What I have stated and mean to state hereafter I will abide by and
swear to; and let them deny it if they can. I allude to all such facts
as might be likely to prejudice my reader against any individual. As
to mere harmless conversations, I do not profess more than general
accuracy; I often add a yes, a nod, or a no, or I neglect my dates and
relate anecdotes together which happened at different periods; but
happen they did; and no conversation is described herein which did not
take place within my own knowledge, and, for the most part, in my own
hearing.
In regard to the Lambtons, I have related all I ever heard or knew
of them, good or bad; and, judging of the youngest, from my slight
observation, never having conversed with him for an hour together in my
life, I should pronounce him well read; rather sensible; not one bit
witty; touchy, sulky, proud, and overbearing: but, having yet the fear
of God always before him, he prefers growling to duelling, as in duty
bound. So much I guess; yet, being uncertain as to what relates to his
religious principles I beg that all his friends will consider him as
bold as a lion, until he shall himself have proved to them the contrary.
To proceed, I refused to permit the Duke of Leinster to accompany me
home, although he declared himself ready to mount the box, or to stand
behind with my dapper little footman! I was out of sorts and out of
spirits at the idea of having promised to meet Frederick Lamb at _The
Cock_ at Sutton on the following morning. Oh, this tiresome Fred
Lamb! I wonder if any woman alive was ever in love with him, with the
exception of the once celebrated Charlotte Windham: who would have taken
him into keeping, at least so I have heard, and found him in washing,
tea, sugar, and raw eggs to the end of his natural life, had he not cut
her dead, _pour mes propres beaux yeux_. Handsome, clever, young, a
great plenipo, and the recorded son of the Earl of Melbourne! What would
ladies be at? "_On ne connait pas toujours son père, c'est un malheur;
on est sûr, cependant, d'en avoir eu un, cela console!_" as says Pigault
Le Brun.
Fred Lamb certainly had a father and, in my conscience, I believe him to
have been a man of high rank, no matter whether he was a lord, a duke,
or a prince, and, what is more, his mother was a married woman: and yet,
notwithstanding these multifarious advantages of both, I looked forward
with disgust to the idea of meeting him at _The Cock_ at Sutton. How
could I be so deficient in good taste?
I found two letters on my dressing-table; the first I took up was in
my young nephew's well-known round text. I knew that he would not
write, unless he wanted money or clothes, whips or cricket-bats, and,
as I happened to be very poor, I did not venture to break the seal,
till I had examined the other letter in search of consolation. It was
addressed in an unknown, and I fancied, disguised hand. I hastily broke
open the plain wafer seal, and found a two hundred pound bank-note,
merely enclosed in a blank cover. "Charming correspondent," said I, "how
eloquent is thy silence!"
"It is very clear," continued I to myself, "that there is a providence,
which is kind enough to take particular care of me; for I have only to
spend my last shilling to ensure to myself a full purse, which comes to
me nobody knows how." I was at loss to guess at the munificent being
who could find pleasure in thus secretly disposing of so large a sum
without even the chance of being thanked for it. "It must be Lord
Ponsonby," thought I, and, strange to say, the idea gave me pain instead
of pleasure. I would rather have been indebted to any man's goodness
than his. It was a relief to my mind to believe him heartless and
unworthy of my affection.
To change the current of my thoughts I opened my young nephew's letter,
which also contained an enclosure, in the shape of a little dirty note
directed to William Halliday, my footman.
The letter to me was as follows:
"MY DEAR AUNT,--I hope you are well, as this leaves me at
present. Excuse this bad writing as I am so very bad, and my head
aches fit to split, but I am ordered this very moment, before
the post goes out, to acquaint you with my accident, as Monsieur
Codroie says, perhaps, you may wish me to come to town, to have the
rest of my teeth put to rights, the fact is then, to be short, dear
Aunt, I was running just now, and I hit my face against another
boy's head, and broke out my two front teeth,
"Your affectionate Niece,
"GEORGE WOODCOCK.
"P.S.--Pray deliver the enclosed to William, in answer to a
long stupid sermon he has written to me about five shillings he
says I borrowed of him."
George's enclosure was merely poor William's laboured epistle turned
inside out, with these eloquent words written near the seal,--
"Five and four makes nine,
Mind your business, and I'll mind mine."
"_Vive la poésie!_" said I, throwing the letter aside, and ringing for
my _femme de chambre_, whom I desired to prepare for my journey to _The
Cock_ at Sutton on the following morning.
I did not awake till twelve o'clock, when I rang my bell.
"Madame, _la voiture est à la porte_," said my French maid, as she
entered my bedroom.
"I cannot help it; so bring me a cup of chocolate, _pour me donner du
courage_," I replied.
Before I had finished it, the Duke of Leinster was announced, and I went
down to him in my dressing-gown and slippers.
"Upon my honour," said His Grace, "I am very glad you did not keep your
appointment with Fred Lamb. I have brought little George some strings to
mend his fiddle with and, if you will give it me, I will string it for
him."
I rang for the fiddle, and Leinster set to work in great glee.
"How did you get home last night?" I asked.
"Oh," said Leinster, "my brother Fitzgerald has found out such a woman!
Upon my honour I never laughed so much in all my life. He told me she
was Venus herself, just emerged from the froth of the sea! I wanted to
go home and think of you; but Fitzgerald dragged me by force to No.
2 Upper Norton-street. We were shown into a parlour by an old, dirty
duenna, who assured us her mistress was engaged, and she regretted it of
all things.
"'Good gracious!' said I, 'Fitz, you are not going to wait?'
"'Yes,' said my brother, mysteriously; 'she is in keeping, and has been
these five years. I shall ruin her if I am found here, so pray be quiet.
The gentleman who keeps her is a captain of horse-marines.'
"'For God's sake, let me be off,' said I, making the best of my way to
the door. 'I can stand a lick or two as well as most lads of my age
and country; but, being in love elsewhere, and not quite come to my
strength, I do not feel much inclined to encounter this horse-marine
to-night.' However, Fitzgerald overruled all my objections and kept me
there in perfect misery for more than half an hour. At last, we heard
the creaking of heavy boots descending the stairs. I scarcely ventured
to breathe, expecting every minute to be called to account by the horse
marine, for being found concealed on his premises at past two in the
morning.
"Upon my honour, I did not half like it! and only just fancy my horror
when, instead of going out at the street door as we both expected, this
much-dreaded horse-marine strutted into the parlour in search of his
hat! He did not look much like a horse-marine, but reminded me more of
a city hosier. Nevertheless, I made myself as small as possible, and
strove to hide behind the scanty, red window-curtain. As to Fitzgerald,
believing that all was lost, he became bold from desperation and,
folding his arms across his breast, he fixed his eyes steadily on his
rival. The horse-marine, who had entered with the sort of strut which
became a commander-in-chief of No. 2 Upper Norton Street, started back,
instead of encountering my brother's fixed regard, and began to stammer
out an apology. He had just taken the liberty of seeing the lady home
safe from the Opera; he begged pardon if it had been wrong, he was sure
no harm nor disrespect was meant, &c.
"By this time my brother, who, I assure you, is by no means such a fool
as I am, saw exactly how the case stood, and that the horse-marine
was but the creature of his fair mistress's imagination, a sort of
circular bug-bear by which she contrived to frighten all her lovers,
while she flattered their vanity with the idea that her acquaintance
was an unusual _bonne fortune_, which their peculiar merits alone had
obtained for them. This conviction being impressed on my brother's
mind, he interrupted his rival in the midst of his humble apologies by
playing himself, for that night only, the character of the terrific
horse-marine! And, waving his hand with much pomp towards the door, as
he fixed his back against the fireplace, said, 'No offence, my good
fellow, no offence! only, there is the door you know, and, unless you
prefer making your exit by the window, never let me see your rascally,
ugly face in this house again!'
"Upon my honour," continued Leinster, "I could not stand it any longer,
and, before the poor trembling wretch got to the street door, we both
broke out into a roar of laughter, which was interrupted by the entrance
of the frail fair one herself, whom my brother immediately accosted thus:
"'Fair lady, since I have been allowed to make so very valuable an
acquaintance as that of your horse-marine, my conscience will not permit
me to interfere with his happiness:' and we hastened out of the house
before the lady could recover from her confusion and surprise."
"Now, duke," said I, "there's the door," placing myself before the fire,
and pointing to it in humble imitation of Fitzgerald.
Leinster took this gentle, delicate hint, with much good-nature, and
left me at about two o'clock. I felt really ashamed of myself and,
hurrying on my travelling dress, was soon with my maid, on our road to
_The Cock_ at Sutton. Fred Lamb was waiting at the door, and his joy, on
perceiving my carriage, overcame all his late vexation.
"I shall be nicely quizzed and laughed at," said Fred Lamb. "Harry
Wyndham and Lord Egremont alighted here this morning, on their road to
his lordship's house at Brighton. They asked me so many questions as
to where I was going, that I was obliged to confess I was waiting for
somebody to meet me. They remained with me an hour. 'Why you will not
wait any longer, surely,' said Harry! 'Who can the cruel fair one be?'
It was too bad of you."
"Well, do not scold," I answered, "for I could not help it."
Fred Lamb had a book in his pocket, and he read to me in the garden
while our dinner was preparing. His remarks on the fine poem he read
were very sensible; but his manner of reading, like that of his brother
William, I dislike: it might rather be called singing; and yet some say
it is proper, and all admit it to be the fashion to read so.
We had an excellent dinner and, as long as I saw daylight, I kept in
pretty good spirits; but when the waiter brought us candles, and we
seemed as though settled for the night at _The Cock_ at Sutton, my
heart completely failed me. I tried hard to reason myself out of this
repugnance. I argued with myself that, since I had already been under
Frederick's protection, one night more or less could not make much
difference,--that to leave him now were to treat him really ill and
make, perhaps, a bitter enemy of a man well disposed towards me: but all
would not do. "I cannot help it," said I to myself, in a sort of frenzy,
"I would rather die than pass another whole night with Fred Lamb, now
the thing is gone by and I have been so attached to another." My case
was desperate; for I almost equally dreaded telling Lamb I would not
stay with him.
"Fred Lamb," said I, at last, absolutely pale with terror, "I really
must return to town to night. Do not ask me why, for you may be sure, if
I wished to stay, I should not go, and, if I do not, my society cannot
be worth having, to a man of taste, who can easily make himself beloved
and desired by more likeable objects than I am. You will, I know, have
a right to reproach me with caprice, because my good heart made me wish
to avoid the appearance of unkindness towards an old friend; _mais vous
savez bien que les passions ne se commandent pas._"
Fred Lamb on this occasion behaved very well and very gentlemanlike,
much as his pride and feelings were hurt. He ordered out my carriage and
accompanied me home with friendly politeness, nor did he make a single
unpleasant observation on my refusal to remain there.
The favourite topic on my arrival in town was the Marquis of Anglesea's
elopement with the wife of Sir Henry Wellesley. His Grace of Argyle was
soon expected to console Lady Anglesea by the offer of his hand and
heart, in case that good lady could contrive, by hook or by crook, by
English law, or by Scotch law, to obtain her liberty.
Amy Madden, _alias_ Sydenham, _alias_ Argyle, had long been led to
believe, according to her own account, that she was to become the
legitimate wife of the Duke of Argyle. At last, when Amy was very near
her confinement, Argyle, fearful least the sad truth might fall heavier
on her tender heart from a third person than from his own lips, one fine
morning, after breakfast, having no doubt previously fortified himself
with a bumper of brandy, for Amy was a practical Tartar, opened to her
with the utmost delicacy he was master of, the appalling fact that he
was about to marry Lady Anglesea.
Amy had a hysterical fit, or was afflicted with sore eyes, I forget
which; but I know that she was very bad and vented her rage in all the
refined expressions usual on these most celebrated occasions. It will
scarcely be expected that I should feel much commiseration for her. When
I state these facts it must be understood that Amy said so; but then,
will methodistical Luttrell add, with his eyes turned up towards the
sky, or the ceiling, as the chance may be--if all the lies that have
been uttered since the flood were put into a scale with Amy's, they
would weigh as a hair in the balance; so that, perhaps, the less I say
on this matter the better.
At last, when a whole month had elapsed beyond the period Amy had named
for the expected event, Argyle could keep on the mask no longer; and,
having asked her one evening how she felt, and received for answer that
she was perfectly well and free from pain, he said, in a passion, "Why,
Amy, you are surely a Johanna Southcott, and never mean to be confined
at all." This was certainly very cruel, though no less certainly
circumstances did rather appear to justify such a suspicion!
At last, oh, blessed news for Argyle! Amy declared she felt a slight
pain; but whether it proceeded from the sweet pledge of love she carried
in her bosom or from what else was time to determine: and my kind
readers will probably recollect that, in a like protracted case, Old
Time determined against the late Marchioness of Buckingham, without the
least respect to all the splendid paraphernalia which had been profusely
got up for the anticipated joyful occasion. Amy, however, not being
quite so stricken in years, Argyle bustled about in the joyful hopes of
a speedy deliverance, and said, "No harm in sending to Dr. Merriman, and
getting the knocker tied up, and a little straw laid before the door?"
As to the nurse, she had been in the house for the last month!
By the time the knocker was tied up, the straw laid down, and Dr.
Merriman shown upstairs into her room, Amy declared herself quite well
again, and so she continued for another week.
"Good Lord deliver us!" exclaimed Argyle.
"Amen!" responded the old nurse: for who would differ from a duke,
however pleasant it might be to enjoy present pay and good quarters for
doing nothing!
I cannot help pitying anything in labour, even a mountain! At length,
Amy herself really experienced the so often anticipated pains. She now
declared that she could not stand it, and would not, that was more!
"Give me a pair of scissors!" said she in a fury to the doctor, "and I
will cut my own throat directly."
Dr. Merriman answered with perfect _sangfroid._
Apropos! I do remember this said Dr. Merriman of Curzon-street, an
apothecary, and often has he stood behind his uncle's counter to serve
me when I was a child and fond of sweets, with a pennyworth of Spanish
liquorice. His father was a respectable accoucheur and had the honour
to bring all my respectable family into this respectable world, one by
one, except my youngest sister Julia; and he would have done as much by
her, but that he happened to die one day, and the present Dr. Merriman,
his nephew, formerly well known by the appellation of Sam Merriman,
officiated, _faute de mieux_, my dear mother being too shy to endure the
idea of a perfect stranger.
As soon as he got possession of his dead uncle's carriage he took the
small liberty of cutting the shop, Spanish liquorice and all, and
ventured to change the name of Sam for the more dignified one of Doctor,
but it would not pass current everywhere. Many refused to pay a fee, and
voted him _ignorantus, ignoranta, ignorantum!_ and so Sam, _à force de
battre le fer_, contrived to take out a degree, and became Dr. Merriman
indeed, at any lady's service.
"My dear Lady," said the doctor to Amy, in answer to her request for a
pair of scissors to cut her own throat, "my dear lady, I should be happy
to oblige you, if you could first insure my own neck": and then, turning
to the nurse as he warmed his hands by the fire, "I always let them
halloa, and make just as much noise as they like; but, for myself, as it
will be necessary for me to pass the night here, I shall thank you to
give me some warm blankets on that sofa; with a cup of tea and a bottle
of wine."
In due season, the gentle Amy was delivered of a fine boy, by my old
friend Sam Merriman, and was duly announced to be as well as could be
expected. For another fortnight, Amy contrived to keep Argyle in London,
as might be supposed to his no small annoyance, just on the eve of his
approaching nuptials with Lady Anglesea. The time however did arrive
when His Grace took his departure northward, to the destruction of all
the airy visions which had long flitted before the anxious eyes of
Amy, who had adorned them with ducal coronets and almost every other
attribute of a resolutely, ambitious and selfish mind. She declared that
her death must be perfectly an event of course; yet she got up in a
month, as blooming and well as she had ever been in her life. It is true
she worked herself up into a dreadful frenzy of passion, when anybody
told her that the Duchess of Argyle was, or would soon be, in the way
which all ladies who love their lords wish to be in; but she was easily
consoled by adding a few years to Her Grace's age, or detracting from
the duchess's charms, personal or mental.
Enough of Amy. I hate to dwell long on any subject, unless indeed it
were the merits of these my most interesting and valuable memoirs! which
I assure you might have been better still--but that Stockdale won't
let me or any one else study and correct them. "The merits of such a
light work as this," stupidly says he, "is, that it is written without
study, and naturally, and just as you converse. There are learned books
enough, and more than people are aware of, all written with such correct
precision, as to defy the Edinburgh Reviewers themselves! and yet half
of them do not take the trouble, although months have been spent in
poring over heavy volumes, to secure the accuracy of a single date! This
research is highly creditable in its way; but, since the world, in their
rage for variety, require a little of everything, write you in your own
natural language, and of life, manners, and men as they strike you, and,
take my word for it, your own genuine spirit will please and the book
will sell." So here am I, seated on an easy chair at No. 111, in the
Rue de Faubourg St. Honoré à Paris, writing, not for the benefit of my
readers, but for my own amusement and profit to boot, and in the full
expectation that my work is to pass the twentieth edition! Apropos, I
have just got a letter from Stockdale, who tells me he has hopes, even
beyond what he at first anticipated, as to the success of my Memoirs:
but then he consents to observe my directions as to the pretty pictures;
which he says shall certainly adorn the work before it gets to the
conclusion.
Love me, love my dog!
"Apropos to what?" says the reader.
I really don't know. I have had my head leaning on my finger, which is
my usual attitude, as you see me in the portrait, for the last three
minutes, after I had finished the word edition, considering what was to
be my next subject.
I yesterday dined with a lady, who assured me that it often cost her an
hour to begin a letter; but, having once decided on the first five or
six words, she could scribble on till doomsday.
"I'll put anything down," said I to myself, "just now, if only to try
my fortune in that way," and, looking towards my window, from which I
have a full view of everybody who passes in the Faubourg St. Honoré, I
saw a thin _ancien régime-_looking, powdered Frenchman, in a threadbare
coat and a pair of yellow old silk stockings, which showed to much
disadvantage what, I suppose, he calls _les beaux restes_ of his calves.
"It is rakish and interesting," says Lord Foley, "to have a thin leg;
but you must never admit that you were not born with a large calf,
while you declare that your high breeding has left you only, _les beaux
restes_."
However, to proceed with my Frenchman in the threadbare coat, who just
now stopped near my window to take off his hat to an opulent-looking man
with a large, black dog.
"What sort of a man is an opulent-looking man?" perhaps the reader may
inquisitively ask, and particularly if he should happen to belong to
that fraternity vulgarly called blacklegs.
Why gentlemen, if you will take off your dreadful Thurtel-looking, white
great-coats, and sit down quietly, and not frighten one, I will tell you.
I generally guess to be opulent, a man who, being vulgar, and with the
air and manners of low birth, appears not at all proud of a new coat,
which he wears not well brushed, and a chain of value, which is not
dragged too forward; and generally appears discontented with whatever
poor men are most apt to admire. He likewise makes a particular sort of
bow; putting on his hat always less ceremoniously than he had taken it
off to salute you, as though, on second thoughts, it had scarcely been
worth his while. All these, my favourite marks, had the man whom the
thin old beau just now saluted with such profound respect.
The supposed opulent man apparently, to the great surprise and delight
of the poor one, made a full stop, and addressed him.--While they were
conversing, the large, black, dirty dog, jumped on his hind legs, and
began playing with the thin old beau, covering him with mud. Instead of
driving the nasty animal away in anger as I fully expected, he caressed
and patted him, as though quite enchanted. The opulent man, whose
frightful dog I should imagine had never before been tolerated, appeared
all gratitude and respect for him who saw his qualities with the same
partial eyes that he did himself.
"Love me, love my dog," said I to myself, and, trusting to providence
for what was to follow, I put the words down in my manuscript. It is a
very natural feeling, certainly, yet many carry it much too far. I have
known men, and women too, who could love nothing for the life of them,
however amiable, with whom everybody was not charmed! Some men quarrel
with those who will not admire their mistress; others love her no longer
than she happens to continue the fashion; if, indeed, one may dignify
such selfish feelings of admiration as originate only in vanity by the
appellation of love! Still it is perfectly natural to desire that our
friends and those we respect should sanction our affections by partaking
of our admiration.
"It is sweet to do a great many things," Lord Byron said, and he might
have added, how very sweet and pure is the delight we all experience at
the genuine spontaneous praise bestowed on the object of our choice.
Lord Ponsonby was certainly one of the most reserved and shy men in
England, and, being a married man, was naturally, for reasons, desirous
of concealing his affections when his wife was not their object. One
day, during the time we were living together, I walked into the Green
Park with my young brother George. We met Lord Ponsonby in a barouche,
accompanied by his sister, Lady Howick.
"What two merry, lovely faces are those," said her kind ladyship to her
brother, "how closely they resemble each other! What a delightful girl!
The boy of course must be her brother."
Ponsonby always described this as one of the very happiest moments of
his life, nor could all his dread of notoriety, his constitutional
reserve, and his sense of what was due both to his wife and his sister,
prevent his acknowledging, in answer to Lady Howick's question, why he
blushed so deeply, that we had loved each other for more than a year.
"Oh, for shame, John!" said his good-natured sister, at least, so
Lord Ponsonby told me, "but then to be sure, this very nice girl does
resemble Lady Ponsonby extremely."
"Do you think that fine boy, her brother, would like to go to sea?"
Ponsonby said he would inquire.
"I have taken such a fancy to your Harriette," continued Lady Howick,
"that I wish I could be of service to her. I know I can make Lord Howick
send her brother out as midshipman."
It was very, very kind!
My little brother wished to go out, and I was ready to do my best to
fit him out. Lord Ponsonby was very persevering about it for more than
a month; but my poor mother wanted courage to part with so young and
certainly so fine a boy....