'A tyrant to the wife his heart approved,
A rebel to the very king he loved;
He dies, sad outcast of each church and state;
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.'
Though it may be doubted if the 'lust of praise' was the cause of his
eccentricities, so much as an utter restlessness and instability of
character, Pope's description is sufficiently correct, and will prepare
us for one of the most disappointing lives we could well have to read.
Philip, Duke of Wharton, was one of those men of whom an Irishman would
say, that they were fortunate before they were born. His ancestors
bequeathed him a name that stood high in England for bravery and
excellence. The first of the house, Sir Thomas Wharton, had won his
peerage from Henry VIII. for routing some 15,000 Scots with 500 men, and
other gallant deeds. From his father the marquis he inherited much of
his talents; but for the heroism of the former, he seems to have
received it only in the extravagant form of foolhardiness. Walpole
remembered, but could not tell where, a ballad he wrote on being
arrested by the guard in St. James's Park, for singing the Jacobite
song, 'The King shall have his own again,' and quotes two lines to show
that he was not ashamed of his own cowardice on the occasion:--
'The duke he drew out half his sword,
---- the guard drew out the rest.'
At the siege of Gibraltar, where he took up arms against his own king
and country, he is said to have gone alone one night to the very walls
of the town, and challenged the outpost. They asked him who he was, and
when he replied, openly enough, 'The Duke of Wharton,' they actually
allowed him to return without either firing on or capturing him. The
story seems somewhat apocryphal, but it is quite possible that the
English soldiers may have refrained from violence to a well-known
mad-cap nobleman of their own nation.
Philip, son of the Marquis of Wharton, at that time only a baron, was
born in the last year but one of the seventeenth century, and came into
the world endowed with every quality which might have made a great man,
if he had only added wisdom to them. His father wished to make him a
brilliant statesman, and, to have a better chance of doing so, kept him
at home, and had him educated under his own eye. He seems to have easily
and rapidly acquired a knowledge of classical languages; and his memory
was so good that when a boy of thirteen he could repeat the greater part
of the 'Æneid' and of Horace by heart. His father's keen perception did
not allow him to stop at classics; and he wisely prepared him for the
career to which he was destined by the study of history, ancient and
modern, and of English literature, and by teaching him, even at that
early age, the art of thinking and writing on any given subject, by
proposing themes for essays. There is certainly no surer mode of
developing the reflective and reasoning powers of the mind; and the boy
progressed with a rapidity which was almost alarming. Oratory, too, was
of course cultivated, and to this end the young nobleman was made to
recite before a small audience passages from Shakspeare, and even
speeches which had been delivered in the House of Lords, and we may be
certain he showed no bashfulness in this display.
He was precocious beyond measure, and at sixteen was a man. His first
act of folly--or, perhaps, _he_ thought, of manhood--came off at this
early age. He fell in love with the daughter of a Major-General Holmes;
and though there is nothing extraordinary in that, for nine-tenths of us
have been love-mad at as early an age, he did what fortunately very few
do in a first love affair, he married the adored one. Early marriages
are often extolled, and justly enough, as safeguards against profligate
habits, but this one seems to have had the contrary effect on young
Philip. His wife was in every sense too good for him: he was madly in
love with her at first, but soon shamefully and openly faithless. Pope's
line--
'A tyrant to the wife his heart approved,'
requires explanation here. It is said that she did not present her
boy-husband with a son for three years after their marriage, and on this
child he set great value and great hopes. About that time he left his
wife in the country, intending to amuse himself in town, and ordered her
to remain behind with the child. The poor deserted woman well knew what
was the real object of this journey, and could not endure the
separation. In the hope of keeping her young husband out of harm, and
none the less because she loved him very tenderly, she followed him soon
after, taking the little Marquis of Malmsbury, as the young live branch
was called, with her. The duke was, of course, disgusted, but his anger
was turned into hatred, when the child, which he had hoped to make his
heir and successor, caught in town the small-pox, and died in infancy.
He was furious with his wife, refused to see her for a long time, and
treated her with unrelenting coldness.
The early marriage was much to the distaste of Philip's father, who had
been lately made a marquis, and who hoped to arrange a very grand
'alliance' for his petted son. He was, in fact, so much grieved by it,
that he was fool enough to die of it in 1715, and the marchioness
survived him only about a year, being no less disgusted with the
licentiousness which she already discovered in her Young Hopeful.
She did what she could to set him right, and the young married man was
shipped off with a tutor, a French Huguenot, who was to take him to
Geneva to be educated as a Protestant and a Whig. The young scamp
declined to be either. He was taken, by way of seeing the world, to the
petty courts of Germany, and of course to that of Hanover, which had
kindly sent us the worst family that ever disgraced the English throne,
and by the various princes and grand-dukes received with all the honours
due to a young British nobleman.
The tutor and his charge settled at last at Geneva, and my young lord
amused himself with tormenting his strict guardian. Walpole tells us
that he once roused him out of bed only to borrow a pin. There is no
doubt that he led the worthy man a sad life of it; and to put a climax
to his conduct, ran away from him at last, leaving with him, by way of
hostage, a young bear-cub--probably quite as tame as himself--which he
had picked up somewhere, and grown very fond of--birds of a feather,
seemingly--with a message, which showed more wit than good-nature, to
this effect:--'Being no longer able to bear with your ill-usage, I think
proper to be gone from you; however, that you may not want company, I
have left you the bear, as the most suitable companion in the world that
could be picked out for you.'
The tutor had to console himself with a _tu quoque_, for the young
scapegrace had found his way to Lyons in October, 1716, and then did the
very thing his father's son should not have done. The Chevalier de St.
George, the Old Pretender, James III., or by whatever other _alias_ you
prefer to call him, having failed in his attempt 'to have his own again'
in the preceding year, was then holding high court in high dudgeon at
Avignon. Any adherent would, of course, be welcomed with open arms; and
when the young marquis wrote to him to offer his allegiance, sending
with his letter a fine entire horse as a peace offering, he was warmly
responded to. A person of rank was at once despatched to bring the youth
to the ex-regal court; he was welcomed with much enthusiasm, and the
empty title of Duke of Northumberland at once, most kindly, conferred on
him. However, the young marquis does not seem to have _goûté_ the
exile's court, for he stayed there one day only, and returning to Lyons,
set off to enjoy himself at Paris. With much wit, no prudence, and a
plentiful supply of money, which he threw about with the recklessness of
a boy just escaped from his tutor, he could not fail to succeed in that
capital; and, accordingly, the English received him with open arms. Even
the ambassador, Lord Stair, though he had heard rumours of his wild
doings, invited him repeatedly to dinner, and did his best, by advice
and warning, to keep him out of harm's way. Young Philip had a horror of
preceptors, paid or gratuitous, and treated the plenipotentiary with the
same coolness as he had served the Huguenot tutor. When the former,
praising the late marquis, expressed--by way of a slight hint--a hope
'that he would follow so illustrious an example of fidelity to his
prince, and affection to his country, by treading in the same steps,'
the young scamp replied, cleverly enough, 'That he thanked his
excellency for his good advice, and as his excellency had also a worthy
and deserving father, he hoped he would likewise copy so bright an
example, and tread in all his steps;' the pertness of which was
pertinent enough, for old Lord Stair had taken a disgraceful part
against his sovereign in the massacre of Glencoe.
His frolics at Paris were of the most reckless character for a young
nobleman. At the ambassador's own table he would occasionally send a
servant to some one of the guests, to ask him to join in the Old
Chevalier's health, though it was almost treason at that time to mention
his name even. And again, when the windows at the embassy had been
broken by a young English Jacobite, who was forthwith committed to Fort
l'Evêque, the hare-brained marquis proposed, out of revenge, to break
them a second time, and only abandoned the project because he could get
no one to join him in it. Lord Stair, however, had too much sense to be
offended at the follies of a boy of seventeen, even though that boy was
the representative of a great English family; he, probably, thought it
would be better to recall him to his allegiance by kindness and advice,
than, by resenting his behaviour, to drive him irrevocably to the
opposite party; but he was doubtless considerably relieved when, after
leading a wild life in the capital of France, spending his money
lavishly, and doing precisely everything which a young English nobleman
ought not to do, my lord marquis took his departure in December, 1716.
The political education he had received now made the unstable youth
ready and anxious to shine in the State; but being yet under age, he
could not, of course, take his seat in the House of Lords. Perhaps he
was conscious of his own wonderful abilities; perhaps, as Pope declares,
he was thirsting for praise, and wished to display them; certainly he
was itching to become an orator, and as he could not sit in an English
Parliament, he remembered that he had a peerage in Ireland, as Earl of
Rathfernhame and Marquis of Catherlogh, and off he set to see if the
Milesians would stand upon somewhat less ceremony. He was not
disappointed there. 'His brilliant parts,' we are told by contemporary
writers, but rather, we should think, his reputation for wit and
eccentricity, 'found favour in the eyes of Hibernian quicksilvers, and
in spite of his years, he was admitted to the Irish House of Lords.'
When a friend had reproached him, before he left France, with infidelity
to the principles so long espoused by his family, he is reported to have
replied, characteristically enough, that 'he had pawned his principles
to Gordon, the Chevalier's banker, for a considerable sum, and, till he
could repay him, he must be a Jacobite; but when that was done, he would
again return to the Whigs.' It is as likely as not that he borrowed from
Gordon on the strength of the Chevalier's favour, for though a marquis
in his own right, he was even at this period always in want of cash; and
on the other hand, the speech, exhibiting the grossest want of any sense
of honour, is in thorough keeping with his after-life. But whether he
paid Gordon on his return to England--which is highly improbable--or
whether he had not honour enough to keep his compact--which is extremely
likely--there is no doubt that my lord marquis began, at this period, to
qualify himself for the post of parish-weathercock to St. Stephens.
His early defection to a man who, whether rightful heir or not, had that
of romance in his history which is even now sufficient to make our young
ladies 'thorough Jacobites' at heart, was easily to be excused, on the
plea of youth and high spirit. The same excuse does not explain his
rapid return to Whiggery--in which there is no romance at all--the
moment he took his seat in the Irish House of Lords. There is only one
way to explain the zeal with which he now advocated the Orange cause:
he must have been either a very designing knave, or a very unprincipled
fool. As he gained nothing by the change but a dukedom for which he did
not care, and as he cared for little else that the government could give
him, we may acquit him of any very deep motives. On the other hand, his
life and some of his letters show that, with a vast amount of bravado,
he was sufficiently a coward. When supplicated, he was always obstinate;
when neglected, always supplicant. Now it required some courage in those
days to be a Jacobite. Perhaps he cared for nothing but to astonish and
disgust everybody with the facility with which he could turn his coat,
as a hippodromist does with the ease with which he changes his costume.
He was a boy and a peer, and he would make pretty play of his position.
He had considerable talents, and now, as he sat in the Irish House,
devoted them entirely to the support of the government.
For the next four years he was employed, on the one hand in political,
on the other in profligate, life. He shone in both; and was no less
admired, by the wits of those days, for his speeches, his arguments, and
his zeal, than for the utter disregard of public decency he displayed in
his vices. Such a promising youth, adhering to the government, merited
some mark of its esteem, and accordingly, before attaining the age of
twenty-one, he was raised to a dukedom. Being of age, he took his seat
in the English House of Lords, and had not been long there before he
again turned coat, and came out in the light of a Jacobite hero. It was
now that he gathered most of his laurels.
The Hanoverian monarch had been on the English throne some six years.
Had the Chevalier's attempt occurred at this period, it may be doubted
if it would not have been successful. The 'Old Pretender' came too soon,
the 'Young Pretender' too late. At the period of the first attempt, the
public had had no time to contrast Stuarts and Guelphs: at that of the
second, they had forgotten the one and grown accustomed to the other;
but at the moment when our young duke appeared on the boards of the
senate, the vices of the Hanoverians were beginning to draw down on them
the contempt of the educated and the ridicule of the vulgar; and
perhaps no moment could have been more favourable for advocating a
restoration of the Stuarts. If Wharton had had as much energy and
consistency as he had talent and impudence, he might have done much
towards that desirable, or undesirable end.
The grand question at this time before the House was the trial of
Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, demanded by Sir Robert Walpole. The man
had a spirit almost as restless as his defender. The son of a man who
might have been the original of the Vicar of Bray, he was very little of
a poet, less of a priest, but a great deal of a politician. He was born
in 1662, so that at this time he must have been nearly sixty years old.
He had had by no means a hard life of it, for family interest, together
with eminent talents, procured him one appointment after another, till
he reached the bench at the age of fifty-one, in the reign of Anne. He
had already distinguished himself in several ways, most, perhaps, by
controversies with Hoadly, and by sundry high-church motions. But after
his elevation, he displayed his principles more boldly, refused to sign
the Declaration of the Bishops, which was somewhat servilely made to
assure George the First of the fidelity of the Established Church,
suspended the curate of Gravesend for three years because he allowed the
Dutch to have a service performed in his church, and even, it is said,
on the death of Anne, offered to proclaim King James III., and head a
procession himself in his lawn sleeves. The end of this and other
vagaries was, that in 1722, the Government sent him to the Tower, on
suspicion of being connected with a plot in favour of the Old Chevalier.
The case excited no little attention, for it was long since a bishop had
been charged with high treason; it was added that his gaolers used him
rudely; and, in short, public sympathy rather went along with him for a
time. In March, 1723, a bill was presented to the Commons, for
'inflicting certain pains and penalties' on Francis, Lord Bishop of
Rochester, and it passed that House in April; but when carried up to the
Lords, a defence was resolved on. The bill was read a third time on May
15th, and on that occasion the Duke of Wharton, then only twenty-four
years old, rose and delivered a speech in favour of the bishop. This
oration far more resembled that of a lawyer summing up the evidence than
of a parliamentary orator enlarging on the general issue. It was
remarkable for the clearness of its argument, the wonderful memory of
facts it displayed, and the ease and rapidity with which it annihilated
the testimony of various witnesses examined before the House. It was
mild and moderate, able and sufficient, but seems to have lacked all the
enthusiasm we might expect from one who was afterwards so active a
partisan of the Chevalier's cause. In short, striking as it was, it
cannot be said to give the duke any claim to the title of a great
orator; it would rather prove that he might have made a first-rate
lawyer. It shows, however, that had he chosen to apply himself
diligently to politics, he might have turned out a great leader of the
Opposition.
Neither this speech nor the bishop's able defence saved him; and in the
following month he was banished the kingdom, and passed the rest of his
days in Paris.
Wharton, however, was not content with the House as an arena of
political agitation. He was now old enough to have matured his
principles thoroughly, and he completely espoused the cause of the
exiled family. He amused himself with agitating throughout the country,
influencing elections, and seeking popularity by becoming a member of
the Wax-chandlers' Company. It is a proof of his great abilities, so
shamefully thrown away, that he now, during the course of eight months,
issued a paper, called 'The True Briton,' every Monday and Friday,
written by himself, and containing varied and sensible arguments in
support of his opinions, if not displaying any vast amount of original
genius. This paper, on the model of 'The Tatler,' 'The Spectator,' &c.,
had a considerable sale, and attained no little celebrity, so that the
Duke of Wharton acquired the reputation of a literary man as well as of
a political leader.
But, whatever he might have been in either capacity, his disgraceful
life soon destroyed all hope of success in them. He was now an
acknowledged wit about town, and what was then almost a recognized
concomitant of that character, an acknowledged profligate. He scattered
his large fortune in the most reckless and foolish manner: though
married, his moral conduct was as bad as that of any bachelor of the
day: and such was his extravagance and open licentiousness, that, having
wasted a princely revenue, he was soon caught in the meshes of Chancery,
which very sensibly vested his fortune in the hands of trustees, and
compelled him to be satisfied with an income of twelve hundred pounds a
year.
The young rascal now showed hypocritical signs of penitence--he was
always an adept in that line--and protested he would go abroad and live
quietly, till his losses should be retrieved. There is little doubt
that, under this laudable design, he concealed one of attaching himself
closer to the Chevalier party, and even espousing the faith of that
unfortunate prince, or pretender, whichever he may have been. He set off
for Vienna, leaving his wife behind to die, in April, 1726. He had long
since quarrelled with her, and treated her with cruel neglect, and at
her death he was not likely to be much afflicted. It is said, that,
after that event, a ducal family offered him a daughter and large
fortune in marriage, and that the Duke of Wharton declined the offer,
because the latter was to be tied up, and he could not conveniently tie
up the former. However this may be, he remained a widower for a short
time: we may be sure, not long.
The hypocrisy of going abroad to retrench was not long undiscovered. The
fascinating scapegrace seems to have delighted in playing on the
credulity of others; and Walpole relates that, on the eve of the day on
which he delivered his famous speech for Atterbury, he sought an
interview with the minister, Sir Robert Walpole, expressed great
contrition at having espoused the bishop's cause hitherto, and a
determination to speak against him the following day. The minister was
taken in, and at the duke's request, supplied him with all the main
arguments, pro and con. The deceiver, having got these well into his
brain--one of the most retentive--repaired to his London haunts, passed
the night in drinking, and the next day produced all the arguments he
had digested, _in the bishop's favour_.
At Vienna he was well received, and carried out his private mission
successfully, but was too restless to stay in one place, and soon set
off for Madrid. Tired now of politics, he took a turn at love. He was a
poet after a fashion, for the pieces he has left are not very good: he
was a fine gentleman, always spending more money than he had, and is
said to have been handsome. His portraits do not give us this
impression: the features are not very regular; and though not coarse,
are certainly _not_ refined. The mouth, somewhat sensual, is still much
firmer than his character would lead us to expect; the nose sharp at the
point, but cogitative at the nostrils; the eyes long but not large;
while the raised brow has all that openness which he displayed in the
indecency of his vices, but not in any honesty in his political career.
In a word, the face is not attractive. Yet he is described as having had
a brilliant complexion, a lively, varying expression, and a charm of
person and manner that was quite irresistible. Whether on this account,
or for his talents and wit, which were really shining, his new Juliet
fell as deeply in love with him as he with her.
She was maid of honour--and a highly honourable maid--to the Queen of
Spain. The Irish regiments long employed in the Spanish service had
become more or less naturalized in that country, which accounts for the
great number of thoroughly Milesian names still to be found there, some
of them, as O'Donnell, owned by men of high distinction. Among other
officers who had settled with their families in the Peninsula was a
Colonel O'Byrne, who, like most of his countrymen there, died penniless,
leaving his widow with a pension and his daughter without a sixpence. It
can well be imagined that an offer from an English duke was not to be
sneezed at by either Mrs. or Miss O'Byrne; but there were some grave
obstacles to the match. The duke was a Protestant. But what of that?--he
had never been encumbered with religion, nor even with a decent
observance of its institutions, for it is said that, when in England, at
his country seat, he had, to show how little he cared for
respectability, made a point of having the hounds out on a Sunday
morning. He was not going to lose a pretty girl for the sake of a faith
with which he had got disgusted ever since his Huguenot tutor tried to
make him a sober Christian. He had turned coat in politics, and would
now try his weathercock capabilities at religion. Nothing like variety,
so Romanist he became.
But this was not all: his friends on the one hand objected to his
marrying a penniless girl, and hers, on the other, warned her of his
disreputable character. But when two people have made up their minds to
be one, such trifles as these are of no consequence. A far more trying
obstacle was the absolute refusal of her Most Catholic Majesty to allow
her maid of honour to marry the duke.
It is a marvel that after the life of dissipation he had led, this man
should have retained the power of loving at all. But everything about
him was extravagant, and now that he entertained a virtuous attachment,
he was as wild in it as he had been reckless in less respectable
connections. He must have been sincere at the time, for the queen's
refusal was followed by a fit of depression that brought on a low fever.
The queen heard of it, and, touched by the force of his devotion, sent
him a cheering message. The moment was not to be lost, and, in spite of
his weak state, he hurried to court, threw himself at her Majesty's
feet, and swore he must have his lady-love or die. Thus pressed, the
queen was forced to consent, but warned him that he would repent of it.
The marriage took place, and the couple set off to Rome.
Here the Chevalier again received him with open arms, and took the
opportunity of displaying his imaginary sovereignty by bestowing on him
the Order of the Garter--a politeness the duke returned by wearing while
there the no less unrecognised title of Duke of Northumberland, which
'His Majesty' had formerly conferred on him. But James III., though no
saint, had more respect for decent conduct than his father and uncle;
the duke ran off into every species of excess, got into debt as usual--
'When Wharton's just, and learns to pay his debts,
And reputation dwells at Mother Brett's,
* * * * *
Then, Celia, shall my constant passion cease,
And my poor suff'ring heart shall be at peace,'
says a satirical poem of the day, called 'The Duke of Wharton's
_Whens_'--was faithless to the wife he had lately been dying for; and
in short, such a thorough blackguard, that not even the Jacobites could
tolerate him, and they turned him out of the Holy City till he should
learn not to bring dishonour on the court of their fictitious sovereign.
The duke was not the man to be much ashamed of himself, though his poor
wife may now have begun to think her late mistress in the right, and he
was probably glad of an excuse for another change. At this time, 1727,
the Spaniards were determined to wrest Gibraltar from its English
defenders, and were sending thither a powerful army under the command of
Los Torres. The Duke had tried many trades with more or less success,
and now thought that a little military glory would tack on well to his
highly honourable biography. At any rate there was novelty in the din of
war, and for novelty he would go anywhere. It mattered little that he
should fight against his own king and own countrymen: he was not half
blackguard enough yet, he may have thought; he had played traitor for
some time, he would now play rebel outright--the game _was_ worth the
candle.
So what does my lord duke do but write a letter (like the Chinese behind
their mud-walls, he was always bold enough when well secured under the
protection of the post, and was more absurd in ink even than in action)
to the King of Spain, offering him his services as a volunteer against
'Gib.' Whether his Most Catholic Majesty thought him a traitor, a
madman, or a devoted partisan of his own, does not appear, for without
waiting for an answer--waiting was always too dull work for Wharton--he
and his wife set off for the camp before Gibraltar, introduced
themselves to the Conde in Command, were received with all the
honour--let us say honours--due to a duke--and established themselves
comfortably in the ranks of the enemy of England. But all the duke's
hopes of prowess were blighted. He had good opportunities. The Conde de
los Torres made him his aide-de-camp, and sent him daily into the
trenches to see how matters went on. When a defence of a certain Spanish
outwork was resolved upon, the duke, from his rank, was chosen for the
command. Yet in the trenches he got no worse wound than a slight one on
the foot from a splinter of a shell, and this he afterwards made an
excuse for not fighting a duel with swords; and as to the outwork, the
English abandoned the attack, so that there was no glory to be found in
the defence. He soon grew weary of such inglorious and rather dirty work
as visiting trenches before a stronghold; and well he might; for if
there be one thing duller than another and less satisfactory, it must be
digging a hole out of which to kill your brother mortals; and thinking
he should amuse himself better at the court, he set off for Madrid. Here
the king, by way of reward for his brilliant services in doing nothing,
made him _colonel-aggregate_--whatever that may be--of an Irish
regiment; a very poor aggregate, we should think. But my lord duke
wanted something livelier than the command of a band of Hispaniolized
Milesians; and having found the military career somewhat uninteresting,
wished to return to that of politics. He remembered with gusto the
frolic life of the Holy City, and the political excitement in the
Chevalier's court, and sent off a letter to 'His Majesty James III.,'
expressing, like a rusticated Oxonian, his penitence for having been so
naughty the last time, and offering to come and be very good again. It
is to the praise of the Chevalier de St. George that he had worldly
wisdom enough not to trust the gay penitent. He was tired, as everybody
else was, of a man who could stick to nothing, and did not seem to care
about seeing him again. Accordingly, he replied in true kingly style,
blaming him for having taken up arms against their common country, and
telling him in polite language--as a policeman does a riotous
drunkard--that he had better go home. The duke thought so too, was not
at all offended at the letter, and set off, by way of returning towards
his Penates, for Paris, where he arrived in May, 1728.
Horace Walpole--not _the_ Horace--but 'Uncle Horace,' or 'old Horace,'
as he was called, was then ambassador to the court of the Tuileries. Mr.
Walpole was one of the Houghton 'lot,' a brother of the famous minister
Sir Robert, and though less celebrated, almost as able in his line. He
had distinguished himself in various diplomatic appointments, in Spain,
at Hanover and the Hague, and having successfully tackled Cardinal
Fleury, the successor of the Richelieus and Mazarins at Paris, he was
now in high favour at home. In after years he was celebrated for his
duel with Chetwynd, who, when 'Uncle Horace' had in the House expressed
a hope that the question might be carried, had exclaimed, 'I hope to see
you hanged first!' 'You hope to see me hanged first, do you?' cried
Horace, with all the ferocity of the Walpoles; and thereupon, seizing
him by the most prominent feature of his face, shook him violently. This
was matter enough for a brace of swords and coffee for four, and Mr.
Chetwynd had to repent of his remark after being severely wounded. In
those days our honourable House of Commons was as much an arena of wild
beasts as the American senate of to-day.
To this minister our noble duke wrote a hypocritical letter, which, as
it shows how the man _could_ write penitently, is worth transcribing.
'Lions, June 28, 1728.
'Sir,--Your excellency will be surpris'd to receive a letter from me;
but the clemency with which the government of England has treated me,
which is in a great measure owing to your brother's regard to my
father's memory, makes me hope that you will give me leave to express my
gratitude for it.
'Since his present majesty's accession to the throne I have absolutely
refused to be concerned with the Pretender or any of his affairs; and
during my stay in Italy have behaved myself in a manner that Dr. Peters,
Mr. Godolphin, and Mr. Mills can declare to be consistent with my duty
to the present king. I was forc'd to go to Italy to get out of Spain,
where, if my true design had been known, I should have been treated a
little severely.
'I am coming to Paris to put myself entirely under your excellency's
protection; and hope that Sir Robert Walpole's good-nature will prompt
him to save a family which his generosity induced him to spare. If your
excellency would permit me to wait upon you for an hour, I am certain
you would be convinc'd of the sincerity of my repentance for my former
madness, would become an advocate with his majesty to grant me his most
gracious pardon, which it is my comfort I shall never be required to
purchase by any step unworthy of a man of honour. I do not intend, in
case of the king's allowing me to pass the evening of my days under the
shadow of his royal protection, to see England for some years, but shall
remain in France or Germany, as my friends shall advise, and enjoy
country sports till all former stories are buried in oblivion. I beg of
your excellency to let me receive your orders at Paris, which I will
send to your hostel to receive. The Dutchess of Wharton, who is with me,
desires leave to wait on Mrs. Walpole, if you think proper.
'I am, &c.'
After this, the ambassador could do no less than receive him; but he was
somewhat disgusted when on leaving him the duke frankly told
him--forgetting all about his penitent letter, probably, or too reckless
to care for it--that he was going to dine with the Bishop of
Rochester--Atterbury himself, then living in Paris--whose society was
interdicted to any subject of King George. The duke, with his usual
folly, touched on other subjects equally dangerous, his visit to Rome,
and his conversion to Romanism; and, in short, disgusted the cautious
Mr. Walpole. There is something delightfully impudent about all these
acts of Wharton's; and had he only been a clown at Drury Lane instead of
an English nobleman, he must have been successful. As it is, when one
reads of the petty hatred and humbug of those days, when liberty of
speech was as unknown as any other liberty, one cannot but admire the
impudence of his Grace of Wharton, and wish that most dukes, without
being as profligate, would be as free-spoken.
With six hundred pounds in his pocket, our young Lothario now set up
house at Rouen, with an establishment 'equal,' say the old-school
writers, 'to his position, but not to his means.' In other words, he
undertook to live in a style for which he could not pay. Twelve hundred
a year may be enough for a duke, as for any other man, but not for one
who considers a legion of servants a necessary appendage to his
position. My lord duke, who was a good French scholar, soon found an
ample number of friends and acquaintances, and not being particular
about either, managed to get through his half-year's income in a few
weeks. Evil consequence: he was assailed by duns. French duns know
nothing about forgiving debtors; 'your money first, and then my pardon,'
is their motto. My lord duke soon found this out. Still he had an
income, and could pay them all off in time. So he drank and was merry,
till one fine day came a disagreeable piece of news, which startled him
considerably. The government at home had heard of his doings, and
determined to arraign him for high treason.
He could expect little else, for had he not actually taken up arms
against his sovereign?
Now Sir Robert Walpole was, no doubt, a vulgarian. He was not a man to
love or sympathise with; but he _was_ good-natured at bottom. Our
'frolic grace' had reason to acknowledge this. He could not complain of
harshness in any measures taken against him, and he had certainly no
claim to consideration from the government he had treated so ill. Yet
Sir Robert was willing to give him every chance; and so far did he go,
that he sent over a couple of friends to him to induce him only to ask
pardon of the king, with a promise that it would be granted. For sure
the Duke of Wharton's character was anomalous. The same man who had more
than once humiliated himself when unasked, who had written to Walpole's
brother the letter we have read, would not now, when entreated to do so,
write a few lines to that minister to ask mercy. Nay, when the gentleman
in question offered to be content even with a letter from the duke's
valet, he refused to allow the man to write. Some people may admire what
they will believe to be firmness, but when we review the duke's
character and subsequent acts, we cannot attribute this refusal to
anything but obstinate pride. The consequence of this folly was a
stoppage of supplies, for as he was accused of high treason, his estate
was of course sequestrated. He revenged himself by writing a paper which
was published in 'Mist's Journal,' and which, under the cover of a
Persian tale, contained a species of libel on the government.
His position was now far from enviable; and, assailed by duns, he had
no resource but to humble himself, not before those he had offended, but
before the Chevalier, to whom he wrote in his distress, and who sent him
£2,000, which he soon frittered away in follies. This gone, the duke
begged and borrowed, for there are some people such fools that they
would rather lose a thousand pounds to a peer than give sixpence to a
pauper, and many a tale was told of the artful manner in which his grace
managed to cozen his friends out of a louis or two. His ready wit
generally saved him.
Thus on one occasion an Irish toady invited him to dinner: the duke
talked of his wardrobe, then sadly defective; what suit should he wear?
The Hibernian suggested black velvet. 'Could you recommend a tailor?'
'Certainly.' Snip came, an expensive suit was ordered, put on, and the
dinner taken. In due course the tailor called for his money. The duke
was not a bit at a loss, though he had but a few francs to his name.
'Honest man,' quoth he, 'you mistake the matter entirely. Carry the bill
to Sir Peter; for know that whenever I consent to wear another man's
livery, my master pays for the clothes,' and inasmuch as the
dinner-giver was an Irishman, he did actually discharge the account.
At other times he would give a sumptuous entertainment, and in one way
or another induce his guests to pay for it. He was only less adroit in
coining excuses than Theodore Hook, and had he lived a century later, we
might have a volume full of anecdotes to give of his ways and no means.
Meanwhile his unfortunate duchess was living on the charity of friends,
while her lord and master, when he could get anyone to pay for a band,
was serenading young ladies. Yet he was jealous enough of his wife at
times, and once sent a challenge to a Scotch nobleman, simply because
some silly friend asked him if he had forbidden his wife to dance with
the lord. He went all the way to Flanders to meet his opponent; but,
perhaps fortunately for the duke, Marshal Berwick arrested the
Scotchman, and the duel never came off.
Whether he felt his end approaching, or whether he was sick of vile
pleasures which he had recklessly pursued from the age of fifteen, he
now, though only thirty years of age, retired for a time to a convent,
and was looked on as a penitent and devotee. Penury, doubtless, cured
him in a measure, and poverty, the porter of the gates of heaven, warned
him to look forward beyond a life he had so shamefully misused. But it
was only a temporary repentance; and when he left the religious house,
he again rushed furiously into every kind of dissipation.
At length, utterly reduced to the last extremities, he bethought himself
of his colonelcy in Spain, and determined to set out to join his
regiment. The following letter from a friend who accompanied him will
best show what circumstances he was in:--
'Paris, June 1, 1729.
'Dear Sir,--I am just returned from the Gates of Death, to return you
Thanks for your last kind Letter of Accusations, which I am persuaded
was intended as a seasonable Help to my Recollection, at a Time that it
was necessary for me to send an Inquisitor General into my Conscience,
to examine and settle all the Abuses that ever were committed in that
little Court of Equity; but I assure you, your long Letter did not lay
so much my Faults as my Misfortunes before me, which believe me, dear
----, have fallen as heavy and as thick upon me as the Shower of Hail
upon us two in E---- Forest, and has left me much at a Loss which way to
turn myself. The Pilot of the Ship I embarked in, who industriously ran
upon every Rock, has at last split the Vessel, and so much of a sudden,
that the whole Crew, I mean his Domesticks, are all left to swim for
their Lives, without one friendly Plank to assist them to Shore. In
short, he left me sick, in Debt, and without a Penny; but as I begin to
recover, and have a little time to Think, I can't help considering
myself, as one whisk'd up behind a Witch upon a Broomstick, and hurried
over Mountains and Dales through confus'd Woods and thorny Thickets, and
when the Charm is ended, and the poor Wretch dropp'd in a Desart, he can
give no other Account of his enchanted Travels, but that he is much
fatigued in Body and Mind, his Cloaths torn, and worse in all other
Circumstances, without being of the least Service to himself or any
body else. But I will follow your Advice with an active Resolution, to
retrieve my bad Fortune, and almost a Year miserably misspent.
'But notwithstanding what I have suffered, and what my Brother Mad-man
has done to undo himself, and every body who was so unlucky to have the
least Concern with him, I could not but be movingly touch'd at so
extraordinary a Vicissitude of Fortune, to see a great Man fallen from
that shining Light, in which I beheld him in the House of Lords, to such
a Degree of Obscurity, that I have observ'd the meanest Commoner here
decline, and the Few he would sometimes fasten on, to be tired of his
Company; for you know he is but a bad Orator in his Cups, and of late he
has been but seldom sober.
'A week before he left Paris, he was so reduced, that he had not one
single Crown at Command, and was forc'd to thrust in with any
Acquaintance for a Lodging; Walsh and I have had him by Turns, all to
avoid a Crowd of Duns, which he had of all Sizes, from Fourteen hundred
Livres to Four, who hunted him so close, that he was forced to retire to
some of the neighbouring Villages for Safety. I, sick as I was, hurried
about Paris to raise Money, and to St. Germain's to get him Linen; I
bought him one Shirt and a Cravat, which with 500 Livres, his whole
Stock, he and his Duchess, attended by one Servant, set out for Spain.
All the News I have heard of them since is that a Day or two after, he
sent for Captain Brierly, and two or three of his Domesticks, to follow
him; but none but the Captain obey'd the Summons. Where they are now, I
can't tell, but fear they must be in great Distress by this Time, if he
has no other Supplies; and so ends my Melancholy Story.
'I am, &c.'
Still his good-humour did not desert him; he joked about their poverty
on the road, and wrote an amusing account of their journey to a friend,
winding up with the well-known lines:--
'Be kind to my remains, and oh! defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend.'
His mind was as vigorous as ever, in spite of the waste of many
debauches; and when recommended to make a new translation of
'Telemachus;' he actually devoted one whole day to the work; the next he
forgot all about it. In the same manner he began a play on the story of
Mary Queen of Scots, and Lady M. W. Montagu wrote an epilogue for it,
but the piece never got beyond a few scenes. His genius, perhaps, was
not for either poetry or the drama. His mind was a keen, clear one,
better suited to argument and to grapple tough polemic subjects. Had he
but been a sober man, he might have been a fair, if not a great writer.
The 'True Briton,' with many faults of license, shows what his
capabilities were. His absence of moral sense may be guessed from his
poem on the preaching of Atterbury, in which is a parallel almost
blasphemous.
At length he reached Bilboa and his regiment, and had to live on the
meagre pay of eighteen pistoles a month. The Duke of Ormond, then an
exile, took pity on his wife, and supported her for a time: she
afterwards rejoined her mother at Madrid.
Meanwhile, the year 1730 brought about a salutary change in the duke's
morals. His health was fast giving way from the effects of divers
excesses; and there is nothing like bad health for purging a bad soul.
The end of a misspent life was fast drawing near, and he could only keep
it up by broth with eggs beaten up in it. He lost the use of his limbs,
but not of his gaiety. In the mountains of Catalonia he met with a
mineral spring which did him some good; so much, in fact, that he was
able to rejoin his regiment for a time. A fresh attack sent him back to
the waters; but on his way he was so violently attacked that he was
forced to stop at a little village. Here he found himself without the
means of going farther, and in the worst state of health. The monks of a
Bernardine convent took pity on him and received him into their house.
He grew worse and worse; and in a week died on the 31st of May, without
a friend to pity or attend him, among strangers, and at the early age of
thirty-two.
Thus ended the life of one of the cleverest fools that ever disgraced
our peerage.