Notorious courtiers.--My Lord Rochester's satires.--Places a watch on
certain ladies of quality.--His majesty becomes indignant.--Rochester
retires to the country.--Dons a disguise and returns to town.--Practises
astrology.--Two maids of honour seek adventure.--Mishaps which befell
them.--Rochester forgiven.--The Duke of Buckingham.--Lady Shrewsbury
and her victims.--Captain Howard's duel.--Lord Shrewsbury avenges
his honour.--A strange story.--Colonel Blood attempts an
abduction.--Endeavours to steal the regalia.--The king converses with
him.
Prominent among the courtiers, and foremost amid the friends of his
majesty, were two noblemen distinguished alike for their physical
grace, exceeding wit, and notable eccentricity. These were the Earl of
Rochester, and his Grace of Buckingham; gallants both, whose respective
careers were so intimately connected with the court as to make further
chronicle of them necessary in these pages.
My Lord Rochester, though younger in years than the duke, was superior
to him in wit, comeliness, and attraction. Nor was there a more
conspicuous figure observable in the palace of Whitehall than this same
earl, who was ever foremost in pursuit of such pleasures as wine begets
and love appeases. His mirth was the most buoyant, his conversation the
most agreeable, his manner the most engaging in the world; whence he
became "the delight and wonder of men, the love and dotage of women."
A courtier possessed of so happy a disposition, and endowed with such
brilliant talents, could not fail in pleasing the king; who vastly
enjoyed his society, but was occasionally obliged to banish his person
from court, when his eccentric conduct rendered him intolerable, or his
bitter satire aimed at royalty. For it was given no other man in his age
to blend merry wit and caustic ridicule so happily together; therefore
those who read his lines were forced to laugh at his fancy, even whilst
hurt by his irony.
Now in order to keep this talent in constant practice, he was wont to
celebrate in inimitable verse such events, be they private or public, as
happened at court, or befell the courtiers; and inasmuch as his subjects
were frequently of a licentious nature, his lines were generally of a
scandalous character. He therefore became the public censor of court
folly; and so unerringly did his barbed shafts hit the weaknesses at
which they aimed, that his productions were equally the terror of those
he victimized, and the delight of those he spared.
This liberal use of satire he was wont to excuse on the plea there were
some who could not be kept in order, or admonished, by other means.
Therefore, having the virtue of his friends keenly at heart, an
ingenious plan occurred to him by which he might secretly discover their
vices, and publicly reprove them. In order that he might fulfil this
purpose to his greater satisfaction, he promptly sought and found a
footman, who, by virtue of his employment, was well acquainted with the
courtiers. This man the "noble and beautiful earl" furnished with a red
coat and a musket, that he might pass as a sentinel, and then placed
him every night throughout one winter at the doors of certain ladies of
quality whom he suspected of carrying on intrigues.
In this disguise the footman readily passed as a soldier stationed at
his post by command of his officer, and was thus enabled to note
what gentlemen called on the suspected ladies at unreasonable but
not unfashionable hours. Accordingly, my lord made many surprising
discoveries, and when he had gained sufficient information on such
delicate points, he quietly retired into the country, that he might with
greater ease devote himself to the composition of those lively verses
which he subsequently circulated through the court, to the wonder and
dismay of many, and the delight and profit of few.
To these lampoons no name was attached, and my lord took precautions
that their authorship should not be satisfactorily proved, no matter how
sagely suspected. Moreover, in his conversation he was judicious
enough to keep the weapon of his satire in reserve; sheathing its fatal
keenness in a bewitching softness of civility until occasion required
its use; when forth it flashed all the brighter for its covering, all
the sharper for its rest. And satire being absent from his speech,
humour ever waited on his words; and never was he more extravagantly gay
than when assisting at the pleasant suppers given by the merry monarch
to his choicest friends.
Here, whilst drinking deep of ruddy wine from goblets of old gold, he
narrated his strange experiences, and illustrated them with flashes of
his wit. For it was the habit of this eccentric earl, when refinements
of the court began to pall upon him, or his absence from Whitehall
became a necessity, to seek fresh adventure and intrigue disguised as a
porter, a beggar, or a ballad-monger. And so carefully did he hide his
identity in the character he assumed, that his most intimate friends
failed to recognise his personality.
No doubt the follies in which he indulged were in some measure due to
the eccentricity ever attendant upon genius; but they were probably
likewise occasioned by craving for excitement begotten of drink. For
my lord loved wine exceedingly; and when he drew near unto death in the
dawn of his manhood, confessed to Bishop Burnet that for five years he
was continually drunk: "Not that he was all the while under the visible
effects of it, but his blood was so inflamed, that he was not in all
that time cool enough to be perfectly master of himself." Charles
delighted in the society of this gay courtier, because of his erratic
adventures, and his love of wine. Moreover, the licentious verses which
it was the earl's good pleasure to compose, the names of some of which
no decent lips would whisper in this age of happy innocence, afforded
the monarch extravagant enjoyment. Withal his majesty's satisfaction in
Lord Rochester's wit was not always to be counted upon, as it proved.
For it came to pass one night at the close of a royal supper, during
which the earl had drunk deep, that with great goodwill to afford the
king diversion, he handed his majesty what he believed was a satire on
a courtier, more remarkable for its humour than its decency. Whereon
Charles, with anticipation of much delight, opened the folded page,
when he was surprised to see, not a copy of verses, but an unflattering
description of himself, which ran as follows:
"Here lies our mutton-eating king,
Whose word no man relies on;
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one."
Now the king, though the best tempered of men and most lenient of
masters, was naturally wrathful at this verbal character: the more so
because recognising its faithfulness at a glance. He therefore upbraided
Rochester with ingratitude, and banished him from the court.
Nothing dismayed, my lord retired into the country; but in a short
time, growing weary of pastoral solitude which gave him an appetite for
adventure it could not wholly supply, he returned privately to town, and
assuming a disguise, took up his residence in the city. Here exercising
his characteristic tact, and great capacity for pleasing, he
speedily made friends with wealthy merchants and worthy aldermen, who
subsequently invited him to their hospitable tables, and introduced him
to their gracious ladies.
And as his conversation had not failed to delight the husbands, neither
were his charms unsuccessful in affording satisfaction to their wives.
To the one he railed against the impotence of the king's ministers, to
the other he declaimed upon the wickedness of his majesty's mistresses;
and to both his denunciations were equally sincere and acceptable.
But his bitterest words were reserved for such courtiers as Rochester,
Buckingham, and Killigrew, whose dissipated lives were the scandal of
all honest men, the terror of all virtuous women: insolent fellows,
moreover, who had the impudence to boast that city ladies were not so
faithful to their husbands as was generally supposed, and, moreover, the
boldness to assert that they painted. Indeed, he marvelled much, that
since such men were frequenters of Whitehall, sacred fire from heaven
had not long since descended and consumed the royal palace to ashes.
Such virtuous sentiments as these, expressed by so gallant a man, made
him acceptable in many homes: and the result was he speedily became
surfeited by banquets, suppers, and other hospitalities, to which the
excellent but credulous citizens bade him heartily welcome.
He therefore disappeared from their midst one day as suddenly and
unaccountably as he had come amongst them. He did not, however, take
himself afar, but donning a new disguise, retreated to a more distant
part of the city: for an idea had occurred to him which he determined
speedily to put in practice. This was to assume the character and
bearing of a sage astrologer and learned physician, at once capable of
reading the past, and laying bare the future of all who consulted him;
also of healing diseases of and preventing mishaps to such as
visited him. Accordingly, having taken lodgings in Tower Street, at a
goldsmith's house, situated next the Black Swan, he prepared himself for
practice, adopted the title of doctor, the name of Alexander Bendo, and
issued bills headed by the royal arms, containing the most remarkable
and impudent manifesto perhaps ever set forth by any impostor.
Copies of this may yet be seen in early editions of his works. It was
addressed to all gentlemen, ladies, and others, whether of the city,
town, or country, to whom Alexander Bendo wished health and prosperity.
He had come amongst them because the great metropolis of England had
ever been infested by numerous quacks, whose arrogant confidence, backed
by their ignorance, had enabled them to impose on the public; either
by premeditated cheats in physic, chymical and galenic, in astrology,
physiognomy, palmistry, mathematics, alchymy, and even government
itself. Of which latter he did not propose to discourse, or meddle with,
since it in no way belonged to his trade or vocation, which he thanked
God he found much more safe, equally honest, and more profitable. But
he, Alexander Bendo, had with unswerving faithfulness and untiring
assiduity for years courted the arts and sciences, and had learned dark
secrets and received signal favours from them. He was therefore prepared
to take part against unlearned wretches, and arrant quacks, whose
impudent addresses and saucy pretences had brought scandal upon sage and
learned men.
However, in a wicked world like this, where virtue was so exactly
counterfeited, and hypocrisy was generally successful, it would be hard
for him, a stranger, to escape censure. But indeed he would submit to
be considered a mountebank if he were discovered to be one. Having made
which statement, he proceeded to draw an ingenious comparison between
a mountebank and a politician, suitable to all ages and dimes, but
especially to this century and country. Both, he intimated, are fain to
supply the lack of higher abilities to which they pretend, with craft;
and attract attention by undertaking strange things which can never be
performed. By both the people are pleased and deluded; the expectation
of good in the future drawing their eyes from the certainty of evil in
the present.
The sage Alexander Bendo then discoursed of miraculous cures which he
could effect, but he would set down no word in his bill which bore an
unclean sound. It was enough that he made himself understood, but indeed
he had seen physicians' bills containing things of which no man
who walked warily before God could approve. Concerning astrological
predictions, physiognomy, divination by dreams, and otherwise, he would
say, if it did not look like ostentation, he had seldom failed, but had
often been of service; and to those who came to him he would guarantee
satisfaction. Nor would he be ashamed to avow his willingness to
practise rare secrets, for the help, conservation, and augmentation of
beauty and comeliness; an endowment granted for the better establishment
of mutual love between man and woman, and as such highly valuable to
both. The knowledge of secrets like this he had gathered during journeys
through France and Italy, in which countries he had spent his life since
he was fifteen years old. Those who had travelled in the latter country
knew what a miracle art there performs in behalf of beauty; how women
of forty bear the same countenance as those of fifteen, ages being in
no way distinguished by appearances; whereas in England, by looking at a
horse in the mouth and a woman in the face, it was possible to tell the
number of their years. He could, therefore, give such remedies as would
render those who came to him perfectly fair; clearing and preserving
them from all spots, freckles, pimples, marks of small-pox, or traces
of accidents. He would, moreover, cure the teeth, clear the breath, take
away fatness, and add flesh.
A man who vouched to perform such wonders was not long without patients.
At first these were drawn from his immediate neighbourhood, but soon his
fame reached the heart of the city. Accordingly, many ladies of
whose hospitality he had partaken, and of whose secrets he had become
possessed, hurried to consult him; and the marvellous insight he
betrayed regarding their past, and strange predictions he pronounced
concerning their future, filled them with amazement, and occasionally
with alarm. And they, proclaiming the marvels of his wisdom, widened the
circle of his reputation, until his name was spoken within the precincts
of Whitehall.
Curiosity concerning so remarkable a man at once beset the minds of
certain ladies at court, who either feared or expected much from the
future, and were anxious to peer into such secrets as it held concerning
themselves. But dreading the notoriety their presence would naturally
cause in the vicinity of Tower Street, a spot to them unknown, they,
acting with a prudence not invariably characteristic of their
conduct, sent their maids to ascertain from personal experience if the
astrologer's wisdom was in truth as marvellous as reported. Now, when
these appeared in fear and trembling before the great Alexander Bendo,
the knowledge he revealed concerning themselves, and their mistresses
likewise, was so wonderful that it exceeded all expectation.
Accordingly, the maids returned to court with such testimonies
concerning the lore of this star-reader, as fired afresh their
mistresses' desires to see and converse with him in their proper
persons.
It therefore came to pass that Miss Price and Miss Jennings, maids
of honour both--the one to the queen, the other to the Duchess of
York--boldly resolved to visit Doctor Bendo, and learn what the future
held for them. Miss Price was a lady who delighted in adventure; Miss
Jennings was a gentlewoman of spirit; both looked forward to their visit
with excitement and interest. It happened one night, when the court had
gone to the playhouse, these ladies, who had excused themselves from
attending the queen and the duchess, dressed as orange girls, and taking
baskets of fruit under their arms, quickly crossed the park, and entered
a hackney-coach at Whitehall Gate. Bidding the driver convey them to
Tower Street, they rattled merrily enough over the uneven streets until
they came close to the theatre, when, being in high spirits and feeling
anxious to test the value of their disguise, they resolved to alight
from their conveyance, enter the playhouse, and offer their wares for
sale in presence of the court.
Accordingly, paying the driver, they descended from the coach, and
running between the lines of chairs gathered round the theatre, gained
the door. Now, who should arrive at that moment but the beau Sidney,
attired in the bravery of waving feathers, fluttering ribbons, and
rich-hued velvets. And as he paused to adjust his curls to his greater
satisfaction before entering the playhouse, Miss Price went boldly
forward and asked him to buy her fine oranges; but so engaged was he in
his occupation, that he did not deign to make reply, but passed into
the theatre without turning his glance upon her. Miss Jennings, however,
fared somewhat differently; and with less satisfaction to herself; for,
perceiving another courtier, none other than Tom Killigrew, a rare wit
and lover of pleasure, she went up to him and offered her fruit for
sale. These he declined to buy; but chucking her under the chin, and
glancing at her with an air of familiarity, invited her to bring her
oranges to his lodgings next morning. On this Miss Jennings, who was as
virtuous as lovely, pushed him away with violence, and forgetting the
character she assumed, commenced rebuking his insolence, much to the
amusement and surprise of the bystanders. Fearing detection of their
identity, Miss Price pulled her forcibly away from the crowd.
Miss Jennings was after this incident anxious to forego her visit to the
astrologer, and return to Whitehall, but her companion declaring
this would be a shameful want of spirit, they once more entered a
hackney-coach, and requested they might be driven to the lodgings of
the learned Doctor Bendo. Their adventures for the evening were
unfortunately not yet at an end; for just as they entered Tower Street
they saw Henry Brinker, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber to the
Duke of York. Now it happened this courtier had been dining with a
citizen of worth and wealth, whose house he was about to leave the
moment the maids of honour drove by. They, knowing him to be a man
remarkable for his gallantries, were anxious to avoid his observation,
and therefore directed the driver to proceed a few doors beyond their
destination; but he, having caught sight of two pretty orange wenches,
followed the coach and promptly stepping up as they alighted, made some
bold observations to them. On this both turned away their heads that
they might avoid his gaze, a proceeding which caused him to observe
them with closer scrutiny, when he immediately recognised them, without
however intimating his knowledge. He therefore fell to teasing them, and
finally left them with no very pleasant remarks ringing in their ears,
concerning the virtue which obtained among maids of honour, for he did
not doubt their disguise was assumed for purposes of intrigue.
Overwhelmed with confusion, they walked towards the goldsmith's shop,
over which the oracle delivered wisdom; but being no longer in a humour
to heed his words, they presently resolved on driving back to Whitehall
with all possible speed. But alas! on turning round they beheld their
driver waging war with a crowd which had gathered about his vehicle; for
having left their oranges in the coach, some boys had essayed to help
themselves, whereon the man fell foul of them. But he, being one against
many, was like to fare badly at their hands; seeing which, the maids of
honour persuaded him to let the crowd take the fruit and drive them back
at once. This conduct had not the effect of appeasing those who profited
by its generosity; for the gentlewomen were greeted with most foul
abuse, and many unworthy charges were laid to their account in language
more vigorous than polished. And having at last arrived in safety at
Whitehall, they resolved never to sally forth in search of adventure
again.
After various strange experiences in his character as doctor of medicine
and teller of fortunes, of the weakness of human nature and strength of
common credulity, the learned Alexander Bendo vanished from the city;
and about the same time the gallant Earl of Rochester appeared at
court, where he sought for and obtained the merry monarch's pardon.
The wonderful stories he was enabled to relate, piquant in detail, and
sparkling with wit, rendered it delightful to the king, in whose favour
he soon regained his former supremacy. Nay, Charles even determined to
enrich and reward him, not indeed from the resources of his privy purse,
his majesty's income being all too little for his mistresses' rapacity,
but by uniting him to a charming woman and an heiress.
The lady whom his majesty selected for this purpose was Elizabeth
Mallett, daughter of Lord Hawley of Donamore. Now this gentlewoman had a
fortune of two thousand five hundred a year, a considerable sum in
those days, and one which gained her many suitors; amongst whom Lord
Hinchingbrook was commended by her family, and Lord Rochester by the
king. Now the latter nobleman, having but a poor estate, was anxious to
obtain her wealth, and fearful of losing his suit: and being uncertain
as to whether he could gain her consent to marry him by fair means, he
resolved to obtain it by execution of a daring scheme.
This was to carry her off by force, an action which highly commended
itself to his adventurous spirit. Accordingly he selected a night on
which the heiress supped at Whitehall with her friend Miss Stuart,
for conducting his enterprise. It therefore happened that as Elizabeth
Mallett was returning home from the palace in company with her
grandfather, their coach was suddenly stopped at Charing Cross.
Apprehending some danger, Lord Hawley looked out, and by the red light
of a score of torches flashing through darkness, saw he was surrounded
by a band of armed men, both afoot and on horse. Their action was prompt
and decisive, for before either my lord or his granddaughter was aware
of their intention, the latter was seized, forcibly lifted from the
coach, and transferred to another which awaited close at hand. This
was driven by six horses, and occupied by two women, who received the
heiress with all possible respect. No sooner had she been placed in
the coach than the horses were set to a gallop, and away she sped,
surrounded by a company of horsemen.
Lord Hawley was cast into the uttermost grief and passion by this
outrage; but his condition did not prevent him speedily gathering a
number of friends and retainers, in company with whom he gave chase to
those who had abducted his granddaughter; and so fast did they ride that
Mistress Mallett was overtaken at Uxbridge, and carried back in safety
to town. For this outrageous attempt, my Lord Rochester was by the
king's command committed to the Tower, there to await his majesty's good
pleasure. It seemed now as if the earl's chance of gaining the heiress
had passed away for ever; inasmuch as Charles regarded the attempted
abduction with vast displeasure, and my Lord Hawley with terrible
indignation.
But the ways of women being inexplicable, it happened in a brief
while Mistress Mallett was inclined to regret my Lord Rochester's
imprisonment, and therefore moved to have him released; and, moreover,
she was subsequently pleased to regard his suit and accept him as her
wedded lord. It speaks favourably for his character that with all
his faults she loved him well: nor did Rochester, though occasionally
unfaithful, ever treat her with unkindness. At times the old spirit of
restlessness and passion for adventure would master him, when he would
withdraw himself from her society for weeks and months. But she, though
sadly afflicted by such conduct, did not resent it. "If I could have
been troubled at anything, when I had the happiness of receiving a
letter from you," she writes to him on one occasion when he had absented
himself from her for long, "I should be so because you did not name a
time when I might hope to see you, the uncertainty of which very much
afflicts me." And again the poor patient wife tells him, "Lay your
commands upon me, what I am to do, and though it be to forget my
children, and the long hope I have lived in of seeing you, yet I will
endeavour to obey you; or in memory only torment myself, without giving
you the trouble of putting you in mind that there lives such a creature
as your faithful humble servant." At length dissipation undermined his
naturally strong constitution; and for months this once most gay and
gallant man, this "noble and beautiful earl," lay dying of that cruel
disease consumption. The while such thoughts as come to those who reason
of life's vanities beset him; and as he descended into the valley of
shadows, the folly of this world's ways was made clear to him. And
repenting of his sins, he died in peace with God and man at the age of
three-and-thirty.
George Villiers second Duke of Buckingham, was not less notable than my
Lord Rochester. By turns he played such diverse parts in life's
strange comedy as that of a spendthrift and a miser, a profligate and
a philosopher, a statesman who sought the ruin of his country, and a
courtier who pandered to the pleasures of his king. But inasmuch as this
history is concerned with the social rather than the political life of
those mentioned in its pages, place must be given to such adventures as
were connected with the court and courtiers. Buckingham's were chiefly
concerned with his intrigues, which, alas! were many and strange; for
though his wife was loving and virtuous, she was likewise lean and
brown, and wholly incapable of controlling his erring fancies. Perhaps
it was knowledge of her lack of comeliness which helped her to bear
the burden of his follies; for according to Madame Dunois, though the
duchess knew he was continually engaged in amours, she, by virtue of a
patience uncommon to her sex, forbore mentioning the subject to him,
and "had complaisance enough to entertain his mistresses, and even lodge
them in her house, all which she suffered because she loved him."
The most remarkable of his intrigues was that which connected his name
with the Countess of Shrewsbury. Her ladyship, was daughter of the
second Earl of Cardigan, and wife of the eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury.
She was married a year previous to the restoration, and upon the
establishment of the court at Whitehall had become one of its most
distinguished beauties. Nor was she less famed for the loveliness of her
person than for the generosity of her disposition; inasmuch as none
who professed themselves desirous of her affection were ever allowed to
languish in despair. She therefore had many admirers, some of whom were
destined to suffer for the distinction her friendship conferred.
Now one of the first to gain her attachment was the young Earl of Arran,
the grace of whose bearing and ardour of whose character were alike
notable to the court. The verses he sung her to an accompaniment of his
guitar, and the glances he gave her indicative of his passion, might
have melted a heart less cold than hers. Accordingly they gained him
a friendship which, by reason of her vast benevolence, many were
subsequently destined to share. Now it chanced that the little Jermyn,
who had already succeeded in winning the affections of such notable
women as the poor Princess of Orange and my Lady Castlemaine, and
had besides conducted a series of minor intrigues with various ladies
connected with the court, was somewhat piqued that Lady Shrewsbury had
accepted my Lord Arran's attentions without encouraging his. For Henry
Jermyn, by virtue of the fascinations he exercised and the consequent
reputation he enjoyed, expected to be wooed by such women as desired his
love.
But when, later on, Lord Arran's devotion to the lady was succeeded by
that of Thomas Howard, brother to the Earl of Carlisle, and captain
of the guards, Jermyn was thoroughly incensed, and resolved to make an
exception in favour of the countess by beginning those civilities which
act as preludes to intrigue. My lady, who was not judicious enough to be
off with the old love before she was on with the new, accepted Jermyn's
advances with an eagerness that gave promise of further favours. This
was highly displeasing to Howard, a brave and generous man, who under
an exterior of passive calmness concealed a spirit of fearless courage.
Though not desirous of picking a quarrel with his rival, he was
unwilling to suffer his impertinent interference. Jermyn, on the other
hand, not being aware of Howard's real character, sought an early
opportunity of insulting him. Such being their dispositions, a quarrel
speedily ensued, which happened in this manner.
One fair summer day Captain Howard gave an entertainment at Spring
Gardens, in honour of the countess. These gardens were situated close by
Charing Cross, and opened into the spacious walks of St. James's
Park. Bounded on one side by a grove, and containing leafy arbours and
numerous thickets, the gardens were "contrived to all the advantages
of gallantry." The scene of many an intrigue, they were constantly
frequented by denizens of the court and dwellers in the city, to whom
they afforded recreation and pleasure. In the centre of these fair
gardens stood a cabaret, or house of entertainment, where repasts were
served at exceeding high prices, and much good wine was drunk. Here it
was Captain Howard received my Lady Shrewsbury and a goodly company,
spread a delicate banquet for them, and for their better diversion
provided some excellent music played upon the bagpipes, by a soldier
noted for his execution on that instrument.
Jermyn hearing of the great preparations Captain Howard made, resolved
to be present on the occasion; and accordingly, before the hour
appointed for dinner, betook himself to the garden, and as if he had
arrived there by accident, strolled leisurely down the broad pleasant
paths, bordered by pinks and fragrant roses clustering in the hedgerows.
And presently drawing nigh the cabaret, he tarried there until the
countess, rich in physical graces, with sunny smiles upon her lips, and
amorous light in her eyes, stepped forth upon the balcony and greeted
him. Whereon his heart took fire: and entering the house, he joined her
where she stood, and held pleasant converse with her. Inflated by his
success, he resolved on making himself disagreeable to the host, and
therefore ventured to criticize the entertainment, and ridicule the
music, which he voted barbarous to civilized ears. And to such an extent
did he outrage Thomas Howard, that the gallant captain, being more of
a soldier than a courtier, and therefore preferring passages at arms to
those of wit, could scarce refrain from drawing his sword and demanding
the satisfaction due to him.
However, he subdued his wrath till the day was spent, and early next
morning sent a challenge to his rival. Accordingly they met with fierce
intent, and the duel which followed ended almost fatally for Jermyn,
who was carried from the scene of encounter bleeding from three wounds
caused by his antagonist's sword.
The unfortunate issue of this fight deprived Lady Shrewsbury of two
lovers; for Howard, having rendered Jermyn unable to perform the part
of a gallant, was obliged to fly from the country and remain abroad some
time.
In their stead the countess sought consolation in the companionship of
Thomas Killigrew, a handsome man and a notable courtier. She therefore
had no regrets for the past: and he was entirely happy in the present,
so that he boasted of his felicities to all acquaintance, in general,
and to his friend the Duke of Buckingham in particular. It was
Killigrew's constant habit to sup with his grace, on which occasions his
conversation invariably turned on her ladyship, when, his imagination
being heated by wine, he freely endowed her with the perfections of a
goddess. To such descriptions the duke could not listen unmoved; and
therefore resolved to judge for himself if indeed the countess was such
a model of loveliness as Killigrew represented. Accordingly, at the
first opportunity which presented itself, the duke made love to her,
and she, nothing averse to his attentions, encouraged his affections.
Killigrew was much aggrieved at this unexpected turn of affairs,
and bitterly reproached the countess; but she, being mistress of the
situation, boldly denied all knowledge of him.
This was more than he expected or could endure, and he consequently
abused her roundly in all companies, characterizing the charms of which
he once boasted as faults he could not endure; ridiculing her airs, and
denouncing her conduct. Reports of his comments and discourses speedily
reached Lady Shrewsbury's ears; and he was privately warned that if
he did not desist means would be taken to silence him effectually. Not
being wise enough to accept this hint he continued to vilify her. The
result was, one night when returning from the Duke of York's apartments
he was suddenly waylaid in St. James's Park, and three passes of a
sword made at him through his chair, one of which pierced his arm. Not
doubting they had despatched him to a better world, His assailants made
their escape; and my Lady Shrewsbury, who singularly enough happened
to be passing at the time in her coach, and had stopped to witness the
proceedings, drove off as speedily as six horses could carry her.
Knowing it would be impossible to trace the villainy which had prompted
this deed to its source, Killigrew said not a word concerning the
murderous attempt, and henceforth held his peace regarding his late
mistress's imperfections. For some time she continued her intrigue with
the Duke of Buckingham without interference. But in an evil hour
it happened the Earl of Shrewsbury, who had long entertained a
philosophical indifference towards her previous amours, now undertook to
defend his honour, which it was clear his Grace of Buckingham had sadly
injured.
Accordingly he challenged the duke to combat, and in due time they met
face to face in a field by Barnes Elms. His grace had as seconds Sir
Robert Holmes and Captain William Jenkins; the earl being supported by
Sir John Talbot and Bernard Howard, son of my Lord Arundel. The fight
was brief and bloody; Lord Shrewsbury, being run through the body, was
carried from the field in an insensible condition. The duke received but
a slight wound, but his friend Captain Jenkins was killed upon the spot.
The while swords clashed, blood flowed, and lives hung in a balance, the
woman who wrought this evil stood close by, disguised as a page, holding
the bridle of her lover's horse, as Lord Orford mentions.
In consequence of this duel the Duke of Buckingham absented himself
from the capital; but two months after its occurrence King Charles
was pleased, "in contemplation of the services heretofore done to his
majesty by most of the persons engaged in the late duel or rencontre, to
graciously pardon the said offence." Three months after the day on which
he fought, Lord Shrewsbury died from effects of his wounds, when the
duke boldly carried the widow to his home. The poor duchess, who had
patiently borne many wrongs, could not stand this grievous and public
insult, and declared she would not live under the same roof with so
shameless a woman. "So I thought, madam," rejoined her profligate lord,
"and have therefore ordered your coach to convey you to your father."
The countess continued to live with her paramour; nor was the court
scandalized. The queen, it is true, openly espoused the cause of the
outraged duchess, and sought to enlist sympathy on her behalf; but so
low was the tone of public morality that her words were unheeded, and no
voice was raised in protest against this glaring infamy. Nay, the duke
went further still in his efforts towards injuring the wife to whom he
owed so much, and who loved him over-well; as he caused his chaplain,
the Rev. Thomas Sprat, to marry him to my Lady Shrewsbury; and
subsequently conferred on the son to which she gave birth, and for whom
the king stood godfather, his second title of Earl of Coventry. His wife
was henceforth styled by the courtiers Dowager Duchess of Buckingham.
It is worthy of mention that the Rev. Thomas Sprat in good time became
Bishop of Rochester, and, it is written, "an ornament to the church
among those of the highest order."
One of the most extraordinary characters which figured in this reign was
Thomas Blood, sometimes styled colonel. He was remarkable for his great
strength, high courage, and love of adventure. The son of an Irish
blacksmith, he had, on the outbreak of civil warfare in his native
country, joined Cromwell's army; and for the bravery he evinced was
raised to the rank of lieutenant, rewarded by a substantial grant of
land, and finally made a justice of the peace. At the restoration he was
deprived of this honour, as he was likewise of the property he called
his, which was returned to its rightful owner, an honest royalist.
Wholly dissatisfied with a government which dealt him such hardships,
he organised a plot to raise an insurrection in Ireland, storm Dublin
Castle, and seize the Duke of Ormond, then lord lieutenant. This
dark scheme was discovered by his grace; the chief conspirators were
accordingly seized, with the exception of Blood, who succeeded in making
his escape to Holland. His fellow traitors were tried and duly executed.
From Holland, Blood journeyed into England, where, becoming acquainted
with some republicans, he entered into projects with them calculated to
disturb the nation's peace; which fact becoming known, he was obliged to
seek refuge in Scotland. Here he found fresh employment for his restless
energies, and in the year 1666 succeeded in stirring up some malcontents
to rebellion. The revolt being quelled, he escaped to Ireland; and after
a short stay in that country returned once more to England, where he
sought security in disguise.
He lived here in peace until 1670, when he made an attempt no less
remarkable for its ingenuity than notable for its villainy. Towards the
end of that year the Prince of Orange, being in London, was invited by
the lord mayor to a civic banquet. Thither the Duke of Ormond attended
him, and subsequently accompanied him to St. James's, where the prince
then stayed. A short distance from the palace gates stood Clarendon
House, where the duke then resided, and towards which he immediately
drove, on taking leave of his royal highness. Scarce had he proceeded a
dozen yards up St. James's Street, when his coach was suddenly stopped
by a band of armed and mounted men, who, hurriedly surrounding his
grace, dragged him from the carriage and mounted him on a horse behind a
stalwart rider. Word of command being then given, the gang started at a
brisk pace down Piccadilly. Prompted by enemies of the duke, as well as
urged by his own desires to avenge his loss of property and the death of
his fellow-conspirators, Blood resolved to hang him upon the gallows
at Tyburn. That he might accomplish this end with greater speed and
security, he, leaving his victim securely buckled and tied to the fellow
behind whom he had been mounted, galloped forward in advance to adjust
the rope to the gallows, and make other necessary preparations.
No sooner did the echo of his horse's hoofs die away, than the duke,
recovering the stupor this sudden attack had caused, became aware
that now was his opportunity to effect escape, if, indeed, such were
possible. He to whom his grace was secured was a burly man possessed of
great strength; the which Lord Ormond, being now past his sixtieth
year, had not. However, life was dear to him, and therefore he began
struggling with the fellow; and finally getting his foot under the
villain's, he unhorsed him, when both fell heavily to the ground.
Meanwhile his grace's coach having driven to Clarendon House, the
footmen had given an account of the daring manner in which his abduction
had been effected. On this an alarm was immediately raised, and the
porter, servants, and others hastened down Piccadilly in search of their
master, fast as good horses could carry them.
They had proceeded as far as the village of Knightsbridge, when reports
of muskets, cries for help, and sounds of a scuffle they could not see
for darkness, fell upon their ears, and filled them with alarm. The
whole neighbourhood seemed startled, lights flashed, dogs barked, and
many persons rushed towards the scene of encounter. Aware of this, the
miscreants who had carried off the duke discharged their pistols at him,
and leaving him, as they supposed, for dead, fled to avoid capture, and
were seen or heard of no more. His grace was carried in an insensible
condition to a neighbouring house, but not having received serious hurt,
recovered in a few days. The court and town were strangely alarmed by
this outrage; nor as time passed was there any clue obtained to its
perpetrators, though the king offered a thousand pounds reward for their
discovery.
The duke and his family, however, had little doubt his grace of
Buckingham was instigator of the deed; and Lord Ossory was resolved the
latter should be made aware of their conviction. Therefore, entering the
royal drawing-room one day, he saw the duke standing beside his majesty,
and going forward addressed him. "My lord," said he in a bold tone,
whilst he looked him full in the face, "I know well that you are at the
bottom of this late attempt upon my father; and I give you fair warning,
if my father comes to a violent end by sword or pistol, or if he dies by
the hand of a ruffian, or by the more secret way of poison, I shall not
be at a loss to know the first author of it: I shall consider you as
the assassin; I shall treat you as such; and wherever I meet you I shall
pistol you, though you stood behind the king's chair; and I tell you it
in his majesty's presence, that you may be sure I shall keep my word."
No further attempt was made upon the Duke of Ormond's life.
Scarce six months elapsed from date of the essayed abduction, before
Blood endeavoured to steal the regalia and royal jewels preserved in the
Tower. The courage which prompted the design is not more remarkable than
the skill which sought to effect it; both were worthy a man of genius.
In the month of April, 1671, Blood, attired in the cassock, cloak,
and canonical girdle of a clergyman, together with a lady, whom he
represented as his wife, visited the Tower on purpose to see the crown.
With their desire Mr. Edwards, the keeper, an elderly man and a worthy,
readily complied. It chanced they were no sooner in the room where
the regalia was kept, than the lady found herself taken suddenly and
unaccountably ill, and indeed feared she must die; before bidding adieu
to life, she begged for a little whisky. This was promptly brought her,
and Mrs. Edwards, who now appeared upon the scene, invited the poor
gentlewoman to rest upon her bed. Whilst she complied with this
kind request, the clergyman and Edwards had time to improve their
acquaintance, which indeed bade fair towards speedily ripening into
friendship.
And presently the lady recovering, she and her spouse took their leave
with many expressions of gratitude and respect. Four days later, the
good parson called on Mrs. Edwards, in order to present her with
four pairs of fine new gloves, which she was pleased to receive. This
gracious act paved the way to further friendship, which at last found
its climax in a proposal of marriage made by the parson on behalf of
his nephew, for the hand of young Mistress Edwards. "You have a pretty
gentlewoman for your daughter," said the clergyman, "and I have a young
nephew, who has two or three hundred pounds a year in land, and is at my
disposal; if your daughter be free, and you approve of it, I will bring
him hither to see her, and we will endeavour to make a match of it."
To this project Edwards readily consented, and invited the clergyman and
the young man to spend a day with him when they could discourse on the
subject with greater leisure and more satisfaction. This was cordially
agreed to by the parson, who, with the bridegroom elect and two of his
friends, presented themselves on the appointed date, as early as seven
of the clock in the morning. Edwards was up betimes; but the good
clergyman, apologizing for the untimely hour of their arrival, which he
attributed to his nephew's eagerness for sight of his mistress, declared
he would not enter the keeper's apartments until Mrs. Edwards was ready
to receive them. However, in order to pass the time, he begged his host
might show the jewels to their young friends.
With this petition Edwards complied readily enough. One of the men,
protesting he did not care to see the treasures, waited at the door; the
other three entered with the keeper, who was no sooner inside the room
than a cloak was thrown over his head, a gag, constructed of wood with
a hole in it by which he might breathe, clapped into his mouth, and
the more effectually to prevent him making a noise, an iron ring was
fastened to his nose. He was told if he attempted an alarm he would be
instantly killed, but if he remained quiet his life should be spared.
Blood and his two accomplices then seized upon the crown, orb, and
sceptre, seeing which, Edwards made as much noise as he possibly could
by stamping on the floor, whereon the robbers struck him with a mallet
on the head, stabbed him with a short sword in the side, and left him,
as they thought, for dead. Blood then secured the regalia under his
cloak, one of his companions put the orb into his breeches pocket,
whilst the other proceeded to file the sceptre that it might be more
conveniently carried.
Now, at this moment it happened the keeper's son, who had been absent in
Flanders, returned to his father's home. He who stood sentinel asked him
with whom he would speak, whereon young Edwards said he belonged to the
house, and so passed to the apartments where his family resided. The
other giving notice of his arrival, the robbers hastened to depart,
leaving the sceptre behind them. No sooner had they gone, than the old
man struggled to his feet, dragged the gag from his mouth, and cried
out in fright: "Treason--murder--murder--treason!" On this his daughter
rushed down, and seeing the condition of her father, and noting the
absence of the regalia, continued his cry, adding, "The crown is
stolen--thieves--thieves!"
Young Edwards and another who heard her, Captain Beekman, now gave
pursuit to the robbers, who had already got beyond the main guard.
Word was instantly shouted to the warder of the drawbridge to stop the
villains, but Blood was equal to this emergency; coolly advancing, he
discharged his pistol at the man, who instantly fell. The thieves then
crossed the bridge, passed through the outward gate, and made for the
street close by, where their horses awaited them, crying the while,
"Stop thief! stop thief!" Before they advanced far, Captain Beekman came
up with Blood, who, turning quickly round, fired his second pistol at
the head of his pursuer; but Beekman, suddenly stooping, escaped injury,
and sprang at the throat of his intended assassin. A struggle then
ensued. Blood was a man of powerful physique, but Beekman was lithe and
vigorous, and succeeded in holding the rogue until help arrived. In
the contest, the regalia fell to the ground, when a fair diamond and a
priceless pearl were lost; they were, however, eventually recovered.
The other thieves were likewise captured, and all of them secured in the
Tower.
Certain death now faced Blood; but the wonderful luck which had
befriended him during life did not desert him now. At this time the Duke
of Buckingham was high in favour with the king, and desirous of saving
one who had secretly served him; or fearing exposure if Blood made a
full confession, his grace impressed Charles with a desire to see
the man who had perpetrated so daring a deed, saying he must be one
possessed of extraordinary spirit. Giving ready ear to his words,
the monarch consented to have an interview with the robber, for which
purpose he gave orders Blood should be brought to Whitehall.
Those who heard of the king's resolution felt satisfied Blood need not
despair of life; "for surely," said Sir Robert Southwell, on becoming
aware of his majesty's design, "no king should wish to see a malefactor
but with intentions to pardon him." Now Blood, being a man of genius,
resolved to play his part during the audience in a manner which would
favourably impress the king. Therefore when Charles asked him how he had
dared attempt so bold a robbery, Blood made answer he had lost a fine
property by the crown, and was resolved to recover it with the crown.
Diverted by his audacity his majesty questioned him further, when Blood
confessed to his attempted abduction of the Duke of Ormond, but refused
to name his accomplices. Nay, he narrated various other adventures,
showing them in a romantic light; and finally concluded by telling
the king he had once entered into a design to take his sacred life by
rushing upon him with a carbine from out of the reeds by the Thames
side, above Battersea, when he went to swim there; but he was so awed by
majesty his heart misgave him, and he not only relented, but persuaded
the remainder of his associates from such an intention.
This strange interview resulted in Charles pardoning Blood his many
crimes. The Duke of Ormond, at his majesty's request, likewise forgave
him. Nor did the king's interest in the villain end here; for he gave
him a pension of five hundred pounds a year, and admitted him to his
private friendship. Blood was therefore constantly at court, and made
one of that strange assembly of wits and profligates which surrounded
the throne. "No man," says Carte the historian, "was more assiduous
than he. If anyone had a business at court that stuck, he made his
application to Blood as the most industrious and successful solicitor;
and many gentlemen courted his acquaintance, as the Indians pray to
the devil, that he may not hurt them. He was perpetually in the royal
apartments, and affected particularly to be in the same room where the
Duke of Ormond was, to the indignation of all others, though neglected
and overlooked by his grace."