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.
Jermyn was more fortunate than her in this undertaking he came off
victorious; but as his courage had far exceeded the strength of his
constitution in this exertion to win the wager, he got a violent fever
into the bargain, which brought him very low. Miss Jennings inquired
after his health; but that was all she dared to do. In modern romances,
a princess need only pay a visit to some hero, abandoned by his
physicians, a perfect cure would be wrought in three days; but since Miss
Jennings had not been the cause of Jermyn's fever, she was not certain of
relieving him from it, although she had been sure that a charitable visit
would not have been censured in a malicious court. Without therefore
paying any attention to the uneasiness she might feel upon the occasion,
the court set out without him: she had, however, the gratification to
testify her ill-humour throughout the whole journey, by appearing
displeased with everything which seemed to afford satisfaction to
all the rest of the company.
Talbot made one of the company; and flattering himself that the absence
of a dangerous rival might produce some change in his favour, he was
attentive to all the actions, motions, and even gestures, of his former
mistress. There was certainly enough fully to employ his attention: it
was contrary to her disposition to remain long in a serious humour. Her
natural vivacity hurried her away, from being seemingly lost in thought,
into sallies of wit, which afforded him hopes that she would soon forget
Jermyn, and remember that his own passion was the first she had
encouraged. However, he kept his distance, notwithstanding his love and
his hopes, being of opinion that it ill became an injured lover to betray
either the least weakness, or the smallest return of affection, for an
ungrateful mistress, who had deserted him.
Miss Jennings was so far from thinking of his resentments, that she
did not even recollect he had ever paid his addresses to her; and her
thoughts being wholly occupied upon the poor sick man, she conducted
herself towards Talbot as if they never had had anything to say to each
other. It was to him that she most usually gave her hand, either in
getting into or out of the coach; she conversed more readily with him
than any other person, and, without intending it, did everything to make
the court believe she was cured of her passion for Jermyn in favour of
her former lover.
Of this he seemed likewise convinced, as well as the rest; and thinking
it now proper to act another part, in order to let her know that his
sentiments with respect to her were still the same, he had resolved to
address her in the most tender and affectionate manner upon this subject.
Fortune seemed to have favoured him, and to have smoothed the way for
this intended harangue: he was alone with her in her chamber; and, what
was still better, she was rallying him concerning Miss Boynton; saying,
"that they were undoubtedly much obliged to him for attending them on
their journey, whilst poor Miss Boynton had fainting fits at Tunbridge,
at least twice every day, for love of him." Upon this discourse, Talbot
thought it right to begin the recital of his sufferings and fidelity,
when Miss Temple, with a paper in her hand, entered the room. This was a
letter in verse, which Lord Rochester had written some time before, upon
the intrigues of the two courts; wherein, upon the subject of Miss
Jennings, he said: "that Talbot had struck terror among the people of
God, by his gigantic stature; but that Jermyn, like a little David, had
vanquished the great Goliath." Jennings, delighted with this allusion,
read it over two or three times, thought it more entertaining than
Talbot's conversation, at first heartily laughed at it, but soon after,
with a tender air, "Poor little David!" said she, with a deep sigh, and
turning her head on one side during this short reverie, she shed a few
tears, which assuredly did not flow for the defeat of the giant. This
stung Talbot to the quick; and, seeing himself so ridiculously deceived
in his hopes, he went abruptly out of the room, vowing never to think any
more of a giddy girl, whose conduct was regulated neither by sense nor
reason; but he did not keep his resolution.
The other votaries of love, who were numerous in this court, were more
successful, the journey being undertaken solely on that account. There
were continual balls and entertainments upon the road; hunting, and all
other diversions, wherever the court halted in its progress. The tender
lovers flattered themselves with the thought of being able to crown their
happiness as they proceeded in their journey; and the beauties who
governed their destiny did not forbid them to hope. Sidney paid his
court with wonderful assiduity: the duchess made the duke take notice of
his late perfect devotion to his service: his royal highness observed it,
and agreed that he ought to be remembered upon the first opportunity,
which happened soon after.
Montagu, as before mentioned, was master of the horse to the duchess:
he was possessed of a great deal of wit, had much penetration, and loved
mischief. How could she bear such a man near her person, in the present
situation of her heart? This greatly embarrassed her; but Montagu's
elder brother having, very a-propos, got himself killed where he had no
business, the duke obtained for Montagu the post of master of the horse
to the queen, which the deceased enjoyed; and the handsome Sidney was
appointed to succeed him in the same employment to the duchess. All this
happened according to her wish; and the duke was highly pleased that he
had found means to promote these two gentlemen at once, without being at
the least expense.
Miss Hobart greatly applauded these promotions: she had frequent and long
conversations with Sidney, which, being remarked, some did her the honour
to believe it was upon her own account; and the compliments that were
made her upon the occasion she most willingly received. The duke, who
believed it at first, observed to the duchess the unaccountable taste of
certain persons, and how the handsomest young fellow in England was
infatuated with such a frightful creature.
The duchess confessed that taste was very arbitrary; the truth whereof he
himself seemed to be convinced of, since he had fixed upon the beauteous
Helen for his mistress. I know not whether this raillery caused him to
reflect for what reasons he had made his choice; but it is certain he
began to cool in his affections for Miss Churchill; and perhaps he would
entirely have abandoned this pursuit, had not an accident taken place,
which raised in him an entirely new inclination for her.
The court having halted for a few days in a fine open country, the
duchess was desirous of seeing a greyhound course. This diversion is
practised in England upon large downs, where the turf, eaten by the
sheep, is particularly green, and wonderfully even. She was in her
coach, and all the ladies on horseback, every one of them being attended
by her squire; it therefore was but reasonable that the mistress should
likewise have her squire. He accordingly was at the side of her coach,
and seemed to compensate for his deficiencies in conversation, by the
uncommon beauty of his mien and figure.
The duke attended Miss Churchill, not for the sake of besieging her with
soft flattering tales of love, but, on the contrary, to chide her for
sitting so ill on horseback: She was one of the most indolent creatures
in the world; and although the maids of honour are generally the worst
mounted of the whole court, yet, in order to distinguish her, on account
of the favour she enjoyed, they had given her a very pretty, though
rather a high-spirited horse; a distinction she would very willingly
have excused them.
The embarrassment and fear she was under had added to her natural
paleness. In this situation, her countenance had almost completed the
duke's disgust, when her horse, desirous of keeping pace with the others,
set off in a gallop, notwithstanding her greatest efforts to prevent it;
and her endeavours to hold him in, firing his mettle, he at length set
off at full speed, as if he was running a race against the duke's horse.
Miss Churchill lost her seat, screamed out, and fell from her horse.
A fall in so quick a pace must have been violent; and yet it proved
favourable to her in every respect; for, without receiving any hurt, she
gave the lie to all the unfavourable suppositions that had been formed of
her person, in judging from her face. The duke alighted, in order to
help her: she was so greatly stunned, that her thoughts were otherwise
employed than about decency on the present occasion; and those who first
crowded around her found her rather in a negligent posture: they could
hardly believe that limbs of such exquisite beauty could belong to Miss
Churchill's face. After this accident, it was remarked that the duke's
tenderness and affection for her increased every day; and, towards the
end of the winter, it appeared that she had not tyrannized over his
passion, nor made him languish with impatience.
The two courts returned to London much about the same time, equally
satisfied with their respective excursions; though the queen was
disappointed in the hopes she had entertained of the good effects
of the Tunbridge waters.
It was about this time that the Chevalier de Grammont received a letter
from the Marchioness de Saint-Chaumont, his sister, acquainting him, that
he might return when he thought proper, the king having given him leave.
He would have received this news with joy at any other time, whatever had
been the charms of the English court; but, in the present situation of
his heart, he could not resolve to quit it.
He had returned from Tunbridge a thousand times deeper in love than
ever; for, during this agreeable excursion, he had every day seen Miss
Hamilton, either in the marshes of melancholy Peckham, or in the
delicious walks of cheerful Summerhill, or in the daily diversions and
entertainments of the queen's court; and whether he saw her on horseback,
heard her conversation, or observed her in the dance, still he was
persuaded that Heaven had never formed an object in every respect more
worthy of the love, and more deserving of the affection, of a man of
sense and delicacy. How then was it possible for him to bear the
thoughts of leaving her? This appeared to him absolutely impracticable;
however, as he was desirous of making a merit with her, of the
determination he had made to neglect his fortune, rather than to be
separated from her charms, he showed her his sister's letter: but this
confidence had not the success he expected.
Miss Hamilton, in the first place, congratulated him upon his recall:
She returned him many thanks for the sacrifice he intended to make her;
but as this testimony of affection greatly exceeded the bounds of mere
gallantry, however sensibly she might feel this mark of his tenderness,
she was, however, determined not to abuse it. In vain did he protest
that he would rather meet death than part from her irresistible charms;
and her irresistible charms protested that he should never see them more,
unless he departed immediately. Thus was he forced to obey. However,
he was allowed to flatter himself, that these positive orders, how harsh
soever they might appear, did not flow from indifference; that she would
always be more pleased with his return than with his departure, for which
she was now so urgent; and having generously given him assurances that,
so far as depended upon herself, he would find, upon his return, no
variation in her sentiments during his absence, he took leave of his
friends, thinking of nothing but his return, at the very time he was
making preparations for his departure.
MEMOIRS OF COUNT GRAMMONT, VOLUME 7.
By Anthony Hamilton
EDITED, WITH NOTES, BY SIR WALTER SCOTT
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
RETURN OF THE CHEVALIER GRAMMONT TO FRANCE--HE IS SENT
BACK TO ENGLAND--VARIOUS LOVE INTRIGUES AT THIS COURT,
AND MARRIAGE OF MOST OF THE HEROES OF THESE MEMOIRS.
The nearer the Chevalier de Grammont approached the court of France, the
more did he regret his absence from that of England.
A thousand different thoughts occupied his mind upon the journey:
Sometimes he reflected upon the joy and satisfaction his friends and
relations would experience upon his return; sometimes upon the
congratulations and embraces of those who, being neither the one nor the
other, would, nevertheless, overwhelm him with impertinent compliments:
All these ideas passed quickly through his head; for a man deeply in love
makes it a scruple of conscience not to suffer any other thoughts to
dwell upon his mind than those of the object beloved. It was then the
tender, endearing remembrance of what he had left in London that diverted
his thoughts from Paris; and it was the torments of absence that
prevented his feeling those of the bad roads and the bad horses. His
heart protested to Miss Hamilton, between Montreuil and Abbeville that he
only tore himself from her with such haste, to return the sooner; after
which, by a short reflection, comparing the regret he had formerly felt
upon the same road, in quitting France for England, with that which he
now experienced, in quitting England for France, he found the last much
more insupportable than the former.
It is thus that a man in love entertains himself upon the road; or
rather, it is thus that a trifling writer abuses the patience of his
reader, either to display his own sentiments, or to lengthen out a
tedious story; but God forbid that this character should apply to
ourselves, since we profess to insert nothing in these memoirs, but what
we have heard from the mouth of him whose actions and sayings we transmit
to posterity.
Who, except Squire Feraulas, has ever been able to keep a register of all
the thoughts, sighs, and exclamations, of his illustrious master? For my
own part, I should never have thought that the attention of the Count de
Grammont, which is at present so sensible to inconveniences and dangers,
would have ever permitted him to entertain amorous thoughts upon the
road, if he did not himself dictate to me what I am now writing.
But let us speak of him at Abbeville. The postmaster was his old
acquaintance: His hotel was the best provided of any between Calais and
Paris; and the Chevalier de Grammont, alighting, told Termes he would
drink a glass of wine during the time they were changing horses. It was
about noon; and, since the preceding night, when they had landed at
Calais, until this instant, they had not eat a single mouthful. Termes,
praising the Lord, that natural feelings had for once prevailed over the
inhumanity of his usual impatience, confirmed him as much as possible in
such reasonable sentiments.
Upon their entering the kitchen, where the Chevalier generally paid his
first visit, they were surprised to see half a dozen spits loaded with
game at the fire, and every other preparation for a magnificent
entertainment. The heart of Termes leaped for joy: he gave private
orders to the hostler to pull the shoes off some of the horses, that he
might not be forced away from this place before he had satisfied his
craving appetite.
Soon after, a number of violins and hautboys, attended by all the mob of
the town, entered the court. The landlord, being asked the reason of
these great preparations, acquainted the Chevalier de Grammont that
they were for the wedding of one of the most wealthy gentlemen in the
neighbourhood with one of the handsomest girls in the whole province;
that the entertainment was to be at his house; and that, if his lordship
chose to stop, in a very short time he would see the new-married couple
arrive from the church, since the music was already come. He was right
in his conjectures; for these words were scarce out of his mouth, when
three uncommonly large coaches, loaded with lackeys, as tall as Swiss,
with most gaudy liveries, all covered with lace, appeared in the court,
and disembarked the whole wedding company. Never was country
magnificence more naturally displayed: Rusty tinsel, tarnished lace,
striped silks, little eyes, and full swelling breasts, appeared on every
side.
If the first sight of the procession surprised the Chevalier de Grammont,
faithful Termes was no less astonished at the second. The little that
was to be seen of the bride's face appeared not without beauty; but no
judgment could be formed of the remainder: Four dozen of patches, at
least, and ten ringlets of hair, on each side, most completely concealed
her from all human eyes; but it was the bridegroom who most particularly
attracted the Chevalier de Grammont's attention.
He was as ridiculously dressed as the rest of the company, except a coat
of the greatest magnificence, and of the most exquisite taste. The
Chevalier de Grammont, walking up to him to examine his dress, began to
commend the embroidery of his coat. The bridegroom thought himself much
honoured by this examination, and told him he bought it for one hundred
and fifty louis, at the time he was paying his addresses to his wife.
"Then you did not get it made here?" said the Chevalier de Grammont.
"No," replied the other; "I bought it of a London merchant, who had
ordered it for an English lord." The Chevalier de Grammont, who now
began to perceive in what manner the adventure would end, asked him if
he should recollect the merchant if he saw him again? "Recollect him!"
replied the other, "I surely ought; for I was obliged to sit up drinking
with him all night at Calais, as I was endeavouring to beat down the
price." Termes had vanished out of sight as soon as ever this coat
appeared, though he little supposed that the cursed bridegroom would
have any conversation concerning it with his master.
The Chevalier's thoughts were some time wavering between his inclination
to laugh, and a desire of hanging Master Termes; but the long habit of
suffering himself to be robbed by his domestics, together with the
vigilance of the criminal, whom his master could not reproach with having
slept in his service, inclined him to clemency; and yielding to the
importunities of the country gentleman, in order to confound his faithful
servant, he sat down to table, to make the thirty-seventh of the company.
A short time after, he desired one of the waiters to call for a gentleman
whose name was Termes. He immediately appeared; and as soon as the
master of the feast saw him, he rose from table, and offering him his
hand; "Welcome, my friend," said he; "you see that I have taken good care
of the coat which you sold me with so much reluctance, and that I have
kept it for a good purpose."
Termes, having put on a face of brass, pretended not to know him, and
pushed him back with some degree of rudeness. "No, no!" said the other;
"since I was obliged to sit up with you the whole night, in order to
strike the bargain, you shall pledge me in the bride's health."
The Chevalier de Grammont, who saw that Termes was disconcerted,
notwithstanding his impudence, said to him with a smile: "Come, come, my
good London merchant, sit down, as you are so civilly invited: we are not
so crowded at table but that there will be room enough for such an honest
gentleman as yourself." At these words five-and-thirty of the guests
were in motion to receive this new visitor: the bride alone, out of an
idea of decorum, remained seated; and the audacious Termes, having
swallowed the first shame of this adventure, began to lay about him at
such a rate, as if it had been his intention to swallow all the wine
provided for the wedding, if his master had not risen from the table as
they were taking off four-and-twenty soups, to serve up as many other
dishes in their stead.
The company were not so unreasonable as to desire a man who was in such
haste to remain to the end of a wedding dinner; but they all got up when
he arose from table, and all that he could obtain from the bridegroom was
that the company should not attend him to the gate of the inn. As for
Termes, he wished they had not quitted him till the end of their journey,
so much did he dread being left alone with his master.
They had advanced some distance from Abbeville, and were proceeding on in
the most profound silence, when Termes, who expected an end to it in a
short time, was only solicitous in what manner it might happen, whether
his master would attack him with a torrent of invectives, and certain
epithets which were most justly his due, or whether, in an insulting,
ironical manner, he might make use of such commendations as were most
likely to confound him; but finding, instead of either, that he remained
in sullen silence, he thought it prudent rather to prevent the speech the
Chevalier was meditating than to suffer him to think longer about it;
and, accordingly, arming himself with all his effrontery: "You seem to be
very angry, Sir," said he, "and I suppose you think you have reason for
being so; but the devil take me, if you are not mistaken in reality."
"How! traitor! in reality?" said the Chevalier de Grammont. "It is then
because I have not had thee well thrashed, as thou hast for a long time
merited." "Look ye, Sir," replied Termes, "you always run into a
passion, instead of listening to reason! Yes, Sir, I maintain that
what I did was for your benefit." "And was not the quicksand likewise
for my service?" said the Chevalier de Grammont. "Have patience,
if you please," pursued the other: "I know not how that simpleton of
a bridegroom happened to be at the custom-house when my portmanteau
was examined at Calais: but these silly cuckolds thrust in their noses
everywhere. As soon as ever he saw your coat, he fell in love with it.
I immediately perceived he was a fool; for he fell down upon his knees,
beseeching me to sell it him. Besides being greatly rumpled in the
portmanteau, it was all stained in front by the sweat of the horses.
I wonder how the devil he has managed to get it cleaned; but, faith,
I am the greatest scoundrel in the world, if you would ever have put it
on. In a word, it cost you one hundred and forty louis d'ors, and seeing
he offered me one hundred and fifty for it; 'My master,' said I, 'has no
occasion for this tinselled bauble to distinguish him at the ball; and,
although he was pretty full of cash when I left him, how know I in what
situation he may be upon my return? there is no certainty at play.'
To be brief, Sir, I got ten louis d'ors for it more than it cost you:
this you see is all clear profit: I will be accountable to you for it,
and you know that I am sufficiently substantial to make good such a sum.
Confess now, do you think you would have appeared to greater advantage at
the ball, if you had been dressed out in that damned coat, which would
have made you look just like the village bridegroom to whom we sold it?
and yet how you stormed at London when you thought it lost; what fine
stories you told the king about the quicksand; and how churlish you
looked, when you first began to suppose that this country booby wore it
at his wedding!"
What could the Chevalier reply to such uncommon impudence? If he
indulged his resentment, he must either have most severely bastinadoed
him, or he must have discarded him, as the easiest escape the rogue could
expect; but he had occasion for him during the remainder of his journey;
and, as soon as he was at Paris, he had occasion for him for his return.
The Marechal de Grammont had no sooner notice of his arrival than he went
to him at the hotel; and, the first embraces being over on both sides,
"Chevalier," said the Marechal, "how many days have you been in coming
from London hither? for God knows at what a rate you travel on such
occasions." The Chevalier told him he had been three days upon the road;
and, to excuse himself for making no more haste, he related to him his
Abbeville adventure. "It is a very entertaining one," said his brother;
"but what is yet more entertaining is, that it will be your fault if you
do not find your coat still at table; for the country gentry are not
accustomed to rise very soon from a wedding dinner." And then, in a
very serious tone, told him, "he knew not who had advised him to this
unexpected return, which might probably ruin all his affairs; but he had
orders from the king to bid him go back again without appearing at court.
He told him afterwards that he was very much astonished at his
impatience, as, till this time, he had conducted himself uncommonly well,
and was sufficiently acquainted with the king's temper to know that the
only way to merit his pardon was to wait until it freely came from his
clemency."
The Chevalier, in justification of his conduct, produced Madame de Saint
Chaumont's letter, and told the Marechal that he would very willingly
have spared her the trouble of writing him such kind of news, to occasion
him so useless a journey. "Still more indiscretion," replied his
brother; "for pray how long has our sister being either secretary of
state or minister, that she should be employed by the king to make
known his majesty's order? Do you wish to know the real state of the
case? Some time ago the king told Madame--[Henrietta]--how you had
refused the pension the King of England offered you.
["Henrietta, youngest daughter of Charles the First,--born at Exeter
16th June, 1644, from whence she was removed to London in 1646, and,
with her governess, Lady Dalkeith, soon afterwards conveyed to
France. On the restoration, she came over to England with her
mother, but returned to France in about six months, and was married
to Philip, Duke of Orleans, only brother of Louis XIV. In May,
1670, she came again to Dover, on a mission of a political nature,
it is supposed, from the French king to her brother, in which she
was successful. She died, soon after her return to France,
suddenly, not without suspicion of having been poisoned by her
husband. King James, in his Diary, says, 'On the 22d of June, the
news of the Duchess of Orleans' death arrived. It was suspected
that counter-poisons were given her; but when she was opened, in the
presence of the English ambassador, the Earl of Ailesbury, an
English physician and surgeon, there appeared no grounds of
suspicion of any foul play. Yet Bucks tallied openly that she was
poisoned; and was so violent as to propose to foreign ministers to
make war on France.'--Macpherson's Original Papers, vol i. At the
end of Lord Arlington's Letters are five very remarkable ones from a
person of quality, who is said to have been actually on the spot,
giving a particular relation of her death.]
"He appeared pleased with the manner in which Comminges had related to him
the circumstances attending it, and said he was pleased with you for it:
Madame interpreted this as an order for your recall; and Madame de Saint
Chaumont being very far from possessing that wonderful discretion she
imagines herself mistress of, she hastened to despatch to you this
consequential order in her own hand. To conclude, Madame said yesterday,
when the king was at dinner, that you would very soon be here; and the
king, as soon as dinner was over, commanded me to send you back as soon
as you arrived. Here you are; set off again immediately."
This order might have appeared severe to the Chevalier de Grammont at any
other time; but, in the present state of his heart, he soon resolved upon
obeying. Nothing gave him uneasiness but the officious advice which had
obliged him to leave the English court; and being entirely unconcerned
that he was not allowed to see the French court before his departure, he
only desired the Marechal to obtain leave for him to stay a few days to
collect in some play debts which were owing him. This request was
granted, on condition that he should not remain in Paris.
He chose Vaugirard for his retreat: it was there that he had several
adventures which he so often related in so humorous and diverting a
manner, that it would be tedious to repeat them; there it was that he
administered the sacrament in so solemn a manner, that, as there did not
remain a sufficient number of Swiss at Versailles to guard the chapel,
Vardes was obliged to acquaint the king that they were all gone to the
Chevalier de Grammont, who was administering the sacrament at Vaugirard:
there likewise happened that wonderful adventure which threw the first
slur upon the reputation of the great Saucourt, when, having a
tete-a-tete with the gardener's daughter, the horn, which was agreed upon
as the signal to prevent surprises, was sounded so often, that the
frequent alarms cooled the courage of the celebrated Saucourt, and
rendered useless the assignation that was procured for him with one of
the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood. It was, likewise, during his
stay at Vaugirard, that he paid a visit to Mademoiselle de l'Hopital at
Issy, to inquire into the truth of a report of an amour between her
and a man of the long robe; and it was there that, on his arriving
unexpectedly, the President de Maisons was forced to take refuge in a
closet, with so much precipitation, that half of his robe remained on the
outside when he shut the door; while the Chevalier de Grammont, who
observed it, made his visit excessively long, in order to keep the two
lovers upon the rack.
His business being settled, he set out for England on the wings of love.
Termes redoubled his vigilance upon the road. The post horses were ready
in an instant at every stage: the winds and tides favoured his
impatience; and he reached London with the highest satisfaction. The
court was both surprised and charmed at his sudden return. No person
condoled with him upon his late disappointment, which had occasioned him
to come back, as he testified no manner of uneasiness concerning it
himself: nor was Miss Hamilton in the least displeased at his readiness
in obeying the orders of the king his master.
Nothing new had happened in the English court during his short absence;
but it assumed a different aspect soon after his return: I mean with
respect to love and pleasure, which were the most serious concerns of the
court during the greatest part of this gay reign.
The Duke of Monmouth, natural son to Charles the Second, now made his
first appearance in his father's court.
[James Duke of Monmouth, was the son of Charles the II., by one Lucy
Walters. He was born at Rotterdam, April 9, 1649, and bore the name
of James Crofts until the restoration. His education was chiefly at
Paris, under the eye of the queen-mother, and the government of
Thomas Ross, Esq., who was afterwards secretary to Mr. Coventry
during his embassy in Sweden. At the restoration, he was brought to
England, and received with joy by his father, who heaped honours and
riches upon him, which were not sufficient to satisfy his ambitious
views. To exclude his uncle, the Duke of York, from the throne, he
was continually intriguing with the opposers of government, and was
frequently in disgrace with his sovereign. On the accession of
James II. he made an ineffectual attempt to raise a rebellion, was
taken prisoner, and beheaded on Tower-hill, 15th July, 1685. Mr.
Macpherson has drawn his character in the following terms:
"Monmouth, highly beloved by the populace, was a fit instrument to
carry forward his (i.e. Shaftesbury's) designs. To a gracefulness
which prejudiced mankind in his favour as soon as seen, he joined an
affability which gained their love. Constant in his friendships,
and just to his word, by nature tender, and an utter enemy to
severity and cruelty, active and vigorous in his constitution, he
excelled in the manly exercises of the field. He was personally
brave. He loved the pomp and the very dangers of war. But with
these splendid qualities, he was vain to a degree of folly,
versatile in his measures, weak in his understanding. He was
ambitious without dignity, busy without consequence, attempting ever
to be artful, but always a fool. Thus, taking the applause of the
multitude for a certain mark of merit, he was the dupe of his own
vanity, and owed all his misfortunes to that weakness."--History of
England, vol. i., chap. iii.]
His entrance upon the stage of the world was so brilliant, his ambition
had occasioned so many considerable events, and the particulars of his
tragical end are so recent, that it were needless to produce any other
traits to give a sketch of his character. By the whole tenor of his
life, he appeared to be rash in his undertakings, irresolute in the
execution, and dejected in his misfortunes, in which, at least, an
undaunted resolution ought to equal the greatness of the attempt.
His figure and the exterior graces of his person were such, that nature
perhaps never formed anything more complete: His face was extremely
handsome; and yet it was a manly face, neither inanimate nor effeminate;
each feature having its beauty and peculiar delicacy: He had a wonderful
genius for every sort of exercise, an engaging aspect, and an air of
grandeur: in a word, he possessed every personal advantage; but then he
was greatly deficient in mental accomplishments. He had no sentiments
but such as others inspired him with; and those who first insinuated
themselves into his friendship, took care to inspire him with none but
such as were pernicious. The astonishing beauty of his outward form
caused universal admiration: those who before were looked upon as
handsome were now entirely forgotten at court: and all the gay and
beautiful of the fair sex were at his devotion. He was particularly
beloved by the king; but the universal terror of husbands and lovers.
This, however, did not long continue; for nature not having endowed him
with qualifications to secure the possession of the heart, the fair sex
soon perceived the defect.
The Duchess of Cleveland was out of humour with the king, because the
children she had by his majesty were like so many little puppets,
compared to this new Adonis. She was the more particularly hurt, as she
might have boasted of being the queen of love, in comparison with the
duke's mother.
The king, however, laughed at her reproaches, as, for some time, she had
certainly no right to make any; and, as this piece of jealousy appeared
to be more ill-founded than any she had formerly affected, no person
approved of her ridiculous resentment. Not succeeding in this, she
formed another scheme to give the king uneasiness: Instead of opposing
his extreme tenderness for his son, she pretended to adopt him, in her
affection, by a thousand commendations and caresses, which she was daily
and continually increasing. As these endearments were public, she
imagined they could not be suspected; but she was too well known for
her real design to be mistaken. The king was no longer jealous of her;
but, as the Duke of Monmouth was of an age not to be insensible to the
attractions of a woman possessing so many charms, he thought it proper to
withdraw him from this pretended mother-in-law, to preserve his
innocence, or at least his fame, uncontaminated: it was for this reason,
therefore, that the king married him so young. An heiress of five
thousand pounds a-year in Scotland, offered very a-propos: her person was
full of charms, and her mind possessed all those perfections in which the
handsome Monmouth was deficient.
[This was Lady Anne Scott, daughter and sole heir of Francis, Earl
of Buccleugh, only son and heir of Walter, Lord Scott, created Earl
of Buccleugh in 1619. On their marriage the duke took the surname
of Scott, and he and his lady were created Duke and Duchess of
Buccleugh, Earl and Countess of Dalkeith, Baron and Baroness of
Whitchester and Ashdale in Scotland, by letters patent, dated April
20th, 1673. Also, two days after he was installed at Windsor, the
king and queen, the Duke of York, and most of the court being
present. The next day, being St. George's day, his majesty
solemnized it with a royal feast, and entertained the knights
companions in St. George's hall in the castle of Windsor. Though
there were several children of this marriage, it does not appear to
have been a happy one; the duke, without concealment attaching
himself to Lady Harriet Wentworth, whom, with his dying breath, he
declared he considered as his only wife in the sight of God. The
duchess, in May, 1688, took to her second husband Charles, Lord
Cornwallis. She died Feb. 6, 1731-32, in the 81st year of her age,
and was buried at Dalkeith in Scotland. Our author is not more
correct about figures than he avows himself to be in the arrangement
of facts and dates: the duchess's fortune was much greater than he
has stated it to have been.]
New festivals and entertainments celebrated this marriage. The most
effectual method to pay court to the king, was to outshine the rest in
brilliancy and grandeur; and whilst these rejoicings brought forward all
manner of gallantry and magnificence, they either revived old, or
established new amours.
The fair Stewart, then in the meridian of her glory, attracted all eyes,
and commanded universal respect and admiration. The Duchess of Cleveland
endeavoured to eclipse her at this fate, by a load of jewels, and by all
the artificial ornaments of dress; but it was in vain: her face looked
rather thin and pale, from the commencement of a third or fourth
pregnancy, which the king was still pleased to place to his own account;
and, as for the rest, her person could in no respect stand in competition
with the grace and beauty of Miss Stewart.
It was during this last effort of her charms, that she would have been
queen of England, had the king been as free to give his hand as he was
to surrender his heart: for it was at this time that the Duke of Richmond
took it into his head either to marry her, or to die in the attempt.
A few months after the celebration of the Duke of Monmouth's nuptials,
Killegrew, having nothing better to do; fell in love with Lady
Shrewsbury; and, as Lady Shrewsbury, by a very extraordinary chance,
had no engagement at that time, their amour was soon established. No one
thought of interrupting an intimacy which did not concern any one; but
Killegrew thought proper to disturb it himself. Not that his happiness
fell short of his expectation, nor did possession put him out of love
with a situation so enviable; but he was amazed that he was not envied,
and offended that his good fortune raised him no rivals.
He possessed a great deal of wit, and still more eloquence, which most
particularly displayed itself when he was a little elevated with the
juice of the grape: he then indulged himself in giving luxurious
descriptions of Lady Shrewsbury's most secret charms and beauties, which
above half the court were as well acquainted with as himself.
The Duke of Buckingham was one of those who could only judge from outward
appearances: and appearances, in his opinion, did not seem to promise any
thing so exquisite as the extravagant praises of Killegrew would infer.
As this indiscreet lover was a frequent guest at the Duke of Buckingham's
table, he was continually employing his rhetoric on this subject, and he
had full opportunity for his harangues; for they generally sat down to
dinner at four o'clock, and only rose just in time for the play in the
evening.
The Duke of Buckingham, whose ears were continually deafened with
descriptions of Lady Shrewsbury's merits, resolved at last to examine
into the truth of the matter himself. As soon as he had made the
experiment, he was satisfied; and, though he fancied that fame did
not exceed the truth, yet this intrigue began in such a manner, that
it was generally believed its duration would be short, considering, the
fickleness of both parties, and the vivacity with which they had engaged
in it: nevertheless, no amour in England ever continued so long.
The imprudent Killegrew, who could not be satisfied without rivals, was
obliged, in the end, to be satisfied without a mistress. This he bore
very impatiently; but so far was Lady Shrewsbury from hearkening to, or
affording any redress for the grievances at first complained of, that she
pretended even not to know him. His spirit could not brook such
treatment; and without ever considering that he was the author of his own
disgrace, he let loose all his abusive eloquence against her ladyship: he
attacked her with the most bitter invectives from head to foot: he drew
a frightful picture of her conduct; and turned all her personal charms,
which he used to extol, into defects. He was privately warned of the
inconveniences to which these declamations might subject him, but
despised the advice, and, persisting, he soon had reason to repent it.
As he was returning one evening from the Duke of York's apartments at
St. James's, three passes with a sword were made at him through his
chair, one of which went entirely through his arm. Upon this, he was
sensible of the danger to which his intemperate tongue had exposed him,
over and above the loss of his mistress. The assassins made their escape
across the Park, not doubting but they had dispatched him.
Killegrew thought that all complaints would be useless; for what redress
from justice could he expect for an attempt of which his wounds were his
only evidence? And, besides, he was convinced that if he began a
prosecution founded upon appearances and conjectures, the parties
concerned would take the shortest and most effectual means to put a stop
to all inquiries upon the subject, and that their second attempt would
not prove ineffectual. Being desirous, therefore, of deserving mercy
from those who had endeavoured to assassinate him, he no longer continued
his satires, and said not a word of the adventure. The Duke of
Buckingham and Lady Shrewsbury remained for a long period both happy and
contented. Never before had her constancy been of so long a duration;
nor had he ever been so submissive and respectful a lover.
This continued until Lord Shrewsbury, who never before had shown the
least uneasiness at his lady's misconduct, thought proper to resent this:
it was public enough, indeed, but less dishonourable to her than any of
her former intrigues. Poor Lord Shrewsbury, too polite a man to make any
reproaches to his wife, was resolved to have redress for his injured
honour: he accordingly challenged the Duke of Buckingham; and the Duke
of Buckingham, as a reparation for his honour, having killed him upon the
spot, remained a peaceable possessor of this famous Helen. The public
was at first shocked at the transaction; but the public grows familiar
with everything by habit, and by degrees both decency, and even virtue
itself, are rendered tame, and overcome. The queen was at the head of
those who exclaimed against so public and scandalous a crime, and against
the impunity of such a wicked act. As the Duchess of Buckingham was a
short fat body, like her majesty, who never had had any children, and
whom her husband had abandoned for another; this sort of parallel in
their situations interested the queen in her favour; but it was all in
vain: no person paid any attention to them; the licentiousness of the age
went on uncontrolled, though the queen endeavoured to raise up the
serious part of the nation, the politicians and devotees, as enemies
against it.
The fate of this princess was in many cases truly melancholy: The king,
indeed, paid her every outward attention; but that was all: She easily
perceived that the respect he entertained for her daily diminished, in
proportion as the credit of her rivals increased: She saw that the king
her husband was now totally indifferent about legitimate children, since
his all-charming mistresses bore him others. As all the happiness of her
life depended upon that blessing, and as she flattered herself that the
king would prove kinder to her if Heaven would vouchsafe to grant her
desires, she had recourse to all the celebrated secrets against
sterility: pious vows, nine days' prayers, and offerings having been
tried in all manners, but all to no purpose, she was at last obliged
to return to natural means.
What would she have given on this occasion for the ring which Archbishop
Turpin wore on his finger, and which made Charlemagne run after him, in
the same manner as it had made him run after one of his concubines, from
whose finger Turpin had taken it after her death! But it is now many
years since the only talismans for creating love are the charms of the
person beloved, and foreign enchantments have been looked upon as
ineffectual. The queen's physicians, men of great prudence, sagacity,
and wisdom, as they always are, having duly weighed and considered that
the cold waters of Tunbridge had not succeeded in the preceding year,
concluded that it would be advisable for her to try the warm baths at
Bristol--[Probably Bath, D.W.]--This journey was therefore fixed for the
next season; and in the confidence of its proving effectual, this
excursion would have afforded her much pleasure, if the most dangerous of
her rivals had not been one of the first that was appointed to attend the
court. The Duchess of Cleveland being then near her time, there was no
uneasiness on her account: the common rules of decency required a little
attention. The public, it is true, was not either more or less
acquainted with the circumstances of her situation; by the care which
she now took to conceal it; but her appearing at court in her present
condition would have been too great an insult to the queen. Miss
Stewart, more handsome than ever, was appointed for this excursion, and
began to make magnificent preparations. The poor queen durst say nothing
against it; but all hopes of success immediately forsook her. What could
the baths, or the feeble virtue of the waters, perform against charms
that entirely counteracted their effects, either through the grief and
uneasiness they occasioned her, or by their still more powerful
consequences?
The Chevalier de Grammont, to whom all pleasures were insipid without the
presence of Miss Hamilton, was yet unable to excuse himself from
attending the court: the king delighted too much in his sprightly
conversation to leave him behind; and however pleasing his company might
have been in the solitude occasioned by the absence of the court, Miss
Hamilton did not think it right to accept his offer of staying in town,
because she was obliged to remain there: she, however, granted him the
permission of writing her an account of any news that might occur upon
the journey. He failed not to make use of this permission, in such a
manner as one may imagine: and his own concerns took up so much space
in his letters, that there was very little room left for other subjects
during his stay at the baths. As absence from the object of his
affections rendered this place insupportable, he engaged in everything
that might dissipate his impatience, until the happy moment of return
arrived.
He had a great esteem for the elder of the Hamiltons; no less esteem, and
far more friendship for his brother, whom he made the confidant of his
passion and attachment for his sister. The Chevalier was also acquainted
with his first engagements with his cousin Wetenhall; but being ignorant
of the coldness that had interrupted a commerce so brisk in its
commencement, he was surprised at the eagerness he showed upon all
occasions to please Miss Stewart: his assiduity appeared to the Chevalier
de Grammont to exceed those civilities and attentions that are usually
paid for the purpose of making court to the favourites of princes.
He observed him more strictly, and soon perceived that he was deeper in
love with her than was consistent either with his fortune or his repose.
As soon as the remarks he made had confirmed him in his suspicions,
he resolved to use his endeavours to prevent the consequences of an
engagement pernicious in every respect: but he waited for a proper
opportunity of speaking to him upon the subject.
In the mean time, the court enjoyed every kind of diversion, in a place
where amusement is sought with avidity. The game of bowls, which in
France is the pastime of mechanics and servants only, is quite the
contrary in England, where it is the exercise of gentlemen, and requires
both art and address: it is only in use during the fair and dry part of
the season, and the places where it is practised are charming, delicious
walks, called bowling-greens, which are little square grass plots, where
the turf is almost as smooth and level as the cloth of a billiard-table.
As soon as the heat of the day is over, all the company assemble there:
they play deep; and spectators are at liberty to make what bets they
please.
The Chevalier de Grammont, long before initiated in the English games
and diversions, had been engaged in a horse-race, in which he was indeed
unsuccessful; but he had the satisfaction of being convinced by
experience, that an English horse can go twenty miles upon the high road
in less than an hour. He was more fortunate at cock-fighting; and in the
bets he made at the bowling-green, the party he betted upon never failed
to win.
Near all these places of diversion there is usually a sort of inn, or
house of entertainment, with a bower or arbour, in which are sold all
sorts of English liquors, such as cider, mead, bottled beer, and Spanish
wines. Here the rooks meet every evening to drink, smoke, and to try
their skill upon each other, or, in other words, to endeavour to trick
one another out of the winnings of the day. These rooks are, properly
speaking, what we call capons or piqueurs, in France; men who always
carry money about them, to enable them to lend to losing gamesters, for
which they receive a gratification, which is nothing for such as play
deep, as it is only two per cent., and the money to be repaid the next
day.
These gentlemen are so nice in their calculations, and so particularly
skilful in all manner of games, that no person would dare to enter the
lists with them, were they even assured that no unfairness would be
practised. Besides, they make a vow, to win four or five guineas a day,
and to be satisfied with that gain; a vow which they seldom or never
break.
It was in the midst of a company of these rooks, that Hamilton found the
Chevalier de Grammont, when he called in one evening to get a glass of
cider. They were playing at hazard; and as he who holds the dice is
supposed to have the advantage, the rooks did the Chevalier de Grammont
that honour out of compliment: he had the dice in his hand when Hamilton
came into the room. The rooks, secure of their odds, were betting
against him at a high rate, and he took all.
Hamilton could hardly believe his eyes, to see a man of his experience
and knowledge engaged in so unequal a contest; but it was to no purpose
that he informed him of his danger, both aloud in French, and in private
by signs; he still disregarded his warnings, and the dice, that bore
Caesar and his fortunes, performed a miracle in his favour. The rooks
were defeated for the first time, but not without bestowing upon him all
the encomiums and praises of being a very fair and honourable player,
which they never fail to lavish upon those whom they wish to engage a
second time; but all their commendations were lost, and their hopes
deceived: the Chevalier was satisfied with the first experiment.
Hamilton, when the king was at supper, related to him how he found the
Chevalier de Grammont rashly engaged with the rooks, and in what manner
he had been providentially preserved. "Indeed, Sir," said the Chevalier
de Grammont, "the rooks were discomfited for once;" and thereupon related
the adventure to his majesty in his usual way, attracting the attention
of all the company, to a circumstance trifling in itself, but rendered
interesting by his humour.
After supper, Miss Stewart, in whose apartment there was play, called
Hamilton to her to tell the story. The Chevalier de Grammont, perceiving
that she attended to him with pleasure, was fully confirmed in the truth
of his first conjectures; and, having carried Hamilton home with him to
supper, they began to discourse freely together as usual, "George," said
the Chevalier de Grammont, "are you in any want of money? I know you
love play: perhaps it may not be so favourable to you as it is to me. We
are at a great distance from London. Here are two hundred guineas: take
them, I beseech you; they will do to play with at Miss Stewart's."
Hamilton, who little expected this conclusion, was rather disconcerted.
"How! at Miss Stewart's!" "Yes, in her apartments. Friend George,"
continued the Chevalier de Grammont, "I have not yet lost my eyes: you
are in love with her, and, if I am not mistaken, she is not offended at
it; but tell me how you could resolve to banish poor Wetenhall from your
heart, and suffer yourself to be infatuated with a girl, who perhaps
after all is not worth the other, and who besides, whatever favourable
dispositions she may have for you, will undoubtedly in the end prove your
ruin. Faith, your brother and you are two pretty fellows, in your
choice. What! can you find no other beauties in all the court to fall
in love with, except the king's two mistresses! As for the elder
brother, I can pardon him he only took Lady Castlemaine after his master
had done with her, and after Lady Chesterfield had discarded him; but,
as for you, what the devil do you intend to do with a creature, on whom
the king seems every day to dote with increasing fondness? Is it because
that drunken sot Richmond has again come forward, and now declares
himself one of her professed admirers? You will soon see what he will
make by it: I have not forgotten what the king said to me upon the
subject. 'Believe me, my dear friend, there is no playing tricks with
our masters; I mean, there is no ogling their mistresses.' I myself
wanted to play the agreeable in France with a little coquette, whom
the king did not care about, and you know how dearly I paid for it.
I confess she gives you fair play, but do not trust to her. All the sex
feel an unspeakable satisfaction at having men in their train, whom they
care not for, and to use them as their slaves of state, merely to swell
their equipage. Would it not be a great deal better to pass a week or
ten days incognito at Peckham, with the philosopher Wetenhall's wife,
than to have it inserted in the Dutch Gazette.--We hear from Bristol,
that such a one is banished the court on account of Miss Stewart, and
that he is going to make a campaign in Guinea on board the fleet that is
fitting out for the expedition, under the command of Prince Rupert."
Hamilton, who was the more convinced of the truth of this discourse, the
more he considered it, after musing some time, appeared to wake from a
dream, and addressing himself with an air of gratitude to the Chevalier
de Grammont: "Of all the men in the world, my dear friend," said he, "you
have the most agreeable wit, and at the same time the clearest judgment
with respect to your friends: what you have told me has opened my eyes.
I began to suffer myself to be seduced by the most ridiculous illusion
imaginable, and to be hurried away rather by frivolous appearances than
any real inclination: to you I owe the obligation of having preserved me
from destruction at the very brink of a precipice. This is not the only
kindness you have done me, your favours have been innumerable; and,
as a proof of my gratitude for this last, I will follow your advice,
and go into retirement at my cousin Wetenhall's, to eradicate from my
recollection every trace of those chimeras which lately possessed my
brain; but so far from going thither incognito, I will take you along
with me, as soon as the court returns to London. My sister shall
likewise be of the party; for it is prudent to use all precautions with
a man who, with a great deal of merit, on such occasions is not over
scrupulous, if we may credit your philosopher." "Do not pay any
attention to that pedant," replied the Chevalier de Grammont: "but tell
me what put it into your head to form a design upon that inanimate
statue, Miss Stewart?" "How the devil should I know?" said Hamilton:
"you are acquainted with all her childish amusements. The old Lord
Carlingford was at her apartment one evening, showing her how to hold a
lighted wax candle in her mouth, and the grand secret consisted in
keeping the burning end there a long time without its being extinguished.
I have, thank God, a pretty large mouth, and, in order to out-do her
teacher, I took two candles into my mouth at the same time, and walked
three times round the room without their going out. Every person present
adjudged me the prize of this illustrious experiment, and Killegrew
maintained that nothing but a lanthorn could stand in competition with
me. Upon this she was like to die with laughing; and thus was I admitted
into the familiarity of her amusements. It is impossible to deny her
being one of the most charming creatures that ever was: since the court
has been in the country, I have had an hundred opportunities of seeing
her, which I had not before. You know that the dishabille of the bath is
a great convenience for those ladies, who, strictly adhering to all the
rules of decorum, are yet desirous to display all their charms and
attractions. Miss Stewart is so fully acquainted with the advantages she
possesses over all other women, that it is hardly possible to praise any
lady at court for a well-turned arm, and a fine leg, but she is ever
ready to dispute the point by demonstration; and I really believe, that,
with a little address, it would not be difficult to induce her to strip
naked, without ever reflecting upon what she was doing. After all, a man
must be very insensible to remain unconcerned and unmoved on such happy
occasions; and, besides, the good opinion we entertain of ourselves is
apt to make us think a woman is smitten, as soon as she distinguishes us
by habitual familiarity, which most commonly signifies nothing. This is
the truth of the matter with respect to myself: my own presumption, her
beauty, the brilliant station that sets it off, and a thousand kind
things she had said to me, prevented me from making serious reflections;
but then, as some excuse for my folly, I must likewise tell you, that the
facility I found in making her the tenderest declarations by commending
her, and her telling me in confidence a thousand things which she ought
not to have entrusted me with, might have deceived or infatuated any
other man as well as myself.
"I presented her with one of the prettiest horses in England. You know
what peculiar grace and elegance distinguish her on horseback. The king,
who, of all the diversions of the chase, likes none but hawking, because
it is the most convenient for the ladies, went out the other day to take
this amusement, attended by all the beauties of his court. His majesty
having galloped after a falcon, and the whole bright squadron after him,
the rustling of Miss Stewart's petticoats frightened her horse, which was
at full speed, endeavouring to come up with mine, that had been his
companion; so that I was the only witness of a disorder in her clothes,
which displayed a thousand new beauties to my view. I had the good
fortune to make such gallant and flattering exclamations upon that
charming disorder as to prevent her being concerned or out of countenance
upon it: on the contrary, this subject of my admiration has been
frequently since the subject of our conversation, and did not seem to
displease her.
"Old Lord Carlingford, and that mad fellow, Crofts (for I must now make
you my general confession), those insipid buffoons, were frequently
telling her some diverting stories, which passed pretty well with the
help of a few old threadbare jests, or some apish tricks in the recital,
which made her laugh heartily. As for myself, who know no stories, and
do not possess the talent of improving them by telling, if I did know
any, I was often greatly embarrassed when she desired me to tell her one:
'I do not know one, indeed,' said I, one day, when she was teazing me on
the subject. 'Invent one, then,' said she. 'That would be still more
difficult,' replied I; 'but if you will give me leave, madam, I will
relate to you a very extraordinary dream, which has, however, less
appearance of truth in it than dreams generally have.' This excited her
curiosity, which would brook no denial. I therefore began to tell her
that the most beautiful creature in the world, whom I loved to
distraction, paid me a visit in my sleep. I then drew her own portrait,
with a rapturous description of all her beauties; adding, that this
goddess, who came to visit me with the most favourable intentions, did
not counteract them by any unreasonable cruelty. This was not sufficient
to satisfy Miss Stewart's curiosity: I was obliged to relate every
particular circumstance of the kindness I experienced from this delicate
phantom; to which she was so very attentive, that she never once appeared
surprised or disconcerted at the luscious tale. On the contrary, she
made me repeat the description of the beauty, which I drew as near as
possible after her own person, and after such charms as I imagined of
beauties that were unknown to me.
"This is, in fact, the very thing that had almost deprived me of my
senses: she knew very well that she herself was the person I was
describing: we were alone, as you may imagine, when I told her this
story; and my eyes did their utmost to persuade her that it was herself
whom I drew. I perceived that she was not in the least offended at
knowing this; nor was her modesty in the least alarmed at the relation of
a fiction, which I might have concluded in a manner still less discreet,
if I had thought proper. This patient audience made me plunge headlong
into the ocean of flattering ideas that presented themselves to my
imagination. I then no longer thought of the king, nor how passionately
fond he was of her, nor of the dangers attendant upon such an engagement:
in short, I know not what the devil I was thinking of; but I am very
certain that, if you had not been thinking for me, I might have found my
ruin in the midst of these distracted visions."
Not long after, the court returned to London; and from that time, some
malevolent star having gained the ascendant, every thing went cross in
the empire of Love: vexation, suspicions, or jealousies, first entered
the field, to set all hearts at variance; next, false reports, slander,
and disputes, completed the ruin of all.
The Duchess of Cleveland had been brought to bed while the court was at
Bristol; and never before had she recovered from her lying-in with such
a profusion of charms. This made her believe that she was in a proper
state to retrieve her ancient rights over the king's heart, if she had an
opportunity of appearing before him with this increased splendour. Her
friends being of the same opinion, her equipage was prepared for this
expedition; but the very evening before the day she had fixed on to set
out, she saw young Churchill, and was at once seized with a disease,
which had more than once opposed her projects, and which she could never
completely get the better of.
[Churchill--Afterwards the celebrated Duke of Marlborough. He was
born midsummer-day, 1650, and died June 16, 1722. Bishop Burnet
takes notice of the discovery of this intrigue. "The Duchess of
Cleveland finding that she had lost the king, abandoned herself to
great disorders; one of which, by the artifice of the Duke of
Buckingham, was discovered by the king in person, the party
concerned leaping out of the window."--History of his own Times,
vol. i. p. 370. This was in 1668. A very particular account of
this intrigue is to be seen in the Atalantis of Mrs. Manley, vol.
i., p. 30. The same writer, who had lived as companion to the
Duchess of Cleveland, says, in the account of her own life, that she
was an eye-witness when the duke, who had received thousands from
the duchess, refused the common civility of lending her twenty
guineas at basset.--The history of Rivella, 4th ed. 1725, p. 33.
Lord Chesterfield's character of this noblemen is too remarkable to
be omitted.
"Of all the men that ever I knew in my life, (and I knew him
extremely well,) the late Duke of Marlborough possessed the graces
in the highest degree, not to say engrossed them: and indeed he got
the most by them! for I will venture, (contrary to the custom of
profound historians, who always assign deep causes to great events,)
to ascribe the better half of the Duke of Marlborough's greatness
and riches to those graces. He was eminently illiterate, wrote bad
English, and spelled it still worse. He had no share of what is
commonly called parts; that is, he had no brightness, nothing
shining in his genius. He had, most undoubtedly, an excellent good
plain understanding, with sound judgment. But these alone would
probably have raised him but something higher than they found him,
which was page to King James II.'s queen. There the graces
protected and promoted him; for while he was an ensign of the
guards, the Duchess of Cleveland, then favourite mistress to King
Charles II., struck by those very graces, gave him five thousand
pounds; with which he immediately bought an annuity for his life, of
five hundred pounds a-year, of my grandfather, Halifax; which was
the foundation of his subsequent fortune. His figure was beautiful;
but his manner was irresistible by either man or woman. It was by
this engaging, graceful manner, that he was enabled, during all his
wars, to connect the various and jarring powers of the grand
alliance, and to carry them on to the main object of the war,
notwithstanding their private and separate views, jealousies, and
wrong-headednesses. Whatever court he went to, (and he was often
obliged to go himself to some restive and refractory ones,) he as
constantly prevailed, and brought them into his measures. The
pensionary Heinsius, a venerable old minister, grown grey in
business, and who had governed the republic of the United Provinces
for more than forty years, was absolutely governed by the Duke of
Marlborough, as that republic feels to this day. He was always
cool; and nobody ever observed the least variation in his
countenance. He could refuse more gracefully than other people
could grant; and those who went away from him the most dissatisfied,
as to the substance of their business, were yet personally charmed
with him, and, in some degree, comforted by his manner. With all
his gracefulness, no man living was more conscious of his situation,
or maintained his dignity better."--Chest. Letters, letter 136.]
A man who, from an ensign in the guards, was raised to such a fortune,
must certainly possess an uncommon share of prudence, not to be
intoxicated with his happiness. Churchill boasted in all places of
the new favour he had received: the Duchess of Cleveland, who neither
recommended to him circumspection in his behaviour, nor in his
conversation, did not seem to be in the least concerned at his
indiscretion. Thus this intrigue was become a general topic in all
companies, when the court arrived in London, and occasioned an immense
number of speculations and reasonings: some said she had already
presented him with Jermyn's pension, and Jacob Hall's salary, because
the merits and qualifications of both were united in his person: others
maintained that he had too indolent an air, and too delicate a shape,
long to maintain himself in her favour; but all agreed that a man who was
the favourite of the king's mistress, and brother to the duke's
favourite, was in a fair way of preferment, and could not fail to make
his fortune. As a proof, the Duke of York soon after gave him a place in
his household: this was naturally to be expected; but the king, who did
not think that Lady Cleveland's kindness to him was a sufficient
recommendation to his favour, thought proper to forbid him the court.
This good-natured king began now to be rather peevish: nor was it
altogether without reason: he disturbed no person in their amours, and
yet others had often the presumption to encroach upon his. Lord Dorset,
first lord of the bed-chamber, had lately debauched from his service Nell
Gwyn, the actress. Lady Cleveland, whom he now no longer regarded,
continued to disgrace him by repeated infidelities with unworthy rivals,
and almost ruined him by the immense sums she lavished on her gallants;
but that which most sensibly affected him, was the late coldness and
threats of Miss Stewart. He long since had offered her all the
settlements and all the titles she could desire, until he had an
opportunity more effectually to provide for her, which she had pretended
only to decline, for fear of the scandal they might occasion, on her
being raised to a rank which would attract the public notice; but since
the return of the court, she had given herself other airs: sometimes she
was for retiring from court, to appease the continual uneasiness her
presence gave the queen: at other times it was to avoid temptations,
by which she wished to insinuate that her innocence was still preserved:
in short, the king's heart was continually distracted by alarms, or
oppressed by humour and caprice.
As he could not for his life imagine what Miss Stewart wished him to do,
or what she would be at, he thought upon reforming his establishment of
mistresses, to try whether jealousy was not the real occasion of her
uneasiness. It was for this reason that, after having solemnly declared
he would have nothing more to say to the Duchess of Cleveland, since her
intrigue with Churchill, he discarded, without any exception, all the
other mistresses which he had in various parts of the town. The Nell
Gwyns, the Misses Davis, and the joyous rain of singers and dancers in
his majesty's theatre, were all dismissed. All these sacrifices were
ineffectual: Miss Stewart continued to torment, and almost to drive the
king to distraction; but his majesty soon after found out the real cause
of this coldness.
This discovery was owing to the officious Duchess of Cleveland, who, ever
since her disgrace, had railed most bitterly against Miss Stewart as the
cause of it, and against the king's weakness, who, for an inanimate
idiot, had treated her with so much indignity. As some of her grace's
creatures were still in the king's confidence, by their means she was
informed of the king's uneasiness, and that Miss Stewart's behaviour was
the occasion of it--and as soon as she had found the opportunity she had
so long wished for, she went directly into the king's cabinet, through
the apartment of one of his pages called Chiffinch. This way was not new
to her.
The king was just returned from visiting Miss Stewart, in a very ill
humour: the presence of the Duchess of Cleveland surprised him, and did
not in the least diminish it: she, perceiving this, accosted him in an
ironical tone, and with a smile of indignation. "I hope," said she,
"I may be allowed to pay you my homage, although the angelic Stewart has
forbid you to see me at my own house. I will not make use of reproaches
and expostulations, which would disgrace myself: still less will I
endeavour to excuse frailties which nothing can justify, since your
constancy for me deprives me of all defence, considering I am the only
person you have honoured with your tenderness, who has made herself
unworthy of it by ill conduct. I come now, therefore, with no other
intent than to comfort and to condole with you upon the affliction and
grief into which the coldness, or new-fashioned chastity of the inhuman
Stewart have reduced your majesty." These words were attended by a fit
of laughter, as unnatural and strained as it was insulting and
immoderate, which completed the king's impatience: he had, indeed,
expected that some bitter jest would follow this preamble; but he did not
suppose she would have given herself such blustering airs, considering
the terms they were then upon; and, as he was preparing to answer her:
"be not offended," said she, "that I take the liberty of laughing at the
gross manner in which you are imposed upon: I cannot bear to see that
such particular affectation should make you the jest of your own court,
and that you should be ridiculed with such impunity. I know that the
affected Stuart has sent you away, under pretence of some indisposition,
or perhaps some scruple of conscience; and I come to acquaint you that
the Duke of Richmond will soon be with her, if he is not there already.
I do not desire you to believe what I say, since it might be suggested
either through resentment or envy: only follow me to her apartment,
either that, no longer trusting calumny and malice, you may honour her
with a just preference, if I accuse her falsely; or, if my information be
true, you may no longer be the dupe of a pretended prude, who makes you
act so unbecoming and ridiculous a part."
As she ended this speech, she took him by the hand, while he was yet
undecided, and pulled him away towards her rival's apartments. Chiffinch
being in her interest, Miss Stewart could have no warning of the visit;
and Babiani, who owed all to the Duchess of Cleveland, and who served her
admirably well upon this occasion, came and told her that the Duke of
Richmond had just gone into Miss Stewart's chamber. It was in the middle
of a little gallery, which, through a private door, led from the king's
apartments to those of his mistresses. The Duchess of Cleveland wished
him good night, as he entered her rival's chamber, and retired, in order
to wait the success of the adventure, of which Babiani, who attended the
king, was charged to come and give her an account.
It was near midnight: the king, in his way, met his mistress's
chamber-maids, who respectfully opposed his entrance, and in a very low
voice, whispered his majesty that Miss Stewart had been very ill since he
left her: but that, being gone to bed, she was, God be thanked, in a very
fine sleep. "That I must see," said the king, pushing her back, who had
posted herself in his way. He found Miss Stewart in bed, indeed, but far
from being asleep: the Duke of Richmond was seated at her pillow, and in
all probability was less inclined to sleep than herself. The perplexity
of the one party, and the rage of the other, were such as may easily be
imagined upon such a surprise. The king, who, of all men, was one of the
most mild and gentle, testified his resentment to the Duke of Richmond in
such terms as he had never before used. The duke was speechless, and
almost petrified: he saw his master and his king justly irritated. The
first transports which rage inspires on such occasions are dangerous.
Miss Stewart, window was very convenient for a sudden revenge, the Thames
flowing close beneath it: he cast his eyes upon it; and, seeing those of
the king more incensed and fired with indignation than he thought his
nature capable of, he made a profound bow, and retired, without replying
a single word to the vast torrent of threats and menaces that were poured
upon him.
Miss Stewart, having a little recovered from her first surprise, instead
of justifying herself, began to talk in the most extravagant manner, and
said everything that was most capable to inflame the king's passion and
resentment; that, if she were not allowed to receive visits from a man of
the Duke of Richmond's rank, who came with honourable intentions, she was
a slave in a free country; that she knew of no engagement that could
prevent her from disposing of her hand as she thought proper; but,
however, if this was not permitted her in his dominions, she did not
believe that there was any power on earth that could hinder her from
going over to France, and throwing herself into a convent, to enjoy there
that tranquillity which was denied her in his court. The king, sometimes
furious with anger, sometimes relenting at her tears, and sometimes
terrified at her menaces, was so greatly agitated, that he knew not how
to answer, either the nicety of a creature who wanted to act the part of
Lucretia under his own eye, or the assurance with which she had the
effrontery to reproach him. In this suspense, love had almost entirely
vanquished all his resentments, and had nearly induced him to throw
himself upon his knees, and entreat pardon for the injury he had done
her, when she desired him to retire, and leave her in repose, at least
for the remainder of that night, without offending those who had either
accompanied him, or conducted him to her apartments, by a longer visit.
This impertinent request provoked and irritated him to the highest
degree: he went out abruptly, vowing never to see her more, and passed
the most restless and uneasy night he had ever experienced since his
restoration.
The next day the Duke of Richmond received orders to quit the court, and
never more to appear before the king; but it seems he had not waited for
those orders, having set out early that morning for his country seat.
Miss Stewart, in order to obviate all injurious constructions that might
be put upon the adventure of the preceding night, went and threw herself
at the queen's feet; where, acting the new part of an innocent Magdalen,
she entreated her majesty's forgiveness for all the sorrow and uneasiness
she might have already occasioned her. She told her majesty that a
constant and sincere repentance had induced her to contrive all possible
means for retiring from court: that this reason had inclined her to
receive the Duke of Richmond's addresses, who had courted her a long
time; but since this courtship had caused his disgrace, and had likewise
raised a vast noise and disturbance, which perhaps might be turned to the
prejudice of her reputation, she conjured her Majesty to take her under
her protection, and endeavour to obtain the king's permission for her to
retire into a convent, to remove at once all those vexations and troubles
her presence had innocently occasioned at court. All this was
accompanied with a proper deluge of tears.
It is a very agreeable spectacle to see a rival prostrate at our feet,
entreating pardon, and at the same time justifying her conduct. The
queen's heart not only relented, but she mingled her own tears with those
of Miss Stewart. After having raised her up, and most tenderly embraced
her, she promised her all manner of favour and protection, either in her
marriage, or in any other course she thought fit to pursue, and parted
from her with the firm resolution to exert all her interest in her
support; but, being a person of great judgment, the reflections which
she afterwards made, induced her to change her opinion!
She knew that the king's disposition was not capable of an obstinate
constancy. She therefore judged that absence would cure him, or that a
new engagement would by degrees entirely efface the remembrance of Miss
Stewart, and that, since she could not avoid having a rival, it was more
desirable she should be one who had given such eminent proofs of her
prudence and virtue. Besides, she flattered herself that the king would
ever think himself eternally obliged to her, for having opposed the
retreat and marriage of a girl, whom at that time he loved to
distraction. This fine reasoning determined her conduct. All her
industry was employed in persuading Miss Stewart to abandon her schemes;
and what is most extraordinary in this adventure, is, that, after having
prevailed upon her to think no more either of the Duke of Richmond, or of
a nunnery, she charged herself with the office of reconciling these two
lovers.
Indeed it would have been a thousand pities if her negotiation had
miscarried but she did not suffer this misfortune; for never were the
king's addresses so eager and passionate as after this peace, nor ever
better received by the fair Stewart.
His majesty did not long enjoy the sweets of a reconciliation, which
brought him into the best good humour possible, as we shall see. All
Europe was in a profound peace, since the treaty of the Pyrenees: Spain
flattered herself she should be able to recruit, by means of the new
alliance she had contracted with the most formidable of her neighbours;
but despaired of being able to support the shattered remains of a
declining monarchy, when she considered the age and infirmities of her
prince, or the weakness of his successor: France, on the contrary,
governed by a king indefatigable in business, young, vigilant, and
ambitious of glory, wanted nothing but inclination to aggrandize herself.
It was about this time, that the king of France, not willing to disturb
the tranquillity of Europe, was persuaded to alarm the coasts of Africa,
by an attempt, which, if it had even been crowned with success, would
have produced little good; but the king's fortune, ever faithful to his
glory, has since made it appear, by the miscarriage of the expedition of
Gigeri, that such projects only as were planned by himself were worthy of
his attention.
[Gigeri is about forty leagues from Algiers. Till the year 1664 the
French had a factory there; but then attempting to build a fort on
the sea-coast, to be a check upon the Arabs, they came down from the
mountains, beat the French out of Gigeri, and demolished their fort.
Sir Richard Fanshaw, in a letter to the deputy governor of Tangier,
dated 2nd December, 1664, N.S., says, "We have certain intelligence
that the French have lost Gigheria, with all they had there, and
their fleet come back, with the loss of one considerable ship upon
the rocks near Marseilles."--Fanshaw's Letters, vol. i. p. 347.]
A short time after, the king of England, having resolved also to explore
the African coasts, fitted out a squadron for an expedition to Guinea,
which was to be commanded by Prince Rupert. Those who, from their own
experience, had some knowledge of the country, related strange and
wonderful stories of the dangers attendant upon this expedition that they
would have to fight not only the inhabitants of Guinea, a hellish people,
whose arrows were poisoned, and who never gave their prisoners better
quarter than to devour them, but that they must likewise endure heats
that were insupportable, and rains that were intolerable, every drop of
which was changed into a serpent: that, if they penetrated farther into
the country, they would be assaulted by monsters a thousand times more
hideous and destructive than all the beasts mentioned in the Revelations.
But all these reports were vain and ineffectual: for so far from striking
terror into those who were appointed to go upon this expedition, it
rather acted as an incentive to glory, upon those who had no manner of
business in it. Jermyn appeared among the foremost of those; and,
without reflecting that the pretence of his indisposition had delayed
the conclusion of his marriage with Miss Jennings, he asked the duke's
permission, and the king's consent to serve in it as a volunteer.
Some time before this, the infatuation which had imposed upon the fair
Jennings in his favour had begun to subside. All that now inclined her
to this match were the advantages of a settlement. The careless
indolence of a lover, who faintly paid his addresses to her, as it were
from custom or habit, disgusted her; and the resolution he had taken,
without consulting her, appeared so ridiculous in him, and so injurious
to herself, that, from that moment, she resolved to think no more of him.
Her eyes being opened by degrees, she saw the fallacy of the splendour,
which had at first deceived her; and the renowned Jermyn was received
according to his real merit when he came to acquaint her with his
heroical project. There appeared so much indifference and ease in the
raillery with which she complimented him upon his voyage, that he was
entirely disconcerted, and so much the more so, as he had prepared all
the arguments he thought capable of consoling her, upon announcing to her
the fatal news of his departure. She told him, "that nothing could be
more glorious for him, who had triumphed over the liberty of so many
persons in Europe, than too and extend his conquests in other parts of
the world; and that she advised him to bring home with him all the female
captives he might make in Africa, in order to replace those beauties whom
his absence would bring to the grave."
Jermyn was highly displeased that she should be capable of raillery in
the condition he supposed her reduced to; but he soon perceived she was
in earnest: she told him, that she considered this farewell visit as his
last, and desired him not to think of making her any more before his
departure.
Thus far everything went well on her side: Jermyn was not only confounded
at having received his discharge in so cavalier a manner; but this very
demonstration of her indifference had revived, and even redoubled, all
the love and affection he had formerly felt for her. Thus she had both
the pleasure of despising him, and of seeing him more entangled in the
chains of love than he had ever been before. This was not sufficient:
she wished still farther, and very unadvisedly, to strain her resentment.
Ovid's Epistles,--[This is the translation of Ovid's Epistles published
by Mr. Dryden. The second edition of it was printed in 1681.]--
translated into English verse by the greatest wits at court, having
lately been published, she wrote a letter from a shepherdess in despair,
addressed to the perfidious Jermyn. She took the epistle of Ariadne to
Theseus for her model. The beginning of this letter contained, word for
word, the complaints and reproaches of that injured fair to the cruel man
by whom she had been abandoned. All this was properly adapted to the
present times and circumstances. It was her design to have closed this
piece with a description of the toils, perils, and monsters, that awaited
him in Guinea, for which he quitted a tender mistress, who was plunged
into the abyss of misery, and was overwhelmed with grief and despair; but
not having had time to finish it, nor to get that which she had written
transcribed, in order to send it to him under a feigned name, she
inconsiderately put this fragment, written in her own hand, into her
pocket, and, still more giddily, dropped it in the middle of the court.
Those who took it up, knowing her writing, made several copies of it,
which were circulated all over the town; but her former conduct had so
well established the reputation of her virtue, that no person entertained
the smallest doubt but the circumstances were exactly as we have related
them. Some time after, the Guinea expedition was laid aside for reasons
that are universally known, and Miss Jenning's subsequent proceedings
fully justified her letter; for, notwithstanding all the efforts and
attentions Jermyn practised to regain her affections, she would never
more hear of him.
But he was not the only man who experienced the whimsical fatality, that
seemed to delight in disuniting hearts, in order to engage them soon
after to different objects. One would have imagined that the God of
Love, actuated by some new caprice, had placed his empire under the
dominion of Hymen, and had, at the same time, blind-folded that God, in
order to cross-match most of the lovers whom we have been speaking of'
The fair Stewart married the Duke of Richmond; the invincible Jermyn, a
silly country girl; Lord Rochester, a melancholy heiress; the sprightly
Temple, the serious Lyttleton; Talbot, without knowing why or wherefore,
took to wife the languishing Boynton; George Hamilton, under more
favourable auspices, married the lovely Jennings; and the Chevalier de
Grammont, as the reward of a constancy he had never before known, and
which he never afterwards practised, found Hymen and Love united in his
favour, and was at last blessed with the possession of Miss Hamilton.
[After the deaths of Miss Boynton and of George Hamilton, Talbot
married Miss Jennings, and became afterwards Duke of Tyrconnel.]
["The famous Count Grammont was thought to be the original of The
Forced Marriage. This nobleman, during his stay at the court of
England, had made love to Miss Hamilton, but was coming away for
France without bringing matters to a proper conclusion. The young
lady's brothers pursued him, and came up with him near Dover, in
order to exchange some pistol-shot with him: They called out, 'Count
Grammont, have you forgot nothing at London?' 'Excuse me,' answered
the Count, guessing their errand, 'I forgot to marry your sister; so
lead on, and let us finish that affair.' By the pleasantry of the
answer, this was the same Grammont who commanded at the siege of a
place, the governor of which capitulated after a short defence, and
obtained an easy capitulation. The governor then said to Monsieur
Grammont, I'll tell you a secret--that the reason of my capitulation
was, because I was in want of powder.' Monsieur replied, 'And
secret for secret--the reason of my granting you such an easy
capitulation was, because I was in want of ball."--Biog. Gallica,
vol. i., p. 202.
Count Grammont and his lady left England in 1669. King Charles in a
letter to his sister, the Duchess of Orleans, dated 24th October, in
that year, says, "I writt to you yesterday, by the Compte de
Grammont, but I beleeve this letter will come sooner to your handes;
for he goes by the way of Diep, with his wife and family; and now
that I have named her, I cannot chuse but againe desire you to be
kinde to her; for, besides the merrit her family has on both sides,
she is as good a creature as ever lived. I beleeve she will passe
for a handsome woman in France, though she has not yett, since her
lying-inn, recovered that good shape she had before, and I am
affraide never will."--Dalxymple's Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 26.
"The Count de Grammont fell dangerously ill in the year 1696; of
which the king (Louis XIV.) being informed, and knowing, besides,
that he was inclined to libertinism, he was pleased to send the
Marquis of Dangeau to see how he did, and to advise him to think of
God. Hereupon Count de Grammont, turning towards his wife, who had
ever been a very devout lady, told her, Countess, if you don't look
to it, Dangeau will juggle you out of my conversion. Madame de
l'Enclos having afterwards written to M. de St Evremond that Count
de Grammont was recovered, and turned devout,--I have learned,
answered he to her, with a great deal of pleasure, that Count de
Grammont has recovered his former health, and acquired a new
devotion. Hitherto I have been contented with being a plain honest
man; but I must do something more; and I only wait for your example
to become a devotee. You live in a country where people have
wonderful advantages of saving their souls, there vice is almost as
opposite to the mode as to virtue; sinning passes for ill-breeding,
and shocks decency and good manners, as much as religion, Formerly
it was enough to be wicked; now one must be a scoundrel withal, to
be damned in France. They who have not regard enough for another
life, are led to salvation by the consideration and duties of this."
--"But there is enough upon a subject in which the conversion of the
Count de Grammont has engaged me: I believe it to be sincere and
honest. It well becomes a man who is not young, to forget he has
been so."--Life of St. Evremond, by Des Marzeaux, p. 136; and St.
Evremond's Works, vol. ii. p. 431.]
PG EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
All day poring over his books, and went to bed soon
Ambition to pass for a wit, only established her tiresome
An affectation of purity of manners
As all fools are who have good memories
Better memory for injuries than for benefits
Better to know nothing at all, than to know too much
Better to partake with another than to have nothing at all
Busy without consequence
By a strange perversion of language, styled, all men of honour
Despising everything which was not like themselves
Devote himself to his studies, than to the duties of matrimony
Duke would see things if he could
Embellish the truth, in order to enhance the wonder
Entreating pardon, and at the same time justifying her conduct
Envy each other those indulgences which themselves refuse
Every thing that is necessary is honourable in politics
Four dozen of patches, at least, and ten ringlets of hair
Good attendants, but understood cheating still better
Great earnestness passed for business
Grew so fat and plump that it was a blessing to see her
Hardly possible for a woman to have less wit, or more beauty
He had no sentiments but such as others inspired him with
He talked eternally, without saying anything
He as little feared the Marquis as he loved him
His mistress given him by his priests for penance
How I must hate you, if I did not love you to distraction
Impenetrable stupidity (passed) for secrecy
Impertinent compliments
Life, in his opinion, was too short to read all sorts of books
Long habit of suffering himself to be robbed by his domestics
Maxim of all jealous husbands
Never felt the pressure of indigence
Not disagreeable, but he had a serious contemplative air
Not that he wanted capacity, but he was too self-sufficient
Obstinate against all other advices
Offended that his good fortune raised him no rivals
One amour is creditable to a lady
Possessed but little raillery, and still less patience
Public is not so easily deceived as some people imagine
Public grows familiar with everything by habit
Reasons of state assume great privileges
Resolved to renounce the church for the salvation of my soul
She just said what she ought, and no more
So weak as to transform your slave into your tyrant
Terrible piece of furniture for the country (educated girl)
The shortest follies are the best
There are men of real merit, or pretenders to it
They can by no means bear the inconstancy of their mistresses
Those who open a book merely to find fault
Very willing to accept, but was tardy in making returns
Wealth was necessary for the conveniencies of a long life
What jealousy fears, and what it always deserves
What a glory would it be to have a Cato for a husband
Would have been criminal even in chastity to spare (her husband)