Knole in the Early Eighteenth Century
LIONEL SACKVILLE
7th Earl _and_ 1st
Duke _of_ Dorset
§ i
The first duke of Dorset remains to me, in spite of much reading, but an
indistinct figure. I do not know whether the fault is mine or his.
Perhaps he was a man of little personality; certainly he was lacking in
the charm of his scapegrace father or of his frivolous great-nephew, the
third duke. And yet he is a personage of some solidity: weighty,
Georgian solidity. The epithets chosen by his contemporaries to describe
him are all concordant enough, “a man of dignity, caution, and
plausibility,” “worthy, honest, good-natured,” “he preserved to the last
the good breeding, decency of manner, and dignity of exterior deportment
of Queen Anne’s time, never departing from his style of gravity and
ceremony,” “a large-grown, full person,” and finally—the words come
almost with the shock of being precisely what we were waiting for—“in
spite of the greatest dignity in his appearance, he was in private the
greatest lover of low humour and buffoonery.” He was fitted, if I piece
together rightly my scraps of evidence, to lead the life of a country
gentleman, performing his duty towards his county, entertaining his
friends, enjoying with them after dinner the low humour to which he
inclined, rolling out his laughter in the Poets’ Parlour, slapping his
great thighs, and rejoining his wife afterwards in the spirit of
affectionate domesticity which induced him to begin his letters to her
“dear, dear, dear girl,” or “my dear, dear Colly.” He lived, says one
account of him, after detailing his amiable qualities as a kind husband
and father, “in great hospitality all his life, and he was so respected
that when at Knole on Sundays the front of the house was so crowded with
horsemen and carriages as to give it rather the appearance of a princely
levee than the residence of a private nobleman.” It was his misfortune
that he was not allowed to remain leading this kind of life so much to
his taste: “the poor Duke of Dorset,” said Lord Shelburne, “was made by
his son to commence politician at sixty.” The local offices which he
held were well suited to his disposition and abilities; the titles of
_Custos Rotulorum_, _Lord Lieutenant of Kent_, _Constable of Dover
Castle_, and _Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports_ sit admirably upon his
rather provincial dignity. He could discharge these offices while
surrounding himself with friends, and keeping open house at Knole. He
was surely happy at Knole, with the duchess and the duchess’ friend Lady
Betty Germaine installed in her two little rooms in a corner of the
house, and the correspondence with Dean Swift, and the echoes of the
Restoration reaching him in the shape of dedications from Prior and
Pope, who had been his father’s friends. He must have been happy
superintending the building of the “ruins” in the park, in ordering the
removal of the clock from the roof of the Great Hall to a safer place
over Bourchier’s oriel, in putting up the balustrade in the Stone Court,
in adding to the picture-gallery his own full-length Kneller, painted in
Garter robes—a dignified and ponderous addition—in continuing his
father’s kindly and contemptuous patronage of Durfey, in entertaining
the Prince of Wales, in receiving the present of a pair of elk-antlers
measuring 7 foot from tip to tip, in playing at cards with his wife and
Lady Betty, in watching the bull-baiting in the park, in inspiring the
following tribute on the occasion of his birthday:
_Accept, with unambitious views,
The tribute of a female muse;
Free from all flattery and art,
She only boasts an honest heart;
An heart that truly feels your worth,
And hails the day that gave you birth;
Of younger men let others boast,
Since Dorset is my constant toast;
Nor need the gayer world be told
That Dorset never can grow old;_
_And with unerring truth agree,
There’s none so young, so blithe as he,
With sprightly wit his jokes abound,
Well-bred, he deals good-humour round;
The maid forgets her fav’rite swain,
When Dorset speaks, he fights in vain;
The lover too, do all he can,
Strives, but in vain, to hate the man.
With this kind wish I end my lays,
Be ever young with length of days._
or such appreciation of his Christmas hospitality as this:
_Our liquor at all times to nature gives fire,
Infuses new blood, and new thoughts can inspire.
Your wife, she may scold, undaunted you’ll sing,
For he that is drunk is as great as a King._
_In the field, if all night you lie under a willow,
The soft easy snow shall be your down pillow.
There’s nothing can hurt you without or within
When you’ve beef in your belly and Punch in your skin._
It is true that certain discordant notes troubled from time to time this
Georgian harmony. The house-steward killed the black page in the
passage; and the duke’s sons themselves were unsatisfactory; even the
favourite son, Lord George, who was the apple of his father’s eye, fell
into disgrace and was court-martialled on a charge of disobedience and
cowardice. “I always told you,” said Lord John on hearing of this, “that
George was no better than myself.” This affair of the battle of Minden
must have been a heavy blow to the duke, but although Lord George was
not exonerated he retained all his father’s doting affection. Still, the
mud had been slung at him and not a little had stuck. The two other sons
were a source of sorrow: Lord John, after devoting his youth to cricket,
went off his head; and Lord Middlesex, the eldest of the three, was an
altogether deplorable character, prompting these verses, based upon an
old saying about the family:
_Folly and sense in Dorset’s race
Alternately do run,
As Carey one day told his Grace
Praising his eldest son._
_But Carey must allow for once
Exception to this rule,
For Middlesex is but a dunce,
Though Dorset be a fool._
I quote the verses as they stand, though “dunce” seems scarcely the
right description to apply to Lord Middlesex, that dissolute and
extravagant man of fashion, who squandered large sums of money upon
producing operas, that “proud, disgusted, melancholy, solitary man,”
whose conduct savoured so strongly of madness. Certain family
characteristics appeared in him which had skipped his father, and his
father and he, consequently and not unnaturally, were not on very good
terms. The duke, indeed, did not know what to make of his eldest son and
heir. “Upon my word, Mr. Cary,” he said, when Mr. Cary asked him loudly
at the play whether Lord Middlesex was to undertake the opera again next
season, “I have not considered what answer to make to such a question.”
Both Lord Middlesex and Lord John being so unsatisfactory, Lord George
was, and remained, his father’s favourite. Lord George, in an even
greater degree than his father, is an incongruity among the Sackvilles,
a departure from type. In spite of all his mistakes, his misjudgments,
and his misfortunes, he was a man of greater ability than most of them,
of greater energy than the common run of his indolent and
pleasure-loving race, of a further-reaching ambition. He did not begin
life as the eldest son, coming in due course to be the head of the
family, and languidly accepting the civil or diplomatic posts which were
pressed upon him; such career as he had he made for himself. Unlike his
predecessors or their descendants, he was neither an ambassador, a poet,
nor a patron of art or letters—“I have not,” he wrote, “genius
sufficient for works of _mere imagination_”—but first a soldier and then
a statesman, both disastrously. It is not my intention to go into the
details of his public career; my ignorance is too great of the tangle of
Georgian politics; nor am I qualified to discuss whether he did or did
not disobey his orders at Minden, whether he was or was not largely
responsible for the loss of America, whether he did or did not write the
_Letters of Junius_; such questions are treated in histories of the
period. Nor can I deal with the enormous number of letters on political
subjects written both by and to Lord George: I have looked into them
more than once, and have come away merely bewildered by the
cross-threads of home politics, by the names of remembered or forgotten
statesmen, by the fall and reconstruction of Ministries, by the crises
of Whigs and Tories. So I judge it best to leave Lord George alone,
“hot, haughty, ambitious, and obstinate, a sort of melancholy in his
look which runs through all the Sackville family,” and to seek neither
to blacken nor to whitewash his character. I scarcely regard him as one
of the Sackvilles, perhaps because he broke away from the family
traditions into unfamiliar paths, perhaps also because he earned his own
peerage, inherited a large house of his own, and led an existence
separate from Knole. Living at Knole among its portraits and its legends
which grew into the very texture of one’s life, it was, I suppose,
inevitable that one should grow up with pre-conceived affections or
indifferences, and for some reason Lord George never awakened my
interest or my sense of relationship. He was a public character, not a
relation.
§ ii
The early impressions of the first duke, who grew to be so pompous,
stout, and good-natured, and whose three sons gave him in their several
ways so much anxiety, are not unattractive. There is a picture of him as
a little slim boy, with his sister and their pet fawn; and there is Lord
George’s own anecdote of his father’s childhood:
My father, having lost his own mother, was brought up chiefly by the
Dowager Countess of Northampton, his grandmother. She being
particularly acceptable to Queen Mary, that Princess commanded her
always to bring her little grandson, Lord Buckhurst, to Kensington
Palace, though at that time hardly four years of age, and he was
allowed to amuse himself with a child’s cart in the gallery. King
William, like almost all Dutchmen, never failed to attend the
tea-table every evening. It happened that her Majesty having one
afternoon by his desire made tea, and waiting for the King’s arrival,
who was engaged on business in his cabinet at the other extremity of
the gallery, the boy, hearing the Queen express her impatience at the
delay, ran away to the closet, dragging after him the cart. When he
arrived at the door, he knocked, and the King asking “Who is there?”
“Lord Buck,” answered he. “And what does Lord Buck want with me?”
replied his Majesty. “You must come to tea directly,” said he, “the
Queen is waiting for you.” King William immediately laid down his pen
and opened the door. Then taking the child in his arms, he placed Lord
Buckhurst in the cart, and seizing the pole drew them both along the
gallery to the room in which were seated the Queen, Lady Northampton,
and the company. But no sooner had he entered the apartment, than,
exhausted with the effort, which had forced the blood upon his lungs,
and being constitutionally asthmatic, he threw himself into a chair,
and for some minutes was incapable of uttering a word, breathing with
the utmost difficulty. The Countess of Northampton, shocked at the
consequences of her grandson’s indiscretion, would have punished him,
but the King intervened on his behalf.
When a young man he went on the inevitable Grand Tour. This journey, it
is fair to assume, which was taken at the instigation of his mother’s
relations, was designed to keep him away from the influence of his
enfeebled father and of his step-mother, Ann Roche, quite as much as for
the benefit of his education. His father was very angry at this
withdrawal of his son from his authority, and wrote to him:
i hear my Lady Northampton has ordered you not to obey me; if you take
any notice of what she says i have enough in my power to make you
suffer for it beyond what she will make you amends for. But i cannot
imagine you to be such a fool as to be governed by the passion and
folly of anybody.
Your affectionate father,
DORSET.
i expect you will come away by the next yocht.
The next yacht, however, came away without Lord Buckhurst, and the young
man did not return to England until after his father’s death. Shortly
after his succession and return he married Elizabeth Colyear, his “dear,
dear Colly,” and was appointed Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports at a
salary of £160 a year, and Lieutenant of Dover Castle at £50. This is
the menu and cost of the dinner given by the youthful Lord Warden at
Dover Castle on the 16th August 1709 on his being appointed by Queen
Anne:
£ _s._ _d._
5 Soups 3 0 0
12 dishes of fish 10 16 0
1 Westphalia Ham and five fowls 1 6 0
8 dishes of pullets and oysters, with bacon 4 16 0
10 Almond puddings 3 0 0
12 haunches of venison, roast 1 16 0
6 dishes of roast pigs 2 2 0
3 dishes of roast geese 1 4 0
12 Venison pasties 6 0 0
12 white Fragacies with Peetets 7 4 0
8 dishes of “ragged” veal 4 16 0
_Second Course_
14 dishes of ducks, turkey, and pigeons 8 0 0
15 codlin tarts, creamed 4 10 0
12 dishes of roast lobster 4 16 0
12 dishes of umble pies 4 4 0
10 dishes of fried fish 5 0 0
8 dishes of Chickens and rabbits 4 0 0
_Ryders_
5 dishes of dried sweetmeats 17 10 0
12 dishes of jelly 4 16 0
6 dishes of Selebub cream 2 8 0
13 dishes of fruit 10 0 0
8 dishes of Almond Pies gilt 4 16 0
12 dishes of Custard Florentines 3 12 0
8 dishes of lobster 3 4 0
120 Intermediate plates of sorts 9 0 0
_Side-Table_
A large chine of beef stuck with flags and banners 5 10 0
1 loaf of double refined sugar 0 4 6
Oil and vinegar 0 3 0
Outcharges and expenses of pewter, carriage, bread,
wharfage, turnspits, glasses, mugs, for ten men,
horses, use of bakehouse, cooks, coach hire 76 16 9
This was an office he held intermittently for many years, and on one
occasion, England being then at war with Spain, two hundred and fifty
butts, eight hogsheads, and fifty quarter casks of Spanish mountain
wine, and one hundred jars of Raisins of the Sun, being washed up at
Deal and Sandwich, they were adjudged to him as the Lord Warden’s
perquisite of flotsam and jetsam.
In 1714 died Queen Anne, and Lord Dorset, with others, was sent to
Hanover to announce to George his accession to the English throne. He
returned from Hanover with the new King, and drove with him in his coach
from Greenwich to London. On the way George related that thirty-three
years earlier he had travelled to England as a suitor for the hand of
Queen Anne: returning to Gravesend after the failure of his mission, he
rode a common post-horse, which gave him a fall, so that he arrived at
Gravesend covered with mud. The King amused himself in the coach with
looking out for the place where this misfortune had come upon him, and
pointed it out to Lord Dorset, who no doubt joined politely in the
laughter.
Thus began that curious reign of a King who did not know the language of
his adopted country, who spent as much time in his Hanoverian as in his
English estates, and infinitely preferred them, who surrounded himself
with German courtiers and mistresses, and who locked up his wife for
two-and-thirty years as a punishment for her infidelity. The solemnity
of Lord Dorset cannot have been out of place in such a court. Honours
now crowded rapidly upon him, although at one moment he was temporarily
deprived of all his offices for taking part in political intrigues. He
was made a Knight of the Garter, six years later he was made a duke, he
was given the office of Lord Steward, and finally he entered upon the
first lap of his unfortunate career as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
Before this, however, he was for the second time called upon to be the
bearer of news of accession to a King of England. I give the account in
Lord George’s words:
When the intelligence of his [George I’s] decease, which took place
near Osnabrugh, in the end of July 1727, arrived in London, the
Cabinet having immediately met, thought proper to dispatch the Duke of
Dorset with the news to the Prince of Wales. He then resided at Kew,
in a state of great alienation from the King, the two Courts
maintaining no communication. Some little time being indispensable to
enable my father to appear in a suitable manner before the new
monarch, he sent forward the Duchess his wife, in order to announce
the event. She arrived at Kew just as the Prince, according to his
invariable custom, having undressed himself after dinner, had laid
down in bed. The Duchess demanding permission to see him immediately,
on business of the greatest importance, the servants acquainted the
Princess of Wales with her arrival; and the Duchess, without a
moment’s hesitation, informed her Royal Highness, that George the
First lay dead at Osnabrugh, that the Cabinet had ordered her husband
to be the bearer of the intelligence to his successor, and that the
Duke would follow her in a short time. She added that not a moment
should be lost in communicating so great an event to the Prince, as
the Ministers wished him to come up to London that same evening, in
order to summon a Privy Council, to issue a proclamation, and take
other requisite measures, at the commencement of a new reign.
To the propriety of all these steps the Princess assented; but at the
same time informed the Duchess, that she could not venture to enter
her husband’s room, as he had only just taken off his clothes and
composed himself to sleep. “Besides,” added she, “the Prince will not
give credit to the intelligence, but will exclaim that it is a
fabrication, designed for the purpose of exposing him.” The Duchess
continued nevertheless to remonstrate with her Royal Highness, on the
injurious consequences of losing time, and adding that the Duke of
Dorset would expect to find the Prince not only apprised of it, but
ready to accompany him to London. The Princess of Wales took off her
shoes, opened the chamber door softly, and advanced up to the bedside,
while my mother remained at the threshold, till she should be allowed
to enter the apartment. As soon as the Princess came near the bed, a
voice from under the clothes cried out in German, _Was ist das?_ “I am
come, sir,” answered she, “to announce to you the death of the King,
which has taken place in Germany.” “That is one damned trick,”
returned the Prince, “I do not believe one word of it.” “Sir,” said
the Princess, “it is most certain. The Duchess of Dorset has just
brought the intelligence, and the Duke will be here immediately. The
Ministers hope that you will repair to town this very evening, as your
presence there is indispensable.” Her Royal Highness then threw
herself on her knees, to kiss the new King’s hand; and beckoning to
the Duchess of Dorset to advance, she came in likewise, knelt down,
and assured him of the indisputable truth of his father’s decease.
Convinced at length of the fact, he consented to get up and dress
himself. The Duke of Dorset arriving in his coach and six, almost
immediately afterwards, George the Second quitted Kew the same evening
for London.
George the Second, as Prince of Wales, had been on terms of personal
friendship with the duke. He had stayed at Knole, when half an ox, four
sheep, and a calf were provided, besides the following items for his
visit:
£ _s._ _d._
Butcher 17 0 0
Bread and flour 4 0 0
Fowls, butter and eggs 14 15 0
Poulterer 11 14 0
Fishmonger 9 4 0
Confectioner 25 10 0
Wine 66 0 0
Beer 35 0 0
Master-cook’s bill 20 9 0
To the cooks 37 12 6
The pewterer 3 12 4
The carrier 9 0 0
Lord Lumley’s Grenadiers 3 4 6
———— —— —
£257 1 4
The duke’s first essay in Ireland was not unsuccessful: he left affairs
alone as far as he possibly could and was tolerably popular. It was only
the second time, twenty years later, that he and Lord George incurred so
much dislike. Into the political reasons for this I have already said
that I will not, because I cannot, enter; I will only quote from a
curious lampoon, preserved in the British Museum, which was written to
celebrate the duke’s departure in 1754:
Ringing of the Bell
_or_
A _Hue_ & _Cry_ after _Raymond_ the _Fox_
By ROGER SPY, Esq.
The bells are ringing, Hark! how they merrily toll. What is the cause of
their joy? Or why this cheerful tintinnation? They seem animated, and
their rejoicing seems sensible, so expressive of triumph and hilarity
are their peals, treble, bass and tenor make excellent harmony, and
strike the very heart; the ringers themselves pull with pleasure—what is
it they toll forth, or what may the bells be supposed to say?
_Interpreter_
I’ll tell you what they say ...
_St. Patrick’s_
He was full of Pa-pa tricks,
Says the bell of St. Patrick’s.
_St. Mary_
I wonder how dare he,
Says the bell of St. Mary.
_St. Bride_
Our acts he belied,
Says the bell of St. Bride.
_St. Ann_
He played Cat-in-Pan,
Says the bell of St. Ann.
_St. Andrew_
Bad swash as e’er man drew,
Says the bell of St. Andrew.
_St. Peter_
No vinegar sweeter,
Says the bell of St. Peter.
_St. Owen_
In mischief full knowing,
Says the bell of St. Owen.
_St. Thomas_
The Lord keep him from us,
Says the bell of St. Thomas.
_St. Nicholas Without_
He put good men out,
Says St. Nicholas Without.
_St. Nicholas Within_
He put bad men in,
Says St. Nicholas Within.
_Castle Bell_
You’re a very bad parcel,
Says the bell of the Castle,
and so on, in the same vein.
His patronage of the actress Peg Woffington sets him in a more personal
and amiable light. I have no evidence to prove whether he was following
in the steps of his father; I only know that Peg Woffington’s portrait,
like that of Nell Gwyn and of the Baccelli, is at Knole; that an old
play-bill of hers was found behind the panelling in the Great Hall; that
the duke gave her a command performance at Dublin; and, finally, that
the following facetious petition—was it written by one of the duke’s
disrespectful sons?—is among the Knole papers:
To his Grace LIONEL Duke _of_ DORSET, Lord Lieu^t _of_ Ireland
The humble Memorial of MARGARET WOFFINGTON, _Spinster_. Most humbly
sheweth
That your Memorialist is a woman of great merit and small fortune, and
would be proud of an opportunity of shewing her zeal for his Majesty’s
service by her ready acceptance and faithful discharge of any
employment he shall graciously please to bestow upon her.
That her friends have been at great expense and trouble in procuring
and perusing the list of the several places on this establishment, and
find her extremely well qualified to discharge the Office of
Housekeeper to his Majesty’s Castle as it doth not require much
greater ability than the Rolls or the Chancellorship of the Exchequer.
That your Memorialist is a true friend to the present Constitution in
opposition to all Mock Patriots and drinks the Brownlow Majority and
the Minority for the Money-bill every day devoutly.
That she has already by the assistance of whisky made two considerable
Proselytes Patrick O’Donoghoe and Thady Foley her Chairman tho’ one of
them had been closeted by Col. Dilkes and the other taken by the hand
by Sir Rich^d Cox, and verily believes if the same means were
employed, the Opposition would soon lose its principal supporters.
That your Memorialist can produce two of the greatest Polemical
Writers of the present Age in support of her character, 1st. Peter
Willson who has abused her more than once in his _Universal
Advertiser_—an honour which he is never known to confer on any but
persons of the first ranks and character. 2^{dly} Geo. Faulkner, in
whose impartial Journal are contained a Score of Poems, One Dozen of
Sonnets, Six letters from some of the best Critics, if you will take
their own words for it, four Epigrams, besides occasional paragraphs,
all composed in her praise, and which are at least as well written as
they are printed.
That your Memorialist is little versed in the Housekeeper’s
Arithmetic, having never been instructed in the doctrine of Items,
Dittos, Sums Total and Balances, which circumstance, it is conceived,
will turn out greatly to the advantage of the Government.
That her personal attachment to your Grace is so well known, that odd
reports have been raised in relation to some intimacies that have past
between two persons that shall be nameless, and which she defies her
adversaries to prove.
Wherefore she humbly hopes that Your Grace will take the premises into
your serious consideration, and oblige the present Incumbent to resign
the said office, your Memorialist paying her the full value thereof,
or if she continues obstinate as old women are apt to do, and refuses
to sell, that the reversion may be granted to your Petitioner, and the
rather as she conceives, if it be not done under your Grace’s
administration, there may be some reason to fear it will never be done
at all.
MARGARET WOFFINGTON.
_Mem_: She is ready and willing to act as first Chambermaid to your
Grace, to warm your bed and tuck you in, which, as she is advised and
verily believes, the present Housekeeper is in no manner qualified to
do.
§ iii
I have already mentioned Lady Betty Germaine, who, during the lifetime
of the first duke and duchess, lived almost entirely at Knole and had
three rooms—her bedroom, her sitting-room, and her china closet—set
aside for her exclusive use. This little prim lady, to whom the three
little rooms must have provided so apposite a frame, occupied her time
in writing letters, in stitching at crewel work with brightly-coloured
wools, in making pot-pourri to fill the bowls on the window ledges, and
in telling anecdotes of Queen Anne, whose lady-in-waiting she had once
been, since to her, no doubt, in common with all human nature, the days
which were the past were preferable to the days which were the present.
She was, primarily, the friend of the Duchess of Dorset, and for once a
woman was installed in the house whose coiffure and petticoats the wind
of scandal was unable to ruffle. They composed she, the duchess, the
duke, and Lord George, a harmonious quartette, whose correspondence
survives, voluminous and intimate, pricked into sharper highlights here
and there by the pen of Swift. “As to my duchess,” writes Lady Betty,
“she is so reserved that perhaps she may not be at first so much
admired.” The duke she thought “great-souled,” and it must have been an
occasion of great distress to her that her friend Swift should not
always share her views:
Madam [_he writes to her after failing to obtain some favour from
Dorset_], I owe your Ladyship the acknowledgement of a letter I have
long received, relating to a request I made to my Lord Duke. I now
dismiss you, Madam, from your office of being a go-between upon any
affair I might have with his Grace. I will never more trouble him,
either with my visits or application. His business in this kingdom is
to make himself easy; his lessons are all prescribed for him from
Court; and he is sure, at a very cheap rate, to have a majority of
most corrupt slaves and idiots at his devotion. The happiness of this
Kingdom is of no more consequence to him than it would be to the Great
Mogul....
[Illustration:
LADY BETTY GERMAINE
_From the portrait at Knole by_ C. PHILLIPS
]
One wonders whether such suggestions troubled Lady Betty. Was it
possible that her great-souled friend would not be Lord Steward and Lord
Lieutenant of Ireland and Lord Warden and Lord Lieutenant of Kent, did
he not also happen to be Duke of Dorset? Was it possible that people
such as the Sackvilles occasionally occupied positions due to their
birth rather than to their intellect? Was it true that he, and
particularly Lord George, cared for their own advancement rather than
for the credit of England?—they who _were_ England, who shared the blood
of the Tudors and the Howards and the Spencers and the Cliffords? whose
house was quarried from Kentish rock? whose oaks and beeches were rooted
so deep into the soil of England? Lady Betty herself, who as Lady Betty
Berkeley had come from that most ancient castle—that rose-and-grey
castle, the colour of her own dried rose-leaves, the castle that, squat,
romantic, and uncouth, brooded over the Severn across the meadows of
Gloucestershire—Lady Betty herself was of all people least qualified or
likely to criticize. The household at Knole was ordered on a magnificent
scale, with the duke and duchess and their guest at the apex of the
pyramid which reposed on the base of five servants at £20 each, two at
£15, two at £10 10_s._, seven at £10, two at £8, thirteen at £6, eight
at £5, two at £5, one at £2, besides the chaplain who was unsalaried,
the senior officers, the Steward, the Comptroller, and the Master of the
Horse at £60, £30, and £25 respectively, Tom Durfey living over the
dairy, and the rabble of labourers, gardeners, and what-not, of whom
nobody took any notice. This was life as Lady Betty was accustomed to
find it ordered. If ever she paused to question its system, no trace of
her wondering appears in her letters.
She had a house of her own, Drayton, in Northamptonshire, considered by
Horace Walpole a “venerable heap of ugliness, with many curious bits,”
which she had inherited from her late husband, who in his turn had
inherited it from a first wife. This husband of Lady Betty’s is a
peculiar figure; so peculiar, indeed, so ambiguous, and so equivocal,
that one wonders at his alliance with the orderly Lady Betty Berkeley,
unless this may be explained by the fact that he “possessed a very
handsome person, and was always a distinguished favourite of the other
Sex.” He was, I gather, a soldier of fortune, of uncertain parentage,
or, as Lord George Sackville delicately puts it, “believed to stand in a
very close degree of consanguinity to King William the Third.” William,
at any rate, brought him over to England from Holland in 1688, knighted
him, saw to it that he became a member of the House of Commons, and
assisted him with grants of money; and Germaine, who inherited from his
father no armorial bearings, was accustomed to use a red cross, which
might be taken to mean that his actual was higher than his ostensible
birth. This gentleman combined with the instincts of a collector a
profound ignorance of artistic matters. His principal pride was his
collection of “Rarities,” in which he would exhibit the dagger of Henry
VIII; he believed a certain Sir Matthew Germaine to be the author of St.
Matthew’s Gospel; and at Drayton, where he was building a colonnade, he
caused the columns to be placed upside down, as he had mistaken the
capitals for the pedestals.
This was the man who married Lady Betty Berkeley when she was thirty
years younger than himself. He had previously been married to the
Duchess of Norfolk, whose husband divorced her on Sir John Germaine’s
account. After her death, by which he inherited Drayton, he attached
himself to the Duke and Duchess of Dorset, who received him with their
wonted hospitality; but this was not enough: he wanted a brilliant
alliance, he wanted an heir to Drayton. While at Bristol he “cast his
eyes upon Lady Betty, whose birth, character, and accomplishments
rendered her every way worthy of his choice.” They married; and the
friendship with the Dorsets, to whom Lady Betty was already devoted, was
strengthened by the new bond. Although the difference in age was so
considerable, Lady Betty, through her “superior understanding, added to
the most correct deportment, acquired great influence over him,” and
when after twelve years of marriage Sir John died, “a martyr to the gout
as well as to other diseases,” he called his wife to his bedside and
spoke to her in these terms:
Lady Betty [_said he_], I have made you a very indifferent husband,
and particularly of late years, when infirmities have rendered me a
burden to myself, but I shall not be much longer troublesome to you. I
advise you never again to marry an old man, but I strenuously exhort
you to marry when I am gone, and I will endeavour to put it in your
power. You have fulfilled every obligation towards me in an exemplary
manner, and I wish to demonstrate my sense of your merits. I have,
therefore, by my will, bequeathed you this estate, which I received
from my first wife; and which, as she gave to me, so I leave to you. I
hope you will marry and have children to inherit it. But, if events
should determine otherwise, it would give me pleasure to think that
Drayton descended after your decease to a younger son of my friend the
Duchess of Dorset.
He then passed away, but in one particular Lady Betty did not take his
advice: she never married again, although she survived him by fifty
years, and thus it is perhaps that I regard her, with her crewel work,
her china closet, and her pot-pourri, rather as a spinster than as a
widow. There is no trace at all at Knole of Sir John Germaine, that
royal bastard, that handsome and enterprising child of fortune, thanks
to whom Drayton came into the possession of Lord George and continues to
this day in the hands of his descendants. Of Lady Betty, on the other
hand, there are copious traces. There are her rooms, which I have
already described in the first chapter, her small square four-poster,
her ring-box, and the painted wooden figure of a lady with the
_fontange_ of Queen Anne’s day on her head. There is Lady Betty’s own
portrait, a miniature full-length, in blue brocade. There is yard upon
yard of her industrious embroidery. There is the pot-pourri which is
made every summer from her receipt (1750):
Gather dry, Double Violets, Rose Leaves, Lavender, Myrtle flowers,
Verbena, Bay leaves, Rosemary, Balm, Musk, Geranium. Pick these from
the stalks and dry on paper in the sun for a day or two before putting
them in a jar. This should be a large white one, well glazed, with a
close fitting cover, also a piece of card the exact size of the jar,
which you must keep pressed down on the flowers. Keep a new wooden
spoon to stir the salt and flowers from the bottom, before you put in
a fresh layer of bay salt above and below every layer of flowers. Have
ready of spices, plenty of Cinnamon, Mace, Nutmeg, and Pepper and
Lemon-peel pounded. For a large jar ½ lb. Orris root, 1 oz. Storax, 1
oz. Gum Benjamin, 2 ozs. Calamino Aromatico,[12] 2 grs. Musk, and a
small quantity of oil of Rhodium. The spice and gums to be added when
you have collected all the flowers you intend to put in. Mix all well
together, press it down well, and spread bay salt on the top to
exclude the air until the January or February following. Keep the jar
in a cool, dry place.
In the second respect Lady Betty carried out her husband’s wishes, for
when she died herself at the age of nearly ninety she bequeathed the
“venerable heap of ugliness” to Lord George, with £20,000 and half the
residue of her estate.
§ iv
CHARLES SACKVILLE
2nd
Duke _of_ Dorset
Since I have avoided all political details, which would have led anyone
more conversant than myself with the background to the facts into pages
of dissertation, there remains very little to say of the first Duke of
Dorset. He died a few years before his dear, dear Colly, and was
succeeded by his son, that Lord Middlesex to whom I have alluded as
being so unsatisfactory. There is not much record of this
good-for-nothing duke, who enjoyed his dukedom only four years, and who
was married to a “very short, very plain, very yellow, and vain girl,
full of Greek and Latin.” Apparently he married her no earlier than he
need, for Horace Walpole writes of “Lord Middlesex’s wedding, which was
over a week before it was known. I believe the bride told it then, for
he and all his family are so silent that they would never have mentioned
it; she might have popped out a child, before a single Sackville would
have been at the expense of a syllable to justify her.” I have already
quoted the few epithets I have found relating to this duke, the “proud,
disgusted, melancholy, solitary man ...” who produced operas and spent
enormous sums on defending singers in legal actions. He was reputed mad,
“a disorder which there was too much reason to suppose, ran in the
blood”; he was certainly eccentric; and there is a large picture of him
in the ball-room at Knole dressed as a Roman emperor, with bare knees, a
plumed helmet on his head, and various pieces of armour. Besides these
scanty documents, there are some verses which scarcely entitle him to be
called a poet: _Arno’s Vale_, which I have never read, and which is
addressed to a certain Madame Muscovita, whose portrait is at Knole; and
others which are at Knole, for instance:
[Illustration:
LADY BETTY GERMAINE’S BEDROOM AT KNOLE
]
DUCK HUNTING
_Hard by where Knole’s exalted towers rise
Upon a green smooth plain a pond there lies,
With verdant grass encircled round, a place
Seated commodiously the duck to chase.
Here in the heat of day the youths for sport
With well-taught spaniels to the pond resort.
The youths on ev’ry side the pond surround,
With fav’ring cries the hollow woods resound.
The eager dogs with barking rend the skies
Until encouraged by their masters’ cries
They plunge into the stream: the stream before ’em flies.
Rover, the first that plung’d, the first in fame
And one from Charles’s noble breed that came.
The next came Trip, tho’ of a bastard race,
And smaller size, he swam the next in place.
The last came Ranger, with his spotted back,
That swam but slow: the gravest of the pack.
His deep rough voice was of a hoarser sound
With long red ears that swept along the ground....
And thus the sport goes on, till weary grown,
And ev’ryone is willing to go home.
The weary duck at last swims close to land;
They take her up with a kind, pitying hand.
Of every spannel they extoll the praise
And all their virtues to the skies they raise.
And then they, weary, homewards take their way,
And drown in sprightly bowls the labours of the day._
The duke’s poems are worthless, of course, but among the Knole papers of
this date is one which I cannot forbear from reproducing:
AN EPISTLE _from_ DAME I ... L ... _to the_ REVD. MR. B ...
_Sweet youth, ’tis hard thy innocence should be
A source of scandal and reproach to me.
Nay, blush not—with reluctance I prevail
O’er innate modesty to own the tale._
_That fatal day when first I saw thy face
And marked each angel-look and smiling grace,
Thy fair idea struck my tender heart,
And, oh! remained, though thou didst soon depart;
Maternal love, methought, thou didst inspire,
Around my heart still played the lambent fire.
Thoughtless of harm, why should I aught conceal?
A friend I meet, and thus the truth reveal_:
“_Say, didst thou mark that dove-like form to-day,
Those eyes that languished with so mild a ray?
Can fleecy lambs such innocence disclose,
E’er glowed such blushes on the opening rose?
Safe could I take the youngster to my bed
And on my bosom fondly rest his head,
Harmless the tedious night were so beguiled;
So watch fond mothers o’er the sucking child._”
_That seeming friend betrayed me, and began
To whisper through the house, “I loved the man.”
Then memory spread and worse suspicions rose,
And searching spies broke in on my repose;
Nor chamber, closet, bed, were sacred then:
They sought to find_ thee, _ah! they sought in vain!
Thou wrapped in innocence might sleeping be,
Unconscious of the woes I bore for thee._
_The uproar now withdrawn, I strive to rest,
And throw my arms across my pensive breast.
Soon as my eyelids close I see thy form,
Pure as the snow-drop, yet in blushes warm.
But oh! what followed?—strange effect of fright,
I dreamed that in my bed thou pass’t the night ..._
_Come, with thy innocence, thy smiles impart
Fresh joy to me, and mend each wicked heart,
Talk much of charity, and_ Love, _too, teach:
’Tis mine to suffer, but ’tis thine to preach_.