It was some time previous to the death of my sister, that I was induced
by the advice of Mr. Brougham and Mr. Treslove to commence proceedings
against the Duke of Beaufort for the recovery of the small annuity he
had thought fit to deprive me of.
I have already related the circumstance of my having refused to marry
Lord Worcester over and over again, solely to relieve the minds of his
parents, and further went down to Oxford to implore Worcester, by all
his future hopes of happiness, to pass his solemn word to the duke and
duchess never to marry me; and it was only at my request he could be
induced to promise to go abroad for one year, on condition that his
father made me an allowance. This the duke gladly agreed to, and sent
Worcester to me, accompanied by his attorney, to ask me what I required.
"Enough to pay for my board only," was my reply. "Nor do I require bonds
or signatures. The duke is a gentleman, and will take care that the
person who has complied with all his wishes shall not come to want. Of
that I am well satisfied."
Robinson told me to fear nothing, and down I went into Devonshire,
where I might have wanted bread, without obtaining a shilling or an
answer to any one of my letters addressed to His Grace, had I not, after
waiting four or five months, been obliged to threaten that I would
join Worcester in Spain. This, and this only, brought a polite letter,
enclosing two quarters of the promised allowance, from His Grace.
[Illustration: A VIEW taken in HYDE PARK.]
I should like to know if His Grace or his noble son will take upon them
to deny any of these facts, or that he did not desire me to make my own
terms if I would not marry Worcester? and for which, all the world are
crying "Off! Off! Off!" to the Duke of Beaufort, just as if he were Kean
the actor. At all events, the facts I am now proceeding to relate were
public.
Neither Brougham nor Treslove could be induced to believe that, since
the Duke of Beaufort had bestowed a small annuity on me for the purpose
of separating me from Lord Worcester, it could ever be His Grace's
wish to rob me of that annuity, while the intent and purpose of it was
fulfilled. I had indeed written a few lines to Lord Worcester, trusting
to their humanity to forgive me for the exercise of mine; but, since my
letter did not interrupt the object of the bond, which was to separate
us, nobody would believe that the duke wished to throw on the world, me,
who might have been his daughter, without the means of existence.
"The duke will prefer giving you fifty thousand pounds," said the duke's
attorney to me.
My answer was, "Were I selfish, I would marry Worcester."
To satisfy these incredulous gentlemen, I renewed my applications to His
Grace; but they were unattended to, as before.
As the day of trial drew near, I expressed my astonishment to my legal
advisers that they wished me to bring forward a case like this, which I
must inevitably lose if Lord Worcester produced the letter I wrote to
him, which was directly in the teeth of the conditions of the bond.
"Fear nothing," was Brougham's answer. "Lord Worcester cannot appear in
it without irremediable disgrace and loss of character."
"How can you imagine it possible," asked Brougham, "that Lord Worcester,
the man who for years together has sworn to make you his wife, can
appear in evidence against you, for the purpose of leaving you
destitute, and effectually robbing you of the trifling independence
which you were gracious enough to be satisfied with, when you might have
been Duchess of Beaufort?"
I was at last almost convinced that Lord Worcester could not act thus.
"If he does he ought to be ashamed of himself," said Fred Bentinck, "and
so I shall tell him. I always tell everybody exactly what I think of
them, for my part."
The day of trial arrived. Thee very hour approached, and Worcester
had not obeyed his father's peremptory summons to come up to town and
attend as evidence against me. The duke, knowing there could be no other
witness, was in a terrible fever of agitation, as my attorney told me.
Just at the last, when the furious duke had given up all hopes of
his son, he, in a great fright, proposed to my attorney to pay him
twelve hundred pounds, rather than stand the event of the trial
alone, and Brougham had scarcely given his written consent to this
compromise, which was immediately signed, when the most liberal,
generous, high-minded, and noble Marquis of Worcester stepped out of his
travelling carriage, and came driving towards the scene of action, with
my poor, ill-fated letter in his hand. Such at least is my attorney's
account of the business. He may be referred to by the incredulous. I was
not present.
Thus was I indebted to the duke's fears of wanting a witness, or being
hissed out of court, for the sum of twelve hundred pounds, which was
handed to me as soon as I had accompanied the attorney to Westminster
Hall and taken the following oath:
"THE KING'S BENCH,
"Between Harriette Wilson, Plt.
and
"His Grace the Duke of Beaufort, Deft.
"Harriette Wilson of the above named
plaintiff, maketh oath, and saith that she hath, in the
schedule hereunder written, set forth a full and true list of all
the letters, papers, and writings in her possession, or power,
written by the Marquis of Worcester to this deponent, and that
she hath not retained or delivered to any person, any copies, or
extracts of them, or any or either of them, save and except any
extract that this deponent may have sent or delivered to the above
defendant."
And now good-bye, Beaufort.
I forgot to mention my having met with Lord Francis Conyngham, now Earl
of Mount Charles, in Paris, with whose beauty I was much attracted.
There was nothing national in his manner, nor, I think, in his
character. He was perhaps rather cold; but amiable and truly unaffected.
Such as he was, I remember he interested me very much. I did not fall
in love with him, partly because he had the tremendous bad taste not to
fall in love with me; but his ill health and his cough induced me to
encourage somewhat of the tenderness of a mamma towards him; and I used
to dream about his eyes, they were so very blue and beautiful.
I have often met the young Marquis of Graham too, who is not very
popular, as I am told; but that is nothing to me.
Any fool may be popular: it is the easiest thing in the world.
Only be a good listener and praise everybody on the face of the earth,
that is the whole fact.
However, Lord Graham is rather reserved; _mais ne méprisez pas les
personnes froides; elles ont leurs bons côtés._ Lord Graham is very
just, friendly, and strictly honourable, neither is he the stupid person
many imagine him to be. For my own part, I like Lord Graham, and always
have had reason to like him; and I am sure Beau Brummell would like him,
because his clothes are uniformly so well made and in such good taste.
My readers will believe that my poor sister's death affected me deeply,
and my health suffered seriously from my anxiety and want of rest. About
two days after I had seen my dear sister buried, Amy appeared to feel
something like compassion for the weak state in which she found me. She
suddenly took me in her arms, and told me she feared I should die, and
then burst into a flood of tears, as she added that she knew well she
had never been kind to me!
Everything was forgiven from my heart and soul at that moment; but Amy
soon ran up a fresh score of offences, just in her usual way.
I cannot in justice help relating Sophia's kind attention to her sister
Fanny in her last moments. Not that there was merit in one sister loving
another, who was too amiable ever to have made a single enemy in her
life: one, whom the most cold-blooded and unfeeling could not but love:
yet, still I am glad I can, with truth, affirm that Sophia did her duty
in this instance, and Amy also, in the daytime. The night-watching
devolved entirely on me; but whoever else might have watched poor Fanny
I would never have quitted her.
From the hour of my sister's death, my dearest mother's health visibly
declined, and exactly three months after Fanny had breathed her last,
I followed my parent to her grave. From that period I was for more
than two months confined to my room, and, generally, to my bed, with a
violent liver complaint, or I know not what.
"It is liver," said Doctor Bree, "and she must swallow plenty of
mercury."
"No such thing," said Doctor Nevinson. "It is neither more nor less
than over-excitement of the nerves, with too much anxiety, fatigue, and
distress of mind."
"All this has disordered her liver," reiterated Doctor Bree, who has
written a book on people's livers.
"I won't stand it," said Doctor Nevinson; "and, before Harriette begins
upon your mercury, I will call in Dr. Pemberton."
"Never mind that cough, ma'am," said Pemberton: "you may keep it till
you are eighty, and it will be an amusement to you. It is only a nervous
cough."
However I continued very ill in spite of all these gentlemen could do
for me.
When my spirits and health were at their very worst, I was informed
that poor Julia was dying and wanted to see me. I could not refuse her
request. Her features bore the fixed rigidity of death when I entered
her room. Her complaint, like her late poor friend's, was a disease of
the heart, and there was no remedy.
She talked much of her dear Fanny, and said she had been certain from
the first that she should soon follow her to the grave.
I insisted on writing to Napier, who was at Melton Mowbray.
"No! no!" said poor Julia. "If you will lend me your carriage, I am sure
I shall be able to join him in a few days. I shall soon be better."
I wrote notwithstanding, and Napier came to her, kneeled by her bedside,
read the service of the dead, and then--and then he again read prayers
to her. All this he afterwards told me himself.
"You must have killed her," said I, "in so dreadfully weak a state as
she was in."
This conversation took place some weeks after her death.
"Nonsense," replied Napier. "Why say such cruel unfeeling things to me?
Upon my honour, there was no chance for poor, sweet, dear Julia, who was
the image of death when I----"
"Oh Julia! Angel Julia! I cannot bear it!" he added, pulling his hair,
and throwing the handsome pillows of my new sofa all about the room.
"_Doucement! doucement! s'il vous plait,_" I observed. "Julia was my
friend, I regret her certainly; but my feelings are so deeply affected
by the death of my adored mother, whom God knows how I have loved, that
there is scarcely room in my heart for any other grief, and, at all
events, I don't quite see the use of your knocking my new sofa about."
"Very true," said Napier, suddenly jumping up; and, having wiped his
eyes with the back of his hand, he began briskly to make fierce love to
me.
"But Julia?" said I.
"Oh, Julia!" retorted he, banging another pillow on the ground, "I had
her laid out in state, and wax candles were kept burning round her
coffin for a fortnight: and I paid half of all her debts!"
"Suppose you had paid the whole?"
"Nonsense! They were very thankful for half."
"And what is to become of her poor children?"
"A noble relative has taken one, and Lord Folkestone another, and Mrs.
Armstrong is consulting me about the rest."
There was nothing on earth, not even Fanny nor Lord Ponsonby, I ever
loved, as I loved my mother. I do not dwell on the subject, nor on the
manner of her death; because it is to me a very sacred one. No one, not
even Amy, will call my affection for that beloved, that sainted parent,
in question.
I am now about to return to Paris, from where I propose sending
Stockdale this volume, or continuation of my _Memoirs,_ provided you are
all grateful and civil for the trouble I have already given myself; but
I will pause now, at this period of my endeared parent's death; for my
habits and character became more serious and melancholy from that hour.
Meyler's sudden death too, which happened soon afterwards, certainly
added much to those cold, desponding sensations, with which I was now
often affected.
One night I dreamed that I saw my dearest mother standing at the top of
a high hill or mountain: so high that her head seemed almost to touch
the clouds, and her drapery was of such indefinite texture, that I
doubted whether I saw a shadow or a real substance. She looked very pale
and beautifully placid, as she pointed towards the heavens, fixing her
eyes on my face.
I would have given half my existence when I awoke for such another
dream! Having, in that hope, vainly courted sleep for several hours, my
mind being deeply impressed with the subject, I sat down. I imagined
the vision subjoined, with which I will for the present conclude, after
wishing to all, a good night and pleasant dreams, and slumbers light.
A VISION
As balmy sleep had charmed my cares to rest,
And love itself was banished from my breast,
A train of phantoms, in wild order, rose,
And, joined, this intellectual scene, compose.
Methought a spirit beckoned me, from the height of a steep mountain: its
drapery appeared to be now of earthly texture, and anon but the bright
rays of the sun, glittering on a cloud, which enveloped the form of an
angel. Her beautiful features were benignly placid. The shadowy paleness
of her countenance seemed as though touched by the moon's softest
beam; yet it was the bright sun, in the meridian of its splendour, and
oppressed me with its heat. To ascend the vast acclivity of the mountain
presented a work of such danger and fatigue that I hesitated. The spirit
turned from me with an expression of tender sorrow. Its profile, which
now became visible, was familiar to me! I threw myself on my knees and
raised my clasped hands to Heaven! "I will endure thy sun's scorching
rays, O God of Mercy!" said I, "with the toils and perils of this thorny
road, in meek resignation to thy Divine will. Grant me but life to
accomplish the task!"
A smile now irradiated the features of the beautiful vision. Hope,
doubt, and anxiety were blended in its expression, while the calm of
angels' happiness prevailed, as though the spirit had passed the ordeal
of human sufferings. She pointed with her right hand to the heavens;
and, as she raised her eyes in the same direction, I saw a seraphic,
radiant smile illumine her countenance for an instant, and then the
figure was indistinctly veiled by the clouds, into which, gradually
blending, it receded from my sight into thin air. My tears now fell in
despondency at the dangers and labour of the task I had undertaken;
yet I toiled on with indefatigable industry. "Oh! for the light of thy
benign countenance, to cheer me on my dreary road," said I, sighing
heavily. "Yet no! rest thou in pure eternal happiness, unclouded by the
sight of early sufferings."
The sharp, burning stones and flints wounded my feet and caused me
extreme anguish. At length, exhausted in body, though unsubdued in
mind, I sunk down on the earth, hoping, by a short interval of rest, to
recover my strength. Suddenly, the air was fanned with soft refreshing
breezes; the feathered choir chanted their enlivening strains; the trees
about me were covered with ripe, delicious fruit; luxurious repasts were
profusely spread in groves, where nymphs enjoyed the fragrant shades,
or danced and gambolled in wild and careless gaiety. A lovely female,
fantastically though tastefully habited, smilingly entreated me to turn
from my thorny road and follow her; but gay luxury possessed no charms
for one who ambitioned higher joys. Hunger, thirst, and labour, with the
goal of happiness in view, were more suited to my character, nor dreamed
I of merit in declining mere senseless ease. Again I prostrated myself
on the earth, and, pressing my hands to my burning temples, prayed for
strength sufficient to keep out despondency.
The gates of pleasure now were closed upon me. My head became giddy. My
lungs were oppressed, and I was sinking to the earth, when I felt myself
withheld, by the firm grasp of some one behind me, who placed me gently
on the ground, and presented to my lips some fruit, which instantly
revived me.
On opening my eyes, I beheld at my side an aged man, whose white beard
descended to his middle. "I am called Fortitude," said he. "My hand
alone can lead you to the summit of your wishes. We will perform our
task together. Nor will I forsake you till you forsake yourself."
Invigorated by the fruits which were presented to me by Fortitude, and
comforted with the prospect of a friend to guide my trembling steps, we
now continued our way along the pathless, barren track of the mountain,
which seemed to mock my eagerness and retire as I advanced.
Suddenly, the atmosphere was impregnated with the odour of the Indian
berry, which grew in immense quantities around me. My senses were
affected by it, and a voluptuous indolence began to steal over me. My
hand shrunk from the grasp of Fortitude, who continued his firm and
undeviating road, frequently beckoning me to follow him. My eagerness
now relaxed. My senses were overpowered, and I scarcely regretted my
stern guide, when the windings of the mountain concealed him from
my sight. At this time, I beheld, coming towards me, a being of
extraordinary beauty. His age might be near thirty, judging by the
strong growth of a beard, which curled in rich abundance over his chin;
but his dark blue eye of fire told him younger.
"I am called Passion," said he. "There lies your road to Peace and
Happiness," and he pointed to the height of the mountain. "Misery is
here, and, though left of all when you forsake me, I scorn to complain.
I deceive none but the weak and the wilful. If this bursting heart, this
writhing lip speak not, leave me to the fate I deserve, and which I
shall meet undismayed. Misery lies this way," repeated Passion, tearing
his luxurious hair in all the frenzy of maddened sensation, while his
teeth gnawed his nether lip till the red current disfigured a mouth of
unequalled loveliness. He was turning from me with rapidity.
"Stay," said I faintly. He snatched me to his heart in all the wildness
of frenzy. His heaving bosom seemed to threaten suffocation. His
ardent gaze, and the liquid fire flashing from his eyes, dazzled and
bewildered me. They spoke of feelings but guessed at by our softer
nature; yet coloured by our sanguine minds even beyond reality. The
pulsations of his heart were seen, nay almost heard; and still he curbed
the passion which was consuming him; and still he had not pressed the
lip, which quivered with delicious expectation. Now, with an effort
almost supernatural, he threw me from him. His cheeks, late vermilion
glow, were changed to the ashy paleness of death; his Herculean strength
to the feebleness of infancy.
"Pursue thy happier path," said he, in accents scarcely audible, "nor
seek thy destruction."
I threw myself on his bosom----. The delirium was succeeded by total
insensibility, from which I slowly recovered, and, opening my languid
eyes, I beheld myself in the arms of a hideous satyr!
The fright and horror which I experienced awoke me.
POSTSCRIPT
BY THE EDITOR
In every age of life, man requires relaxation after the fatigues and the
cares of business: but the distinction of rank and the forms of modern
society prevent his enjoying freedom of social intercourse. Hence have
arisen, in France, those assemblies of literary men, who, under the
presidency of some celebrated lady, have distinguished themselves by
their labours, and have enriched their country in the various branches
of science and of literature.
The utility and advantage to literary men of communicating their
ideas have been equally felt in this country; and, from the time of
Shakespeare to that of Johnson, mixed societies have been formed, in
the freedom and conviviality of mirth, for the discussion of literary
subjects. By these means, strength and copiousness have been imparted to
the English language. The French, too, have introduced more correctness
and elegance into their language, similar to the Greeks in the time of
Pericles, by a greater devotion to the muses.
Monsieur Barthelemi speaking of the influence of Aspasia on the arts,
the society, and the literature of Greece says, "_Les Grecs furent
encore moins étonnés de sa beauté, que de son eloquence, que de la
profondeur, et des agréments de son esprit. Socrate, Alcibiade, les
gens de lettres, et les artistes, les plus renommés, les Athéniens, et
les Athéniennes les plus aimables, s'assemblaient auprès de cette femme
singulière, qui parlait, a touts, leur langue, et qui s'attirait les
regards de touts._
If a Prince of Wales should not think it unbecoming in him to have
honoured the society of Mrs. Abington, it is not less creditable to
the first Marquis of Lansdowne, Mr. Sheridan, and other celebrated
characters, to have appreciated the elegance, the accomplishments and
the acquirements of that lady.
Comparisons are odious, says some saw or adage, therefore, without
comparing Harriette Wilson to any of her predecessors, it is due to
her from me, her editor, to say that she first introduced order and
decorum into the reign of fashion, that she reformed and improved the
great world, that she established regulations, among which was one,
that no man should be introduced into her world until he had been first
presented to her, and another, that due homage should be paid to her in
all public places.
That Miss Wilson did possess an undivided allegiance, no one who has
lived in our times will be so daring or so venturesome as to deny;
that she established a voluntary submission to her power, it will be
presumption to doubt; that she has subdued conquerors, and that she
has drawn within the influence of her dominion, great and celebrated
characters, whether by the charms of her conversation, the sprightliness
of her ready wit, or the elegance of her manners, by the glare of her
beauty, by the sweet tones of her voice, or by a combination of all,
those who have been attracted by her enchantments, if the spell be
now broken, may be able to explain. It may be attributed to her, as
to Orpheus, who, as we all recollect, by the power of his music tamed
wild beasts and monsters of every kind, that all were obedient to her
voice. Not that I mean to insinuate that her lovers were wild beasts
or monsters, until they were drawn into the vortex of her numerous
attractions, and thus became humanised and polished, though a keener
satirist than myself might furnish some small portion of amusement, by
tracing certain wild and monstrous propensities, which might be compared
with their untamed and domesticated state, and their conduct and habits
since they have divested themselves of the silken cords by which, while
in her custody, they had been directed or restrained.
We have now seen Miss Wilson in various fluctuations of her reign; but
not in all of them. She has already promised some further sketches. If
she has endeavoured, in her _Memoirs,_ to illustrate the characters of
those who principally figure in them, while she has wielded the lash of
truth, she has lost no opportunity to do justice to their merits.
These _Memoirs_, in their character of fidelity, which no one can
reasonably doubt, assume a rank of more than common consideration. The
accuracy with which the author has drawn her different characters is
such, that, in every single instance, they must have been recognised by
their intimates, had no names been attached to them; and herein, she has
just right to rank with the very few impartial and fearless historians
of their own times; but she has also the higher claim of having
conferred on the moral state of society in Europe, such a benefit as is
I believe without parallel.
This publication cannot fail to produce the greatest moral effect on the
present and future generations. If
Vice is a monster, of such hideous mien,
That, to be hated, needs but to be seen,
when has vice ever been so unsparingly exposed? Who has hitherto ever
had the courage to beard the lion in his den; to drag forth the monster
from his most secret recesses, from his most impregnable fastnesses,
in the castles of earthly power, strip him of the armour with which he
had been, as not he only, but almost every one, supposed, invincibly
clad, by the very giants of rank and fortune, and exhibit him shorn, at
once, of all those glorious beams, whose dazzling glare blinded even the
strongest-sighted spectators, deprived of all his means to do mischief,
and harmless and submissive as the veriest pet lamb.
On the subject of the line generally taken by the journalists of this
country in reference to these _Memoirs,_ it was my wish to have analysed
their conduct with the same freedom they themselves have assumed. The
publisher however prefers to choose his own time and place and mode of
treating them. They may, notwithstanding, solace themselves with my
assurance that a day of retribution will come, and may be nearer than
many of them anticipate. He has, in the meantime, subjoined an extract
of a letter from Colonel Rochfort, to Mr. Stockdale, dated Paris 24th of
March: it runs thus, smoothly and pithily enough:
"I shall not talk, or write about vulgar editors: but shall act, the
first time I come to England, practically; and, if you like, you shall
see me."
This will do, for the present, from the husband and the publisher. Mrs.
Rochfort speaks also for herself, of the learned doctor who edits the
_New Times_ and I shall venture to add, _ex uno, disce omnes._
* * * * *
HER ANSWER, TO THE EDITOR OF THE "NEW TIMES," IS AS FOLLOWS:
"While expressing my sincere gratitude to such friends as have held
out a helping hand towards me, it would have been very ungrateful on
my part, to have omitted some brief acknowledgment to my most cordial
supporter the brilliant editor of the _New Times_ newspaper. He, in a
paragraph of at least a foot long, with true, genuine, manly dignity
loads me, a female, who never injured him nor meant him harm, with the
coarsest abuse, bestowing on me the most ungentlemanlike epithets!
"My book was going on well, it is true: still, there were, no doubt,
thousands of young ladies who had neither read it, nor dreamt of reading
it, when this paragraph of the kind and judicious editor, like the apple
upon Eve, so worked upon their imagination and excited their curiosity:
"'Most earnestly do we call on our fair countrywomen not to suffer such
pollution to approach them, &c. &c. &c.'
"He then goes on to prose something about pickling or preserving the
chastity of virgins and matrons.
"Now, if such a notice as the above was not actually meant to excite
curiosity, and, by making the book circulate, effect the very horrors
which he deprecates, I appeal to the candour of readers in general,
whether this editor's total ignorance of human nature as well as of the
nature and properties of young ladies, does not entirely disqualify him
for the profession of an editorial partisan. He must indeed be a weak
and silly and spiteful sort of a reptile not worth my notice, were it
not for my naturally grateful disposition, the man's long-winded oration
having put money into my pocket; yet he is said to be a doctor, learned
in the law, ycleped LL.D. and very probably A.S.S.
"Great ends are often effected by little means. I am sorry he has worked
himself up into such a desperately vengeful fit against me; because,
really, when I, in the first Volume, mentioned Sophy's porkman having
wrapped her black pudding up with a dirty piece of _Times_ newspaper, I
never thought of calling its editor a dirty fellow, as that most worthy
gentleman has taken it: but, could I help a cap fitting now and then,
though it was never made to order? I declare, I merely conceived the
porkman's greasy hands had made a dirty _Times_ newspaper of it; for,
whether it be good or bad composition, I know not, as it is a paper
which neither I nor any other well-bred person of my acquaintance ever
looks into.
"I would appeal, even to Fred. Lamb himself, on whom I perhaps have been
a little too severe, whether the editor's anonymous, personal, and low
abuse of me, who affix my name to my _Memoirs_, is not disgraceful to
any man?
"And then the worthy editor winds up his oration with an argument,
which, to all noble fathers and parents of high taste and renown, must
be found irresistible. He declares that his mighty immaculate pigmies,
Gogs or Magogs, the Miss New Times's, or the Misses New Times, shall not
read one line of my book!
"_Quel malheur! tant pour les Misses New Times, que pour moi!_
"But who on earth are the Miss New Times's? We declare, plurally
speaking, in humble imitation of the worthy editor, that we never once
knew, saw, nor heard of such people, or if we did, like our Latin, we
have forgotten them.
"Editors, I humbly suppose, ought to be something like gentlemen, and
if, though they may be old ladies, they are really moral characters too,
I conceive they would be justified in expressing with manly firmness,
their disapproval of any publication which they believed to be dangerous
or improper; but the low meanness of loading with abuse a female like
me, whose only protector resides on the continent, is the more cowardly,
inasmuch as the said editors never applied those epithets to Lady
Caroline Lamb, nor, in short, to any lady whose husband happened to be
at hand, with that hand ready to pull their noses, if they have courage
enough to let them appear.
"Now I beg to ask the editor of the _New Times,_ what can be more
immoral than Lady Caroline Lamb, a wife and mother, publishing her
own desperate love-letters to Lord Byron, written under her husband's
own roof? Yet what editor ever took to task a lady whose friends were
on the spot? While this bold champion of the public morals spits his
toad-like venom on me, who never yet deceived, nor acted a dishonourable
part towards anybody, except myself, and who was at first forced into
that unfortunate situation, which the heartless conduct of my former
acquaintances obliged me to continue in. Yet, whatever may have been
their sins against me, I am confident, as of my existence, that they
will all express their unequalified disgust at the editor's unmanly
abuse of me."
Thus far the fair auto-biographer. The whole and sole conduct of the
editors may be defined in one word, selfishness. Their private pecuniary
interest, and that alone, influenced their proceedings. They one and all
expected to derive pecuniary advantage from the conduct they adopted in
regard to these _Memoirs_, and, while many of them were abusing her, for
having endeavoured to get money by her work, their single object was the
very same, whether they affected to be loud in their complaints, whether
they assumed a tone of moderation, or whether they were wholly silent--a
very rare occurrence!
Scarcely inferior to the abuse of the press has been the abuse of power
in the same case. Happy indeed is it for all concerned, and most happy
for the general interests of society, that we live in a country where
those who wield the sharpest swords with the most skilful hands, have
even their power to oppress limited, and, from the throne itself, have
bounds set to their wishes, by a constitution, which emphatically and
almost with more than mortal voice exclaims, "Thus far shalt thou go and
no farther."
It will be observed that this work has proved no less obnoxious to those
out of power, than to those in power, and to some, we might almost say,
of every rank and class, from the highest to the lowest. Here then was
an embodied phalanx to be encountered, which the invincible, giant-arm
of truth could alone dare, could alone meet, could alone discomfit. The
great mass of the people, who did not know how soon their turn might
come, exulted indeed in their present security, but dared not venture to
do more than remain neutral: while the very, very few, who, when they
knocked at the door of their own consciences, were sure of a comfortable
answer, gave their unostentatious, almost silent, and not very effective
encouragement to the publisher, not to be borne down by the torrent of
abuse, which glanced harmless from that head which it was intended to
crush and overwhelm, and bury in a heap of disgusting ruins.
A common interest, it was anticipated, would produce a more than common
union of all the powers; yet great is truth, and it will prevail!
Amicus Plato, amicus Socrates; sed magis amica veritas.
The age of all the talents was revived on this occasion. Ministers and
Opposition joined. White's, Brooke's, the United Service, and indeed
all the principal clubs held meetings to extinguish this burning shame,
which threatened an extent of desolation which, it was said, would make
England not worth living in, and some actually quitted, while others
prepared, to quit it in consequence.
One sapient resolution was that they should not buy these _Memoirs;_ but
the private curiosity of each, to see what figure his companions cut,
rendered that resolve nugatory in a moment. Another resolution was to
withdraw all custom from the publisher, and discountenance and annoy him
in every possible way, especially by actions at law against him. This
has been carried into effect, in a manner perhaps without precedent,
and under the harass and expense of which, most physical and pecuniary
resources would have given way; but here again we have reason to be
thankful, and with the motto, "Be firm and you triumph, fear and you
fall!" we have pretty well weathered the imminent storm.
Then, probably, as a last resource, but we must not halloa before we
are out of the wood, the strong hand of power put itself forth, in the
person of the representative of our most gracious sovereign at the court
of France. Lord Granville, whose personal beauty when Lord Granville
Leveson Gower was inadequate to obtain him favour in the eyes of our
fair Memoirist, replaced Sir Charles Stuart as ambassador at Paris. His
noble magnanimity instantly rushed forward to seize an opening, however
slight, to revenge the insult on his vanity, which, if it had ever
slept, revived with more than pristine ardour, from the publicity given
to it in this work. As has been already seen, he deprived our heroine
of the right of transmitting her letters direct by the ambassador's
bag. This, however, was an obstacle easy to surmount. Her letters still
passed by the same conveyance; but through an intermediate friend. It
was now evident that her letters were opened, delayed, and sometimes
withheld, and, at last, any letter from her was interdicted a reception
in this select baggage, owing, as was stated, to orders from the Foreign
Office, in consequence of personal dislike of Stockdale, whose letters
were constantly delayed and perused, and not unfrequently suppressed.
Her publisher soon satisfied her that it could not be true that such
conduct prevailed here; because his letters continued to be received
at the Foreign Office, as they had ever been, and therefore that it
must be a false and paltry subterfuge of her Parisian friends, who were
endeavouring by such means to make a breach between author and publisher.
Convinced by this plain unvarnished tale Mrs. Rochfort made known her
sentiments, and the ambassador's influence soon produced an inquiry in
the Foreign Office, of course promoted by that brilliant and eloquent
satirist, the Right Hon. Secretary, George Canning, to ascertain the
individual who took charge of my letters, and give him a reprimand for
the present and caution for the future.
The sentiments of the head of the office being now so effectively made
known, Mr. Stockdale soon learnt it by the return of two packets. He
instantly transmitted them to the Earl of Mount Charles, who, he was
confident, from attachment to the lady, had no less the means than
the will to oblige her in so very trifling a matter. What then was
the publisher's surprise, to receive back his letters from Lord Mount
Charles, notwithstanding his lordship had in the customary official
manner put his own initials at the corner of their envelopes, with a
message that Lord Mount Charles had not the means of forwarding them.
In a trivial case, it would be difficult to instance a more complete,
a more servile, a more degrading submission to the fiat of political
influence than this, by a scion of the most prominent and influential,
if not the most opulent noble, in the peerage of the United Kingdom.
Alas! we cannot parody the line and say of the independence of the young
and high-born heir of the Marquisate of Conyngham.
And, fled from monarchs, Mount Charles, dwells with thee!
But we will pursue this disgusting un-Englishlike, and mean abuse of
power no farther, except to say that there is some reason to believe
that the correspondence with this lady, which goes even by the General
Post, at least from her publisher, is not kept inviolate; but whether at
the English or at the French side of the Channel, this deponent saith
not.
Before I wholly drop this subject, I am requested by Mrs. Rochfort
to say that she has been like her publisher, so annoyed by anonymous
and other impertinence, that, she will henceforth receive no letters
whatever, unless they bear the superscription of the name and seal of
their writers.
One or two trivial matters still remain to be noticed.
Charmouth, whither Harriette retired on the Marquis of Worcester's
expatriation, is in Dorsetshire, not in Devonshire.
The publisher's courteous gallantry to the Countess of Clare induced him
to make a communication to that lady and withhold the portion of the
_Memoirs_ which relates to her, until the printing had proceeded too far
to admit its insertion in its assigned place, where Lord Ponsonby is
spoken of, and this will therefore form part of the further _Memoirs._
As the question of piracies, and Mr. Blore's proceedings against the
publisher for libel, will find due publicity in the Court of King's
Bench, I shall also, for the present, take my leave, after unsparing
congratulations on the success of these _Memoirs_, and on _their moral
effects on society and manners throughout the civilised world,_ a
consummation which will be assisted in no small degree by the series
of prints, of which the publication has already commenced, and which,
I cannot hesitate to affirm, are actually unrivalled in this or in any
other country.
THOMAS LITTLE.
1_st June,_ 1825.