youth. Hamilton came to France a disappointed man, and such hopes as he
may still have cherished must have been quickly dispelled at James's
Court at St. Germain. Here, as in all exiled Courts, poverty,
quarrelling, and despair cast their shadows, rendered all the more
sombre by the melancholy bigotry of the fallen King. The noble mother of
that handsome, unfortunate youth who lived to be known as the Old
Pretender alone faced the future with dauntless courage and dignity. How
could a Hamilton with a spark of chivalry desert such a woman in such a
crisis? It was now that the soldier turned author, like old St. Evremond
before him in a similar strait. Hamilton took to literature not as a
profession--it is uncertain if he ever earned a sou by his pen, all the
profits of the "Mémoires de Gramont" at least went into his
brother-in-law's pockets--but as a pastime. Writing was to him the only
means he had of killing the intolerable _ennui_ of exile.
But life was not without its compensations; there was the home of the de
Gramonts to brighten him. His books brought him fame and friends; his
society was courted by an illustrious Duke of Berwick and his "Belle
Nanette" and her sister; by the too brilliant Duchesse de Maine, whose
court at Sceaux was known as "the galleys of the brain," because the
clever people she gathered round her were constantly required to furnish
proof of their wit. All this fame, however, brought no financial
independence with it, and after the death of the Comtesse de Gramont
poor Hamilton had to live on the charity of a niece and to welcome death
as a late release for his proud spirit. Perhaps to none of the Jacobites
broken in the cause of the bigot James was death so welcome as to this
cold, sombre man, who could describe the _joie de vivre_ of the _ancien
régime_ with a gaiety which has never been rivalled.
The Comte de Gramont whom he immortalised predeceased him many years.
This singular man died at the age of eighty-six, frivolous to the last.
Like the celebrated Maréchal de Richelieu of the next generation, who
closely resembled him, de Gramont had scarcely ever known what it was
to be ill. He used to say that "he hated sick people and only loved them
when they recovered their health." His flippancy and irreligion as he
grew old alarmed the Comtesse de Gramont, who was very devout, for the
safety of his soul. Her attempts to convert him must, serious as they
were, have amused her, if she still retained her sense of humour. Once
Louis XIV. himself tried to assist her and sent the strict Marquis de
Dangeau to offer him religious advice.
"Comtesse," said de Gramont, turning to his wife on learning his
visitor's errand, "if you don't look out Dangeau will cheat you out of
my conversion."
Madame de Gramont, however, had the satisfaction of bringing her husband
to a deathbed repentance, and followed him herself to the grave in a
year. Her life, passed in two of the most dissolute Courts in Europe,
was from first to last stainless. Of her two daughters, one took the
veil, while the other married the Jacobite Earl of Stafford, and
inherited all her mother's beauty and virtue and her father's wit.
The great Gramont fortune, which the Chevalier inherited from his
brother the Comte de Toulongeon, passed to his nephew, a younger brother
of the notorious Comte de Guiche, who had died without a son. This man,
whose life is said to have been as scandalous as his brother's, also
inherited the fortune and dukedom of his father the Maréchal. It is from
him that the de Gramonts of the present day are descended. The tombs of
their ancestors are still to be seen amongst the picturesque ruins of
the once famous Château de Gramont "at Bidache on the Bidouze," which
was destroyed in the Terror.
[Illustration: "THE LOVELY JENNINGS."
(DUCHESS OF TYRCONNEL.)]
"THE LOVELY JENNINGS," DUCHESS OF TYRCONNEL
A SPLENDID FAILURE OF THE RESTORATION
If the fairies, as is believed in fairyland, come to christenings, we
have a fancy that five were present at Frances Jennings's, and that each
in turn addressed her thus in fairy fashion, as they clustered round her
with their gifts:--
"I bring thee Coquetry, it shall gain thee hearts."
"I bring thee Malice, it shall gain thee enemies."
"I bring thee Virtue, it shall gain thee respect."
"I bring thee Ambition, it shall gain thee power."
"And I," frowned the Wicked Fairy--it is _de rigueur_ that there should
be a wicked fairy at christenings--"I bring thee Beauty; thou shalt lose
it and all that thou gainest from the gifts of the others."
Those who care to follow the fortunes of the Lovely Jennings will learn
that everything came to pass just as the fairies predicted.
But from fancy to fact. The Duchess of York, in order to refute the
imputation cast upon her own looks by the ugliness of her maids of
honour, decided to form a new Court. And that none but beauties should
compose it, she resolved to see all the applicants herself and choose
those who pleased her, regardless of their recommendations. Frances
Jennings, then about sixteen, was one of those thus selected. Her father
was an insignificant country squire of small fortune, and her mother a
woman, as we say nowadays, "with a past." We are not told the nature of
her excursions into the realms of the unconventional or disreputable,
but are left to infer that they were such as even in that day of license
were not to be tolerated. Nevertheless, though Mrs. Jennings was not
received at Court, the fact was apparently no bar to the advancement of
her family. She managed somehow to secure royal patronage for her
daughters, Frances and Sarah, who in their turn managed to use it as a
stepping-stone by means of which they climbed to very exalted stations.
The elder of the two sisters had no sooner appeared at Court than she
attracted the attention of the Duke of York, who regarded his duchess's
maids of honour as the _sine quâ non_ of his seraglio. The lovely
odalisque, however, had already, young as she was, formed a very decided
resolution as to the line of conduct she intended to adopt. Like La
Belle Stuart, she meant to use Whitehall as a trap in which to catch a
husband. Being naturally sensible, she was aware that the freedom which
certain ladies enjoyed at Court was the exception, not the rule; and
that, while a Lady Castlemaine or a Countess of Shrewsbury might with
impunity, by reason of personality and rank, defy decency, a humble maid
of honour in attempting to copy them would very quickly be given her
_congé_. This reasoning was demonstrated by many instances, the latest
being that of Miss Price, whose conduct had obliged the Queen to dismiss
her. Moreover, to emphasise the value of a good reputation she had that
of her mother constantly before her eyes as a warning.
So the Lovely Jennings turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the royal
tempter. But as the world is ever more ready to believe evil than good
of one--a platitude especially applicable to a maid of honour at
Whitehall--the mere consciousness of being virtuous is not enough for
the world. Of virtue the world always demands proofs. It was impossible
to believe that a mere chit of a maid of honour--with such a mother
too!--could resist a royal duke. He, however, clumsy at love-making as
at everything else he undertook, himself furnished the world with proofs
of Miss Jennings's innocence. "He thought that writing might perhaps
succeed, though ogling, speeches, and embassies had failed. Paper is
made to serve many uses, but it unfortunately happened that she had no
use for it. Every day notes, containing the tenderest expressions and
most magnificent promises, were slipped into her pockets or muff. This,
however, could not be done unperceived, and the malicious little
creature took care that those who saw them slip in should likewise see
them fall out unopened. She had only to shake her muff or pull out her
handkerchief as soon as his back was turned, and his notes rained about
her for any one to pick up who chose. The Duchess was frequently a
witness of this conduct, but could not find it in her heart to chide her
maid of honour for want of respect to the Duke. Thus the charm and
virtue of Miss Jennings were the only subject of conversation in the two
Courts; people could not understand how a young creature fresh from the
country should so soon become the ornament of the Court by her
attractions and its example by her conduct."
[Illustration: THE DUKE OF YORK,
AFTERWARDS JAMES THE SECOND.
_After Vandyke._]
This discreet behaviour soon rid the maid of honour of her troublesome
admirer, for the Duke of York, unlike his brother King Charles, very
quickly lost interest in the women who resisted him. Finding the Lovely
Jennings prove invincible, James turned his attention to one of her more
complaisant companions in attendance on his duchess, and as a
consequence had, many years later at St. Germain, the, to him, morbid
satisfaction of doing penance for, among other sins, the ruin of
Arabella, young John Churchill's sister. James's repentance in this
instance, however, was not unnaturally tempered with a just pride, for
if ever there was a royal bastard worthy of admiration and honour it was
James Fitz-James, Duke of Berwick, the son of the complaisant Miss
Churchill and the Duke of York. Without exaggeration it may be said that
there were few men of any rank in his day more knightly in the true
sense than this illustrious nephew of the Great Marlborough.
But while Frances Jennings had successfully avoided one of the most
treacherous pitfalls at Whitehall, she very nearly tumbled into another
equally dangerous. The King, whose curiosity was fired by the maid of
honour's reputation, piqued himself on succeeding where his brother had
failed.
"God knows," said Hamilton, "what might have been the consequence; for
he greatly excelled in wit, and besides he was King--two qualities of no
small consideration. The resolutions of the Lovely Jennings were
commendable and very judicious; but wit had great charms for her,
and--royal majesty at the feet of a young person is very persuasive.
_Miss Stuart, however, would not consent to the King's project._"
That cunning prude, to whom the royal admiration was the bait with which
she hoped to catch her ducal husband, had strong objections to others
with a similar purpose using her bait and fishing in the same stream.
Charles allowed himself to be deluded with false hopes by La Belle
Stuart, and the Lovely Jennings, though she lost the chance of becoming
a _maîtresse en titre_--a position to which her ambition may have led
her fancy--added both to her reputation and admirers by this adventure.
But of all the various kinds of fish that were angled for at Whitehall,
husbands were the most difficult to catch. The beauties who hooked
theirs out of that fishpond only succeeded in landing them after much
practice. Miss Jennings's first attempt might be described as a graceful
failure. The fish on her hook, so to speak, was the son of Lionne, Louis
XIV.'s Minister for Foreign Affairs. This statesman, rightly considering
that the Court of Charles II. was the place _par excellence_ in which a
very _gauche_ and shy youth of nineteen would have unrivalled
opportunities to "form" himself, had sent his son, the Marquis de Berni,
there under Courtin, when that diplomatist went to England for the first
time as French Ambassador. The details of the young man's progress have
been preserved in the official despatches that Courtin sent to Lionne.
"Your son," wrote the Ambassador, "begins as an honest man; he is a
little abashed, but we have given him courage, and M. d'Irval (of the
Embassy) has so well seconded him that he has at last"--after a month in
London--"made his declaration. It has been very well received by one of
the finest girls in England--Miss Jennings, of the household of the
Duchess of York. She is small, but with a fine figure, a splendid
complexion, the hair such as you remember Madame de Longueville's was,
brilliant, keen eyes, and the whitest, smoothest skin I ever saw."
The "forming" of the _gauche_, shy Berni proceeded apace. Under the
influence of the Lovely Jennings he displayed "more ease in
conversation, and greater care of his person, and less shyness in
society. He arranges to see her every day, and sends her strawberries
every evening." As to these graceful practices he added that of
following the Duchess of York wherever she went in order to catch a
glimpse of her lovely maid of honour, it was soon evident to the whole
Court that he was madly in love, and Miss Jennings began to picture
herself as a French marquise with a _tabouret_ at Versailles. Whereupon
Courtin became alarmed, for marriage was not in the Lionne programme,
especially with a paltry Miss Jennings. He tried to impress M. le
Marquis with a sense of the fitness of things, and that even an attaché
of an Embassy had certain lesser duties to perform besides the supreme
one of love-making. M. le Marquis was ordered to draft a despatch. He
began, but could never finish it. How could he with the Lovely Jennings
ever in his thoughts? Courtin then thought the time had come to send him
back to France. "We have sometimes to contend with his timidity," he
wrote the anxious father, "and sometimes with his presumption; very
often with his sloth, but above all with his vanity, which is fed by all
the honours paid to him. I think you would do well to destine him for
the Bar!"
Lionne, on receipt of this, promptly and angrily ordered his son to
return home, and M. le Marquis went off after three months in England,
faithful to the last. "He will be greatly regretted at this Court,"
wrote Courtin, trying to appease Lionne's anger, "being, as he is,
appreciated by the King and Queen and dearly loved by the prettiest
young lady in England. Thursday evening the King, in my presence, very
much teased Miss Jennings on the subject of your son; the young girl
reddened; she never appeared more beautiful. His Majesty told me that
your son had asked M. Porter to let him know how she looked on the day
he was gone; and at the same time his Majesty assured me that he had
never seen such a picture of sadness and desolation as the young gallant
offered when on board the yacht of the Queen Mother. He was right, I can
tell you, for the young lady loved him dearly." Thus ended Miss
Jennings's first romance.
Life, however, was to have others in store for her, and the Frenchman
had not long departed when all thoughts of him--the tenderness of which
we are inclined to attribute to Courtin's imagination rather than to
Miss Jennings's heart--were obliterated by the arrival of a dazzling
Irishman. "Dick" Talbot, as he was called, was about twenty years older
than the lovely Jennings, and not far off forty when he first met her.
Already his life contained, in romance and adventure, sufficient
material to equip an incipient Dumas for a literary career. He was a
sort of living serial with many a thrilling chapter yet to run before
the finish. As he was destined to be the means by which the prophecy of
the imaginary Wicked Fairy at Miss Jennings's christening was fulfilled,
an epitome of Dick Talbot's romantic past is necessary before
describing its still more romantic sequel. His family had been settled
for centuries in Ireland--since its conquest by Henry II. Time, the
great assimilator, had made them Celts to the core, and "Dick," the last
of five sons of a younger branch, was the Irishman _par excellence_. He
was a soldier from necessity and an adventurer from inclination. His
birth and poverty made him the former, and the times in which he lived
the latter. He was only a boy when Ireland rose against Cromwell, but he
enlisted and served, if not with distinction, at least with the
characteristic Irish intrepidity. During the bloody defence of Drogheda
he was wounded and left for dead on the battlefield, but was succoured
by one of Cromwell's officers, who being charged with the burial of the
dead noticed signs of returning consciousness in the corpse. On his
recovery he managed to escape from his prison disguised as a woman, and
joining a relation, under whom he had served, followed him to Spain,
whence, possibly as a volunteer in the Spanish army, he made his way to
Flanders. Here he found many Royalist fugitives, among whom was his
brother Peter, afterwards the Archbishop of Dublin, who introduced him
to the Duke of York.
One may easily picture the temper of the exiled Cavaliers. As it is
natural, if immoral, that the vanquished should hate their conquerors,
it is not at all surprising or, to our mind, shocking that the Duke of
York should have wished to have Cromwell assassinated, or that others
should have conspired to this end, or that young Dick Talbot should
have offered his services for the purpose. Much ignominy has been heaped
on Talbot for the ready willingness with which he lent himself to this
assassination scheme. But while we personally by no means advocate
assassination, we confess we are unable to understand the reasoning that
makes the thought of assassinating Cromwell so much more horrible than
that of assassinating any other tyrant. When the People, of whom so much
insincerity is talked and written, make tyranny impossible there will be
no question as to the crime or virtue of assassination.
Young Talbot was sent to England on his terrible errand, where he was
arrested, and examined by Cromwell himself at Whitehall. While detained
in the palace to await the decision as to his fate, he made the Puritan
servants drunk, and, slipping from a window into the Thames, hid on a
ship in the river. Rumour had it that, being in reality a spy in his
pay, Cromwell had aided him to escape. As Dick Talbot was an expert
duellist, and "ready to fight on the smallest provocation or none at
all," it is easy to guess how such a calumny, which he denied with
oaths, got its quietus. Among the _spadassins_ who composed the Duke of
York's regiment, of which, after the above adventure, he got the command
in spite of great opposition, Talbot's sword, so quick to fly from its
scabbard, gained him the discipline due to fear. With the Duke of York
he was always a great favourite, and at the Restoration followed him to
England as his gentleman of the bedchamber. None of the Cavaliers were
more fortunate, for he had left his country a poor, insignificant lad,
and returned at thirty possessed of royal favour which he knew well how
to turn to his advantage.
If, as has been wittily said, William of Orange is the hero of the
historical romance known as Macaulay's "History of England," the villain
is unquestionably Dick Talbot. In those false, fascinating pages he is a
consummate scoundrel, "a mere cringing courtier and a pimp." To refute
the malevolent prejudices of Macaulay is easy, and he has been exposed
over and over again. We know now that his brilliantly arresting portrait
of Talbot was no more like him than was the Great Frederick to an
equally haunting portrait by the same master. The Talbot of Macaulay's
"History" is, as Jusserand says, a caricature. Perhaps, without placing
any more confidence in Hamilton--who drew a very flattering picture of
him--than in Macaulay, a certain little-known portrait by the Duke of
Berwick comes nearest the truth. It utterly refutes the imputation that
he lent himself to the scheme to take away the character of the Duchess
of York in order that the Duke, who was tired of her, might divorce her.
Likewise the charge that he used his influence to enrich himself at the
expense of his fellow-countrymen, whose confiscated estates he got
returned to them after deducting his commission, falls to the ground.
His fellow-countrymen, whose popular representative he was at Whitehall,
willingly gave him money for the purpose. "Though he had acquired great
possessions," wrote the Duke of Berwick, "it could not be said that he
had employed improper means."
But enough of historical recriminations over this almost forgotten man.
Hero or villain, he was when Frances Jennings first beheld him one of
the tallest and handsomest men in England. Macaulay at least did justice
to his looks when he spoke of "that form which had once been the model
for statuaries." With his striking appearance and fascinating manners
were combined reckless courage, an emotional, passionate temperament,
and the Irishman's ready wit. There is an anecdote of the latter which,
as an example of thrust and parry in _double entente_, is hardly to be
matched. Once Louis XIV., struck with the handsome Irishman's likeness
to himself, on which many had remarked, asked him with a subtle
insolence if his mother had not been at the Court of the late King
(Louis' father).
"Non, Sire," was Dick Talbot's instant reply; "mais mon _père_ y était."
A man, one would say, with a wit as quick and dangerous as his sword,
for which he was noted.
His reputation had been still further increased by a _liaison_ with the
notorious Countess of Shrewsbury, and when Miss Jennings met him he had
just come back from Ireland, whither he had gone to forget La Belle
Hamilton, who had refused him. He was, in fact, very susceptible where
the fair sex was concerned, and the ambitious Miss Jennings, having
cast a shrewd glance at his two thousand a year in landed property and
the valuable royal favour he enjoyed, was not long in bringing him to
her feet. The match having been approved by the Duchess of York, Talbot
and the beauty were as good as betrothed. This engagement, however, did
not last long. Miss Jennings's intimacy with Miss Price occasioned the
chivalrous Talbot much concern. Believing his lady-love to be above
reproach, and wishing her to remain so, he talked to her with more
affection than tact as to the impropriety of making a friend of one who,
having been dismissed by the Queen for misconduct, now enjoyed the
doubtful distinction of companion to my Lady Castlemaine.
Miss Jennings, who was not the least in love with Talbot, whom she
regarded from a purely mercenary point of view as being more eligible
than any other of her admirers, objected to be lectured on her choice of
friends; and as the society of Miss Price, whatever her reputation, was
most amusing company, she haughtily bade her lover mind his own
business. This quarrel under ordinary circumstances, owing to the
impulsive and generous nature of Talbot, would not have been of long
duration. But it chanced to occur just at the time that the "invincible"
Jermyn returned to Court after a long absence in the country. Having
heard sufficient of the Lovely Jennings to excite his curiosity, he at
once paid her court with his customary dishonourable motive. The beauty,
however, without adding another to this frivolous coxcomb's many
triumphs, nevertheless encouraged his attentions with a shrewd and
mercenary eye to his twenty thousand a year. Poor Talbot, who would have
forgiven the siren that had bewitched him anything, made several
attempts to win back the heart of his fair, but the coquette only
laughed at him, and used the quarrel as a means of exchanging one suitor
for another more eligible.
The Duchess of York, whose esteem Miss Jennings had cleverly won, was
persuaded by the designing maid of honour to sound Jermyn as to his
intentions, and succeeded in drawing from him the most satisfactory
assurances. The jilting of Talbot and conquest of Jermyn were soon the
chief topics of the Court, and the artful beauty flattered herself on
the aptitude she showed for intrigue. But Jermyn though hooked was not
caught. The irony in the compliments he received on being snared by a
girl he had tried to snare cooled his infatuation. He delayed to become
a Benedict, and the steps that Miss Jennings took to hasten him
constitute one of the best-known episodes in the "Mémoires de Gramont."
One of the customs much in vogue at the time was that of going about the
streets masked. "Both the King and Queen and all the Court," says
Burnet, "went about masked, and came into houses unknown, and danced
there, with a great deal of wild frolic. In all this people were so
disguised that, without being in the secret, none could distinguish
them." The same form of amusement was popular at the French Court,
whence no doubt it had been imported into England. It was, therefore,
not surprising that a fast Miss Price or a circumspect Miss Jennings, in
the desire to pass a weary hour or two, should have found many a
precedent to excuse a frolic to which the risk of discovery gave an
additional zest. "Having well considered the matter," said Hamilton,
"the best disguise they could think of was to dress themselves like the
girls who sell oranges in the theatres and public promenades. This was
soon managed; they attired themselves alike, each taking a basket of
oranges, and having embarked in a hackney coach, they committed
themselves to fortune without any other escort than their own caprice
and indiscretion."