On Wits and Beaux.--Scotland Yard in Charles II.'s day.--Orlando of
'The Tatler.'--Beau Fielding, Justice of the Peace.--Adonis in
Search of a Wife.--The Sham Widow.--Ways and Means.--Barbara
Villiers, Lady Castlemaine.--Quarrels with the King.--The
Beau's Second Marriage.--The Last Days of Fops and Beaux.
Let us be wise, boys, here's a fool coming, said a sensible man, when
he saw Beau Nash's splendid carriage draw up to the door. Is a beau a
fool? Is a sharper a fool? Was Bonaparte a fool? If you reply 'no' to
the last two questions, you must give the same answer to the first. A
beau is a fox, but not a fool--a very clever fellow, who, knowing the
weakness of his brothers and sisters in the world, takes advantage of
it to make himself a fame and a fortune. Nash, the son of a
glass-merchant--Brummell, the hopeful of a small shopkeeper--became
the intimates of princes, dukes, and fashionables; were petty kings of
Vanity Fair, and were honoured by their subjects. In the kingdom of
the blind, the one-eyed man is king; in the realm of folly, the
sharper is a monarch. The only proviso is, that the cheat come not
within the jurisdiction of the law. Such a cheat is the beau or dandy,
or fine gentleman, who imposes on his public by his clothes and
appearance. _Bonâ-fide_ monarchs have done as much: Louis XIV. won
himself the title of Le Grand Monarque by his manners, his dress, and
his vanity. Fielding, Nash, and Brummell did nothing more. It is not a
question whether such roads to eminence be contemptible or not, but
whether their adoption in one station of life be more so than in
another. Was Brummell a whit more contemptible than 'Wales?' Or is
John Thomas, the pride and glory of the 'Domestics' Free-and-Easy,'
whose whiskers, figure, face, and manner are all superb, one atom more
ridiculous than your recognized beau? I trow not. What right, then,
has your beau to a place among wits? I fancy Chesterfield would be
much disgusted at seeing his name side by side with that of Nash in
this volume; yet Chesterfield had no objection, when at Bath, to do
homage to the king of that city, and may have prided himself on
exchanging pinches from diamond-set snuff-boxes with that superb
gold-laced dignitary in the Pump-room. Certainly, people who thought
little of Philip Dormer Stanhope, thought a great deal of the
glass-merchant's reprobate son when he was in power, and submitted
without a murmur to his impertinences. The fact is, that the beaux and
the wits are more intimately connected than the latter would care to
own: the wits have all been, or aspired to be, beaux, and beaux have
had their fair share of wit; both lived for the same purpose--to shine
in society: both used the same means--coats and bon-mots. The only
distinction is, that the garments of the beaux were better, and their
sayings not so good as those of the wits; while the conversation of
the wits was better, and their apparel not so striking as those of the
beaux. So, my Lord Chesterfield, who prided yourself quite as much on
being a fine gentleman as on being a fine wit, you cannot complain at
your proximity to Mr. Nash and others who _were_ fine gentlemen, and
would have been fine wits if they could.
Robert Fielding was, perhaps, the least of the beaux; but then, to make
up for this, he belonged to a noble family: he married a duchess, and,
what is more, he beat her. Surely in the kingdom of fools such a man is
not to be despised. You may be sure he did not think he was, for was he
not made the subject of two papers in 'The Tatler,' and what more could
such a man desire?
His father was a Suffolk squire, claiming relationship with the Earls of
Denbigh, and therefore, with the Hapsburgs, from whom the Beau and the
Emperors of Austria had the common honour of being descended. Perhaps
neither of them had sufficient sense to be proud of the greatest
intellectual ornament of their race, the author of 'Tom Jones;' but as
our hero was dead before the humourist was born, it is not fair to
conjecture what he might have thought on the subject.
It does not appear that very much is known of this great gem of the race
of Hapsburg. He had the misfortune to be very handsome, and the folly to
think that his face would be his fortune: it certainly stood him in good
stead at times, but it also brought him into a lamentable dilemma.
His father was not rich, and sent his son to the Temple to study laws
which he was only fitted to break. The young Adonis had sense enough to
see that destiny did not beckon him to fame in the gloom of a musty law
court, and removed a little further up to the Thames, and the more
fashionable region of Scotland Yard. Here, where now Z 300 repairs to
report his investigations to a Commissioner, the young dandies of
Charles II.'s day strutted in gay doublets, swore hasty oaths of choice
invention, smoked the true Tobago from huge pipe-bowls, and ogled the
fair but not too bashful dames who passed to and fro in their chariots.
The court took its name from the royalties of Scotland, who, when they
visited the South, were there lodged, as being conveniently near to
Whitehall Palace. It is odd enough that the three architects, Inigo
Jones, Vanbrugh, and Wren, all lived in this yard.
It was not to be supposed that a man who could so well appreciate a
handsome face and well-cut doublet as Charles II. should long overlook
his neighbour, Mr. Robert Fielding, and in due course the Beau, who had
no other diploma, found himself in the honourable position of a justice
of the peace.
The emoluments of this office enabled Orlando, as 'The Tatler' calls
him, to shine forth in all his glory. With an enviable indifference to
the future, he launched out into an expenditure which alone would have
made him popular in a country where the heaviest purse makes the
greatest gentleman. His lacqueys were arrayed in the brightest yellow
coats with black sashes--the Hapsburg colours. He had a carriage, of
course, but, like Sheridan's, it was hired, though drawn by his own
horses. This carriage was described as being shaped like a sea-shell;
and 'the Tatler' calls it 'an open tumbril of less size than ordinary,
to show the largeness of his limbs and the grandeur of his personage to
the best advantage.' The said limbs were Fielding's especial pride: he
gloried in the strength of his leg and arm; and when he walked down the
street, he was followed by an admiring crowd, whom he treated with as
much haughtiness as if he had been the emperor himself, instead of his
cousin five hundred times removed. He used his strength to good or bad
purpose, and was a redoubted fighter and bully, though good-natured
withal. In the Mall, as he strutted, he was the cynosure of all female
eyes. His dress had all the elegance of which the graceful costume of
that period was capable, though Fielding did not, like Brummell,
understand the delicacy of a quiet, but studied style. Those were
simpler, somewhat more honest days. It was not necessary for a man to
cloak his vices, nor be ashamed of his cloak. The beau then-a-day openly
and arrogantly gloried in the grandeur of his attire; and bragging was a
part of his character. Fielding was made by his tailor; Brummell made
his tailor: the only point in common to both was that neither of them
paid the tailor's bill.
The fine gentleman, under the Stuarts, was fine only in his lace and his
velvet doublet; his language was coarse, his manners coarser, his vices
the coarsest of all. No wonder when the king himself could get so drunk
with Sedley and Buckhurst as to be unable to give an audience appointed
for; and when the chief fun of his two companions was to divest
themselves of all the habiliments which civilization has had the ill
taste to make necessary, and in that state run about the streets.
'Orlando' wore the finest ruffles and the heaviest sword; his wig was
combed to perfection; and in his pocket he carried a little comb with
which to arrange it from time to time, even as the dandy of to-day pulls
out his whiskers or curls his moustache. Such a man could not be passed
over; and accordingly he numbered half the officers and gallants of the
town among his intimates. He drank, swore, and swaggered, and the snobs
of the day proclaimed him a 'complete gentleman.'
His impudence, however, was not always tolerated. In the playhouses of
the day, it was the fashion for some of the spectators to stand upon the
stage, and the places in that position were chiefly occupied by young
gallants. The ladies came most in masques: but this did not prevent
Master Fielding from making his remarks very freely, and in no very
refined strain to them. The modest damsels, whom Pope has described,
'The fair sat pouting at the courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimproved away:
The modest fan was lifted up no more,
And virgins smiled at what they blushed before,'
were not too coy to be pleased with the fops' attentions, and replied in
like strain. The players were unheeded; the audience laughed at the
improvised and natural wit, when carefully prepared dialogues failed to
fix their attention. The actors were disgusted, and, in spite of Master
Fielding's herculean strength, kicked him off the stage, with a warning
not to come again.
The _rôle_ of a beau is expensive to keep up; and our justice of the
peace could not, like Nash, double his income by gaming. He soon got
deeply into debt, as every celebrated dresser has done. The old story,
not new even in those days, was enacted and the brilliant Adonis had to
keep watch and ward against tailors and bailiffs. On one occasion they
had nearly caught him; but his legs being lengthy, he gave them fair
sport as far as St. James's Palace, where the officers on guard rushed
out to save their pet, and drove off the myrmidons of the law at the
point of the sword.
But debts do not pay themselves, nor die, and Orlando with all his
strength and prowess could not long keep off the constable. Evil days
gloomed at no very great distance before him, and the fear of a
sponging-house and debtors' prison compelled him to turn his handsome
person to account. Had he not broken a hundred hearts already? had he
not charmed a thousand pairs of beaming eyes? was there not one owner of
one pair who was also possessed of a pretty fortune? Who should have the
honour of being the wife of such an Adonis? who, indeed, but she who
could pay highest for it; and who could pay with a handsome income but a
well-dowered widow? A widow it must be--a widow it should be. Noble
indeed was the sentiment which inspired this great man to sacrifice
himself on the altar of Hymen for the good of his creditors. Ye young
men in the Guards, who do this kind of thing every day--that is,
every day that you can meet with a widow with the proper
qualifications--take warning by the lamentable history of Mr. Robert
Fielding, and never trust to 'third parties.'
[Illustration: BEAU FIELDING AND THE SHAM WIDOW.]
A widow was found, fat, fair, and forty--and oh!--charm greater far than
all the rest--with a fortune of sixty thousand pounds; this was a Mrs.
Deleau, who lived at Whaddon in Surrey, and at Copthall-court in London.
Nothing could be more charming; and the only obstacle was the absence of
all acquaintance between the parties--for, of course, it was impossible
for any widow, whatever her attractions, to be insensible to those of
Robert Fielding. Under these circumstances, the Beau looked about for an
agent, and found one in the person of a Mrs. Villars, hairdresser to the
widow. He offered this person a handsome douceur in case of success, and
she was to undertake that the lady should meet the gentleman in the most
unpremeditated manner. Various schemes were resorted to: with the
_alias_, for he was not above an _alias_, of Major-General Villars, the
Beau called at the widow's country house, and was permitted to see the
gardens. At a window he espied a lady, whom he took to be the object of
his pursuit--bowed to her majestically, and went away, persuaded he must
have made an impression. But, whether the widow was wiser than wearers
of weeds have the reputation of being, or whether the agent had really
no power in the matter, the meeting never came on.
The hairdresser naturally grew anxious, the douceur was too good to be
lost, and as the widow could not be had, some one must be supplied in
her place.
One day while the Beau was sitting in his splendid 'night-gown,' as the
morning-dress of gentlemen was then called, two ladies were ushered into
his august presence. He had been warned of this visit, and was prepared
to receive the yielding widow. The one, of course, was the hairdresser,
the other a young, pretty, and _apparently_ modest creature, who blushed
much--though with some difficulty--at the trying position in which she
found herself. The Beau, delighted, did his best to reassure her. He
flung himself at her feet, swore, with oaths more fashionable than
delicate, that she was the only woman he ever loved, and prevailed on
the widow so far as to induce her to 'call again to-morrow.'
Of course she came, and Adonis was in heaven. He wrote little poems to
her--for, as a gallant, he could of course make verses--serenaded her
through an Italian donna, invited her to suppers, at which the
delicacies of the season were served without regard to the purveyor's
account, and to which, coy as she was, she consented to come, and
clenched the engagement with a ring, on which was the motto, 'Tibi
Soli.' Nay, the Beau had been educated, and had some knowledge of 'the
tongues,' so that he added to these attentions the further one of a song
or two translated from the Greek. The widow ought to have been pleased,
and was. One thing only she stipulated, namely, that the marriage should
be private, lest her relations should forbid the banns.
Having brought her so far, it was not likely that the fortune-hunter
would stick at such a mere trifle, and accordingly an entertainment was
got up at the Beau's own rooms, a supper suitable to the rank and wealth
of the widow, provided by some obligingly credulous tradesman; a priest
found--for, be it premised, our hero had changed so much of his religion
as he had to change in the reign of James II., when Romanism was not
only fashionable, but a sure road to fortune--and the mutually satisfied
couple swore to love, honour, and obey one another till death them
should part.
The next morning, however, the widow left the gentleman's lodgings, on
the pretext that it was injudicious for her friends to know of their
union at present, and continued to visit her sposo and sup somewhat
amply at his chambers from time to time. We can imagine the anxiety
Orlando now felt for a cheque book at the heiress's bankers, and the
many insinuations he may have delicately made, touching ways and means.
We can fancy the artful excuses with which these hints were put aside by
his attached wife. But the dupe was still in happy ignorance of the
trick played on him, and for a time such ignorance was bliss. It must
have been trying to him to be called on by Mrs. Villars for the promised
douceur, but he consoled himself with the pleasures of hope.
Unfortunately, however, he had formed the acquaintance of a woman of a
very different reputation to the real Mrs. Deleau, and the intimacy
which ensued was fatal to him.
When Charles II. was wandering abroad, he was joined, among others, by a
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. The husband was a stanch old Romanist, with the
qualities which usually accompanied that faith in those days--little
respect for morality, and a good deal of bigotry. In later days he was
one of the victims suspected of the Titus Oates plot, but escaped, and
eventually died in Wales, in 1705, after having been James II.'s
ambassador to Rome. This, in a few words, is the history of that Roger
Palmer, afterwards Lord Castlemaine, who by some is said to have sold
his wife--not at Smithfield, but at Whitehall--to his Majesty King
Charles II., for the sum of one peerage--an Irish one, taken on
consideration: by others, is alleged to have been so indignant with the
king as to have remained for some time far from court; and so disgusted
with his elevation to the peerage as scarcely to assume his title; and
this last is the most authenticated version of the matter.
Mrs. Palmer belonged to one of the oldest families in England, and
traced her descent to Pagan de Villiers, in the days of William Rufus,
and a good deal farther among the nobles of Normandy. She was the
daughter of William, second Viscount Grandison, and rejoiced in the
appropriate name of Barbara, for she _could_ be savage occasionally. She
was very beautiful, and very wicked, and soon became Charles's mistress.
On the Restoration she joined the king in England, and when the poor
neglected queen came over was foisted upon her as a bedchamber-woman, in
spite of all the objections of that ill used wife. It was necessary to
this end that she should be the wife of a peer; and her husband accepted
the title of Earl of Castlemaine, well knowing to what he owed it.
Pepys, who admired Lady Castlemaine more than any woman in England,
describes the husband and wife meeting at Whitehall with a cold
ceremonial bow: yet the husband _was_ there. A quarrel between the two,
strangely enough on the score of religion, her ladyship insisting that
her child should be christened by a Protestant clergyman, while his
lordship insisted on the ceremony being performed by a Romish priest,
brought about a separation, and from that time Lady Castlemaine, lodged
in Whitehall, began her empire over the king of England. That man, 'who
never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one,' was the slave of
this imperious and most impudent of women. She forced him to settle on
her an immense fortune, much of which she squandered at the
basset-table, often staking a thousand pounds at a time, and sometimes
losing fifteen thousand pounds a-night.
Nor did her wickedness end here. We have some pity for one, who, like La
Vallière, could be attracted by the attentions of a handsome,
fascinating prince: we pity though we blame. But Lady Castlemaine was
vicious to the very marrow: not content with a king's favour, she
courted herself the young gallant of the town. Quarrels ensued between
Charles and his mistress, in which the latter invariably came off
victorious, owing to her indomitable temper; and the scenes recorded by
De Grammont--when she threatened to burn down Whitehall, and tear her
children in pieces--are too disgraceful for insertion. She forced the
reprobate monarch to consent to all her extortionate demands: rifled the
nation's pockets as well as his own; and at every fresh difference,
forced Charles to give her some new pension. An intrigue with Jermyn,
discovered and objected to by the King, brought on a fresh and more
serious difference, which was only patched up by a patent of the Duchy
of Cleveland. The Duchess of Cleveland was even worse than the Countess
of Castlemaine. Abandoned in time by Charles, and detested by all people
of any decent feeling, she consoled herself for the loss of a real king
by taking up with a stage one. Hart and Goodman, the actors, were
successively her cavalieri; the former had been a captain in the army;
the latter a student at Cambridge. Both were men of the coarsest minds
and most depraved lives. Goodman, in after-years was so reduced that,
finding, as Sheridan advised his son to do, a pair of pistols handy, a
horse saddled, and Hounslow Heath not a hundred miles distance, he took
to the pleasant and profitable pastime of which Dick Turpin is the
patron saint. He was all but hanged for his daring robberies, but
unfortunately not quite so. He lived to suffer such indigence, that he
and another rascal had but one under-garment between them, and entered
into a compact that one should lie in bed while the other wore the
article in question. Naturally enough the two fell out in time, and the
end of Goodman--sad misnomer--was worse than his beginning: such was the
gallant whom the imperious Duchess of Cleveland vouchsafed to honour.
The life of the once beautiful Barbara Villiers grew daily more and more
depraved: at the age of thirty she retired to Paris, shunned and
disgraced. After numerous intrigues abroad and at home, she put the
crowning point to her follies by falling in love with the handsome
Fielding, when she herself numbered sixty-five summers.
Whether the Beau still thought of fortune, or whether having once tried
matrimony, he was so enchanted with it as to make it his cacoëthes, does
not appear: the legend explains not for what reason he married the
antiquated beauty only three weeks after he had been united to the
supposed widow. For a time he wavered between the two, but that time was
short: the widow discovered his second marriage, claimed him, and in so
doing revealed the well-kept secret that she was not a widow; indeed,
not even the relict of John Deleau, Esq., of Whaddon, but a wretched
adventurer of the name of Mary Wadsworth, who had shared with Mrs.
Villars the plunder of the trick. The Beau tried to preserve his
dignity, and throw over his duper, but in vain. The first wife reported
the state of affairs to the second: and the duchess, who had been
shamefully treated by Master Fielding, was only too glad of an
opportunity to get rid of him. She offered Mary Wadsworth a pension of
£100 a year, and a sum of £200 in ready money, to prove the previous
marriage. The case came on, and Beau Fielding had the honour of playing
a part in a famous state trial.
With his usual impudence he undertook to defend himself at the Old
Bailey, and hatched up some old story to prove that the first wife was
married at the time of their union to one Brady; but the plea fell to
the ground, and the fine gentleman was sentenced to be burned in the
hand. His interest in certain quarters saved him this ignominious
punishment which would, doubtless, have spoiled a limb of which he was
particularly proud. He was pardoned: the real widow married a far more
honourable gentleman, in spite of the unenviable notoriety she had
acquired; the sham one was somehow quieted, and the duchess died some
four years later, the more peacefully for being rid of her tyrannical
mate.
Thus ended a petty scandal of the day, in which all the parties were so
disreputable that no one could feel any sympathy for a single one of
them. How the dupe himself ended is not known. The last days of fops and
beaux are never glorious. Brummell died in slovenly penury; Nash in
contempt. Fielding lapsed into the dimmest obscurity; and as far as
evidence goes, there is as little certainty about his death as of that
of the Wandering Jew. Let us hope that he is not still alive: though his
friends seemed to have cared little whether he were so or not, to judge
from a couple of verses written by one of them:--
'If Fielding is dead,
And rests under this stone,
Then he is not alive
You may bet two to one.
'But if he's alive,
And does not lie there--
Let him live till he's hanged,
For which no man will care.'