Meyler was in the country, unacquainted with my arrival. Fanny declared
it would be absolute madness, not to make the Duke do something for me
before I wrote to Meyler, and, in short, absolutely teased me day and
night till I wrote to His Grace, to say that I was now ready to put
myself under the protection of Mr. Meyler, as soon as he should have
provided for me according to his first proposal of giving me £500 a
year. The Duke wrote declaring that he had never offered so much. I had
the proposal of that sum from His Grace's man of business. "I now offer
you £300," continued the Duke in his letter; "more than that I must
decline."
It was not in my nature to stick out for money, so I agreed to the £300,
and the Duke set his attorney to work to draw up the papers.
In the meantime, when I least expected it, came two large parcels from
Worcester. He had not seduced Mrs. Archdeacon, for Mrs. Archdeacon had
followed him up to the army whether he would or not, and he had sent her
back immediately, and wished her dead for her disgusting assurance: and
he adored me &c. &c. as usual.
I then wrote to the Duke of Beaufort, to say that I could not
immediately put myself under the protection of Mr. Meyler owing to
circumstances having changed; therefore he must not get the annuity made
out under that idea. Soon after this, the Duke heard of Mrs. Archdeacon
and, believing his son had forgotten me, kindly wrote me word he would
now do nothing for me, and I might starve if I did not like to live
with another man.
I could no longer endure the Duke's excessive selfishness calmly, and
therefore assured him that I had still many letters with promises of
marriage from Lord Worcester, written since those I had delivered up to
him, trusting to the frail reeds, his generosity and honour, all which
were at that time in my possession.
The Duke now wrote me a most insulting and impertinent letter, declaring
that, if I was humble and civil he had no objection to give me a small
sum for my letters; but recommended me to be moderate in my demand,
otherwise he should not think them worth attending to or taking any
notice of. This time the Duke had the honour of putting me in a passion,
and I consequently wrote to this effect.
"Your Grace must excuse my flattering, with civility, you
whose conduct has been so invariably selfish, mean and artful
towards me, as to have at last inspired me with perfect contempt.
Having your promise of £300, provided I fulfil certain conditions,
without one bit of the civil humility you recommend, I beg to
acquaint you that if the annuity is not made out directly, I will
publish the promise of marriage, and put an execution into your
house for the annuity."
This letter had the desired effect, and the annuity was made out
immediately, although I forget what excuse the Duke offered to me for
reducing it to two hundred a year, or why I consented to the reduction.
This last annuity was drawn out with a condition that I should never
once write to Lord Worcester, nor hold any kind of communication with
him. Mr. Treslove of Lincoln's Inn advised me not to accept a restricted
annuity; but I declared I could not but fancy myself safe, since
Worcester, of course, in case he should be the cause of my losing this,
possessed too good a heart to suffer me to be unprovided for: so the
thing was witnessed and signed, and I gave up all the letters once more
to His Grace of Beaufort, who, having written to acquaint his son of
what he had done for me, and on what conditions, Lord Worcester wrote a
parcel of very pathetic letters to my sister Fanny: he wished me happy:
he knew well that he should never be allowed to see me again: he did not
think I could have agreed never to write or speak to him again: he had
heard that I was with Mr. Meyler; but, even in that case, he could not
fancy my having cut him.
Three or four letters came to Fanny in the same style. At last he wrote
to me: it was impossible to resist addressing me, cruelly as I had left
him, &c. &c. &c. &c.
"So it is, very mercenary, cruel, and unnatural," said I to Fanny, after
having finished his lordship's letter to me: "in short, were he to be
killed abroad I should never enjoy another hour's rest:" and in spite of
all they could say or do to prevent me, I wrote to tell Worcester, that
I trusted to God and to his good heart, for seeing that I was somehow
provided for; but that nothing should again induce me to cut him, while
I had any reason to believe him still fond of me and unhappy for my sake.
Soon after I had despatched this letter, the first half-year of the
allowance becoming due, I received £100 from the Duke of Beaufort's
attorney, and in less than a month afterwards the same attorney applied
to me for the £100 back again.
"What do you mean, pray?" I asked.
"Why," answered the attorney, "Lord Worcester has acquainted his father
that you have written to him, and therefore, since you are not entitled
to that £100, the Duke insists on its being returned."
"Upon your honour does the Duke really wish to take from me the means of
existence, even if I effectually and for ever separate myself from his
son?"
"Of course," answered the attorney.
"And the Duke of Beaufort wishes to see the woman, who, but for her
generosity and feeling towards his family, had long since been his
daughter, thrown on the wide world without a shilling?"
"He certainly is very angry with me for having paid you the £100, which
I must lose out of my own pocket if you do not return it, since His
Grace, being no longer obliged to do anything, will never give you
twenty pounds as long as he lives."
"Not if I continue separated from Worcester?"
"Certainly, not even then. The fact is, His Grace believes that his son
has left you altogether."
"What then is to become of me?"
"That is a matter of perfect indifference to His Grace and also to me. I
only want to know if you mean to oblige me to obtain the hundred pounds
back again by law."
I rang the bell.
"Show this man downstairs," said I, and I retired to my dressing-room.
Strange as it may appear, I was not in any respect put out of spirits at
the idea of having lost £200 a year, and I do not believe I should at
that time have eaten less dinner than usual, if I had lost £200 again:
so little did I care for money, or anything money could buy, beyond
clean linen and bread and milk; but I was deeply hurt to think that, do
what I would to deserve it, no one would like me: and there was nothing
on earth, half so desirable, half so consoling to me, as the esteem and
steady friendship of others. For this I had left the gay world, and
buried myself in a village. It was to ensure the esteem of the Beauforts
that I refused to become one of them, and certainly, as I told the Duke
when he called on me, Dowager Duchess sounds better than Dowager Dolly.
Alas! no one cared for me! In a very desponding temper, I sat down, and
wrote to Meyler as follows:
"It is long, very long, since I heard from you, and, like
the rest of the world, I take it for granted you have forgotten
me, else I had been yours, and yours only, as long as you were
disposed to protect me. I always liked you; but twice the love
I ever felt towards you would not have made me act unfeelingly
towards anybody breathing, while I knew or fancied they deserved my
gratitude. The reward for this steadiness in what I believed was
right is that all have forsaken me: even Lord Worcester has turned
against me, and written me romantic professions latterly in cold
blood, on purpose, as it seems, to betray me by the goodness of my
heart, with sending him an answer which, by law, would deprive me
of the small annuity which had been granted for my future existence.
"The money is nothing!--I never cared about money: but all
this harsh treatment wounds me more than I can describe to you. And
you too have forgotten me, _n'est ce pas?_ If you have not, I hope
you will tell me so by return of post. In the meantime, God bless
you, dear Meyler.
"HARRIETTE WILSON."
By the earliest post Meyler wrote me a letter, the style of which was
unusually romantic. He should be in town on the same day I received his
answer. He had believed me in Spain, and had relinquished all hopes of
me for ever. He had won a considerable wager by my dear, kind letter;
but was too happy to enrich himself at any man's expense, therefore
refused to accept a guinea of it.
"I don't think," Meyler went on, "I don't believe you would
again say I am cold, if you could read my heart at this moment, and
understand how deeply impressed I feel with gratitude towards my
beloved Harriette. Never mind Worcester's annuity, for you and I
will never part.
"I would not marry any woman on earth, and I am sure I shall
never entertain so high an opinion of another as I have had good
reason to encourage towards you: so yours, beloved Harriette, for
ever and ever: full of happiness and haste to follow this letter,
yours most devotedly affectionate,
"RICHARD WILLIAM MEYLER."
It is not my intention to dwell on Meyler's love or Meyler's raptures,
since such subjects in prose are very prosy. Meyler struck me as having
grown much more handsome than when we last parted; but this might be
only my own fancy, having seen nothing like a beauty, except Beau
Fisher, during the last twelve months.
We hired a very excellent house in the New Road, close to Gloucester
Place, and, for the first fortnight, we were both in love, and did not
quarrel; but, alas! in rather less than three weeks I discovered that
Meyler, the lively Meyler, was one of the worst-tempered men in all
England! This was very hard upon one, who, like myself, had been spoiled
and indulged by a man, who was ever a slave to my slightest caprices!
I cannot describe Meyler's temper, for I never met with anything in
the way of temper at all to be compared to his. It was a sort of a
periodical temper; and, when he had passed a whole day in sweet soft
conversation, I was perfectly sure that a storm was at hand for the next
day, and _vice versâ._
I must confess, however, that I was sometimes a very tyrant towards
Meyler; and yet, I know my temper is naturally good; but my feelings
towards Meyler were all made up of passion. I neither esteemed nor
trusted him; and yet I was never so jealous of any other man. There
was, in fact, an expression in Meyler's countenance of such voluptuous
beauty, that it was impossible for any woman to converse with him in
cold blood after he had dined. One night, as he sat in the Duchess
of Beaufort's box, I left my own and sent in the box-keeper on the
Duchess's side of the house, to request he would come out and speak to a
person in the passage. He immediately obeyed my summons.
"Meyler," said I, in a hurried tone of voice, "if you return, even for
an instant, to the Duchess of Beaufort's box, we part this night and for
ever. I cannot endure it."
"Then I will stay with you all the evening," said Meyler, flattered
rather than angry with me, for such jealousy, as he knew, I had never
felt towards Lord Worcester.
"Why will you agitate yourself for nothing?" said Meyler, when we got
home, this being his good-tempered night.
"You know you did once love the Duchess of Beaufort," I replied.
"Never," said Meyler. "Worcester and I, you know, were at Christ Church
together," he continued, "and, one day, when I was too young to have
ever compassed an intrigue, in any higher line than what boys usually
find in the streets of Oxford, he presented me to his mother, who, you
know, is a very fine woman of her age: this you will the more readily
admit, because there is certainly a very striking resemblance in your
picture. No woman in fine clothes would have come amiss to me at
that time; and I certainly felt a strong desire for the Duchess; but
without entertaining the shadow of a hope, notwithstanding she always
distinguished me with unusual attention, as you have heard from others
as well as from myself; till, one night, when I was staying at Badminton
in the absence of the Duke, I happened to say that the cold had affected
my lips and made them sore. It was as late as twelve o'clock. Her Grace
desired me to accompany her to her dressing-room, that she might give
me some cold cream. When I entered, her night-clothes were hanging to
air near the fire. We were alone. I hesitated. In another instant I
might have ventured to take this midnight invitation as a hint; but,
unluckily, my Lady Harrowby, who probably suspected something improper,
entered the room like our evil genius."
Meyler has repeated this story to so many people besides myself, Napier
and Sir Harry Mildmay, that it will be folly to affect a denial of it.
Meyler's greatest enemy never accused him yet of uttering an untruth.
Meyler led me but an unhappy life during the first year of our living
together. His jealousy was downright selfishness; for he would be
jealous of my pianoforte, if that instrument amused me. He was in fact
always jealous, unless I was counting the minutes of his absence. If I
procured a private box to witness a play, _tête-à-tête_ with my sister
Fanny, he would send a note by his coachman to this effect:
"DEAREST HARRIETTE,--I send a carriage to convey you to the
play, to prove my wish to put no restraint on your wishes; but if
for my sake you would stay at home, I should feel both grateful and
happy, and will return to you as soon as possible."
He often left me to pass a week with the Beauforts at Badminton, and
this never failed to render me completely wretched.
"My God," said Meyler, one day, striking his head violently with his
hand, "what am I to do? I would rather blow my brains out than be thus
the slave of any woman. Mine is not the passion of a day, or a year. I
shall never cease to love you; but I must enjoy a little liberty."
I was much struck with what Meyler said. "This sort of affection may be
more lasting than Worcester's late unnatural rapture, which went off all
at once," thought I to myself, "and Meyler is so rich, so very, very
beautiful, and it would be so shocking to lose him altogether. I will
therefore put up with him, in his own way, as long as I have reason to
believe him constant to me. I ought to be grateful, since I know that
half the women in London would fain tempt him to forget me."
The next day Meyler agreed to dine with me and set off after dinner to
Badminton. He came, I know, in fear and trembling, for he expected me
to fret, and shed tears as usual at the idea or his going to Badminton.
So far from it, I played him all his favourite airs on the pianoforte,
gave him an excellent dinner, and drank my proper allowance of champagne
with spirit; hoped he might pass a pleasant week at Badminton, and,
feeling full confidence in his affection, should make himself happy with
my books and music till he returned.
"What is the matter?" I asked, suddenly observing that he could neither
eat nor drink. He only sighed.
"Do, my pretty little Meyler, tell me what you would be at?"
"It would be impossible for you to keep up such delightful spirits,
knowing I am about to visit a fine woman, if you loved me," said Meyler,
despondingly.
"Oh nonsense!" I exclaimed, "you have assured me you never mean to
leave me, and I believe you, because you never yet told me a lie; and a
jealous woman is the most disgusting animal imaginable you know; so let
us enjoy time present, since you are so soon to leave me."
"I see you are delighted to get rid of me," said Meyler, "and I
could never love, nor believe in the love of any woman, who was not
madly jealous of me. I see your affection, and therefore I hate you,
Harriette: so, in order to punish you, I will not go to Badminton at
all."
"Bravo! You'll stay then with me?" said I, kissing him. "Indeed, indeed,
I but acted with indifference from dread of disgusting you; but now,
since you will stay, I am so very very happy."
Meyler, being satisfied that it would make me miserable, set off for
Badminton early the next morning. In the evening I went to my sister
Amy's where, among many others, I met Lord Hertford.
"Is it possible, think you," I inquired of his lordship, "is it possible
to pass one's life with a man of bad temper?"
"Better live on a bone," answered his lordship, with his mouth full of
cold partridge.
"What do you know about living on a bone?" I asked, laughing at him.
"Oh pray make up your mind at once, to leave that vile, ill-tempered
Meyler," said Fanny; "for his jealousy is really mere selfishness, and
though he goes to balls and parties every night of his life, and does
not return till five or six in the morning, he never fails to call here
for Harriette in ten minutes after she is set down, declaring he is
miserable till he knows her to be safe in bed, and there he leaves her."
"Cut him, cut him, by all means," said everybody at once, and then they
talked of Worcester. Fanny had received a letter from him on that very
day.
"I understand that Harriette and Meyler are living in a house we once
inhabited together," said his lordship's letter. "Do pray tell her from
me I wish her joy of her philosophy; but I do not profess any such
feelings. I never could inhabit that house, at all events, with any
other woman."
This letter would have affected me some time before; but I was now sick
and disgusted with the Beauforts and all their proceedings; neither
could I reconcile to myself the idea of Worcester having made his father
acquainted with the letter he induced me to write; and so lost me my
annuity.
Lord Hertford wanted to set me down; but I positively refused. "Well
then," whispered his lordship, "you really must pay me a visit at my
little private door in Park Lane. You say you are going to the play
to-morrow night, and you know you can rely on my discretion. The King
dines with me; but His Majesty will leave me before the play is over,
and I will open the door for you myself after my people are gone to bed,
and you shall find everything ready and comfortable."
"You may then depend on seeing me," said I, and I took my leave.
The next evening Fanny, Julia, and I, were all seated in a private box
at Covent Garden by seven o'clock, accompanied by two friends of theirs
whose names I have forgotten; and we were, I think, afterwards visited
at the Theatre by Lord Rivers.
"Are you hungry?" said I to Julia, just as the curtain dropped.
"Very," they both answered in a breath, and Fanny declared that nothing
made her so hungry as sitting out a long play, after hurrying to it
before one has half finished one's dinner. I said that we now lived
in the age of fairies, and that a good-natured one would this night
tap some door with her wand and it should fly open and disclose a
magnificent repast, served out on gold and silver, and composed of every
delicacy which could possibly be imagined.
"What is the use of putting one in mind of all these good things," said
Fanny, "when, for my part, I shall think myself happy if my maid has
saved us a bone of mutton, or even half a pint of porter these hard
times?"
"Now what would you say if I had discovered a fairy, witch, or magician,
who would this very night do all I have named for us?"
They were a long while before they would listen to me; but from my
earnestness they at last really began to think I had hit upon some odd
plan of giving them a fine supper, and promised to be led by me. Both
of them had once been shown Lord Hertford's private apartments, some
years back, from Seamore Place; but they had never seen the little
private entrance out of Park Lane, and had nearly forgotten the whole
together. We were set down by my desire at some short distance from Lord
Hertford's little private door, and it was such a very dark night I was
obliged to feel my way to it.
"Where on earth are you taking us to?" said Julia in alarm. "Here are no
houses, and this place is really dangerous. For God's sake let us return
to the carriage directly."
"Pray don't be alarmed, and, in half a minute, you shall see what the
good fairy has provided for us."
Having arrived at the little low door, which resembles that of a cellar,
I tapped gently three times, and the door was immediately opened by Lord
Hertford, who was absolutely struck almost dumb, at observing that he
had three fair ladies to entertain instead of one. He just looked
How happy could I be with either
Were t'other dear charmers away.
However, though of course he was disappointed, he was too well-bred to
complain; and therefore turned the whole affair into a joke, saying he
cut a comical figure, coming downstairs thus slyly with his miniature
key, to let in a whole party.
The little winding staircase, covered with red cloth, conducted us to
his beautiful apartments, where a magnificent supper was laid just in
the fairy style I had described. Everybody was agreeably surprised
except his lordship, who fully expected to have passed the evening
_tête-à-tête_ with me. Nevertheless, I must say, he contrived to
support this terrible disappointment with infinite good-humour, and we
returned at three in the morning delighted with our English night's
entertainment, in which we partook the feast of conviviality as well as
of reason, and the flow of wine as well as of soul.
Meyler returned to town in less time than he had named, because some man
had laughed at the idea of my being constant. He soon began to quarrel
again as usual. At the Opera he was offended if I stood in the room with
my sisters. "I will retire before the curtain drops, if you accompany
me," I used to say; but Meyler had fifty people to chat with in the
round-room. He was a particular friend of Sir Harry Mildmay. Both were
Hampshire men, and members of the same county; and the gay Sir Harry had
ever a mind for all his friend's wives or mistresses, ugly or handsome:
he was therefore continually setting us by the ears; merely because I
was among the few who had refused him.
"Meyler," he would say, after having seen him standing near me in the
room at the Opera, "Meyler, why the deuce do you stand there with
Harriette Wilson every night like a frightful shepherd, to be laughed
at? Why don't you take to intriguing with women of fashion? Do you know
man, that you are by no means an ugly fellow?"
"I never thought I was anything like an ugly fellow, Sir Harry,"
answered Meyler, speaking slowly.
On another opera night, as I was waiting at the top of the stairs with
my sister Fanny for Meyler to take me home, Sir Harry came flying up to
me in affected surprise,--"Why I thought it was your ghost!"
"How so?"
"I really imagined that it was you, who went out just now with Meyler!"
"Is Meyler really gone without me, then?"
"I have this instant seen him hand a lady into his carriage, and step in
after her," answered the Baronet.
I felt myself reddening with indignation. It rained fast. Fanny and
Julia were going in Mr. Napier's chariot quite a different road, and
there was no room to spare for me, and not a soul left in the room
except Lady Heathcote and her party, and Amy, who was watching men at a
distance, with a host of beaux.
"My carriage is much at your service," said Sir Harry Mildmay, "and I
shall be very happy to put you down at your own door."
"What, has Meyler gone off and left you here by yourself," said Amy,
joining us, and speaking loud enough for Lady Heathcote to hear. Her
ladyship looked as if she was much amused with the whole occurrence.
I have a terribly proud spirit of my own, and greatly as I disliked
the idea of seeming to encourage Sir Harry Mildmay, the temptation was
now irresistible; so putting my arm under his and skipping gaily past
Doctor Bankhead's dear friend, Lady Heathcote, I said I would forgive
Meyler for cutting me as often as he was disposed to send me such a very
amiable substitute. It was a dark night, and Mildmay's coachman drove
like mad. Judge my surprise, on finding myself set down at Sir Harry's
house in Brook Street, when I thought I was in the New Road. Sir Harry
took hold of my hand as I stood on his steps, and laughingly tried to
pull me into his house.
"Really, Sir Harry, this is too absurd!--eloping with me, as though
I were an innocent fool, who could be led to do any one thing which
clashes with my humour."
Sir Harry, at last finding it impossible either by joke or earnestness
to induce me to enter his house, begged I would get into his carriage to
be carried to my own house.
"No," said I. "No power on earth shall induce me, to enter your carriage
again."
My anger towards Meyler for his supposed neglect, having now cooled, I
was beginning to be very unhappy about him, and very much out of humour
with Sir Harry.
"I will walk home," I said, "or at least, walk till I can find a coach,
and I insist on your leaving me this instant."
"That, my sweet Harriette, is quite impossible; and, since you are so
obstinate as to insist on risking to catch your death of cold by walking
home without a bonnet, I must accompany you."
"It is quite fine again now," answered I, and on I set accompanied by
Sir Harry, having first fastened my shawl over my head.
My house in the New Road had a garden before it. I felt dreadfully
afraid of finding Meyler there; and I almost wished Mildmay to remain
at hand to protect me, in case he should grow violent before I could
convince him of my innocence.
"If Meyler is not there, I will come in," said Sir Harry.
I was really astonished at his assurance. "What do you think Meyler
would say, if he found you in his house?" I inquired.
"Oh! hang Meyler! we would lock him out."
I could not refrain from laughing at Mildmay's excessive impudence.
"Is Mr. Meyler in the house?" I tremulously asked of the servant, who
was coming down the garden to open the gate for us. The maid told me
that Mr. Meyler had been there half an hour ago, and appeared much
agitated when they informed him I was not returned from the Opera House.
"Where did he direct his coachman to drive to?"
"I think to Mrs. Sydenham's, ma'am," was the reply.
I saw that Mildmay was determined to enter the house with me; and,
dreading the consequences of such a very mad action, I desired the
servant to shut us out, since I should go and look for Mr. Meyler.
"Don't, don't," said Mildmay; but I insisted, and the street-door was
closed upon us. We stood in the garden; and then for near a quarter of
an hour I begged, entreated, and implored Mildmay to leave me, but in
vain. Every instant I expected the return of Meyler: yet, frightened
and agitated as I was, under the impression that I had thoughtlessly
committed an imprudence for which I was likely to pay very dear, Sir
Harry had no mercy on me.
At last, as good luck would have it, two drunken men observed us among
the trees as they passed the house. It being rather moonlight, and not
dreaming that the owner of it would be standing there at two o'clock in
the morning with a gay man in silk stockings, they naturally concluded
me to be some poor creature he had met with in the streets; so, knocking
with their sticks between the iron railings of the gate, they bawled
out, "I'll trouble you, sir, for ground-rent, if you please."
"Ground-rent! ground-rent! D--n your impudence," said Sir Harry, running
after them; and I immediately knocked till my servant opened the door,
when I bolted into the passage and safely barred out the gay baronet.
In about another half-hour, Meyler's carriage drove up to my door. I was
in a dreadful fright; for the provoking Mildmay had confessed to me at
last that he had not seen Meyler go out; but, on the contrary, he had
left him in the upper room talking to Lord Palmerston. It was past three
o'clock in the morning. I knew him to be very passionate. "He will kill
me, of course," said I to myself, as he entered the room. Judge what
was my surprise when Meyler, pale and trembling, took hold of my hands,
kissed them, and then fixed his very expressive, inquiring eyes on my
face.
"You will not deceive me," said he; "of this I am quite certain."
I immediately declared upon my word I had nothing to conceal having done
nothing wrong.
Meyler was in raptures.
"When I came into the room to look for you, with the intention of
bringing you home," said Meyler, "the first person I saw was Lady
Heathcote; and I could not help thinking she looked very oddly at me,
as if she had been inclined to laugh at something; and then I missed
you from amongst your sisters. Having, upon inquiry, been told by Amy
that Mildmay had taken you away in his own carriage, I asked for Julia
and Fanny; but they were gone with Napier; and to Julia's house I drove
immediately. They knew nothing of you; and Napier laughed so at my
evident agitation, and would have made such fun of me all over the town,
that my fear of the world, for which you always scold me so much, made
me put the most violent restraint upon myself, to endeavour to conceal
my anxiety by remaining quietly where I was for a quarter of an hour.
However, they saw through it all; and I left them to call at your sister
Amy's house. Amy said everything she possibly could to make me believe
you were with Mildmay. I left her in disgust; and determined to come
here once more before I called on Sir Harry."
I then told Meyler by what falsehoods Mildmay had induced me to accept
his protection.
"I shall never be the least angry with Sir Harry, as long as you
steadily refuse him," said Meyler; "because I have, for some time,
wanted such a story to laugh at him about; because he has so many
against me, and by which he takes upon himself to amuse the females of
my acquaintance."
This accident roused the little indolent Meyler to pay me unusual
attention for the next several weeks. _Ainsi va le monde!_
One morning, when I called on him at his house in Grosvenor Square, I
found him reclined on his _chaise longue_, in a very pensive attitude.
On a table before him was a most unbecoming military cap, which appeared
to belong to the militia, or might have been worn, for aught I knew, by
the hero of some corps of volunteers.
"What is the matter, Meyler? and why is that frightful cap stuck up
before you?"
"Ah!" said Meyler, with his usual slight, but sentimental sigh,
"frightful indeed! And fancy a little, quiet, country gentleman like
myself, sticking such a thing as that on his head!"
"What necessity can there possibly be for disfiguring yourself so?"
"Why, you see, I am obliged to be captain of the Hampshire militia,
of which Lord Palmerston is colonel and commander," continued Meyler,
heaving another sigh, and looking most interestingly pensive, while his
eyes were steadily fixed on the cap.
I could not help laughing; for there was in fact an originality about
Meyler's manner of saying mere trifles, which it would be impossible to
describe. And then he spoke so very slow, and his mouth was such a model
of beauty, that even nonsense came gracefully out of it.
* * * * *
"Meyler has brought his large dog over with him from Hampshire," said
Mildmay to me one evening at the Opera; "and he is at least half an hour
saying his name."
"What is his name?"
"Why Ch-a-n-c-e," answered Sir Harry, mimicking him.
"Meyler is not stupid," said I.
"Why, no," replied Mildmay. "Meyler possesses a good understanding when
one can give him a fortnight to consider things; but whenever impulse is
required he is of no use on earth."
"I don't k-n-o-w t-h-a-t," I rejoined, imitating Meyler. "Some of his
impulses are particularly good, I assure you."
Two days after the cap had made its appearance, Meyler's regimentals
came home, with yellow facings; the ugliest, most vulgar-looking
things, which could well be imagined. Meyler too had anything but the
_air militaire_ which ought to have set them off and made the best of
them. He was a little, quiet hero of the old school, with the most
beautifully delicate white hands, and he always wore silk stockings,
nankeen breeches, and small knee-buckles. At last arrived a letter
from the great commander-in chief, Lord Palmerston. I have not a copy
of his lordship's letter, so I do not mean to say that what follows is
verbatim; though the said epistle was shown to me at the time and my
memory is not apt to be treacherous.
"MY DEAR MEYLER,--It really is incumbent on us, as a matter
of glory as well as honour, to attend to our Regimental duties,
and, as I understand your tailor has carried home your handsome
regimentals, with bright yellow facings, I trust you will accompany
me into Hampshire next Tuesday, for the purpose of drawing our men
out in a line, and making them go through their manoeuvres, &c.
"Yours, dear Meyler, very truly,
"PALMERSTON."
Meyler, having perused the above letter, began by equipping himself in
his bran-new, bright red and yellow regimentals, and, having placed
himself opposite his large swing-looking glass for about a quarter of
an hour, the next thing he did was to throw off his gay uniform in a
passion, and then he sat down and addressed the following answer to
Viscount Palmerston:
"MY DEAR LORD PALMERSTON,--Unfortunately I happen to be
subpoenaed at the House of Commons for Tuesday night, which is what
I regret, of course, infinitely; but, be assured, I will not fail
to distinguish myself in arms as soon as I have disposed of the
Catholic Bill. In the meantime believe me very truly yours,
"RICHARD MEYLER."
"Do you know that Lord Worcester is expected to bring home the next
despatches?" said Fanny to me one night when we met in our opera-box.
"It is all the same to me," I replied, "since he could be so selfish and
vilely shabby as to acquaint his father I had written to him. I shall
never respect or like him again."
"Yet," said Fanny, "I have this morning received a letter from his
lordship, who writes of you in a very tender style. 'A friend of mine,'
says his lordship's letter, 'saw my sweet, darling Harriette in Hyde
Park, looking lovely. God bless her! What would I give, but to see her
pass this moment, even though she refused to acknowledge me.'"
"Oh, that's enough," said I, interrupting Fanny, "I am quite in a
fidget, and cannot guess what Meyler is about, that he does not visit us
to night as usual. I understand he is going to the Duke of Devonshire's
dress party, and the idea torments me wretchedly."
I turned many an anxious glance towards the Duchess of Beaufort's box
in vain, as well as towards the door of my own. The curtain dropped,
without our having seen anything of Meyler.
As I was descending the grand staircase in a very ill-humour, a
well-known voice, from a little dark passage, called me by my name.
Conceive my astonishment at seeing Meyler screwed up into a close
corner, quite alone, in full regimentals. Fanny and I began to laugh
heartily at him.
"Good gracious Mr. Meyler, is it you?"
"Why not show yourself to the admiring world, after the trouble of
making yourself so very fine?" said Julia.
"I am going to the Duke of Devonshire's dress ball, where there will be
plenty more fools in the same ridiculous sort of costume; and where,
I hope, I shall not feel so much ashamed of myself; but here I cannot
for the life of me summon courage to face my acquaintance; and so, here
have I been stuck up in the dark for the last two hours, trying to
get to your box; yet ashamed even to venture to my own carriage, till
everybody shall have left the house." How we all three did laugh at the
poor little interesting hero! and yet he looked so handsome, and his red
coat reflected such a fine glowing tint on his transparent, pale cheeks,
that I was selfish and wicked enough to determine against his exhibiting
himself at His Grace of Devonshire's. Lord Hertford joined us in our
little dark corner.
"Do not go, Meyler," said I, "pray do not go to the Duke's to-night."
"And why not?" Lord Hertford asked.
"Because it will make me wretched," I answered.
"However," said Meyler, "this is the first time of my being invited;
and, as all the world will be there, I really must go. You may take my
carriage, and I will get home to you as soon as possible."
"Do you return to Grosvenor Square first?" I inquired.
"Yes," said Meyler, as he handed me into his carriage; and then directed
his coachman to take me home; but I had scarcely got into Piccadilly
when the fit of jealousy seized me with such overpowering violence
that I suddenly pulled the check-string and requested to be conducted
to Meyler's house. When there I, unannounced, walked up into his
dressing-room.
"Meyler," said I, "I have given way at all times to your caprice and
jealousy. This once humour mine, and I shall feel most grateful. My
health and spirits are low to-night. Pray cut the Duke and return
with me. It is the first time I ever interfered with your amusements,
therefore do not refuse me."
Meyler was obstinate.
"Well, then," said I, "I shall not return home alone. I propose going to
Lord Ebrington's and making love to him."
This speech would have disgusted most men; but I knew Meyler.
"I am sure you would not leave me for Ebrington, handsome as he is,"
said Meyler.
"Upon my word I will, and this very night if he is to be found, and you
refuse to return with me."
"Well, then, I must return with you," said poor Meyler, throwing off his
unfortunate regimentals, and preparing to accompany me home.
The next time I met Lord Hertford he told me I was very wrong, and ought
to have had more sense than to have attempted bringing Meyler home by
force.
"You, on the contrary, are very right, my lord," answered I; "but then I
really could not help it."
Soon after this Meyler went to hunt in Leicestershire, where, according
to the rules of their society, I was told I could not accompany him.
However, though Meyler and I were eternally at variance when together,
yet we were ever miserable and jealous whilst separated. One day I lost
all patience; and, ordering post-horses, went to join him at Melton by
surprise. He appeared delighted to see me; and I was invited to dine
every day that I should remain in Leicestershire at their club. The
house was very comfortable, and their dinners most excellent; so much
so, that I remember Meyler afterwards enticed away their man-cook, who
died in his house in Grosvenor Square. And further I remember, that
while the said dead cook's body was in Meyler's house his religious
feelings would not permit him to peruse some books which were lent him,
I believe by Lord Alvanly. These books, to say the least and best of
them, were what Lord F. Bentinck would have called very loose.
The members of the Melton club led what I considered a very stupid
sort of life. They were off at six in the morning, dressed up in old
single-breasted coats, which once had been red, and came back to
dinner at six. The carroty-haired Charlton contrived to become a member
of this club. I allude to the young gentleman, who was concerned with
Horace Seymour in the seduction of two young mantua-makers, and who then
lamented, with so much real pathos, the sad loss of his circulars.
This man would not have been tolerated at Melton, but that Brummell
once said he used good perfume. Still Meyler was such a sturdy, true,
obstinate, English country gentleman, as to pronounce the man half-bred,
impudent, and a bore. "And then," said Lord Alvanly, who was sitting
with us at dinner one day when Charlton happened to be absent, "and then
has such a d--n impertinent way of nick-naming us all fools."
"True," replied Berkeley Craven, "that is really disagreeable."
"I think we ought to take notice of it," said Meyler.
"You don't say so?" observed Alvanly, growing pale. "But then,"
continued Alvanly, "it is not my turn you know."
"Quite the contrary," retorted Meyler, "you are the man he has most
insulted. Don't you recollect the other night, besides calling you a
fool, he accused you of being an old clothesman?"
"Oh! That was because I am so often in the society of Jews."
"No, it was when you were selling one of your great coats, if I remember
right," retorted Meyler.
"I see no harm in that," Berkeley Craven remarked; "I am sure I would
sell anything I did not want, and I don't care to whom."
"Then, I suppose, Berkeley, you would have no objection to part with
that coat?" said Meyler, alluding to a very threadbare one worn that
evening by Mr. Craven, and speaking in his usual slow way.
Brummell, who had done us the honour to come over from the Duke of
Rutland's where he was staying to dine with us, said that, though he
knew little of the man Charlton, he could not but repeat, in common
justice, what he had before stated, namely, that the perfume he used for
his pocket handkerchief was unusually good.
The evening hunt-dress is red, lined with white; and the buttons and
whole style of it are very becoming. I could not help remarking that the
gentlemen never looked half so handsome anywhere in the world, as when,
glowing with health, they took their seats at dinner, in the dress and
costume of the Melton hunt.
A day or two after this conversation about Charlton, that gentleman
happened, by mere accident of course, to say to Alvanly, in answer to
some remark he made about hunting, "Oh! Lord bless your soul, no! That
is talking like a fool."
"Look you here, my good fellow," said Lord Alvanly, lisping in his usual
queer way, "I will tell you what, you have got a trick of calling me
a fool, which is what I disliked exceedingly from the first. In fact,
I should have taken notice of it long ago, only I happened to be so
devilishly afraid of fighting. This fact is well known. In short, I
proved it beyond doubt, by cutting the army altogether directly I found
that sort of thing was going on. I went into the army, it is true; but,
then, as I have often mentioned to my friends before, I conceived my
regiment to be kept entirely as a body-guard to his Majesty. In other
words, I never expected it would have left London."
Everybody began to laugh except Charlton, who did not exactly know how
to take it.
"Gentlemen," added Alvanly, moving towards them, "it is not particularly
feeling in you to laugh, when I am discussing a subject which is so very
awful to me as fighting, and particularly at a moment when I am likely
to become a principal."
He then turned his head towards Mr. Charlton, and resumed his discourse
as follows:
"Now, you see, sir, my fears being so excessive as to fighting, I will
give you leave to call me fool twice more after to-day; but, by God, if
you call me so a third time during the whole course of my life, it
is all over with me; for you and I must fight!"
[Illustration: Going to WHITE'S.]
It so happened, as I have been very credibly informed, that lordly
Charlton left off calling people fools from that hour. Not that I mean
to insinuate that he was the least afraid of fighting: on the contrary,
I rather imagine he must have, just at the time, hit upon Doctor Watt's
hymns, and been edified by them. They are really very good reading
for a Sunday at Melton, and, if I remember right, there are two very
impressive lines in one of the hymns, well calculated to work a reform
in Mr. Charlton. They run thus:
And he is in danger of hell-fire,
Who calls his brother fool.
I forget whether Meyler got tired of me, or I of Melton, or of him;
but certain it is, I very soon returned to town. Meyler had no mind,
no romance about him. His person was charming; but that won't do, even
with gentlemanlike manners, for one's everyday companion. Meyler was not
up to me either in hand or heart. I could have been more constant, I
often used to say to myself by way of excuse, when I felt anything like
a new fancy coming across my imagination; but then he who suited me was
married, and how can such an active mind, such a warm imagination, live
on air?
These reflections used to occur to me latterly, as often as I happened
to meet Lord Ebrington, with whom I had now only a mere bowing
acquaintance. Formerly, when I was very young, we had mutually sought
each other. I always thought him very handsome and sensible-looking,
and what to me is better than all the rest, he appeared as shy, proud,
and reserved as Lord Ponsonby; but, on acquaintance, we had discovered
that we were too much alike in temper to agree. Afraid of each other, we
could do nothing together, so we cut in a week; except, as to the mere
bow, which would not in common civility be avoided when we passed each
other. Lately, since I had found Meyler's temper become so provoking, it
had struck me more than once that, if Ebrington were to try again, we
might agree better. However there were three reasons why I did not make
the first advances to his lordship. In the first place, though Meyler
was a torment to me, my jealousy prevented me from throwing him upon
the world: in the second, I could not deceive any man: in the third, I
said to myself, "why should Lord Ebrington like me now when my health
and freshness are gone, though he did not care for me in the days of my
earliest youth and beauty?" "The case is hopeless," thought I, after
casting one wishful look behind me on Lord Ebrington, who, meeting me
on my entrance into town from Leicestershire, smiled sweetly as he made
me a very graceful bow; "therefore I'll finish writing my play, which I
began so long ago, instead." I took it from Molière's celebrated comedy
of _Le Malade Imaginaire;_ but it was by no means a literal translation.
I reduced it to three acts, and altered what I conceived was too coarse
and indecent for an English audience. It only afforded me altogether
employment for three days, and, when done, I was far from sanguine as
to its success. What indeed could I be expected to know concerning the
Drama, who had seen so few plays in my life!
Being acquainted with Mr. Charles Young the performer, I ventured to
request him to look over my dramatic labours. In three or four days he
called upon me.
"Do you know," said he, "that this is a very clever work?"
"You don't say so?" answered I.
"How you happened to be so capital, in this way, I cannot conceive,
since you can have found little time for study. However, this being such
a hasty scrawl, you must get it fairly copied, and I will then present
it to the manager, Mr. Charles Kemble, with very little doubts of its
success."
A friend of my own was kind enough to transcribe my comic efforts for
me, and I returned it to Mr. Young, who sent me a note to acknowledge
its receipt, in these words:
"MY DEAR MISS WILSON,--I have received your manuscript, and
shall lose no time in presenting it to the managers, who will bring
it out immediately, that is, if they know a good thing when they
see it.
"Yours truly,
"C. YOUNG."
In about a week, the managers returned my little comedy to Mr. Young,
stating in a note which that gentleman forwarded to me, that they did
not think it calculated to forward the interests of the stage, &c. I
know not whether Young or the managers were wrong in their opinion
of this piece; but certainly I bore the disappointment with much
philosophy, having only written it _pour passer le temps._
As I had really and truly formed a very high opinion of Mr. Young's
judgment and good taste, even before his praise of my play, I thought
I might as well show it to Elliston. I felt quite certain that Young
would not have advised me to take the trouble of getting it copied, if
it had not been his real decided opinion that it was fit for the stage;
so I wrote as follows to Mr. Elliston, whom I then believed to be a very
gentlemanly, pleasant old fellow.
"MY GOOD MOUNTEBANK,--You, who were born and created for my
particular sport and amusement, pray come and see me on Sunday
evening at seven o'clock, if you have time. I want to give you a
little dramatic piece to look over at your leisure, and I want at
the same time to shake hands with you.
"Yours truly,
"H.W."
Elliston sent me this answer on Sunday morning:
"MY DEAR MADAM.--The probable prevention to the pleasure
I proposed to myself, in passing an hour in your company, was
removed; but I am laid by the heels with a sharp fit of gout, a
grievous enemy to Sunday evening meetings. I do not know whether
you think this a feather in my cap; but I would well wish that the
feather had been fixed on the foot, that, like Mercury, I might
have escaped from my confinement. If I chose to pursue the image, I
might add, my visit, like his, would have been to a goddess.
"I am glad you think I was born to please you:--No, 'to amuse'
was the phrase, and, as Benedict says, there is a double meaning in
that.
"It appears pretty evident, madam, that I must not play the
fool in private with you. God send me a good deliverance! I have
been out with my crutch, my pillow, and my large shoe, in the
carriage to-day: a seducing set of paraphernalia for _un beau
garçon._ There are, however, goodly reasons why I should think that
Tuesday or Wednesday will see me quite myself, which you will say
is promising but little. I promise nothing, but leave all to time
which, grey-beards say, bringeth everything to light.
"MOUNTEBANK."
In about another week, I wrote to him again as follows:
"Why don't you come, Mountebank?
"Many thanks for the private box you were kind enough to send
me an order for last night. Your Jew was a masterpiece of fine,
chaste acting, nothing overdone--no grimace!--the true, benevolent
simplicity of the good old Jew, real and genuine. Tell me, by
bearer, when you will come, for I am like the lady in Tom Thumb--I
cannot stay.
"Yours truly and obediently,
"H.W."
Elliston sent me word he would be with me by eight in the evening, at
which hour, finding himself, as usual very tipsy, he despatched this
note, by his servant:
"MY DEAREST MADAM,--Say not you, in return, 'oh false
promiser!' Well, if I must bear blame, at least I will be heard.
The day has been unruly, and the difficulty of procuring a coach
very great: besides, when I come to you, let me be allowed the Da
Capo of your own sweet words, I cannot stay. Now, if I dared to
suppose that disappointment had soured you I would, with soothing
words, disarm you, and try to dissipate the frown from your brow.
"What is the matter between you and Livius?
"I am not conscious of having done any harm. In all my
transactions with that gentleman it has been my most anxious desire
to show him attention and to do him justice; and, I sincerely
assure you, that I have run his musical comedy as a first piece
beyond discretion.
"If it is a fine morning on Sunday, I may walk up to your
house early. In short, as you say that I am an odd creature, think
me so still, and always believe that my heart is right, though my
head may be wrong; so I will call upon you when I can and, what is
more, when I like. Hurrah for impudence!
"ANDREW MERRY."
There is enough of Elliston. I sent him my farce, which he acknowledged
in a letter now in my possession, where he promises to take an early
opportunity of reading it. Since that, we have quarrelled, and I have
vainly asked him to return me my farce or pay me for it. Elliston has
never had the honesty to do the one or the other.