It will be difficult, my dears, without bulging this history out of all
proportion, to give you a just notion of the society into which I fell
after John Paul left London. It was, above all, a gaming society.
From that prying and all-powerful God of Chance none, great or small,
escaped. Guineas were staked and won upon frugal King George and his
beef and barley-water; Charles Fox and his debts; the intrigues of
Choiseul and the Du Barry and the sensational marriage of the Due
d'Orleans with Madame de Montesson (for your macaroni knew his Paris
as well as his London); Lord March and his opera singer; and even
the doings of Betty, the apple-woman of St. James's Street, and the
beautiful barmaid of Nando's in whom my Lord Thurlow was said to be
interested. All these, and much more not to be repeated, were duly set
down in the betting-books at White's and Brooks's.
Then the luxury of the life was something to startle a provincial, even
tho' he came, as did I, from one of the two most luxurious colonies
of the thirteen. Annapolis might be said to be London on a small
scale,--but on a very small scale. The historian of the future need look
no farther than our houses (if any remain), to be satisfied that we had
more than the necessities of existence. The Maryland aristocrat with his
town place and his country place was indeed a parallel of the patrician
at home. He wore his English clothes, drove and rode his English horses,
and his coaches were built in Long Acre. His heavy silver service came
from Fleet Street, and his claret and Champagne and Lisbon and Madeira
were the best that could be bought or smuggled. His sons were often
educated at home, at Eton or Westminster and Oxford or Cambridge.
So would I have been if circumstances had permitted. So was James
Fotheringay, the eldest of the family, and later the Dulany boys, and
half a dozen others I might mention. And then our ladies! 'Tis but
necessary to cite my Aunt Caroline as an extreme dame of fashion, who
had her French hairdresser, Piton.
As was my aunt to the Duchess of Kingston, so was Annapolis to London.
To depict the life of Mayfair and of St. James's Street during a season
about the year of grace 1770 demands a mightier pen than wields the
writer of these simple memoirs.
And who was responsible for all this luxury and laxity? Who but the
great Mr. Pitt, then the Earl of Chatham, whose wise policy had made
Britain the ruler of the world, and rich beyond compare. From all
corners of the earth her wealth poured in upon her. Nabob and Caribbee
came from East and West to spend their money in the capital. And
fortunes near as great were acquired by the City merchants themselves.
One by one these were admitted within that charmed circle, whose motto
for ages had been “No Trade,” to leaven it with their gold. And to keep
the pace,--nay, to set it, the nobility and landed gentry were sore
pressed. As far back as good Queen Anne, and farther, their ancestors
had gamed and tippled away the acres; and now that John and William,
whose forebears had been good tenants for centuries, were setting their
faces to Liverpool and Birmingham and Leeds, their cottages were empty.
So Lord and Squire went to London to recuperate, and to get their share
of the game running. St. James's Street and St. Stephen's became their
preserves. My Lord wormed himself into a berth in the Treasury, robbed
the country systematically for a dozen of years, and sold the places
and reversions under him to the highest bidder. Boroughs were to be
had somewhat dearer than a pair of colours. And my Lord spent his
spare time--he had plenty of it--in fleecing the pigeons at White's
and Almack's. Here there was no honour, even amongst thieves. And young
gentlemen were hurried through Eton and Oxford, where they learned
to drink and swear and to call a main as well as to play tennis and
billiards and to write Latin, and were thrust into Brooks's before
they knew the difference in value between a farthing and a banknote: at
nineteen they were hardened rake, or accomplished men of the world, or
both. Dissipated noblemen of middle age like March and Sandwich, wits
and beaus and fine gentlemen like Selwyn and Chesterfield and Walpole,
were familiarly called by their first names by youngsters like Fox and
Carlisle and Comyn. Difference of age was no difference. Young Lord
Carlisle was the intimate of Mr. Selwyn, born thirty years before him.
And whilst I am speaking of intimacies, that short one which sprang
up between me and the renowned Charles Fox has always seemed the most
unaccountable: not on my part, for I fell a victim to him at once. Pen
and paper, brush and canvas, are wholly inadequate to describe the
charm of the man. When he desired to please, his conversation and the
expression of his face must have moved a temperament of stone itself.
None ever had more devoted friends or more ardent admirers. They saw his
faults, which he laid bare before them, but they settled his debts again
and again, vast sums which he lost at Newmarket and at Brooks's. And not
many years after the time of which I now write Lord Carlisle was paying
fifteen hundred a year on the sum he had loaned him, cheerfully denying
himself the pleasures of London as a consequence.
It was Mr. Fox who discovered for me my lodgings in Dover Street, vowing
that I could not be so out of fashion as to live at an inn. The brief
history of these rooms, as given by him, was this: “A young cub had
owned them, whose mamma had come up from Berkshire on Thursday, beat him
soundly on Friday, paid his debts on Saturday, and had taken him back
on Sunday to hunt with Sir Henry the rest of his life.” Dorothy came one
day with her mother and swept through my apartments, commanded all the
furniture to be moved about, ordered me to get pictures for the walls,
and by one fell decree abolished all the ornaments before the landlady,
used as she was to the ways of quality, had time to gasp.
“Why, Richard,” says my lady, “you will be wanting no end of pretty
things to take back to Maryland when you go. You shall come with me
to-morrow to Mr. Josiah Wedgwood's, to choose some of them.”
“Dorothy!” says her mother, reprovingly.
“And he must have the Chippendale table I saw yesterday at the
exhibition, and chairs to match. And every bachelor should have a punch
bowl--Josiah has such a beauty!”
But I am running far ahead. Among the notes with which my table was
laden, Banks had found a scrawl. This I made out with difficulty to
convey that Mr. Fox was not attending Parliament that day. If Mr. Carvel
would do him the honour of calling at his lodging, over Mackie's Italian
Warehouse in Piccadilly, at four o'clock, he would take great pleasure
in introducing him at Brooks's Club. In those days 'twas far better for
a young gentleman of any pretensions to remain at home than go to London
and be denied that inner sanctuary,--the younger club at Almack's. Many
the rich brewer's son has embittered his life because it was not given
him to see more than the front of the house from the far side of Pall
Mall. But to be taken there by Charles Fox was an honour falling to few.
I made sure that Dolly was at the bottom of it.
Promptly at four I climbed the stairs and knocked at Mr. Fox's door.
The Swiss who opened it shook his head dubiously when I asked for his
master, and said he had not been at home that day.
“But I had an appointment to meet him,” I said, thinking it very
strange.
The man's expression changed.
“An appointment, sir! Ah, sir, then you are to step in here.” And to my
vast astonishment he admitted me into a small room at one side of
the entrance. It was bare as poverty, and furnished with benches, and
nothing more. On one of these was seated a person with an unmistakable
nose and an odour of St. Giles's, who sprang to his feet and then sat
down again dejectedly. I also sat down, wondering what it could mean,
and debating whether to go or stay.
“Exguse me, your honour,” said the person, “but haf you seen Mister
Fox?”
I said that I, too, was waiting for him, whereat he cast at me a
cunning look beyond my comprehension. Surely, I thought, a man of Fox's
inherited wealth and position could not be living in such a place!
Before the truth and humour of the situation had dawned upon me, I heard
a ringing voice without, swearing in most forcible English, and the door
was thrown open, admitting a tall young gentleman, as striking as I have
ever seen. He paid not the smallest attention to the Jew, who was bowing
and muttering behind me.
“Mr. Richard Carvel?” said he, with a merry twinkle in his eye.
I bowed.
“Gad's life, Mr. Carvel, I'm deuced sorry this should have happened.
Will you come with me?”
“Exguse me, your honour!” cried the other visitor.
“Now, what the plague, Aaron!” says he; “you wear out the stairs. Come
to-morrow, or the day after.”
“Ay, 'tis always 'to-morrow' with you fine gentlemen. But I vill bring
the bailiffs, so help me--”
“Damn 'em!” says the tall young gentleman, as he slammed the door and so
shut off the wail. “Damn 'em, they worry Charles to death. If he would
only stick to quinze and picquet, and keep clear of the hounds*, he need
never go near a broker.”
[* “The “hounds,” it appears, were the gentlemen of sharp practices at
White's and Almack's.--D. C. C.]
“Do you have Jews in America, Mr. Carvel?” Without waiting for
an answer, he led me through a parlour, hung with pictures, and
bewilderingly furnished with French and Italian things, and Japan and
China ware and bronzes, and cups and trophies. “My name is Fitzpatrick,
Mr. Carvel,--yours to command, and Charles's. I am his ally for offence
and defence. We went to school together,” he explained simply.
His manner was so free, and yet so dignified, as to charm me completely.
For I heartily despised all that fustian trumpery of the age. Then came
a voice from beyond, calling:--
“That you, Carvel? Damn that fellow Eiffel, and did he thrust you into
the Jerusalem Chamber?”
“The Jerusalem Chamber!” I exclaimed.
“Where I keep my Israelites,” said he; “but, by Gad's life! I think they
are one and all descended from Job, and not father Abraham at all. He
must have thought me cursed ascetic, eh, Fitz? Did you find the benches
hard? I had 'em made hard as the devil. But if they were of stone, I vow
the flock could find their own straw to sit on.”
“Curse it, Charles,” cut in Mr. Fitzpatrick, in some temper, “can't you
be serious for once! He would behave this way, Mr. Carvel, if he were
being shriven by the Newgate ordinary before a last carting to Tyburn.
Charles, Charles, it was Aaron again, and the dog is like to snap at
last. He is talking of bailiffs. Take my advice and settle with him.
Hold Cavendish off another fortnight and settle with him.”
Mr. Fox's reply was partly a laugh, and the rest of it is not to be
printed. He did not seem in the least to mind this wholesale disclosure
of his somewhat awkward affairs. And he continued to dress, or to be
dressed, alternately swearing at his valet and talking to Fitzpatrick
and to me.
“You are both of a name,” said he. “Let a man but be called Richard, and
I seem to take to him. I' faith, I like the hunchback king, and believe
our friend Horry Walpole is right in defending him, despite Davie Hume.
I vow I shall like you, Mr. Carvel.”
I replied that I certainly hoped so.
“Egad, you come well enough recommended,” he said, pulling on his
breeches. “No, Eiffel, cursed if I go en petit maitre to-day. How does
that strike you for a demi saison, Mr. Buckskin? I wore three of 'em
through the customs last year, and March's worked olive nightgown tucked
under my greatcoat, and near a dozen pairs of shirts and stockings. And
each of my servants had on near as much. O Lud, we were amazing-like
beef-eaters or blower pigeons. Sorry you won't meet my brother,--he that
will have the title. He's out of town.”
Going on in this discursory haphazard way while he dressed, he made me
feel much at home. For the young dictator--so Mr. Fitzpatrick informed
me afterward--either took to you or else he did not, and stood upon no
ceremony. After he had chosen a coat with a small pattern and his feet
had been thrust into the little red shoes with the high heels, imported
by him from France, he sent for a hackney-chaise. And the three of us
drove together to Pall Mall. Mr. Brooks was at the door, and bowed from
his hips as we entered.
“A dozen vin de Graves, Brooks!” cries Mr. Fox, and ushers me into
a dining room, with high curtained windows and painted ceiling, and
chandeliers throwing a glitter of light. There, at a long table,
surrounded by powdered lackeys, sat a bevy of wits, mostly in blue and
silver, with point ruffles, to match Mr. Fox's costume. They greeted
my companions uproariously. It was “Here's Charles at last!” “Howdy,
Charles!” “Hello, Richard!” and “What have you there? a new Caribbee?”
They made way for Mr. Fox at the head of the table, and he took the seat
as though it were his right.
“This is Mr. Richard Carvel, gentlemen, of Carvel Hall, in Maryland.”
They stirred with interest when my name was called, and most of them
turned in their chairs to look at me. I knew well the reason, and felt
my face grow hot. Although you may read much of the courtesy of that
age, there was a deal of brutal frankness among young men of fashion.
“Egad, Charles, is this he the Beauty rescued from Castle Yard?”
A familiar voice relieved my embarrassment.
“Give the devil his due, Bully. You forget that I had a hand in that.”
“Faith, Jack Comyn,” retorted the gentleman addressed, “you're already
famous for clinging to her skirt.”
“But cling to mine, Bully, and we'll all enter the temple together. But
I bid you welcome, Richard,” said his Lordship; “you come with two of
the most delightful vagabonds in the world.”
Mr. Fox introduced me in succession to Colonel St. John, known in St.
James's Street as the Baptist; to my Lord Bolingbroke, Colonel
St. John's brother, who was more familiarly called Bully; to Mr.
Fitzpatrick's brother, the Earl of Upper Ossory, who had come up to
London, so he said, to see a little Italian dance at the Garden; to
Gilly Williams; to Sir Charles Bunbury, who had married Lady Sarah
Lennox, Fox's cousin, the beauty who had come so near to being queen of
all England; to Mr. Storer, who was at once a Caribbee and a Crichton;
to Mr. Uvedale Price. These I remember, but there are more that escape
me. Most good-naturedly they drank my health in Charles's vin de grave,
at four shillings the bottle; and soon I was astonished to find myself
launched upon the story of my adventures, which they had besought me
to tell them. When I had done, they pledged me again, and, beginning to
feel at home, I pledged them handsomely in return. Then the conversation
began. The like of it I have never heard anywhere else in the world.
There was a deal that might not be written here, and a deal more that
might, to make these pages sparkle. They went through the meetings, of
course, and thrashed over the list of horses entered at Ipswich, and
York, and Newmarket, and how many were thought to be pulled. Then
followed the recent gains and losses of each and every individual of
the company. After that there was a roar of merriment over Mr.
Storer cracking mottoes with a certain Lady Jane; and how young
Lord Stavordale, on a wager, tilted the candles and set fire to the
drawing-room at Lady Julia's drum, the day before. Mr. Price told of the
rage Topham Beauclerk had got Dr. Johnson into, by setting down a mark
for each oyster the sage had eaten, and showing him the count. But Mr.
Fox, who was the soul of the club, had the best array of any. He related
how he had gone post from Paris to Lyons, to order, among other things,
an embroidered canary waistcoat for George Selwyn from Jabot. “' Et
quel dessin, monsieur?' 'Beetles and frogs, in green.' 'Escargots!
grenouilles!' he cries, with a shriek; 'Et pour Monsieur Selwyn!
Monsieur Fox badine!' It came yesterday, by Crawford, and I sent it to
Chesterfield Street in time for George to wear to the Duchess's. He has
been twice to Piccadilly after me, and twice here, and swears he will
have my heart. And I believe he is now gone to Matson in a funk.”
After that they fell upon politics. I knew that Mr. Fox was already
near the head of the King's party, and that he had just received a
substantial reward at his Majesty's hands; and I went not far to guess
that every one of these easy-going, devil-may-care macaronies was a
follower or sympathizer with Lord North's policy. But what I heard was
a revelation indeed. I have dignified it by calling it politics. All was
frankness here amongst friends. There was no attempt made to gloss over
ugly transactions with a veneer of morality. For this much I honoured
them. But irresistibly there came into my mind the grand and simple
characters of our own public men in America, and it made me shudder to
think that, while they strove honestly for our rights, this was the type
which opposed them. Motives of personal spite and of personal gain were
laid bare, and even the barter and sale of offices of trust took place
before my very eyes. I was silent, though my tongue burned me, until one
of the gentlemen, thinking me neglected, said:
“What a-deuce is to be done with those unruly countrymen of yours, Mr.
Carvel? Are they likely to be pacified now that we have taken off all
except the tea? You who are of our party must lead a sorry life among
them. Tell me, do they really mean to go as far as rebellion?”
The blood rushed to my face.
“It is not a question of tea, sir,” I answered hotly; “nor yet of
tuppence. It is a question of principle, which means more to Englishmen
than life itself. And we are Englishmen.”
I believe I spoke louder than I intended, for a silence followed my
words. Fox glanced at Comyn, who of all of them at the table was not
smiling, and said:
“I thought you came of a loyalist family, Mr. Carvel.”
“King George has no more loyal servants than the Americans, Mr. Fox, be
they Tory or Whig. And he has but to read our petitions to discover it,”
I said.
I spoke calmly, but my heart was thumping with excitement and
resentment. The apprehension of the untried is apt to be sharp at
such moments, and I looked for them to turn their backs upon me for an
impertinent provincial. Indeed, I think they would have, all save Comyn,
had it not been for Fox himself. He lighted a pipe, smiled, and began
easily, quite dispassionately, to address me.
“I wish you would favour us with your point of view, Mr. Carvel,” said
he; “for, upon my soul, I know little about the subject.”
“You know little about the subject, and you in Parliament!”
I cried.
This started them all to laughing. Why, I did not then understand. But I
was angry enough.
“Come, let's have it!” said he.
They drew their chairs closer, some wearing that smile of superiority
which to us is the Englishman's most maddening trait. I did not stop
to think twice, or to remember that I was pitted against the greatest
debater in all England. I was to speak that of which I was full, and the
heart's argument needs no logic to defend it. If it were my last word, I
would pronounce it.
I began by telling them that the Americans had paid their share of the
French war, in blood and money, twice over. And I had the figures in my
memory. Mr. Fox interrupted. For ten minutes at a space he spoke, and
in all my life I have never talked to a man who had the English of King
James's Bible, of Shakespeare, and Milton so wholly at his command.
And his knowledge of history, his classical citations, confounded me.
I forgot myself in wondering how one who had lived so fast had acquired
such learning. Afterward, when I tried to recall what he said, I laughed
at his surprising ignorance of the question at issue, and wondered where
my wits could have gone that I allowed myself to be dazzled and turned
aside at every corner. As his speech came faster he twisted fact into
fiction and fiction into fact, until I must needs close my mind and bolt
the shutters of it, or he had betrayed me into confessing the right
of Parliament to quarter troops among us. Though my head swam, I clung
doggedly to my text. And that was my salvation. He grew more excited,
and they applauded him. In truth, I myself felt near to clapping. And
then, as I stared him in the eye, marvelling how a man of such vast
power and ability could stand for such rotten practices, the thought
came to me (I know not whence) of Saint Paul the Apostle.
“Mr. Fox,” I said, when he had paused, “before God, do you believe what
you are saying?”
I saw them smiling at my earnestness and simplicity. Fox seemed
surprised, and laughed evasively,--not heartily as was his wont.
“My dear Mr. Carvel,” he said, glancing around the circle, political
principles are not to be swallowed like religion, but taken rather like
medicine, experimentally. If they agree with you, very good. If not,
drop them and try others. We are always ready to listen to remedies,
here.”
“Ay, if they agree with you!” I exclaimed. “But food for one is poison
for another. Do you know what you are doing? You are pushing home
injustice and tyranny to the millions, for the benefit of the thousands.
For is it not true, gentlemen, that the great masses of England are
against the measures you impose upon us? Their fight is our fight. They
are no longer represented in Parliament; we have never been. Taxation
without representation is true of your rotten boroughs as well as of
your vast colonies. You are helping the King to crush freedom abroad in
order that he may the more easily break it at home. You are committing a
crime.
“I tell you we would give up all we own were the glory or honour of
England at stake. And yet you call us rebels, and accuse us of meanness
and of parsimony. If you wish money, leave the matter to our colonial
assemblies, and see how readily you will get it. But if you wish war,
persist in trying to grind the spirit from a people who have in them
the pride of your own ancestors. Yes, you are estranging the colonies,
gentlemen. A greater man than I has warned you”
And with that I rose, believing that I had given them all mortal
offence. To my astonishment several got to their feet in front of me,
huzzaing, and Comyn and Lord Ossory grasped my hands. And Charles Fox
reached out over the corner of the table and pulled me back into my
chair.
“Bravo, Richard Carvel!” he cried. “Cursed if I don't love a man who
will put up a fight against odds. Who will stand bluff to what he
believes, and won't be talked out of his boots. We won't quarrel with
any such here, my buckskin, I can tell you.”
And that is the simple story, my dears, of the beginning of my
friendship with one who may rightly be called the Saint Paul of English
politics. He had yet some distance to go, alas, ere he was to begin
that sturdy battle for the right for which his countrymen and ours will
always bless him. I gave him my hand with a better will than I had ever
done anything, and we pressed our fingers numb. And his was not the only
hand I clasped. And honest Jack Comyn ordered more wine, that they might
drink to a speedy reconciliation with America.
“A pint bumper to Richard Carvel!” said Mr. Fitzpatrick.
I pledged Brooks's Club in another pint. Upon which they swore that
I was a good fellow, and that if all American Whigs were like me, all
cause of quarrel was at an end. Of this I was not so sure, nor could
I see that the question had been settled one way or another. And that
night I had reason to thank the Reverend Mr. Allen, for the first and
last time in my life, that I could stand a deal of liquor, and yet not
roll bottom upward.
The dinner was settled on the Baptist, who paid for it without a
murmur. And then we adjourned to the business of the evening. The great
drawing-room, lighted by an hundred candles, was filled with gayly
dressed macaronies, and the sound of their laughter and voices in
contention mingled with the pounding of the packs on the mahogany and
the rattle of the dice and the ring of the gold pieces. The sight was
dazzling, and the noise distracting. Fox had me under his especial care,
and I was presented to young gentlemen who bore names that had been the
boast of England through the centuries. Lands their forebears had won by
lance and sword, they were squandering away as fast as ever they could.
I, too, was known. All had heard the romance of the Beauty and Castle
Yard, and some had listened to Horry Walpole tell that foolish story of
Goble at Windsor, on which he seemed to set such store. They guessed at
my weight. They betted upon it. And they wished to know if I could spin
Mr. Brooks, who was scraping his way from table to table. They gave me
choice of whist, or picquet, or quinze, or hazard. I was carried away.
Nay, I make no excuse. Tho' the times were drinking and gaming ones, I
had been brought up that a gentleman should do both in moderation. We
mounted, some dozen of us, to the floor above, and passed along to a
room of which Fox had the key; and he swung me in on his arm, the others
pressing after. And the door was scarce closed and locked again, before
they began stripping off their clothes.
To my astonishment, Fox handed me a great frieze coat, which he bade me
don, as the others were doing. Some were turning their coats inside out;
for luck, said they; and putting on footman's leather guards to save
their ruffles. And they gave me a hat with a high crown, and a broad
brim to save my eyes from the candle glare. We were as grotesque a set
as ever I laid my eyes upon. But I hasten over the scene; which has long
become distasteful to me. I mention it only to show to what heights of
folly the young men had gone. I recall a gasp when they told me they
played for rouleaux of ten pounds each, but I took out my pocket-book as
boldly as tho' I had never played for less, and laid my stake upon the
board. Fox lost, again and again; but he treated his ill-luck with
such a raillery of contemptuous wit, that we must needs laugh with him.
Comyn, too, lost, and at supper excused himself, saying that he had
promised his mother, the dowager countess, not to lose more than a
quarter's income at a sitting. But I won and won, until the fever of it
got into my blood, and as the first faint light of that morning crept
into the empty streets, we were still at it, Fox vowing that he never
waked up until daylight. That the best things he said in the House came
to him at dawn.