, whilst they blessed themselves, returning heaven
their most hearty thanks for having escaped this danger without being
discovered.
Brounker, on the other hand, would not have taken a thousand guineas
for this rencounter: he blessed the Lord that he had not alarmed them to
such a degree as to frustrate their intention; for he made no doubt but
Miss Price had managed some intrigue for Miss Jennings: he therefore
immediately concluded, that at present it would be improper to make
known his discovery, which would have answered no other end but to have
overwhelmed them with confusion.
Upon this account, although Jermyn was one of his best friends, he felt
a secret joy in not having prevented his being made a cuckold, before
his marriage; and the apprehension he was in of preserving him from that
accident, was his sole reason for quitting them with the precautions
aforementioned.
Whilst they were under these alarms, their coachman was engaged in a
squabble with some blackguard boys, who had gathered round his coach
in order to steal the oranges: from words they came to blows: the two
nymphs saw the commencement of the fray as they were returning to
the coach, after having abandoned the design of going to the
fortuneteller’s. Their coachman being a man of spirit, it was with great
difficulty they could persuade him to leave their oranges to the mob,
that they might get off without any further disturbance: having thus
regained their hack, after a thousand frights, and after having received
an abundant share of the most low and infamous abuse applied to them
during the fracas, they at length reached St. James’s, vowing never
more to go after fortune-tellers, through so many dangers, terrors, and
alarms, as they had lately undergone.
Brounker, who, from the indifferent opinion he entertained of the fair
sex, would have staked his life that Miss Jennings did not return from
this expedition in the same condition she went, kept his thoughts,
however, a profound secret; since it would have afforded him the highest
satisfaction to have seen the all-fortunate Jermyn marry a little
street-walker, who pretended to pass for a pattern of chastity, that he
might, the day after his marriage, congratulate him upon his virtuous
spouse; but heaven was not disposed to afford him that satisfaction, as
will appear in the sequel of these memoirs.
Miss Hamilton was in the country, as we before mentioned, at a
relation’s: the Chevalier de Grammont bore this short absence of hers
with great uneasiness, since she would not allow him permission to visit
her there, upon any pretence whatever; but play, which was favourable to
him, was no small relief to his extreme impatience.
Miss Hamilton, however, at last returned. Mrs. Wetenhall (for that was
the name of her relation) would by all means wait upon her to London, in
appearance out of politeness; for ceremony, carried beyond all bearing,
is the grand characteristic of country gentry: yet this mark of civility
was only a pretence, to obtain a peevish husband’s consent to his
wife’s journey to town. Perhaps he would have done himself the honour
of conducting Miss Hamilton up to London, had he not been employed in
writing some remarks upon the ecclesiastical history, a work in which he
had long been engaged: the ladies were more civil than to interrupt him
in his undertaking, and besides, it would entirely have disconcerted all
Mrs. Wetenhall’s schemes.
This lady was what may be properly called a beauty, entirely English,
made up of lilies and roses, of snow and milk, as to colour; and of wax,
with respect to the arms, hands, neck, and feet, but all this without
either animation or air; her face was uncommonly pretty; but there was
no variety, no change of countenance in it: one would have thought she
took it in the morning out of a case, in order to put it up again at
night, without using it in the smallest degree in the daytime. What can
I say of her! nature had formed her a baby from her infancy, and a
baby remained till death the fair Mrs. Wetenhall. Her husband had been
destined for the church; but his elder brother dying just at the time he
had gone through his studies of divinity, instead of taking orders, he
came to England, and took to wife Miss Bedingfield, the lady of whom we
are now speaking.
His person was not disagreeable, but he had a serious contemplative air,
very apt to occasion disgust: as for the rest, she might boast of having
one of the greatest theologists in the kingdom for her husband: he was
all day poring over his books, and went to bed soon, in order to rise
early; so that his wife found him snoring when she came to bed, and when
he arose he left her there sound asleep: his conversation at table would
have been very brisk, if Mrs. Wetenhall had been as great a proficient
in divinity, or as great a lover of controversy, as he was; but being
neither learned in the former, nor desirous of the latter, silence
reigned at their table, as absolutely as at a refectory.
She had often expressed a great desire to see London; but though they
were only distant a very short day’s journey from it, she had never been
able to satisfy her curiosity: it was not therefore without reason,
that she grew weary of the life she was forced to lead at Peckham. The
melancholy retired situation of the place was to her insupportable;
and as she had the folly, incident to many other women, of believing
sterility to be a kind of reproach, she was very much hurt to see
that she might fall under that suspicion; for she was persuaded, that
although heaven had denied her children, she nevertheless had all the
necessary requisites on her part, if it had been the will of the Lord.
This had occasioned her to make some reflections, and then to reason
upon those reflections; as for instance, that since her husband
chose rather to devote himself to his studies, than to the duties of
matrimony, to turn over musty old books, rather than attend to the
attractions of beauty, and to gratify his own pleasures, rather than
those of his wife, it might be permitted her to relieve some necessitous
lover, in neighbourly charity, provided she could do it conscientiously,
and to direct her inclinations in so just a, manner, that the evil
spirit should have no concern in it. Mr. Wetenhall, a zealous partisan
for the doctrine of the casuists, would not perhaps have approved of
these decisions; but he was not consulted.
The greatest misfortune was, that neither solitary Peckham nor its
sterile neighbourhood, presented any expedients, either for the
execution of the afore-mentioned design, or for the relief of poor Mrs.
Wetenhall: she was visibly pining away, when, through fear of dying
either with solitude or of want, she had recourse to Miss Hamilton’s
commiseration.
Their first acquaintance was formed at Paris, whither Mr. Wetenhall had
taken his wife half a year after they were married, on a journey thither
to buy books: Miss Hamilton, who from that very time greatly pitied her,
consented to pass some time in the country with her, in hopes by that
visit to deliver her, for a short time at least, out of her captivity;
which project succeeded according to her wish.
The Chevalier de Grammont, being informed of the day on which they were
to arrive, borne on the wings of love and impatience, had engaged George
Hamilton to go with him, and meet them some miles out of London. The
equipage he had prepared for the purpose, corresponded with his usual
magnificence; and on such an occasion, we may reasonably suppose he had
not neglected his person: however, with all his impatience, he checked
the ardour of the coachman, through fear of accidents, rightly judging
that upon a road prudence is preferable to eagerness. The ladies at
length appeared, and Miss Hamilton, being in his eyes, ten or twelve
times more handsome than before her departure from London, he would have
purchased with his life so kind a reception as she gave her brother.
Mrs. Wetenhall had her share of the praises, which at this interview
were liberally bestowed upon her beauty, for which her beauty was very
thankful to those who did it so much honour; and as Hamilton regarded
her with a tender attention, she regarded Hamilton as a man very well
qualified for putting in execution the little projects she had concerted
with her conscience.
As soon as she was in London, her head was almost turned, through an
excess of contentment and felicity: everything appeared like enchantment
to her in this superb city; more particularly, as in Paris she had never
seen anything farther than the Rue Saint Jacques, and a few booksellers’
shops. Miss Hamilton entertained her at her own house, and she was
presented, admired, and well received at both courts.
The Chevalier de Grammont, whose gallantry and magnificence were
inexhaustible, taking occasion, from this fair stranger’s arrival, to
exhibit his grandeur, nothing was to be seen but balls, concerts, plays,
excursions by land and by water, splendid collations and sumptuous
entertainments: Mrs. Wetenhall was transported with pleasures, of which
the greatest part were entirely new to her; she was greatly delighted
with all, except now and then at a play, when tragedy was acted, which
she confessed she thought rather wearisome: she agreed, however, that
the show was very interesting, when there were many people killed upon
the stage, but thought the players were very fine handsome fellows, who
were much better alive than dead.
Hamilton, upon the whole, was pretty well treated by her, if a man in
love, who is never satisfied until the completion of his wishes, could
confine himself within the bounds of moderation and reason: he used all
his endeavours to determine her to put in execution the projects she had
formed at Peckham: Mrs. Wetenhall, on the other hand, was much pleased
with him. This is the Hamilton who served in the French army with
distinction; he was both agreeable and handsome. All imaginable
opportunities conspired to favour the establishment of an intimacy,
whose commencement had been so brisk, that in all probability it would
not languish for a conclusion; but the more he pressed her to it, the
more her resolution began to fail, and regard for some scruples, which
she had not well weighed, kept her in suspense: there was reason to
believe that a little perseverance would have removed these obstacles;
yet this at the present time was not attempted. Hamilton, not able to
conceive what could prevent her from completing his happiness, since in
his opinion the first and greatest difficulties of an amour were already
overcome, with respect to the public, resolved to abandon her to
her irresolutions, instead of endeavouring to conquer them by a more
vigorous attack. It was not consistent with reason, to desist from an
enterprise, where so many prospects of success presented themselves, for
such inconsiderable obstacles; but he suffered himself to be intoxicated
with chimeras and visions, which unseasonably cooled the vigour of his
pursuit, and led him astray in another unprofitable undertaking.
[I apprehend he is the same George Hamilton already described, who
married Miss Jennings, and not the author of this work, as Lord
Orford supposes. In a letter from Arlington to Sir William
Godolphin, dated September 7, 1671, it is said, “the Conde de Molina
complains to us of certain levies Sir George Hamilton hath made in
Ireland. The king hath always told him he had no express license
for it; and I have told the Conde he must not find it strange that a
gentleman who had been bred the king’s page abroad, and losing his
employment at home, for being a Roman Catholic, should have some
more than ordinary connivance towards the making his fortune abroad
by the countenance of his friends and relations in Ireland: and yet
take the matter in the worst sense he could give, it would not
amount to the breach of any article betwixt the king my master and
the court of Spain.”--Arlington’s letters, vol. ii., p. 332. In
a letter from the same nobleman to Lord Sandwich, written about
October, 1667, we find the cause of Sir George Hamilton’s entering
into the French service “Concerning the reformadoes of the guards
of horse, his majesty thought fit, the other day, to have them
dismissed, according to his promise, made to the parliament at the
last session. Mr. Hamilton had a secret overture made him, that he,
with those men, should be welcome into the French service; his
majesty, at their dismissal, having declared they should have leave
to go abroad whither they pleased.” They accepted of Mr. Hamilton’s
offer to carry them into France. “Arlington’s Letters,” vol. i., p.
185. Lodge, in his Peerage of Ireland, says, Sir George Hamilton
died in 1667, which, from the first extract above, appears to be
erroneous. He has evidently confounded the father and son; the
former of whom was the person who died in 1667.]
I know not whether poor Wetenhall took the blame upon herself; but it is
certain, she was extremely mortified upon it. Soon after being obliged
to return to her cabbages and turkeys at Peckham, she had almost gone
distracted: that residence appeared a thousand times more dreadful to
her, since she had been initiated into the amusements of London; but
as the queen was to set out within a month for Tunbridge Wells, she was
obliged to yield to necessity, and return to the philosopher, Wetenhall,
with the consolation of having engaged Miss Hamilton to come and live at
her house, which was within ten or twelve miles of Tunbridge, as long as
the court remained there.
Miss Hamilton promised not to abandon her in her retirement, and further
engaged to bring the Chevalier de Grammont along with her, whose humour
and conversation extremely delighted her. The Chevalier de Grammont,
who on all occasions started agreeable raillery, engaged on his part
to bring George Hamilton, which words overwhelmed her with blushes. The
court set out soon after to pass about two months in the place of all
Europe the most rural and simple, and yet, at the same time, the most
entertaining and agreeable. Tunbridge is the same distance from London,
that Fontainebleau is from Paris, and is, at the season, the general
rendezvous of all the gay and handsome of both sexes. The company,
though always numerous, is always select: since those who repair thither
for diversion, ever exceed the number of those who go thither for
health. Everything there breathes mirth and pleasure: constraint is
banished, familiarity is established upon the first acquaintance, and
joy and pleasure are the sole sovereigns of the place.
The company are accommodated with lodgings in little, clean, and
convenient habitations, that lie straggling and separated from each
other, a mile and a half all round the Wells, where the company meet
in the morning: this place consists of a long walk, shaded by spreading
trees, under which they walk while they are drinking the waters: on one
side of this walk is a long row of shops, plentifully stocked with all
manner of toys, lace, gloves, stockings, and where there is raffling, as
at Paris, in the Foire de Saint Germain: on the other side of the walk
is the market; and, as it is the custom here for every person to buy
their own provisions, care is taken that nothing offensive appears on
the stalls. Here young, fair, fresh-coloured country girls, with clean
linen, small straw hats, and neat shoes and stockings, sell game,
vegetables, flowers and fruit: here one may live as one pleases: here
is, likewise, deep play, and no want of amorous intrigues. As soon as
the evening comes, every one quits his little palace to assemble at the
bowling-green, where, in the open air, those who choose, dance upon a
turf more soft and smooth than the finest carpet in the world.
Lord Muskerry had, within two or three short miles of Tunbridge, a very
handsome seat called Summer-hill: Miss Hamilton, after having spent
eight or ten days at Peckham, could not excuse herself from passing the
remainder of the season at his house; and, having obtained leave of Mr.
Wetenhall, that his lady should accompany her, they left the melancholy
residence of Peckham, and its tiresome master, and fixed their little
court at Summer-hill.
They went every day to court, or the court came to them. The queen
even surpassed her usual attentions in inventing and supporting
entertainments: she endeavoured to increase the natural ease and
freedom of Tunbridge, by dispensing with, rather than requiring, those
ceremonies that were due to her presence; and, confining in the bottom
of her heart that grief and uneasiness she could not overcome, she saw
Miss Stewart triumphantly possess the affections of the king without
manifesting the least uneasiness.
Never did love see his empire in a more flourishing condition than on
this spot: those who were smitten before they came to it, felt a mighty
augmentation of their flame; and those who seemed the least susceptible
of love, laid aside their natural ferocity, to act in a new character.
For the truth of the latter, we shall only relate the change which soon
appeared in the conduct of Prince Rupert.
[Lord Orford’s contrast to this character of Prince Rupert is too
just to be here omitted. “Born with the taste of an uncle whom his
sword was not fortunate in defending, Prince Rupert was fond of
those sciences which soften and adorn a hero’s private hours, and
knew how to mix them with his minutes of amusement, without
dedicating his life to their pursuit, like us, who, wanting capacity
for momentous views, make serious study of what is only the
transitory occupation of a genius. Had the court of the first
Charles been peaceful, how agreeably had the prince’s congenial
propensity flattered and confirmed the inclination of his uncle!
How the muse of arts would have repaid the patronage of the monarch,
when, for his first artist, she would have presented him with his
nephew! How different a figure did the same prince make in a reign
of dissimilar complexion! The philosophic warrior, who could relax
himself into the ornament of a refined court, was thought a savage
mechanic, when courtiers were only voluptuous wits. Let me
transcribe a picture of Prince Rupert, drawn by a man who was far
from having the least portion of wit in that age, who was superior
to its indelicacy, and who yet was so overborne by its prejudices,
that he had the complaisance to ridicule virtue, merit, talents.
--But Prince Rupert, alas! was an awkward lover!” Lord Orford here
inserts the character in the text, and then adds, “What pity that
we, who wish to transmit this prince’s resemblance to posterity on a
fairer canvas, have none of these inimitable colours to efface the
harsher likeness! We can but oppose facts to wit, truth to satire.
--How unequal the pencils! yet what these lines cannot do they may
suggest: they may induce the reader to reflect, that if the prince
was defective in the transient varnish of a court, he at least was
adorned by the arts with that polish which alone can make a court
attract the attention of subsequent ages.”--Catalogue of Engravers,
p 135, 8vo ed.]
He was brave and courageous, even to rashness; but cross-grained
and incorrigibly obstinate: his genius was fertile in mathematical
experiments, and he possessed some knowledge of chemistry: he was polite
even to excess, unseasonably; but haughty, and even brutal, when he
ought to have been gentle and courteous: he was tall, and his manners
were ungracious: he had a dry hard-favoured visage, and a stern look,
even when he wished to please; but, when he was out of humour, he was
the true picture of reproof.
The queen had sent for the players, either that there might be no
intermission in the diversions of the place, or, perhaps, to retort upon
Miss Stewart, by the presence of Nell Gwyn, part of the uneasiness she
felt from hers. Prince Rupert found charms in the person of another
player called Hughes, who brought down and greatly subdued his natural
fierceness.
[Mrs. Hughes was one of the actresses belonging to the king’s
company, and one of the earliest female performers. According to
Downs, she commenced her theatrical career after the opening of
Drury lane theatre, in 1663. She appears to have been the first
female representative of Desdemona. By Prince Rupert she had a
daughter, named Ruperta, married to Lieutenant-general Howe, who
survived her husband many years, dying at Somerset house, about the
year 1740.]
From this time, adieu alembics, crucibles, furnaces, and all the
black furniture of the forges: a complete farewell to all mathematical
instruments and chemical speculations: sweet powder and essences were
now the only ingredients that occupied any share of his attention. The
impertinent gipsy chose to be attacked in form; and proudly refusing
money, that, in the end she might sell her favours at a dearer rate,
she caused the poor prince to act a part so unnatural, that he no longer
appeared like the same person. The king was greatly pleased with this
event, for which great rejoicings were made at Tunbridge; but nobody was
bold enough to make it the subject of satire, though the same constraint
was not observed with other ridiculous personages.
There was dancing every day at the queen’s apartments, because the
physicians recommended it, and no person thought it amiss: for even
those who cared least for it, chose that exercise to digest the waters
rather than walking. Lord Muskerry thought himself secure against
his lady’s rage for dancing; for, although he was ashamed of it, the
princess of Babylon was, by the grace of God, six or seven months
advanced in pregnancy; and, to complete her misfortune, the child had
fallen all on one side, so that even Euclid would have been puzzled to
say what her figure was. The disconsolate lady, seeing Miss Hamilton
and Mrs. Wetenhall set out every morning, sometimes on horseback and
sometimes in a coach, but ever attended by a gallant troop to conduct
them to court, and to convey them back, she fancied a thousand times
more delights at Tunbridge than in reality there were, and she did not
cease in her imagination, to dance over at Summer-hill all the country
dances which she thought had been danced at Tunbridge. She could no
longer support the racking torments which disturbed her mind, when
relenting heaven, out of pity to her pains and sufferings, caused Lord
Muskerry to repair to London, and kept him there two whole days: as soon
as ever he had turned his back, the Babylonian princess declared her
resolution to make a trip to court.
She had a domestic chaplain who did not want sense, and Lord Muskerry,
for fear of accidents, had recommended her to the wholesome counsels and
good prayers of this prudent divine; but in vain were all his preachings
and exhortations to stay at home; in vain did he set before her eyes her
husband’s commands, and the dangers to which she would expose herself
in her present condition; he likewise added that her pregnancy, being a
particular blessing from heaven, she ought therefore to be so much the
more careful for its preservation, since it cost her husband, perhaps,
more trouble than she was aware of, to obtain it. These remonstrances
were altogether ineffectual: Miss Hamilton and her cousin Wetenhall,
having the complaisance to confirm her in her resolution, they assisted
in dressing her the next morning, and set out along with her all their
skill and dexterity were requisite to reduce her shape into some kind of
symmetry; but, having at last pinned a small cushion under her petticoat
on the right side, to counteract the untoward appearance the little
infant occasioned by throwing itself on the left, they almost split
their sides with laughter, assuring her at the same time that she looked
perfectly charming.
As soon as she appeared, it was generally believed that she had dressed
herself in a farthingale, in order to make her court to the queen; but
every person was pleased at her arrival: those who were unacquainted
with the circumstances assured her in earnest that she was pregnant
with twins; and the queen, who envied her condition, notwithstanding
the ridiculous appearance she then made, being made acquainted with the
motive of her journey, was determined to gratify her inclinations.
As soon as the hour for country dances arrived, her cousin Hamilton was
appointed her partner: she made some faint excuses at first on account
of the inconvenient situation she was then in: but soon suffered them to
be overcome, in order, as she said, to show her duty to the queen; and
never did a woman in this world enjoy such complete satisfaction.
We have already observed, that the greatest prosperity is liable to the
greatest change: Lady Muskerry, trussed up as she was, seemed to feel no
manner of uneasiness from the motion in dancing; on the contrary, being
only apprehensive of the presence of her husband, which would have
destroyed all her happiness, she danced with uncommon briskness, lest
her ill stars should bring him back before she had fully satisfied
herself with it. In the midst, therefore, of her capering in this
indiscreet manner, her cushion came loose, without her perceiving it,
and fell to the ground in the very middle of the first round. The Duke
of Buckingham, who watched her, took it up instantly, wrapped it up in
his coat, and, mimicking the cries of a new-born infant, he went about
inquiring for a nurse for the young Muskerry among the maids of honour.
This buffoonery, joined to the strange figure of the poor lady, had
almost thrown Miss Stewart into hysterics; for the princess of Babylon,
after this accident, was quite flat on one side, and immoderately
protuberant on the other. All those who had before suppressed their
inclinations to laugh, now gave themselves free scope, when they saw
that Miss Stewart was ready to split her sides. The poor lady was
greatly disconcerted: every person was officious to console her; but
the queen, who inwardly laughed more heartily than any, pretended to
disapprove of their taking such liberties.
Whilst Miss Hamilton and Mrs. Wetenhall endeavoured to refit Lady
Muskerry in another room, the Duke of Buckingham told the king that,
if the physicians would permit a little exercise immediately after a
delivery, the best way to recover Lady Muskerry was to renew the dance
as soon as ever her infant was replaced; this advice was approved,
and accordingly put in execution. The queen proposed, as soon as she
appeared, a second round of country-dances; and Lady Muskerry accepting
the offer, the remedy had its desired effect, and entirely removed every
remembrance of her late mishap.
Whilst these things were passing at the king’s court, that of the Duke
of York took a journey on the other side of London; the pretence of this
journey was to visit the county whose name he bore; but love was the
real motive. The duchess, since her elevation, had conducted herself
with such prudence and circumspection, as could not be sufficiently
admired: such were her manners, and such the general estimation in which
she was held, that she appeared to have found out the secret of pleasing
every one; a secret yet more rare than the grandeur to which she had
been raised: but, after having gained universal esteem, she was
desirous of being more particularly beloved; or, more properly speaking,
malicious Cupid assaulted her heart, in spite of the discretion,
prudence, and reason, with which she had fortified it.
In vain had she said to herself a hundred times, that if the duke had
been so kind as to do her justice by falling in love with her, he had
done her too much honour by making her his wife; that with respect to
his inconstant disposition, which estranged him from her, she ought to
bear it with patience, until it pleased heaven to produce a change in
his conduct; that the frailties on his part, which might to her appear
injurious, would never justify in her the least deviation from her duty;
and, as resentment was still less allowable, she ought to endeavour to
regain him by a conduct entirely opposite to his own. In vain was it, as
we have said before, that she had long resisted Love and his emissaries
by the help of these maxims: how solid soever reason, and however
obstinate wisdom and virtue may be, there are yet certain attacks which
tire by their length, and, in the end, subdue both reason and virtue
itself.
The Duchess of York was one of the highest feeders in England: as
this was an unforbidden pleasure she indulged herself in it, as an
indemnification for other self-denials. It was really an edifying sight
to see her at table. The duke, on the contrary, being incessantly in
the hurry of new fancies, exhausted himself by his inconstancy, and was
gradually wasting away; whilst the poor princess, gratifying her good
appetite, grew so fat and plump that it was a blessing to see her. It
is not easy to determine how long things would have continued in this
situation, if Love, who was resolved to have satisfaction for her late
conduct, so opposite to the former, had not employed artifice as well as
force, to disturb her repose.
He at first let loose upon her resentment and jealousy two mortal
enemies to all tranquillity and happiness. A tall creature, pale-faced,
and nothing but skin and bone, named Churchill, whom she had taken for a
maid of honour, became the object of her jealousy, because she was then
the object of the duke’s affection. The court was not able to comprehend
how, after having been in love with Lady Chesterfield, Miss Hamilton,
and Miss Jennings, he could have any inclination for such a creature;
but they soon perceived that something more than unaccountable variety
had a great share in effecting this conquest.
[Miss Arabella Churchill, daughter of Sir Winston Churchill of
Wotton Basset, in the county of Wilts, and sister to the celebrated
John, Duke of Marlborough. She was born 1648.]
The duchess beheld with indignation a choice which seemed to debase her
own merit in a much greater degree than any of the former; at the very
instant that indignation and jealousy began to provoke her spleen,
perfidious Cupid threw in the way of her passions and resentments the
amiable, handsome Sidney; and, whilst he kept her eyes fixed upon
his personal perfections, diverted her attention from perceiving the
deficiency of his mental accomplishments: she was wounded before she was
aware of her danger; but the good opinion Sidney had of his own merit
did not suffer him long to be ignorant of such a glorious conquest;
and, in order more effectually to secure it, his eyes rashly answered
everything which those of her royal highness had the kindness to tell
him, whilst his personal accomplishments were carefully heightened by
all the advantages of dress and show.
The duchess, foreseeing the consequences of such an engagement, strongly
combated the inclination that hurried her away; but Miss Hobart, siding
with that inclination, argued the matter with her scruples, and, in the
end, really vanquished them. This girl had insinuated herself into
her royal highness’s confidence by a fund of news with which she was
provided the whole year round: the court and the city supplied her; nor
was it very material to her whether her stories were true or false, her
chief care being that they should prove agreeable to her mistress: she
knew, likewise, how to gratify her palate, and constantly provided
a variety of those dishes and liquors which she liked best. These
qualifications had rendered her necessary; but, desirous of being still
more so, and having perceived both the airs that Sidney gave himself,
and what was passing in the heart of her mistress, the cunning Hobart
took the liberty of telling her royal highness that this unfortunate
youth was pining away solely on her account; that it was a thousand
pities a man of his figure should lose the respect for her which was
most certainly her due, merely because she had reduced him to such a
state that he could no longer preserve it; that he was gradually dying
away on her account, in the sight of the whole court; that his situation
would soon be generally remarked, except she made use of the proper
means to prevent it; that, in her opinion, her royal highness ought to
pity the miserable situation into which her charms had reduced him, and
to endeavour to alleviate his pain in some way or other. The duchess
asked her what she meant by “endeavouring to alleviate his pain in some
way or other.” “I mean, madam,” answered Miss Hobart, “that, if either
his person be disagreeable, or his passion troublesome, you will give
him his discharge; or, if you choose to retain him in your service, as
all the princesses in the world would do in your place, you will permit
me to give him directions from you for his future conduct, mixed with a
few grains of hope, to prevent his entirely losing his senses, until
you find a proper occasion yourself to acquaint him with your wishes.”
“What!” said the duchess, “would you advise me, Hobart--you, who really
love me--to engage in an affair of this nature, at the expense of my
honour, and the hazard of a thousand inconveniences! If such frailties
are sometimes excusable, they certainly are not so in the high station
in which I am placed; and it would be an ill-requital on my part for his
goodness who raised me to the rank I now fill to----” “All this is very
fine,” interrupted Miss Hobart: “but is it not very well known that he
only married you because he was importuned so to do? Since that I refer
to yourself whether he has ever restrained his inclination a single
moment, giving you the most convincing proofs of the change that has
taken place in his heart, by a thousand provoking infidelities? Is it
still your intention to persevere in a state of indolence and humility,
whilst the duke, after having received the favours, or suffered the
repulses, of all the coquettes in England, pays his addresses to the
maids of honour, one after the other, and at present places his whole
ambition and desires in the conquest of that ugly skeleton, Churchill?
What! Madam, must then your prime of life be spent in a sort of
widowhood in deploring your misfortunes, without ever being permitted
to make use of any remedy that may offer? A woman must be endowed with
insuperable patience, or with an inexhaustible degree of resignation, to
bear this. Can a husband, who disregards you both night and day, really
suppose, because his wife eats and drinks heartily, as, God be thanked,
your royal highness does, that she wants nothing else than to sleep well
too? Faith, such conduct is too bad: I therefore once more repeat that
there is not a princess in the universe who would refuse the homage of a
man like Sidney, when a husband pays his addresses elsewhere.”
These reasons were certainly not morally good; but had they been still
worse the duchess would have yielded to them, so much did her heart act
in concert with Miss Hobart, to overthrow her discretion and prudence.
This intrigue began at the very time that Miss Hobart advised Miss
Temple not to give any encouragement to the addresses of the handsome
Sidney. As for him, no sooner was he informed by the confidant Hobart
that the goddess accepted his adoration than he immediately began to
be particularly reserved and circumspect in his behaviour, in order
to divert the attention of the public; but the public is not so easily
deceived as some people imagine.
As there were too many spies, too many inquisitive people and critics,
in a numerous court, residing in the midst of a populous city, the
duchess to avoid exposing the inclinations of her heart to the scrutiny
of so many inquisitors, engaged the Duke of York to undertake the
journey before mentioned, whilst the queen and her court were at
Tunbridge.
This conduct was prudent; and, if agreeable to her, was far from
displeasing to any of her court, except Miss Jennings: Jermyn was not of
the party; and, in her opinion, every party was insipid in which he was
not one of the company. He had engaged himself in an enterprise above
his strength, in laying a wager which the Chevalier de Grammont had
laid before, and lost. He betted five hundred guineas that he would ride
twenty miles in one hour upon the same horse, in the high road. The day
he had fixed upon for this race was the very same in which Miss Jennings
went to the fortune-teller’s.