The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Memoirs of Count Grammont, Complete, by
Anthony Hamilton

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Title: The Memoirs of Count Grammont, Complete

Author: Anthony Hamilton

Editor: Sir Walter Scott

Release Date: April, 2004  [EBook #5416]
Posting Date: August 23, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNT GRAMMONT ***




Produced by David Widger





MEMOIRS OF COUNT GRAMMONT

By Anthony Hamilton

Edited, With Notes, By Sir Walter Scott



CONTENTS:

 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF ANTHONY HAMILTON

 CHAPTER FIRST.
    INTRODUCTION

 CHAPTER SECOND.
    ARRIVAL OF THE CHEVALIER GRAMMONT AT THE SIEGE OF TRINO,
    AND THE LIFE HE LED THERE

 CHAPTER THIRD.
    EDUCATION AND ADVENTURES OF THE CHEVALIER GRAMMONT BEFORE
    HIS COMING TO THE SIEGE OF TRINO

 CHAPTER FOURTH.
    HIS ARRIVAL AT THE COURT OF TURIN, AND HOW HE SPENT HIS TIME THERE

 CHAPTER FIFTH.
    HE RETURNS TO THE COURT OF FRANCE--HIS ADVENTURES AT THE SIEGE OF
    ARRAS--HIS REPLY TO CARDINAL MAZARIN--HE IS BANISHED THE COURT

 CHAPTER SIXTH.
    HIS ARRIVAL AT THE ENGLISH COURT--THE VARIOUS PERSONAGES OF
    THIS COURT

 CHAPTER SEVENTH.
    HE FALLS IN LOVE WITH MISS HAMILTON--VARIOUS ADVENTURES AT THE BALL
    IN THE QUEEN’S DRAWING-ROOM--CURIOUS VOYAGE OF HIS VALET-DE-CHAMBRE
    TO AND FROM PARIS

 CHAPTER EIGHTH.
    FUNNY ADVENTURE OF THE CHAPLAIN POUSSATIN--THE STORY OF THE SIEGE OF
    LERIDA--MARRIAGE OF THE DUKE OF YORK, AND OTHER DETAILS ABOUT THE
    ENGLISH COURT

 CHAPTER NINTH.
    VARIOUS LOVE INTRIGUES AT THE ENGLISH COURT

 CHAPTER TENTH.
    OTHER LOVE INTRIGUES AT THE ENGLISH COURT

 CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
    RETURN OF THE CHEVALIER GRAMMONT TO FRANCE--HE IS SENT BACK TO
    ENGLAND--VARIOUS LOVE INTRIGUES AT THIS COURT, AND MARRIAGE OF MOST
    OF THE HEROES OF THESE MEMOIRS




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF ANTHONY HAMILTON.


Anthony Hamilton, the celebrated author of the Grammont Memoirs, much
cannot now be with certainty known.

   [For uniformity’s sake the writer of this sketch has followed the
   Memoirs in the spelling of this name; but he thinks it necessary to
   observe that it should be Gramont, not Grammont.]

The accounts prefixed to the different editions of his works, down to
the year 1805, are very imperfect; in that year a new, and, in general,
far better edition than any of the preceding ones, was published in
Paris, to which a sketch of his life was also added; but it contains
rather just criticisms on his works, than any very novel or satisfactory
anecdote concerning himself. It is not pretended here to gratify
literary curiosity as fully as it ought to be, with regard to this
singular and very ingenious man; some effort, however, may be made to
communicate a few more particulars relative to him, than the public has
hitherto, perhaps, been acquainted with.

Anthony Hamilton was of the noble family of that name: Sir George
Hamilton, his father, was a younger son of James, Earl of Abercorn, a
native of Scotland. His mother was daughter of Lord Thurles, and
sister to James, the first Duke of Ormond; his family and connections
therefore, on the maternal side, were entirely Irish. He was, as well as
his brothers and sisters, born in Ireland, it is generally said, about
the year 1646; but there is some reason to imagine that it was three or
four years earlier. The place of his birth, according to the best family
accounts, was Roscrea, in the county of Tipperary, the usual residence
of his father when not engaged by military or public business.

   [In September, 1646, Owen O’Neale took Roscrea, and, as Carte says,
   “put man, woman, and child to the sword, except Sir George
   Hamilton’s lady, sister to the Marquis of Ormond, and some few
   gentlewomen whom he kept prisoners.” No family suffered more in
   those disastrous times than the house of Ormond. Lady Hamilton died
   in August, 1680, as appears from an interesting and affecting letter
   of her brother, the Duke of Ormond, dated Carrick, August 25th. He
   had lost his noble son, Lord Ossory, not three weeks before.]

It has been always said, that the family migrated to France when Anthony
was an infant; but this is not the fact: “Sir George Hamilton,” says
Carte, “would have accompanied his brother-in-law, the Marquis of
Ormond, to France, in December, 1650: but, as he was receiver-general
in Ireland, he stayed to pass his accounts, which he did to the
satisfaction of all parties, notwithstanding much clamour had been
raised against him.” When that business was settled, he, in the spring
of 1651, took Lady Hamilton and all his family to France, and resided
with Lord and Lady Ormond, near Caen, in Normandy, in great poverty
and distress, till the Marchioness of Ormond, a lady whose mind was as
exalted as her birth, went over to England, and, after much solicitation
obtained two thousand pounds a year from her own and, her husband’s
different estates in Ireland.

   [Hence possibly Voltaire’s mistake in stating that Hamilton was born
   at Caen, in his Catalogue des Ecrivains du Siecle de Louis XIV.]

This favour was granted her by Cromwell, who always professed the
greatest respect for her. The Marchioness resided in Ireland, with the
younger part of her family, from 1655 till after the Restoration; while
the Marquis of Ormond continued for a considerable part of that
period with his two sisters, Lady Clancarty and Lady Hamilton, at the
Feuillatines, in the Faubourg St. Jacques, in Paris.

It appears from a letter of the Marquis to Sir Robert Southwell, that,
although he himself was educated in the Protestant religion, not only
his father and mother, but all his brothers and sisters, were bred, and
always continued, Roman Catholics. Sir George Hamilton also, according
to Carte, was a Roman Catholic; Anthony, therefore, was bred in the
religion of his family, and conscientiously adhered to it through life.

   [That historian states that the king (Charles I.) deprived several
   papists of their military commissions, and, among others, Sir George
   Hamilton, who, notwithstanding, served him with loyalty and
   unvarying fidelity.]

He entered early into the army of Louis XIV., as did his brothers
George, Richard, and John, the former of whom introduced the company of
English gens d’armes into France, in 1667, according to Le Pere Daniel,
author of the History of the French Army, who adds the following short
account of its establishment: Charles II., being restored to his throne,
brought over to England several catholic officers and soldiers, who
had served abroad with him and his brother, the Duke of York, and
incorporated them with his guards; but the parliament having obliged him
to dismiss all officers who were Catholics, the king permitted George
Hamilton to take such as were willing to accompany him to France, where
Louis XIV. formed them into a company of gens d’armes, and being
highly pleased with them, became himself their captain, and made George
Hamilton their captain-lieutenant:--[They were composed of English,
Scotch, and Irish.] Whether Anthony belonged to this corps I know not;
but this is certain, that he distinguished himself particularly in
his profession, and was advanced to considerable posts in the French
service.

Anthony Hamilton’s residence was now almost constantly in France. Some
years previous to this he had been much in England, and, towards
the close of Charles II.’s reign, in Ireland, where so many of his
connections remained. When James II. succeeded to the throne, the door
being then opened to the Roman Catholics, he entered into the Irish
army, where we find him, in 1686, a lieutenant-colonel in Sir Thomas
Newcomen’s regiment. That he did not immediately hold a higher rank
there, may perhaps be attributed to the recent accession of the king,
his general absence from Ireland, the advanced age of his uncle, the
Duke of Ormond, and, more than all, perhaps, to his Grace’s early
disapprobation of James’s conduct in Ireland, which displayed itself
more fully afterwards, especially in the ecclesiastical promotions.

Henry, Earl of Clarendon, son to the lord-chancellor, was at that time
lord-lieutenant of Ireland, and appears, notwithstanding his general
distrust and dislike of the Catholics, to have held Anthony Hamilton in
much estimation: he speaks of his knowledge of, and constant attention
to, the duties of his profession; his probity, and the dependance that
was to be placed on him, in preference to others of the same religious
persuasion, and, in October, 1686, wrote to the Earl of Sunderland
respecting him, as follows: “I have only this one thing more to trouble
your lordship with at present, concerning Colonel Anthony Hamilton,
to get him a commission to command as colonel, though he is but
lieutenant-colonel to Sir Thomas Newcomen, in regard of the commands he
has had abroad: and I am told it is often done in France, which makes
me hope it will not be counted an unreasonable request. I would likewise
humbly recommend to make Colonel Anthony Hamilton a privy-councillor
here.” Lord Clarendon’s recommendations were ultimately successful:
Hamilton was made a privy-councillor in Ireland, and had a pension of
L200 a year on the Irish establishment; and was appointed governor
of Limerick, in the room of Sir William King, notwithstanding he had
strongly opposed the new-modelling of the army by the furious Tyrconnel.
In the brief accounts which have been given of his life, it is said that
he had a regiment of infantry; but, though this is very probable,
there is no mention whatever of his commanding a regiment in the lists
published of King James’s army, which are supposed to be very accurate:
he is indeed set down among the general officers. Lord Clarendon, in one
of his letters to the lord-treasurer, states, “That the news of the day
was, that Colonel Russell was to be lieutenant-colonel to the Duke
of Ormond’s regiment, and that Colonel Anthony Hamilton was to have
Russell’s regiment, and that Mr. Luttrell was to be lieutenant-colonel
to Sir Thomas Newcomen, in the place of Anthony Hamilton.” It is not
known whether Anthony was present at the battle of the Boyne, or of
Aughrim: his brother John was killed at the latter; and Richard, who
was a lieutenant-general, led on the cavalry with uncommon gallantry and
spirit at the Boyne it is to be wished that his candour and integrity
had equalled his courage; but, he acted with great duplicity; and King
William’s contemptuous echoing back his word to him, when he declared
something on his honour, is well known: He is frequently mentioned
by Lord Clarendon, but by no means with the same approbation as his
brother. After the total overthrow of James’s affairs in Ireland, the
two brothers finally quitted these kingdoms, and retired to France.
Richard lived much with the Cardinal de Bouillon, who was the great
protector of the Irish in France, and kept (what must have been indeed
highly consolatory to many an emigrant of condition) a magnificent
table, which has been recorded in the most glowing and grateful terms,
by that gay companion, and celebrated lover of good cheer, Philippe de
Coulanges, who occasionally mentions the “amiable Richard Hamilton” as
one of the cardinal’s particular intimates. Anthony, who was regarded
particularly as a man of letters and elegant talents, resided almost
entirely at St. Germain: solitary walks in the forest of that place
occupied his leisure hours in the morning; and poetical pursuits, or
agreeable society, engaged the evening: but much of his time seems to
have rolled heavily along; his sister, Madame de Grammont, living
more at court, or in Paris, than always suited his inclinations or his
convenience. His great resource at St. Germain was the family of the
Duke of Berwick (son of James II.): that nobleman appears to have been
amiable in private life, and his attachment to Hamilton was steady and
sincere. The Duchess of Berwick was also his friend. It is necessary to
mention this lady particularly, as well as her sisters: they were the
daughters of Henry Bulkeley, son to the first viscount of that name:
their father had been master of the household to Charles: their mother
was Lady Sophia Stewart, sister to the beautiful Duchess of Richmond,
so conspicuous in the Grammont Memoirs. The sisters of the Duchess of
Berwick were Charlotte, married to Lord Clare, Henrietta, and Laura.
They all occupy a considerable space in Hamilton’s correspondence, and
the two last are the ladies so often addressed as the Mademoiselles B.;
they are almost the constant subjects of Hamilton’s verses; and it is
recorded that he was a particular admirer of Henrietta Bulkeley; but
their union would have been that of hunger and thirst, for both were
very poor and very illustrious: their junction would, of course, have
militated against every rule of common prudence. To the influence of
this lady, particularly, we are indebted for one or two of Hamilton’s
agreeable novels: she had taste enough to laugh at the extravagant
stories then so much in fashion, “plus arabes qu’en Arabie,” as Hamilton
says; and he, in compliance with her taste, and his own, soon put
the fashionable tales to flight, by the publication of the ‘Quatre
Facardins’, and, more especially, ‘La Fleur d’Epine’.

   [They were wretched imitations of some of the Persian and Arabian
   tales, in which everything was distorted, and rendered absurd and
   preposterous.]

Some of the introductory verses to these productions are written with
peculiar ease and grace; and are highly extolled, and even imitated, by
Voltaire. La Harpe praises the Fleur d’Epine, as the work of an original
genius: I do not think, however, that they are much relished in
England, probably because very ill translated. Another of his literary
productions was the novel called Le Belier, which he wrote on the
following occasion: Louis XIV. had presented to the Countess of Grammont
(whom he highly esteemed) a remarkably elegant small country house in
the park of Versailles: this house became so fashionable a resort, and
brought such constant visitors, that the Count de Grammont said, in his
usual way, he would present the king with a list of all the persons he
was obliged to entertain there, as more suited to his Majesty’s purse
than his own: the countess wished to change the name of the place
from the vulgar appellation of Le Moulineau into that of Pentalie: and
Hamilton, in his novel, wrote a history of a giant, an enchantment, and
a princess, to commemorate her resolution. It has however happened that
the giant Moulineau has had the advantage in the course of time; for
the estate, which is situated near Meudon, upon the Seine, retains its
original and popular designation.

About the year 1704, Hamilton turned his attention to collecting
the memoirs of his brother-in-law, the Count de Grammont, as we may
conjecture, from the epistle beginning “Honneur des rives eloignees”
 being written towards the close of the above year: it is dated, or
supposed to be so, from the banks of the Garonne. Among other authors
whom Hamilton at first proposes to Grammont, as capable of writing
his life (though, on reflection, he thinks them not suited to it), is
Boileau, whose genius he professes to admire; but adds that his muse has
somewhat of malignity; and that such a muse might caress with one hand
and satirize him with the other. This letter was sent by Hamilton to
Boileau, who answered him with great politeness; but, at the same time
that he highly extolled the epistle to Grammont, he, very naturally,
seemed anxious to efface any impression which such a representation of
his satiric vein might make on the Count’s mind, and accordingly added
a few complimentary verses to him: this letter is dated, Paris, 8th
February, 1705. About the same time, another letter was written to
Hamilton on the subject of the Epistle to Grammont, by La Chapelle, who
also seemed desirous that his life should be given to the public, but
was much perplexed which of the most celebrated ancients to compare the
count to. Mecaenas first presented himself to his imagination: absurdly
enough, in my opinion; for there was not a trace of similitude between
the two characters. This, however, afforded him some opportunity, as he
thought, of discovering a resemblance between Horace and Hamilton, in
which he equally failed. Petronius is then brought forward, as affording
some comparison to the Count;--a man of pleasure, giving up the day to
sleep, and the night to entertainment; but then, adds La Chapelle, it
will be suggested that, such is the perpetual activity of the Count of
Grammont’s mind, he may be said to sleep neither night nor day; and if
Petronius died, the Count seems determined never to die at all. (He was
at this time about eighty-five years of age.) It may well be supposed
that all this, though now perfectly vapid and uninteresting, was
extremely flattering to Grammont; and the result was, that he very much
wished to have his life, or part of it, at least, given to the public.
Hamilton, who had been so long connected with him, and with whose
agreeable talents he was now so familiarized, was, on every account,
singled out by him as the person who could best introduce him
historically to the public. It is ridiculous to mention Grammont as the
author of his own Memoirs: his excellence, as a man of wit, was entirely
limited to conversation. Bussy Rabutin, who knew him perfectly, states
that he wrote almost worse than any one. If this was said, and very
truly, of him in his early days, it can hardly be imagined that he
would, when between eighty and ninety years of age, commence a regular,
and, in point of style, most finished composition. Besides, independent
of everything else, what man would so outrage all decorum as to call
himself the admiration of the age? for so is Grammont extolled in the
Memoirs, with a variety of other encomiastic expressions; although,
perhaps, such vanity has not been without example. Hamilton, it is
true, says that he acts as Grammont’s secretary, and only holds the pen,
whilst the Count dictates to him such particulars of his life as were
the most singular, and least known. This is said with great modesty,
and, as to part of the work, perhaps with great truth: it requires,
however, some explanation. Grammont was more than twenty years older
than Hamilton; consequently, the earlier part of his life could
only have been known, or was best known, to the latter from repeated
conversations, and the long intimacy which subsisted between them.
Whether Grammont formally dictated the events of his younger days, or
not, is of little consequence from his general character, it is probable
that he did not. However, the whole account of such adventures as he was
engaged in, from his leaving home to his interview with Cardinal Mazarin
(excepting the character of Monsieur de Senantes, and Matta, who was
well known to Hamilton), the relation of the siege of Lerida, the
description of Gregorio Brice, and the inimitable discovery of his own
magnificent suit of clothes on the ridiculous bridegroom at Abbeville;
all such particulars must have been again and again repeated to Hamilton
by Grammont, and may therefore be fairly grounded on the count’s
authority. The characters of the court of Charles II., and its history,
are to be ascribed to Hamilton: from his residence, at various times,
in the court of London, his connection with the Ormond family, not
to mention others, he must have been well acquainted with them. Lady
Chesterfield, who may be regarded almost as the heroine of the work, was
his cousin-german.

   [She was born at the castle of Kilkenny, July, 1640, as appears from
   Carte’s life of her father, the Duke of Ormond.]

But, although the history altogether was written by Hamilton, it may
not perhaps be known to every reader that Grammont himself sold the
manuscript for fifteen hundred livres; and when it was brought to
Fontenelle, then censor of the press, he refused to license it,
from respect to the character of the Count, which, he thought, was
represented as that of a gambler, and an unprincipled one too. In fact,
Grammont, like many an old gentleman, seems to have recollected the
gaieties of his youth with more complaisance than was necessary, and has
drawn them in pretty strong colours in that part of the work which is
more particularly his own. He laughed at poor Fontenelle’s scruples, and
complained to the chancellor, who forced the censor to acquiesce: the
license was granted, and the Count put the whole of the money, or the
best part of it, in his pocket, though he acknowledged the work to be
Hamilton’s. This is exactly correspondent to his general character: when
money was his object, he had little, or rather no delicacy.

The History of Grammont may be considered as unique there is nothing
like it in any language. For drollery, knowledge of the world, various
satire, general utility, united with great vivacity of composition,
Gil Blas is unrivalled: but, as a merely agreeable book, the Memoirs
of Grammont perhaps deserve that character more than any which was
ever written: it is pleasantry throughout, pleasantry of the best
sort, unforced, graceful, and engaging. Some French critic has justly
observed, that, if any book were to be selected as affording the truest
specimen of perfect French gaiety, the Memoirs of Grammont would be
selected in preference to all others. This has a Frenchman said of the
work of a foreigner: but that foreigner possessed much genius, had lived
from his youth, not only in the best society of France, but with the
most singular and agreeable man that France could produce. Still,
however, though Grammont and Hamilton were of dispositions very
different, the latter must have possessed talents peculiarly brilliant,
and admirably adapted to coincide with, and display those of his
brother-in-law to the utmost advantage. Gibbon extols the “ease and
purity of Hamilton’s inimitable style;” and in this he is supported by
Voltaire, although he adds the censure, that the Grammont Memoirs are,
in point of materials, the most trifling; he might also in truth have
said, the most improper. The manners of the court of Charles II. were,
to the utmost, profligate and abandoned: yet in what colours have they
been drawn by Hamilton? The elegance of his pencil has rendered them
more seductive and dangerous, than if it had more faithfully copied the
originals. From such a mingled mass of grossness of language, and of
conduct, one would have turned away with disgust and abhorrence; but
Hamilton was, to use the words of his admirer, Lord Orford, “superior to
the indelicacy of the court,” whose vices he has so agreeably depicted;
and that superiority has sheltered such vices from more than half the
oblivion which would now have for ever concealed them.

The Count de Grammont died in 1707. Some years after the publication
of his Memoirs, Hamilton was engaged in a very different work: he
translated Pope’s Essay on Criticism into French, and, as it should
seem, so much to that great poet’s satisfaction, that he wrote a
very polite letter of thanks to him, which is inserted in Pope’s
Correspondence. Hamilton’s Essay was, I believe, never printed, though
Pope warmly requested to have that permission: the reign of Louis XIV.
had now ceased; and, for several years before his death, the character
of the old court of that prince had ceased also: profligacy and gaiety
had given way to devotion and austerity. Of Hamilton’s friends and
literary acquaintance few were left: the Duke of Berwick was employed in
the field, or at Versailles: some of the ladies, however, continued at
St. Germain; and in their society, particularly that of his niece,
the Countess of Stafford (in whose name he carried on a lively
correspondence with Lady Mary Wortley Montague), he passed much of his
time. He occasionally indulged in poetical compositions, of a style
suited to his age and character; and when he was past seventy, he
wrote that excellent copy of verses, ‘Sur l’ Usage de la Vie dans
la Vieillesse’; which, for grace of style, justness, and purity of
sentiment, does honour to his memory.

Hamilton died at St. Germain, in April, 1720, aged about seventy-four.
His death was pious and resigned. From his poem, entitled Reflections,
he appears, like some other authors, to have turned his mind, in old
age, entirely to those objects of sacred regard, which, sooner or later,
must engage the attention of every rational mind. To poetry he bids an
eternal adieu, in language which breathes no diminution of genius, at
the moment that he for ever recedes from the poetical character. But he
aspired to a better.

Whatever were Hamilton’s errors, his general character was respectable.
He has been represented as grave, and even dull, in society; the very
reverse, in short, of what he appears in his Memoirs: but this is
probably exaggerated. Unquestionably, he had not the unequalled vivacity
of the Count de Grammont in conversation; as Grammont was, on the other
hand, inferior, in all respects, to Hamilton when the pen was in his
hand; the latter was, however, though reserved in a large society,
particularly agreeable in a more select one. Some of his letters remain,
in which he alludes to his want of that facility at impromptu which
gave such brilliancy to the conversation of some of his brother wits
and contemporaries. But, while we admit the truth of this, let it be
remembered, at the same time, that when he wrote this, he was by no
means young; that he criticised his own defects with severity; that he
was poor, and living in a court which itself subsisted on the alms of
another. Amidst such circumstances, extemporary gaiety cannot always be
found. I can suppose, that the Duchess of Maine, who laid claim to the
character of a patroness of wit, and, like many who assert such claims,
was very troublesome, very self-sufficient, and very ‘exigeante’,
might not always have found that general superiority, or even transient
lustre, which she expected in Hamilton’s society: yet, considering the
great difference of their age and situation, this circumstance will
not greatly impeach his talents for conversation. But the work of real
genius must for ever remain; and of Hamilton’s genius, the Grammont
Memoirs will always continue a beauteous and graceful monument. To
that monument may also be added, the candour, integrity, and unassuming
virtues of the amiable author.




CHAPTER FIRST. INTRODUCTION


As those who read only for amusement are, in my opinion, more worthy of
attention than those who open a book merely to find fault, to the former
I address myself, and for their entertainment commit the following
pages to press, without being in the least concerned about the severe
criticisms of the latter. I further declare, that the order of time and
disposition of the facts, which give more trouble to the writer than
pleasure to the reader, shall not much embarrass me in these Memoirs.
It being my design to convey a just idea of my hero, those circumstances
which most tend to illustrate and distinguish his character shall find
a place in these fragments just as they present themselves to
my imagination, without paying any particular attention to their
arrangement. For, after all, what does it signify where the portrait
is begun, provided the assemblage of the parts forms a whole which
perfectly expresses the original? The celebrated Plutarch, who treats
his heroes as he does his readers, commences the life of the one just as
he thinks fit, and diverts the attention of the other with digressions
into antiquity, or agreeable passages of literature, which frequently
have no reference to the subject; for instance, he tells us that
Demetrius Poliorcetes was far from being so tall as his father,
Antigonus; and afterwards, that his reputed father, Antigonus, was only
his uncle; but this is not until he has begun his life with a short
account of his death, his various exploits, his good and bad qualities;
and at last, out of compassion to his failings, brings forward a
comparison between him and the unfortunate Mark Antony.

What I have said upon this subject is not meant to reflect upon this
historian, to whom, of all the ancients, we are most obliged; it is only
intended to authorize the manner in which I have treated a life far more
extraordinary than any of those he has transmitted to us. It is my part
to describe a man whose inimitable character casts a veil over those
faults which I shall neither palliate nor disguise; a man distinguished
by a mixture of virtues and vices so closely linked together as in
appearance to form a necessary dependence, glowing with the greatest
beauty when united, shining with the brightest lustre when opposed.

It is this indefinable brilliancy, which, in war, in love, in gaming,
and in the various stages of a long life, has rendered the Count de
Grammont the admiration of his age, and the delight of every country
wherein he has displayed his engaging wit, dispensed his generosity and
magnificence, or practised his inconstancy: it is owing to this that
the sallies of a sprightly imagination have produced those admirable
bons-mots which have been with universal applause transmitted to
posterity. It is owing to this that he preserved his judgment free and
unembarrassed in the most trying situations, and enjoyed an uncommon
presence of mind and facetiousness of temper in the most imminent
dangers of war. I shall not attempt to draw his portrait: his person has
been described by Bussi and St. Evremond, authors more entertaining than
faithful.

   [Voltaire, in the age of Louis XIV., ch. 24, speaking of that
   monarch, says, “even at the same time when he began to encourage
   genius by his liberality, the Count de Bussi was severely punished
   for the use he made of his: he was sent to the Bastile in 1664.
   ‘The Amours of the Gauls’ was the pretence of his imprisonment; but
   the true cause was the song in which the king was treated with too
   much freedom, and which, upon this occasion, was brought to
   remembrance to ruin Bussi, the reputed author of it.

          Que Deodatus est heureux,
          De baiser ce bec amoureux,
          Qui d’une oreille a l’autre va!

     See Deodatus with his billing dear,
     Whose amorous mouth breathes love from ear to ear!

   “His works were not good enough to compensate for the mischief they
   did him. He spoke his own language with purity: he had some merit,
   but more conceit: and he made no use of the merit he had, but to
   make himself enemies.” Voltaire adds, “Bussi was released at the
   end of eighteen months; but he was in disgrace all the rest of his
   life, in vain protesting a regard for Louis XIV.” Bussi died 1693.
   Of St. Evremond, see note, postea.]

The former has represented the Chevalier Grammont as artful, fickle, and
even somewhat treacherous in his amours, and indefatigable and cruel
in his jealousies. St. Evremond has used other colours to express the
genius and describe the general manners of the Count; whilst both, in
their different pictures, have done greater honour to themselves than
justice to their hero.

It is, therefore, to the Count we must listen, in the agreeable relation
of the sieges and battles wherein he distinguished himself under another
hero; and it is on him we must rely for the truth of passages the least
glorious of his life, and for the sincerity with which he relates his
address, vivacity, frauds, and the various stratagems he practised
either in love or gaming. These express his true character, and to
himself we owe these memoirs, since I only hold the pen, while he
directs it to the most remarkable and secret passages of his life.




CHAPTER SECOND. ARRIVAL OF THE CHEVALIER GRAMMONT AT THE SIEGE OF TRINO,
AND THE LIFE HE LED THERE


In those days affairs were not managed in France as at present. Louis
XIII.--[Son and successor of Henry IV. He began to reign 14th May, 1610,
and died 14th May, 1643.]--then sat upon the throne, but the Cardinal de
Richelieu, governed the kingdom; great men commanded little armies, and
little armies did great things; the fortune of great men depended solely
upon ministerial favour, and blind devotion to the will of the minister
was the only sure method of advancement.

   [Of this great minister Mr. Hume gives the following character:--

   “Undaunted, Undaunted and implacable, prudent and active, he braved
   all the opposition of the French princes and nobles in the
   prosecution of his vengeance; he discovered and dissipated all their
   secret cabals and conspiracies. His sovereign himself he held in
   subjection, while he exalted the throne. The people, while they
   lost their liberties, acquired, by means of his administration,
   learning, order, discipline, and renown.”]

Vast designs were then laying in the heart of neighbouring states the
foundation of that formidable greatness to which France has now risen:
the police was somewhat neglected; the highways were impassable by day,
and the streets by night; but robberies were committed elsewhere with
greater impunity. Young men, on their first entrance into the world,
took what course they thought proper. Whoever would, was a chevalier,
and whoever could, an abbe: I mean a beneficed abbe: dress made no
distinction between them; and I believe the Chevalier Grammont was both
the one and the other at the siege of Trino.--[Trino was taken 4th
May, 1639.]--This was his first campaign, and here he displayed those
attractive graces which so favourably prepossess, and require neither
friends nor recommendations in any company to procure a favourable
reception. The siege was already formed when he arrived, which saved him
some needless risks; for a volunteer cannot rest at ease until he has
stood the first fire: he went therefore to reconnoitre the generals,
having no occasion to reconnoitre the place. Prince Thomas commanded
the army; and as the post of lieutenant-general was not then known, Du
Plessis Pralin and the famous Viscount Turenne were his majors general.
Fortified places were treated with some respect, before a power which
nothing can withstand had found means to destroy them by dreadful
showers of bombs, and by destructive batteries of hundreds of pieces of
cannon. Before these furious storms which drive governors underground
and reduce their garrisons to powder, repeated sallies bravely repulsed,
and vigorous attacks nobly sustained, signalized both the art of the
besiegers and the courage of the besieged; consequently, sieges were of
some length, and young men had an opportunity of gaining some knowledge.
Many brave actions were performed on each side during the siege of
Trino; a great deal of fatigue was endured, and considerable losses
sustained; but fatigue was no more considered, hardships were no more
felt in the trenches, gravity was at an end with the generals, and the
troops were no longer dispirited after the arrival of the Chevalier
Grammont. Pleasure was his pursuit, and he made it universal.

Among the officers in the army, as in all other places, there are men of
real merit, or pretenders to it. The latter endeavoured to imitate the
Chevalier Grammont in his most shining qualities, but without success;
the former admired his talents and courted his friendship. Of this
number was Matta:

   [Matta, or Matha, of whom Hamilton has drawn so striking a picture,
   is said to have been of the house of Bourdeille, which had the
   honour to produce Brautome and Montresor. The combination of
   indolence and talent, of wit and simplicity, of bluntness and irony,
   with which he is represented, may have been derived from tradition,
   but could only have been united into the inimitable whole by the pen
   of Hamilton. Several of his bons-mots have been preserved; but the
   spirit evaporates in translation. “Where could I get this nose,”
    said Madame D’Albret, observing a slight tendency to a flush in that
   feature. “At the side board, Madame,” answered Matta. When the
   same lady, in despair at her brother’s death, refused all
   nourishment, Matta administered this blunt consolation: “If you are
   resolved, madame, never again to swallow food, you do well; but if
   ever you mean to eat upon any future occasion, believe me, you may
   as well begin just now.” Madame Caylus, in her Souvenirs,
   commemorates the simple and natural humour of Matta as rendering him
   the most delightful society in the world. Mademoiselle, in her
   Memoirs, alludes to his pleasantry in conversation, and turn for
   deep gaming. When the Memoirs of Grammont were subjected to the
   examination of Fontenelle, then censor of the Parisian press, he
   refused to license them, or account of the scandalous conduct
   imputed to Grammont in this party at quinze. The count no sooner
   heard of this than he hastened to Fontenelle, and having joked him
   for being more tender of his reputation than he was himself, the
   license was instantly issued. The censor might have retorted upon
   Grammont the answer which the count made to a widow who received
   coldly his compliments of condolence on her husband’s death: “Nay,
   madame, if that is the way you take it, I care as little about it as
   you do.” He died in 1674. “Matta est mort sans confession,” says
   Madame Maintenon, in a letter to her brother. Tome I., p. 67.]

He was agreeable in his person, but still more by the natural turn of
his wit; he was plain and simple in his manners, but endued with a quick
discernment and refined delicacy, and full of candour and integrity in
all his actions. The Chevalier Grammont was not long in discovering his
amiable qualities; an acquaintance was soon formed, and was succeeded by
the strictest intimacy.

Matta insisted that the Chevalier should take up his quarters with him;
to which he only consented on condition of equally contributing to the
expense. As they were both liberal and magnificent, at their common cost
they gave the best designed and most luxurious entertainments that had
ever yet been seen. Play was wonderfully productive at first, and the
Chevalier restored by a hundred different ways that which he obtained
only by one. The generals, being entertained by turns, admired their
magnificence, and were dissatisfied with their own officers for not
keeping such good tables and attendance. The Chevalier had the talent of
setting off the most indifferent things to advantage; and his wit was so
generally acknowledged, that it was a kind of disgrace not to submit to
his taste. To him Matta resigned the care of furnishing the table and
doing its honours; and, charmed with the general applause, persuaded
himself that nothing could be more honourable than their way of living,
and nothing more easy than to continue it; but he soon perceived that
the greatest prosperity is not the most lasting. Good living, bad
economy, dishonest servants, and ill-luck, all uniting together to
disconcert their housekeeping, their table was going to be gradually
laid aside, when the Chevalier’s genius, fertile in resources, undertook
to support his former credit by the following expedient.

They had never yet conferred about the state of their finances, although
the steward had acquainted each, separately, that he must either receive
money to continue the expenses, or give in his accounts. One day, when
the Chevalier came home sooner than usual, he found Matta fast asleep in
an easy chair, and, being unwilling to disturb his rest, he began musing
on his project. Matta awoke without his perceiving it; and having, for
a short time, observed the deep contemplation he seemed involved in,
and the profound silence between two persons who had never held their
tongues for a moment when together before, he broke it by a sudden fit
of laughter, which increased in proportion as the other stared at him.
“A merry way of waking, and ludicrous enough,” said the Chevalier;
“what is the matter, and whom do you laugh at!” “Faith, Chevalier,” said
Matta, “I am laughing at a dream I had just now, which is so natural and
diverting, that I must make you laugh at it also. I was dreaming that we
had dismissed our maitre-d’hotel, our cook, and our confectioner, having
resolved, for the remainder of the campaign, to live upon others as
others have lived upon us: this was my dream. Now tell me, Chevalier, on
what were you musing?” “Poor fellow!” said the Chevalier, shrugging up
his shoulders, “you are knocked down at once, and thrown into the utmost
consternation and despair at some silly stories which the maitre-d’hotel
has been telling you as well as me. What! after the figure we have made
in the face of the nobility and foreigners in the army, shall we give it
up, and like fools and beggars sneak off, upon the first failure of
our money! Have you no sentiments of honour? Where is the dignity of
France?” “And where is the money?” said Matta; “for my men say, the
devil may take them, if there be ten crowns in the house, and I believe
you have not much more, for it is above a week since I have seen you
pull out your purse, or count your money, an amusement you were very
fond of in prosperity.” “I own all this,” said the Chevalier, “but yet I
will force you to confess, that you are but a mean-spirited fellow upon
this occasion. What would have become of you if you had been reduced to
the situation I was in at Lyons, four days before I arrived here? I will
tell you the story.”




CHAPTER THIRD. EDUCATION AND ADVENTURES OF THE CHEVALIER GRAMMONT BEFORE
HIS COMING TO THE SIEGE OF TRINO


“This,” said Matta, “smells strongly of romance, except that it should
have been your squire’s part to tell your adventures.”

“True,” said the Chevalier; “however, I may acquaint you with my first
exploits without offending my modesty; besides, my squire’s style
borders too much upon the burlesque for an heroic narrative.

“You must know, then, that upon my arrival at Lyons--”

“Is it thus you begin?” said Matta. “Pray give us your history a little
further back. The most minute particulars of a life like yours are
worthy of relation; but above all, the manner in which you first
paid your respects to Cardinal Richelieu: I have often laughed at it.
However, you may pass over the unlucky pranks of your infancy, your
genealogy, name and quality of your ancestors, for that is a subject
with which you must be utterly unacquainted.”

“Pooh!” said the Chevalier; “you think that all the world is as ignorant
as yourself; you think that I am a stranger to the Mendores and the
Corisandes. So, perhaps I don’t know that it was my father’s own fault
that he was not the son of Henry IV. The king would by all means have
acknowledged him for his son, but the traitor would never consent to it.
See what the Grammonts would have been now, but for this cross-grained
fellow! They would have had precedence of the Caesars de Vendome. You
may laugh if you like, yet it is as true as the gospel: but let us come
to the point.

“I was sent to the college of Pau, with the intention of being brought
up to the church; but as I had quite different views, I made no manner
of improvement: gaming was so much in my head, that both my tutor and
the master lost their labour in endeavouring to teach me Latin. Old
Brinon, who served me both as valet-de-chambre and governor, in vain
threatened to acquaint my mother. I only studied when I pleased, that is
to say, seldom or never: however, they treated me as is customary with
scholars of my quality; I was raised to all the dignities of the forms,
without having merited them, and left college nearly in the same
state in which I entered it; nevertheless, I was thought to have
more knowledge than was requisite for the abbacy which my brother had
solicited for me. He had just married the niece of a minister, to whom
every one cringed: he was desirous to present me to him. I felt but
little regret to quit the country, and great impatience to see Paris. My
brother having kept me some time with him, in order to polish me, let me
loose upon the town to shake off my rustic air, and learn the manners of
the world. I so thoroughly gained them, that I could not be persuaded
to lay them aside when I was introduced at court in the character of an
Abby. You know what kind of dress was then the fashion. All that they
could obtain of me was to put a cassock over my other clothes, and my
brother, ready to die with laughing at my ecclesiastical habit, made
others laugh too. I had the finest head of hair in the world, well
curled and powdered, above my cassock, and below were white buskins and
gilt spurs. The Cardinal, who had a quick discernment, could not help
laughing. This elevation of sentiment gave him umbrage; and he foresaw
what might be expected from a genius that already laughed at the shaven
crown and cowl.

“When my brother had taken me home, ‘Well, my little parson,’ said he,
‘you have acted your part to admiration, and your parti-coloured dress
of the ecclesiastic and soldier has greatly diverted the court; but
this is not all: you must now choose, my little knight. Consider then,
whether, by sticking to the church, you will possess great revenues, and
have nothing to do; or, with a small portion, you will risk the loss of
a leg or arm, and be the fructus belli of an insensible court, to arrive
in your old age at the dignity of a major-general, with a glass eye and
a wooden leg.’ ‘I know,’ said I, ‘that there is no comparison between
these two situations, with regard to the conveniences of life; but, as
a man ought to secure his future state in preference to all other
considerations, I am resolved to renounce the church for the salvation
of my soul, upon condition, however, that I keep my abbacy.’ Neither the
remonstrances nor authority of my brother could induce me to change my
resolution; and he was forced to agree to this last article in order
to keep me at the academy. You know that I am the most adroit man in
France, so that I soon learned all that is taught at such places, and,
at the same time, I also learnt that which gives the finishing stroke to
a young fellow’s education, and makes him a gentleman, viz. all sorts
of games, both at cards and dice; but the truth is, I thought, at first,
that I had more skill in them than I really had, as experience proved.
When my mother knew the choice I had made, she was inconsolable; for she
reckoned, that had I been a clergyman I should have been a saint; but
now she was certain that I should either be a devil in the world, or be
killed in the wars. And indeed I burned with impatience to be a soldier;
but being yet too young, I was forced to make a campaign at Bidache--[A
principality belonging to the family of the Grammonts, in the Province
of Gascony.]--before I made one in the army. When I returned to my
mother’s house, I had so much the air of a courtier and a man of the
world, that she began to respect me, instead of chiding me for my
infatuation towards the army. I became her favourite, and finding me
inflexible, she only thought of keeping me with her as long as she
could, while my little equipage was preparing. The faithful Brinon,
who was to attend me as valet-de-chambre, was likewise to discharge the
office of governor and equerry, being, perhaps, the only Gascon who was
ever possessed of so much gravity and ill-temper. He passed his word
for my good behaviour and morality, and promised my mother that he would
give a good account of my person in the dangers of the war; but I hope
he will keep his word better as to this last article than he has done as
to the former.

“My equipage was sent away a week before me. This was so much time
gained by my mother to give me good advice. At length, after having
solemnly enjoined me to have the fear of God before my eyes, and to love
my neighbour as myself, she suffered me to depart, under the protection
of the Lord and the sage Brinon. At the second stage we quarrelled. He
had received four hundred louis d’or for the expenses of the campaign: I
wished to have the keeping of them myself, which he strenuously opposed.
‘Thou old scoundrel,’ said I, ‘is the money thine, or was it given
thee for me? You suppose I must have a treasurer, and receive no money
without his order. I know not whether it was from a presentiment of what
afterwards happened that he grew melancholy; however, it was with
the greatest reluctance, and the most poignant anguish, that he found
himself obliged to yield. One would have thought that I had wrested
his very soul from him. I found myself more light and merry after I had
eased him of his trust; he, on the contrary, appeared so overwhelmed
with grief, that it seemed as if I had laid four hundred pounds of lead
upon his back, instead of taking away these four hundred louis. He went
on so heavily, that I was forced to whip his horse myself, and turning
to me, now and then, ‘Ah! sir,’ said he, my lady did not think it would
be so. ‘His reflections and sorrows were renewed at every stage; for,
instead of giving a shilling to the post-boy, I gave him half-a-crown.

“Having at last reached Lyons, two soldiers stopped us at the gate of
the city, to carry us before the governor. I took one of them to conduct
me to the best inn, and delivered Brinon into the hands of the other,
to acquaint the commandant with the particulars of my journey, and my
future intentions.

“There are as good taverns at Lyons as at Paris; but my soldier,
according to custom, carried me to a friend of his own, whose house he
extolled as having the best accommodations, and the greatest resort of
good company, in the whole town. The master of this hotel was as big as
a hogshead, his name Cerise; a Swiss by birth, a poisoner by profession,
and a thief by custom. He showed me into a tolerably neat room, and
desired to know whether I pleased to sup by myself or at the ordinary.
I chose the latter, on account of the beau monde which the soldier had
boasted of.

“Brinon, who was quite out of temper at the many questions which the
governor had asked him, returned more surly than an old ape; and seeing
that I was dressing my hair, in order to go downstairs: ‘What are you
about now, sir?’ said he. ‘Are you going to tramp about the town? No,
no; have we not had tramping enough ever since the morning? Eat a bit
of supper, and go to bed betimes, that you may get on horseback by
day-break.’ ‘Mr. Comptroller,’ said I, ‘I shall neither tramp about
the town, nor eat alone, nor go to bed early. I intend to sup with the
company below.’ ‘At the ordinary!’ cried he; ‘I beseech you, sir, do
not think of it! Devil take me, if there be not a dozen brawling fellows
playing at cards and dice, who make noise enough to drown the loudest
thunder!’

“I was grown insolent since I had seized the money; and being desirous
to shake off the yoke of a governor, ‘Do you know, Mr. Brinon,’ said I,
‘that I don’t like a blockhead to set up for a reasoner? Do you go
to supper, if you please; but take care that I have post-horses ready
before daybreak.’ The moment he mentioned cards and dice, I felt the
money burn in my pocket. I was somewhat surprised, however, to find the
room where the ordinary was served filled with odd-looking creatures. My
host, after presenting me to the company, assured me that there were but
eighteen or twenty of those gentlemen who would have the honour to sup
with me. I approached one of the tables where they were playing, and
thought I should have died with laughing: I expected to have seen
good company and deep play; but I only met with two Germans playing
at backgammon. Never did two country boobies play like them; but their
figures beggared all description. The fellow near whom I stood was
short, thick, and fat, and as round as a ball, with a ruff, and
prodigious high crowned hat. Any one, at a moderate distance, would have
taken him for the dome of a church, with the steeple on the top of it. I
inquired of the host who he was. ‘A merchant from Basle,’ said he, ‘who
comes hither to sell horses; but from the method he pursues, I think he
will not dispose of many; for he does nothing but play.’ ‘Does he play
deep?’ said I. ‘Not now,’ said he; ‘they are only playing for their
reckoning, while supper is getting ready; but he has no objection to
play as deep as any one.’ ‘Has he money?’ said I. ‘As for that,’ replied
the treacherous Cerise, ‘would to God you had won a thousand pistoles of
him, and I went your halves; we should not be long without our money.’ I
wanted no further encouragement to meditate the ruin of the high-crowned
hat. I went nearer to him, in order to take a closer survey; never was
such a bungler; he made blots upon blots; God knows, I began to feel
some remorse at winning of such an ignoramus, who knew so little of the
game. He lost his reckoning; supper was served up; and I desired him
to sit next me. It was a long table, and there were at least
five-and-twenty in company, notwithstanding the landlord’s promise. The
most execrable repast that ever was begun being finished, all the crowd
insensibly dispersed, except the little Swiss, who still kept near me,
and the landlord, who placed himself on the other side of me. They
both smoked like dragoons; and the Swiss was continually saying, in bad
French, ‘I ask your pardon, sir, for my great freedom,’ at the same time
blowing such whiffs of tobacco in my face as almost suffocated me. Mr.
Cerise, on the other hand, desired he might take the liberty of asking
me whether I had ever been in his country? and seemed surprised I had so
genteel an air, without having travelled in Switzerland.

“The little chub I had to encounter was full as inquisitive as the
other. He desired to know whether I came from the army in Piedmont; and
having told him I was going thither, he asked me, whether I had a mind
to buy any horses; that he had about two hundred to dispose of, and that
he would sell them cheap. I began to be smoked like a gammon of
bacon; and being quite wearied out, both with their tobacco and their
questions, I asked my companion if he would play for a single pistole
at backgammon, while our men were supping; it was not without great
ceremony that he consented, at the same time asking my pardon for his
great freedom.

“I won the game; I gave him his revenge, and won again. We then played
double or quit; I won that too, and all in the twinkling of an eye; for
he grew vexed, and suffered himself to be taken in so that I began to
bless my stars for my good fortune. Brinon came in about the end of the
third game, to put me to bed, he made a great sign of the cross, but
paid no attention to the signs I made him to retire. I was forced to
rise to give him that order in private. He began to reprimand me for
disgracing myself by keeping company with such a low-bred wretch. It
was in vain that I told him he was a great merchant, that he had a great
deal of money, and that he played like a child. ‘He a merchant,’ cried
Brinon. ‘Do not believe that, sir! May the devil take me, if he is not
some conjurer.’ ‘Hold your tongue, old fool,’ said I; ‘he is no more a
conjurer than you are, and that is decisive; and, to prove it to you, I
am resolved to win four or five hundred pistoles of him before I go to
bed. With these words I turned him out, strictly enjoining him not to
return, or in any manner to disturb us.

“The game being done, the little Swiss unbuttoned his pockets, to pull
out a new four-pistole piece, and presenting it to me, he asked my
pardon for his great freedom, and seemed as if he wished to retire. This
was not what I wanted. I told him we only played for amusement; that I
had no design upon his money; and that, if he pleased, I would play
him a single game for his four pistoles. He raised some objections; but
consented at last, and won back his money. I was piqued at it. I played
another game; fortune changed sides; the dice ran for him, he made
no more blots. I lost the game; another game, and double or quit; we
doubled the stake, and played double or quit again. I was vexed; he,
like a true gamester, took every bet I offered, and won all before him,
without my getting more than six points in eight or ten games. I asked
him to play a single game for one hundred pistoles; but as he saw I did
not stake, he told me it was late; that he must go and look after his
horses; and went away, still asking my pardon for his great freedom. The
cool manner of his refusal, and the politeness with which he took his
leave, provoked me to such a degree, that I could almost have killed
him. I was so confounded at losing my money so fast, even to the last
pistole, that I did not immediately consider the miserable situation to
which I was reduced.

“I durst not go up to my chamber for fear of Brinon. By good luck,
however, he was tired with waiting for me, and had gone to bed. This was
some consolation, though but of short continuance. As soon as I was laid
down, all the fatal consequences of my adventure presented themselves
to my imagination. I could not sleep. I saw all the horrors of my
misfortune, without being able to find any remedy; in vain did I rack
my brain; it supplied me with no expedient. I feared nothing so much as
daybreak; however, it did come, and the cruel Brinon along with it. He
was booted up to the middle, and cracking a cursed whip, which he
held in his hand, ‘Up, Monsieur le Chevalier,’ cried he, opening the
curtains; ‘the horses are at the door, and you are still asleep. We
ought by this time to have ridden two stages; give me money to pay the
reckoning.’ ‘Brinon,’ said I, in a dejected tone, ‘draw the curtains.’
‘What!’ cried he, ‘draw the curtains! Do you intend, then, to make your
campaign at Lyons? you seem to have taken a liking to the place. And for
the great merchant, you have stripped him, I suppose? No, no, Monsieur
le Chevalier, this money will never do you any good. This wretch has,
perhaps, a family; and it is his children’s bread that he has been
playing with, and that you have won. Was this an object to sit up all
night for? What would my lady say, if she knew what a life you lead?’
‘M. Brinon,’ said I, ‘pray draw the curtains.’ But instead of obeying
me, one would have thought that the devil had prompted him to use the
most pointed and galling terms to a person under such misfortunes. ‘And
how much have you won?’ said he; ‘five hundred pistoles? what must the
poor man do?

“‘Recollect, Monsieur le Chevalier, what I have said, this money will
never thrive with you. It is, perhaps, but four hundred? three? two?
well if it be but one hundred louis d’or, continued he, seeing that
I shook my head at every sum which he had named, there is no great
mischief done; one hundred pistoles will not ruin him, provided you have
won them fairly.’ ‘Friend Brinon,’ said I, fetching a deep sigh, ‘draw
the curtains; I am unworthy to see daylight’ Brinon was much affected at
these melancholy words, but I thought he would have fainted, when I told
him the whole adventure. He tore his hair, made grievous lamentations,
the burden of which still was, ‘What will my lady say?’ And, after
having exhausted his unprofitable complaints, ‘What will become of
you now, Monsieur le Chevalier?’ said he, ‘what do you intend to
do?’ ‘Nothing,’ said I, ‘for I am fit for no thing. After this, being
somewhat eased after making him my confession, I thought upon several
projects, to none of which could I gain his approbation. I would have
had him post after my equipage, to have sold some of my clothes. I was
for proposing to the horse-dealer to buy some horses of him at a high
price on credit, to sell again cheap. Brinon laughed at all these
schemes, and after having had the cruelty of keeping me upon the rack
for a long time, he at last extricated me. Parents are always stingy
towards their poor children; my mother intended to have given me five
hundred louis d’or, but she had kept back fifty, as well for some little
repairs in the abbey, as to pay for praying for me. Brinon had the
charge of the other fifty, with strict injunctions not to speak of them,
unless upon some urgent necessity. And this you see soon happened.

“Thus you have a brief account of my first adventure. Play has hitherto
favoured me; for, since my arrival, I have had, at one time, after
paying all my expenses, fifteen hundred louis d’or. Fortune is now
again become unfavourable: we must mend her. Our cash runs low; we must,
therefore, endeavour to recruit.”

“Nothing is more easy,” said Matta; “it is only to find out such another
dupe as the horse-dealer at Lyons; but now I think on it, has not the
faithful Brinon some reserve for the last extremity? Faith, the time is
now come, and we cannot do better than to make use of it!”

“Your raillery would be very seasonable,” said the Chevalier, “if you
knew how to extricate us out of this difficulty. You must certainly have
an overflow of wit, to be throwing it away upon every occasion as
at present. What the devil! will you always be bantering, without
considering what a serious situation we are reduced to. Mind what I say,
I will go tomorrow to the head-quarters, I will dine with the Count de
Cameran, and I will invite him to supper.” “Where?” said Matta. “Here,”
 said the Chevalier. “You are mad, my poor friend,” replied Matta. “This
is some such project as you formed at Lyons: you know we have neither
money nor credit; and, to re-establish our circumstances, you intend to
give a supper.”

“Stupid fellow!” said the Chevalier, “is it possible, that, so long as
we have been acquainted, you should have learned no more invention? The
Count de Cameran plays at quinze, and so do I; we want money; he has
more than he knows what to do with; I will bespeak a splendid supper, he
shall pay for it. Send your maitre-d’hotel to me, and trouble yourself
no further, except in some precautions, which it is necessary to take on
such an occasion.” “What are they?” said Matta. “I will tell you,” said
the Chevalier; “for I find one must explain to you things that are as
clear as noon-day.”

“You command the guards that are here, don’t you? As soon as night comes
on, you shall order fifteen or twenty men, under the command of your
sergeant La Place, to be under arms, and to lay themselves flat on the
ground, between this place and the head-quarters.” “What the devil!”
 cried Matta, “an ambuscade? God forgive me, I believe you intend to
rob the poor Savoyard. If that be your intention, I declare I will have
nothing to say to it” “Poor devil!” said the Chevalier, “the matter is
this; it is very likely that we shall win his money. The Piedmontese,
though otherwise good fellows, are apt to be suspicious and distrustful.
He commands the horse; you know you cannot hold your tongue, and are
very likely to let slip some jest or other that may vex him. Should he
take it into his head that he is cheated, and resent it, who knows what
the consequences might be? for he is commonly attended by eight or
ten horsemen. Therefore, however he may be provoked at his loss, it is
proper to be in such a situation as not to dread his resentment.”

“Embrace me, my dear Chevalier,” said Matta, holding his sides and
laughing; “embrace me, for thou art not to be matched. What a fool I was
to think, when you talked to me of taking precautions, that nothing more
was necessary than to prepare a table and cards, or perhaps to provide
some false dice! I should never have thought of supporting a man who
plays at quinze by a detachment of foot: I must, indeed, confess that
you are already a great soldier.”

The next day everything happened as the Chevalier Grammont had planned
it; the unfortunate Cameran fell into the snare. They supped in the most
agreeable manner possible Matta drank five or six bumpers to drown a few
scruples which made him somewhat uneasy. The Chevalier de Grammont shone
as usual, and almost made his guest die with laughing, whom he was soon
after to make very serious; and the good-natured Cameran ate like a man
whose affections were divided between good cheer and a love of play;
that is to say, he hurried down his victuals, that he might not lose any
of the precious time which he had devoted to quinze.

Supper being done, the sergeant La Place posted his ambuscade, and the
Chevalier de Grammont engaged his man. The perfidy of Cerise, and the
high-crowned hat, were still fresh in remembrance, and enabled him to
get the better of a few grains of remorse, and conquer some scruples
which arose in his mind. Matta, unwilling to be a spectator of violated
hospitality, sat down in an easy chair, in order to fall asleep, while
the Chevalier was stripping the poor Count of his money.

They only staked three or four pistoles at first, just for amusement;
but Cameran having lost three or four times, he staked high, and the
game became serious. He still lost, and became outrageous; the cards
flew about the room, and the exclamations awoke Matta.

As his head was heavy with sleep, and hot with wine, he began to laugh
at the passion of the Piedmontese, instead of consoling him. “Faith, my
poor Count,” said he, “if I were in your place, I would play no more.”
 “Why so?” said the other. “I don’t know,” said he, “but my heart tells
me that your ill-luck will continue.” “I will try that,” said Cameran,
calling for fresh cards. “Do so,” said Matta, and fell asleep again.
It was but for a short time. All cards were equally unfortunate for the
loser. He held none but tens or court-cards; and if by chance he had
quinze, he was sure to be the younger hand, and therefore lost it. Again
he stormed. “Did not I tell you so?” said Matta, starting out of his
sleep. “All your storming is in vain; as long as you play you will lose.
Believe me, the shortest follies are the best. Leave off, for the devil
take me if it is possible for you to win.” “Why?” said Cameran, who
began to be impatient. “Do you wish to know?” said Matta; “why, faith,
it is because we are cheating you.”

The Chevalier de Grammont was provoked at so ill-timed a jest, more
especially as it carried along with it some appearance of truth. “Mr.
Matta,” said he, “do you think it can be very agreeable for a man who
plays with such ill-luck as the Count to be pestered with your insipid
jests? For my part, I am so weary of the game, that I would desist
immediately, if he was not so great a loser.” Nothing is more dreaded
by a losing gamester, than such a threat; and the Count, in a softened
tone, told the Chevalier that Mr. Matta might say what he pleased, if
he did not offend him; that, as to himself, it did not give him the
smallest uneasiness.

The Chevalier de Grammont gave the Count far better treatment than he
himself had experienced from the Swiss at Lyons; for he played upon
credit as long as he pleased; which Cameran took so kindly, that he lost
fifteen hundred pistoles, and paid them the next morning. As for Matta,
he was severely reprimanded for the intemperance of his tongue. All
the reason he gave for his conduct was, that he made it a point of
conscience not to suffer the poor Savoyard to be cheated without
informing him of it. “Besides,” said he, “it would have given me
pleasure to have seen my infantry engaged with his horse, if he had been
inclined to mischief.”

This adventure having recruited their finances, fortune favoured them
the remainder of the campaign, and the Chevalier de Grammont, to prove
that he had only seized upon the Count’s effects by way of reprisal,
and to indemnify himself for the losses he had sustained at Lyons, began
from this time to make the same use of his money, that he has been known
to do since upon all occasions. He found out the distressed, in order to
relieve them; officers who had lost their equipage in the war, or their
money at play; soldiers who were disabled in the trenches; in short,
every one felt the influence of his benevolence: but his manner of
conferring a favour exceeded even the favour itself.

Every man possessed of such amiable qualities must meet with success in
all his undertakings. The soldiers knew his person, and adored him. The
generals were sure to meet him in every scene of action, and sought his
company at other times. As soon as fortune declared for him, his first
care was to make restitution, by desiring Cameran to go his halves in
all parties where the odds were in his favour.

An inexhaustible fund of vivacity and good humour gave a certain air of
novelty to whatever he either said or did. I know not on what occasion
it was that Monsieur de Turenne towards the end of the siege, commanded
a separate body. The Chevalier de Grammont went to visit him at his new
quarters, where he found fifteen or twenty officers. M. de Turenne was
naturally fond of merriment, and the Chevalier’s presence was sure
to inspire it. He was much pleased with this visit, and, by way of
acknowledgment, would have engaged him to play. The Chevalier de
Grammont, in returning him thanks, said, that he had learned from his
tutor, that when a man went to see his friends, it was neither prudent
to leave his own money behind him, nor civil to carry off theirs.
“Truly,” said Monsieur de Turenne, “you will find neither deep play nor
much money among us; but, that it may not be said that we suffered you
to depart without playing, let us stake every one a horse.”

The Chevalier de Grammont agreed. Fortune, who had followed him to a
place where he did not think he should have any need of her, made
him win fifteen or sixteen horses, by way of joke; but, seeing some
countenances disconcerted at the loss, “Gentlemen,” said he, “I should
be sorry to see you return on foot from your general’s quarters; it will
be enough for me if you send me your horses to-morrow, except one, which
I give for the cards.”

The valet-de-chambre thought he was bantering. “I speak seriously,” said
the Chevalier, “I give you a horse for the cards; and, what is more,
take whichever you please, except my own.” “Truly,” said Monsieur de
Turenne, “I am vastly pleased with the novelty of the thing; for I don’t
believe that a horse was ever before given for the cards.”


Trino surrendered at last. The Baron de Batteville, who had defended it
valiantly, and for a long time, obtained a capitulation worthy of such a
resistance.

   [This officer appears to have been the same person who was
   afterwards ambassador from Spain to the court of Great Britain,
   where, in the summer of 1660, he offended the French court, by
   claiming precedence of their ambassador, Count d’Estrades, on the
   public entry of the Swedish ambassador into London. On this
   occasion the court of France compelled its rival of Spain to submit
   to the mortifying circumstance of acknowledging the French
   superiority. To commemorate this important victory, Louis XIV.
   caused a medal to be struck, representing the Spanish ambassador,
   the Marquis de Fuente, making the declaration to that king, “No
   concurrer con los ambassadores des de Francia,” with this
   inscription, “Jus praecedendi assertum,” and under it, “Hispaniorum
   excusatio coram xxx legatis principum, 1662.” A very curious
   account of the fray occasioned by this dispute, drawn up by Evelyn,
   is to be seen in that gentleman’s article in the Biographia
   Britannica.]

I do not know whether the Chevalier de Grammont had any share in the
capture of this place; but I know very well, that during a more glorious
reign, and with armies ever victorious, his intrepidity and address have
been the cause of taking others since, even under the eye of his master,
as we shall see in the sequel of these memoirs.




CHAPTER FOURTH. HIS ARRIVAL AT THE COURT OF TURIN, AND HOW HE SPENT HIS
TIME THERE


Military glory is at most but one half of the accomplishments which
distinguish heroes. Love must give the finishing stroke, and adorn their
character by the difficulties they encounter, the temerity of their
enterprises, and finally, by the lustre of success. We have examples
of this, not only in romances, but also in the genuine histories of the
most famous warriors and the most celebrated conquerors.

The Chevalier de Grammont and Matta, who did not think much of these
examples, were, however, of opinion, that it would be very agreeable to
refresh themselves after the fatigues of the siege of Trino, by forming
some other sieges, at the expense of the beauties and the husbands of
Turin. As the campaign had finished early, they thought they should have
time to perform some exploits before the bad weather obliged them to
repass the mountains.

They sallied forth, therefore, not unlike Amadis de Gaul or Don
Galaor after they had been dubbed knights, eager in their search after
adventures in love, war and enchantments. They were greatly superior
to those two brothers, who only knew how to cleave in twain giants, to
break lances, and to carry off fair damsels behind them on horseback,
without saying a single word to them; whereas our heroes were adepts at
cards and dice, of which the others were totally ignorant.

They went to Turin, met with an agreeable reception, and were greatly
distinguished at court. Could it be otherwise? They were young and
handsome; they had wit at command, and spent their money liberally.
In what country will not a man succeed, possessing such advantages? As
Turin was at that time the seat of gallantry and of love, two strangers
of this description, who were always cheerful, brisk and lively, could
not fail to please the ladies of the court.

Though the men of Turin were extremely handsome, they were not, however,
possessed of the art of pleasing. They treated their wives with respect,
and were courteous to strangers. Their wives, still more handsome, were
full as courteous to strangers, and less respectful to their husbands.

Madame Royale, a worthy daughter of Henry IV., rendered her little court
the most agreeable in the world. She inherited such of her father’s
virtues as compose the proper ornament of her sex; and with regard to
what are termed the foibles of great souls, her highness had in no wise
degenerated.

The Count de Tanes was her prime minister. It was not difficult to
conduct affairs of state during his administration. No complaints
were alleged against him; and the princess, satisfied with his conduct
herself, was, above all, glad to have her choice approved by her whole
court, where people lived nearly according to the manners and customs of
ancient chivalry.

The ladies had each a professed lover, for fashion’s sake, besides
volunteers, whose numbers were unlimited. The declared admirers wore
their mistresses’ liveries, their arms, and sometimes even took their
names. Their office was, never to quit them in public, and never to
approach them in private; to be their squires upon all occasions, and,
in jousts and tournaments, to adorn their lances, their housings, and
their coats, with the cyphers and the colours of their dulcineas.

Matta was far from being averse to gallantry; but would have liked it
more simple than as it was practised at Turin. The ordinary forms would
not have disgusted him; but he found here a sort of superstition in
the ceremonies and worship of love, which he thought very inconsistent:
however, as he had submitted his conduct in that matter to the direction
of the Chevalier de Grammont, he was obliged to follow his example, and
to conform to the customs of the country.

They enlisted themselves at the same time in the service of two
beauties, whose former squires gave them up immediately from motives
of politeness. The Chevalier de Grammont chose Mademoiselle de
Saint-Germain, and told Matta to offer his services to Madame de
Senantes. Matta consented, though he liked the other better; but the
Chevalier de Grammont persuaded him that Madame de Senantes was more
suitable for him. As he had reaped advantage from the Chevalier’s
talents in the first projects they had formed, he resolved to follow his
instructions in love, as he had done his advice in play.

Mademoiselle de Saint-Germain was in the bloom of youth; her eyes were
small, but very bright and sparkling, and, like her hair, were black;
her complexion was lively and clear, though not fair: she, had an
agreeable mouth, two fine rows of teeth, a neck as handsome as one could
wish, and a most delightful shape; she had a particular elegance in her
elbows, which, however, she did not show to advantage; her hands were
rather large and not very white; her feet, though not of the smallest,
were well shaped; she trusted to Providence, and used no art to set off
those graces which she had received from nature; but, notwithstanding
her negligence in the embellishment of her charms, there was something
so lively in her person, that the Chevalier de Grammont was caught at
first sight; her wit and humour corresponded with her other qualities,
being quite easy and perfectly charming; she was all mirth, all life,
all complaisance and politeness, and all was natural, and always the
same without any variation.

The Marchioness de Senantes was esteemed fair, and she might have
enjoyed, if she had pleased, the reputation of having red hair, had she
not rather chosen to conform to the taste of the age in which she lived
than to follow that of the ancients: she had all the advantages of red
hair without any of the inconveniences; a constant attention to her
person served as a corrective to the natural defects of her complexion.
After all, what does it signify, whether cleanliness be owing to nature
or to art? it argues an invidious temper to be very inquisitive about
it. She had a great deal of wit, a good memory, more reading, and a
still greater inclination towards tenderness.

She had a husband whom it would have been criminal even in chastity
to spare. He piqued himself upon being a Stoic, and gloried in being
slovenly and disgusting in honour of his profession. In this he
succeeded to admiration; for he was very fat, so that he perspired
almost as much in winter as in summer. Erudition and brutality seemed to
be the most conspicuous features of his character, and were displayed in
his conversation, sometimes together, sometimes alternately, but always
disagreeably: he was not jealous, and yet he was troublesome; he was
very well pleased to see attentions paid to his wife, provided more were
paid to him.

As soon as our adventurers had declared themselves, the Chevalier de
Grammont arrayed himself in green habiliments, and dressed Matta in
blue, these being the favourite colours of their new mistresses. They
entered immediately upon duty: the Chevalier learned and practised all
the ceremonies of this species of gallantry, as if he always had been
accustomed to them; but Matta commonly forgot one half, and was not over
perfect in practising the other. He never could remember that his office
was to promote the glory, and not the interest, of his mistress.

The Duchess of Savoy gave the very next day an entertainment at La
Venerie, where all the ladies were invited.

The Chevalier was so agreeable and diverting, that he made his mistress
almost die with laughing. Matta, in leading his lady to the coach,
squeezed her hand, and at their return from the promenade he begged
of her to pity his sufferings. Thus was proceeding rather too
precipitately, and although Madame de Senantes was not destitute of
the natural compassion of her sex, she nevertheless was shocked at the
familiarity of this treatment; she thought herself obliged to show some
degree of resentment, and pulling away her hand, which he had pressed
with still greater fervency upon this declaration, she went up to the
royal apartments without even looking at her new lover. Matta, never
thinking that he had offended her, suffered her to go, and went in
search of some company to sup with him: nothing was more easy for a man
of his disposition; he soon found what he wanted, sat a long time at
table to refresh himself after the fatigue, of love, and went to bed
completely satisfied that he had performed his part to perfection.

During all this time the Chevalier de Grammont acquitted himself towards
Mademoiselle de Saint Germain with universal applause; and without
remitting his assiduities, he found means to shine, as they went
along, in the relation of a thousand entertaining anecdotes, which he
introduced in the general conversation. Her Royal Highness heard them
with pleasure, and the solitary Senantes likewise attended to them. He
perceived this, and quitted his mistress to inquire what she had done
with Matta.

“I” said she, “I have done nothing with him; but I don’t know what he
would have done with me if I had been obliging enough to listen to his
most humble solicitations.”

She then told him in what manner his friend had treated her the very
second day of their acquaintance.

The Chevalier could not forbear laughing at it: he told her Matta was
rather too unceremonious, but yet she would like him better as their
intimacy more improved, and for her consolation he assured her that
he would have spoken in the same manner to her Royal Highness herself;
however, he would not fail to give him a severe reprimand. He went the
next morning into his room for that purpose; but Matta had gone out
early in the morning on a shooting party, in which he had been engaged
by his supper companions in the preceding evening. At his return he took
a brace of partridges and went to his mistress. Being asked whether he
wished to see the Marquis, he said no; and the Swiss telling him his
lady was not at home, he left his partridges, and desired him to present
them to his mistress from him.

The Marchioness was at her toilet, and was decorating her head with
all the grace she could devise to captivate Matta, at the moment he was
denied admittance: she knew nothing of the matter; but her husband knew
every particular. He had taken it in dudgeon that the first visit was
not paid to him, and as he was resolved that it should not be paid to
his wife, the Swiss had received his orders, and had almost been beaten
for receiving the present which had been left. The partridges, however,
were immediately sent back, and Matta, without examining into the cause,
was glad to have them again. He went to court without ever changing
his clothes, or in the least considering he ought not to appear there
without his lady’s colours. He found her becomingly dressed; her eyes
appeared to him more than usually sparkling, and her whole person
altogether divine. He began from that day to be much pleased with
himself for his complaisance to the Chevalier de Grammont; however,
he could not help remarking that she looked but coldly upon him. This
appeared to him a very extraordinary return for his services, and,
imagining that she was unmindful of her weighty obligations to him, he
entered into conversation with her, and severely reprimanded her for
having sent back his partridges with so much indifference.

She did not understand what he meant; and highly offended that he did
not apologize, after the reprimand which she concluded him to have
received, told him that he certainly had met with ladies of very
complying dispositions in his travels, as he seemed to give to himself
airs that she was by no means accustomed to endure. Matta desired to
know wherein he could be said to have given himself any. “Wherein?”
 said she: “the second day that you honoured me with your attentions, you
treated me as if I had been your humble servant for a thousand years;
the first time that I gave you my hand you squeezed it as violently as
you were able. After this commencement of your courtship, I got into my
coach, and you mounted your horse; but instead of riding by the side of
the coach, as any reasonable gallant would have done, no sooner did a
hare start from her form, than you immediately galloped full speed after
her; having regaled yourself, during the promenade, by taking snuff,
without ever deigning to bestow a thought on me, the only proof you gave
me, on your return, that you recollected me, was by soliciting me to
surrender my reputation in terms polite enough, but very explicit. And
now you talk to me of having been shooting of partridges and of some
visit or other, which, I suppose, you have been dreaming of, as well as
of all the rest.”

The Chevalier de Grammont now advanced, to the interruption of this
whimsical dialogue. Matta was rebuked for his forwardness, and his
friend took abundant pains to convince him that his conduct bordered
more upon insolence than familiarity. Matta endeavoured to exculpate
himself, but succeeded ill. His mistress took compassion upon him,
and consented to admit his excuses, for the manner, rather than his
repentance for the fact, and declared that it was the intention alone
which could either justify or condemn, in such cases; that it was
very easy to pardon those transgressions which arise from excess of
tenderness, but not such as proceeded from too great a presumption of
success. Matta swore that he only squeezed her hand from the violence
of his passion, and that he had been driven, by necessity, to ask her to
relieve it; that he was yet a novice in the arts of solicitation; that
he could not possibly think her more worthy of his affection, after a
month’s service, than at the present moment; and that he entreated her
to cast away an occasional thought upon him when her leisure admitted.
The Marchioness was not offended, she saw very well that she must
require an implicit conformity to the established rule of decorum, when
she had to deal with such a character; and the Chevalier de Grammont,
after this sort of reconciliation, went to look after his own affair
with Mademoiselle de St. Germain.

His concern was not the offspring of mere good nature, nay, it was the
reverse; for no sooner did he perceive that the Marchioness looked with
an eye of favour upon him, than this conquest, appearing to him to be
more easy than the other, he thought it was prudent to take advantage of
it, for fear of losing the opportunity, and that he might not have spent
all his time to no purpose, in case he should prove unsuccessful with
the little St. Germain.

In the mean time, in order to maintain that authority which he
had usurped over the conduct of his friend, he, that very evening,
notwithstanding what had been already said, reprimanded him for
presuming to appear at court in his morning suit, and without his
mistress’s badge; for not having had the wit or prudence to pay his
first visit to the Marquis de Senantes, instead of consuming his time,
to no purpose, in inquiries for the lady; and, to conclude, he asked him
what the devil he meant by presenting her with a brace of miserable red
partridges. “And why not?” said Matta: “ought they to have been blue,
too, to match the cockade and sword-knots you made me wear the other
day? Plague not me with your nonsensical whimsies: my life on it, in one
fortnight your equal in foppery and folly will not be found throughout
the confines of Turin; but, to reply to your questions, I did not call
upon Monsieur de Senantes, because I had nothing to do with him, and
because he is of a species of animals which I dislike, and always shall
dislike: as for you, you appear quite charmed with being decked out in
green ribands, with writing letters to your mistress, and filling your
pockets with citrons, pistachios, and such sort of stuff, with which you
are always cramming the poor girl’s mouth, in spite of her teeth: you
hope to succeed by chanting ditties composed in the days of Corisande
and of Henry IV., which you will swear yourself have made upon her:
happy in practising the ceremonials of gallantry, you have no ambition
for the essentials. Very well: every one has a particular way of
acting, as well as a particular taste: your’s is to trifle in love;
and, provided you can make Mademoiselle de St. Germain laugh, you are
satisfied: as for my part, I am persuaded, that women here are made of
the same materials as in other places; and I do not think that they can
be mightily offended, if one sometimes leaves off trifling, to come to
the point: however, if the Marchioness is not of this way of thinking,
she may e’en provide herself elsewhere; for I can assure her, that I
shall not long act the part of her squire.”

This was an unnecessary menace; for the Marchioness in reality liked him
very well, was nearly of the same way of thinking herself, and wished
for nothing more than to put his gallantry to the test. But Matta
proceeded upon a wrong plan; he had conceived such an aversion for her
husband, that he could not prevail upon himself to make the smallest
advance towards his good graces. He was given to understand that he
ought to begin by endeavouring to lull the dragon to sleep, before he
could gain possession of the treasure; but this was all to no purpose,
though, at the same time, he could never see his mistress but in public.
This made him impatient, and as he was lamenting his ill-fortune to her
one day: “Have the goodness, madam,” said he, “to let me know where you
live: there is never a day that I do not call upon you, at least, three
or four times, without ever being blessed with a sight of you.” “I
generally sleep at home,” replied she, laughing; “but I must tell you,
that you will never find me there, if you do not first pay a visit
to the Marquis: I am not mistress of the house. I do not tell you,”
 continued she, “that he is a man whose acquaintance any one would very
impatiently covet for his conversation: on the contrary, I agree that
his humour is fantastical, and his manners not of the pleasing cast; but
there is nothing so savage and inhuman, which a little care, attention,
and complaisance may not tame into docility. I must repeat to you some
verses upon the subject: I have got them by heart, because they contain
a little advice, which you may accommodate, if you please, to your own
case.”

              RONDEAU.

        Keep in mind these maxims rare,
        You who hope to win the fair;
        Who are, or would esteemed be,
        The quintessence of gallantry.

        That fopp’ry, grinning, and grimace,
        And fertile store of common-place;
        That oaths as false as dicers swear,
        And Wry teeth, and scented hair;
        That trinkets, and the pride of dress,
        Can only give your scheme success.
                       Keep in mind.

        Has thy charmer e’er an aunt?
        Then learn the rules of woman’s cant,
        And forge a tale, and swear you read it,
        Such as, save woman, none would credit
        Win o’er her confidante and pages
        By gold, for this a golden age is;
        And should it be her wayward fate,
        To be encumbered with a mate,
        A dull, old dotard should he be,
        That dulness claims thy courtesy.
                       Keep in mind.

“Truly,” said Matta, “the song may say what it pleases, but I cannot put
it in practice: your husband is far too exquisite a monster for me. Why,
what a plaguey odd ceremony do you require of us in this country, if we
cannot pay our compliments to the wife without being in love with the
husband!”

The Marchioness was much offended at this answer; and as she thought she
had done enough in pointing out to him the path which would conduct him
to success, if he had deserved it, she did not think it worth while to
enter into any farther explanation; since he refused to cede, for her
salve, so trilling an objection: from this instant she resolved to have
done with him.

The Chevalier de Grammont had taken leave of his mistress nearly at the
same time: the ardour of his pursuit was extinguished. It was not that
Mademoiselle de Saint Germain was less worthy than hitherto of his
attentions: on the contrary her attractions visibly increased: she
retired to her pillow with a thousand charms, and ever rose from it with
additional beauty the phrase of increasing in beauty as she increased
in years seemed to have been purposely made for her. The Chevalier could
not deny these truths, but yet he could not find his account in them: a
little less merit, with a little less discretion, would have been more
agreeable. He perceived that she attended to him with pleasure, that
she was diverted with his stories as much as he could wish, and that
she received his billets and presents without scruple; but then he
also discovered that she did not wish to proceed any farther. He had
exhausted every species of address upon her, and all to no purpose:
her attendant was gained: her family, charmed with the music of his
conversation and his great attention, were never happy without him:
in short, he had reduced to practice the advice contained in the
Marchioness’s song, and everything conspired to deliver the little Saint
Germain into his hands, if the little Saint Germain had herself been
willing: but alas! she was not inclined. It was in vain he told her the
favour he desired would cost her nothing; and that since these treasures
were rarely comprised in the fortune a lady brings with her in marriage,
she would never find any person, who, by unremitting tenderness,
unwearied attachment, and inviolable secrecy, would prove more worthy of
them than himself. He then told her no husband was ever able to convey
a proper idea of the sweets of love, and that nothing could be more
different than the passionate fondness of a lover, always tender, always
affectionate, yet always respectful, and the careless indifference of a
husband.

Mademoiselle de Saint Germain, not wishing to take the matter in a
serious light, that she might not be forced to resent it, answered, that
since it was generally the custom in her country to marry, she thought
it was right to conform to it, without entering into the knowledge of
those distinctions, and those marvellous particulars, which she did not
very well understand, and of which she did not wish to have any further
explanation; that she had submitted to listen to him this one time, but
desired he would never speak to her again in the same strain, since
such sort of conversation was neither entertaining to her, nor could
be serviceable to him. Though no one was ever more facetious than
Mademoiselle de Saint Germain, she yet knew how to assume a very serious
air, when ever occasion required it. The Chevalier de Grammont soon saw
that she was in earnest; and finding it would cost him a great deal of
time to effect a change in her sentiments, he was so far cooled in this
pursuit, that he only made use of it to hide the designs he had upon the
Marchioness de Senantes.

He found this lady much disgusted at Matta’s want of complaisance; and
his seeming contempt for her erased every favourable impression which
she had once entertained for him. While she was in this humour, the
Chevalier told her that her resentment was just; he exaggerated the
loss which his friend had sustained; he told her that her charms were
a thousand times superior to those of the little Saint Germain, and
requested that favour for himself which his friend did not deserve.
He was soon favourably heard upon this topic; and as soon as they were
agreed, they consulted upon two measures necessary to be taken, the
one to deceive her husband, the other his friend, which was not very
difficult: Matta was not at all suspicious: and the stupid Senantes,
towards whom the Chevalier had already behaved as Matta had refused to
do, could not be easy without him. This was much more than was wanted;
for as soon as ever the Chevalier was with the Marchioness, her husband
immediately joined them out of politeness; and on no account would have
left them alone together, for fear they should grow weary of each other
without him.

Matta, who all this time was entirely ignorant that he was disgraced,
continued to serve his mistress in his own way. She had agreed with
the Chevalier de Grammont, that to all appearance everything should
be carried on as before; so that the court always believed that the
Marchioness only thought of Matta, and that the Chevalier was entirely
devoted to Mademoiselle de Saint Germain.

There were very frequently little lotteries for trinkets: the Chevalier
de Grammont always tried his fortune, and was sometimes fortunate; and
under pretence of the prizes he had won, he bought a thousand things
which he indiscreetly gave to the Marchioness, and which she still more
indiscreetly accepted: the little Saint Germain very seldom received any
thing. There are meddling whisperers everywhere: remarks were made upon
these proceedings; and the same person that made them communicated them
likewise to Mademoiselle de Saint Germain. She pretended to laugh, but
in reality was piqued. It is a maxim religiously observed by the fair
sex, to envy each other those indulgences which themselves refuse. She
took this very ill of the Marchioness. On the other hand, Matta was
asked if he was not old enough to make his own presents himself to
the Marchioness de Senantes, without sending them by the Chevalier de
Grammont. This roused him; for of himself, he would never have perceived
it: his suspicions, however, were but slight, and he was willing to have
them removed. “I must confess,” said he to the Chevalier de Grammont,
“that they make love here quite in a new style; a man serves here
without reward: he addresses himself to the husband when he is in love
with the wife, and makes presents to another man’s mistress, to get
into the good graces of his own. The Marchioness is much obliged to you
for-----”

“It is you who are obliged,” replied the Chevalier, “since thus was
done on your account: I was ashamed to find you had never yet thought
of presenting her with any trifling token of your attention: do you know
that the people of this court have such extraordinary notions, as to
think that it is rather owing to inadvertency that you never yet have
had the spirit to make your mistress the smallest present? For shame!
how ridiculous it is, that you can never think for yourself?”

Matta took this rebuke, without making any answer, being persuaded that
he had in some measure deserved it: besides, he was neither sufficiently
jealous, nor sufficiently amorous, to think any more of it; however,
as it was necessary for the Chevalier’s affairs that Matta should be
acquainted with the Marquis de Senantes, he plagued him so much about
it, that at last he complied. His friend introduced him, and his
mistress seemed pleased with this proof of complaisance, though she
was resolved that he should gain nothing by it; and the husband,
being gratified with a piece of civility which he had long expected,
determined, that very evening, to give them a supper at a little country
seat of his, on the banks of the river, very near the city.

The Chevalier de Grammont answering for them both, accepted the offer;
and as this was the only one Matta would not have refused from the
Marquis, he likewise consented. The Marquis came to convey them in his
carriage at the hour appointed; but he found only Matta. The Chevalier
had engaged himself to play, on purpose that they might go without him:
Matta was for waiting for him, so great was his fear of being left alone
with the Marquis; but the Chevalier having sent to desire them to go on
before, and that he would be with them as soon as he had finished his
game, poor Matta was obliged to set out with the man who, of all the
world, was most offensive to him. It was not the Chevalier’s intention
quickly to extricate Matta out of this embarrassment: he no sooner knew
that they were gone, than he waited on the Marchioness, under pretence
of still finding her husband, that they might all go together to supper.

The plot was in a fair way; and as the Marchioness was of opinion that
Matta’s indifference merited no better treatment from her, she made no
scruple of acting her part in it: she therefore waited for the Chevalier
de Grammont with intentions so much the more favourable, as she had for
a long time expected him, and had some curiosity to receive a visit from
him in the absence of her husband. We may therefore suppose that this
first opportunity would not have been lost, if Mademoiselle de Saint
Germain had not unexpectedly come in, almost at the same time with the
Chevalier.

She was more handsome and more entertaining that day than she had ever
been before; however, she appeared to them very ugly and very tiresome:
she soon perceived that her company was disagreeable, and being
determined that they should not be out of humour with her for nothing,
after having passed above a long half hour in diverting herself with
their uneasiness, and in playing a thousand monkey tricks, which she
plainly saw could never be more unseasonable, she pulled off her hood,
scarf, and all that part of her dress which ladies lay aside, when in a
familiar manner they intend to pass the day anywhere. The Chevalier de
Grammont cursed her in his heart, while she continued to torment him for
being in such ill-humour in such good company: at last the Marchioness,
who was as much vexed as he was, said rather drily that she was obliged
to wait on her Royal Highness: Mademoiselle de Saint Germain told her
that she would have the honour to accompany her, if it would not be
disagreeable: she took not the smallest notice of her offer; and the
Chevalier, finding that it would be entirely useless to prolong his
visit at that time, retired with a good grace.

As soon as he had left the house, he sent one of his scouts to desire
the Marquis to sit down to table with his company without waiting
for him, because the game might not perhaps be finished as soon as he
expected, but that he would be with him before supper was over. Having
despatched this messenger, he placed a sentinel at the Marchioness’s
door, in hopes that the tedious Saint Germain might go out before her;
but this was in vain, for his spy came and told him, after an hour’s
impatience and suspense, that they were gone out together. He found
there was no chance of seeing her again that day, everything falling
out contrary to his wishes; he was forced therefore to leave the
Marchioness, and go in quest of the Marquis.

While these things were going on in the city, Matta was not much
diverted in the country: as he was prejudiced against the Marquis, all
that he said displeased him: he cursed the Chevalier heartily for the
tete-a-tete which he had procured him; and he was upon the point of
going away, when he found that he was to sit down to supper without any
other company.

However, as his host was very choice in his entertainments, and had
the best wine and the best cook in all Piedmont, the sight of the first
course appeased him; and eating most voraciously, without paying any
attention to the Marquis, he flattered himself that the supper would end
without any dispute; but he was mistaken.

When the Chevalier de Grammont was at first endeavouring to bring
about an intercourse between the Marquis and Matta, he had given a very
advantageous character of the latter, to make the former more
desirous of his acquaintance; and in the display of a thousand other
accomplishments, knowing what an infatuation the Marquis had for the
very name of erudition, he assured him that Matta was one of the most
learned men in Europe.

The Marquis, therefore, from the moment they sat down to supper, had
expected some stroke of learning from Matta, to bring his own into
play; but he was much out in his reckoning; no one had read less, no one
thought less, and no one had ever spoken so little at an entertainment
as he had done as he did not wish to enter into conversation, he opened
his mouth only to eat, or ask for wine.

The other, being offended at a silence which appeared to him affected,
and wearied with having uselessly attacked him upon other subjects,
thought he might get something out of him by changing the discourse of
love and gallantry; and therefore, to begin the subject, he accosted him
in this manner:

“Since you are my wife’s gallant--” “I!” said Matta who wished to carry
it discreetly: “those who told you so, told a damned lie.” “Zounds,
sir,” said the Marquis, “you speak in a tone which does not at
all become you; for I would have you to know, notwithstanding your
contemptuous airs, that the Marchioness de Senantes is perhaps as worthy
of your attentions as any of your French ladies, and that I have known
some greatly your superiors, who have thought it an honour to serve
her.” “Very well,” said Matta, “I think she is very deserving, and since
you insist upon it, I am her servant and gallant, to oblige you.”

“You think, perhaps,” continued the other, “that the same custom
prevails in this country as in your own, and that the ladies have
lovers, with no other intentions than to grant them favours: undeceive
yourself if you please, and know, likewise, that even if such events
were frequent in this court, I should not be at all uneasy.” “Nothing
can be more civil,” said Matta; “but wherefore would you not?” “I will
tell you why,” replied he: “I am well acquainted with the affection my
wife entertains for me: I am acquainted with her discretion towards all
the world; and, what is more, I am acquainted with my own merit.”

“You have a most uncommon acquaintance then,” replied Matta; “I
congratulate you upon it; I have the honour to drink it in a bumper.”
 The Marquis pledged him; but seeing that the conversation dropped on
their ceasing to drink, after two or three healths, he wished to make a
second attempt, and attack Matta on his strong side, that is to say, on
his learning.

He desired him, therefore, to tell him, at what time he thought the
Allobroges came to settle in Piedmont. Matta, who wished him and his
Allobroges at the devil, said, that it must be in the time of the civil
wars. “I doubt that,” said the other. “Just as you like,” said Matta.
“Under what consulate?” replied the Marquis: “Under that of the League,”
 said Matta, “when the Guises brought the Lansquenets into France; but
what the devil does that signify?”

The Marquis was tolerably warm, and naturally savage, so that God knows
how the conversation would have ended, if the Chevalier de Grammont had
not unexpectedly come in to appease them. It was some time before he
could find out what their debate was; for the one had forgotten the
questions, and the other the answers, which had disobliged him, in order
to reproach the Chevalier with his eternal passion for play, which made
him always uncertain. The Chevalier, who knew that he was still more
culpable than they thought, bore it all with patience, and condemned
himself more than they desired: this appeased them; and the
entertainment ended with greater tranquillity than it had begun. The
conversation was again reduced to order; but he could not enliven it as
he usually did. He was in very ill humour, and as he pressed them every
minute to rise from table, the Marquis was of opinion that he had lost
a great deal. Matta said, on the contrary, that he had won; but for want
of precautions had made perhaps an unfortunate retreat; and asked him if
he had not stood in need of Serjeant La Place, with his ambuscade.

This piece of history was beyond the comprehension of the Marquis, and
being afraid that Matta might explain it, the Chevalier changed the
discourse, and was for rising from table; but Matta would not consent
to it. This effected a reconciliation between him and the Marquis, who
thought this was a piece of civility intended for him; however, it was
not for him, but for his wine, to which Matta had taken a prodigious
liking.

The Duchess, who knew the character of the Marquis, was charmed with the
account which the Chevalier de Grammont gave her of the entertainment
and conversation: she sent for Matta to know the truth of it from
himself: he confessed, that before the Allobroges were mentioned the
Marquis was for quarrelling with him, because he was not in love with
his wife.

Their acquaintance having begun in this manner, all the esteem which
the Marquis had formerly expressed for the Chevalier seemed now directed
towards Matta: he went every day to pay Matta a visit, and Matta was
every day with his wife. This did not at all suit the Chevalier: he
repented of his having chid Matta, whose assiduity now interrupted all
his schemes; and the Marchioness was still more embarrassed. Whatever
wit a man may have, it will never please where his company is disliked;
and she repented that she had been formerly guilty of some trifling
advances towards him.

Matta began to find charms in her person, and might have found the same
in her conversation, if she had been inclined to display them; but it
is impossible to be in good humour with persons who thwart our designs.
While his passion increased, the Chevalier de Grammont was solely
occupied in endeavouring to find out some method, by which he might
accomplish his intrigue; and this was the stratagem which he put in
execution to clear the coast, by removing, at one and the same time,
both the lover and the husband.

He told Matta, that they ought to invite the Marquis to supper at their
lodgings, and he would take upon himself to provide everything proper
for the occasion. Matta desired to know if it was to play at quinze, and
assured him that he should take care to render abortive any intention
he might have to engage in play, and leave him alone with the greatest
blockhead in all Europe. The Chevalier de Grammont did not entertain
any such thought, being persuaded that it would be impossible to take
advantage of any such opportunity, in whatever manner he might take his
measures, and that they would seek for him in every corner of the
city rather than allow him the least repose: his whole attention was
therefore employed in rendering the entertainment agreeable, in finding
out means of prolonging it, in order ultimately to kindle some dispute
between the Marquis and Matta. For this purpose he put himself in the
best humour in the world, and the wine produced the same effect on the
rest of the company.

The Chevalier de Grammont expressed his concern, that he had not been
able to give the Marquis a little concert, as he had intended in the
morning; for the musicians had been all pre-engaged. Upon this the
Marquis undertook to have them at his country-house the following
evening, and invited the same company to sup with him there. Matta asked
what the devil they wanted with music, and maintained that it was of no
use on such occasions but for women who had something to say to their
lovers, while the fiddles prevented them from being overheard, or for
fools who had nothing to say when the music ended. They ridiculed all
his arguments: the party was fixed for the next day, and the music was
voted by the majority of voices. The Marquis, to console Matta, as well
as to do honour to the entertainment, toasted a great many healths:
Matta was more ready to listen to his arguments on this topic than in
a dispute; but the Chevalier, perceiving that a little would irritate
them, desired nothing more earnestly than to see them engaged in some
new controversy. It was in vain that he had from time to time started
some subject of discourse with this intention; but having luckily
thought of asking what was his lady’s maiden name, Senantes, who was a
great genealogist, as all fools are who have good memories, immediately
began by tracing out her family, by an endless confused string of
lineage. The Chevalier seemed to listen to him with great attention;
and perceiving that Matta was almost out of patience, he desired him to
attend to what the Marquis was saying, for that nothing could be more
entertaining. “All this may be very true,” said Matta; “but for my part,
I must confess, if I were married, I should rather choose to inform
myself who was the real father of my children, than who were my wife’s
grand fathers.” The Marquis, smiling at this rudeness, did not leave off
until he had traced back the ancestors of his spouse, from line to line,
as far as Yolande de Senantes: after this he offered to prove, in less
than half an hour, that the Grammonts came originally from Spain. “Very
well,” said Matta, “and pray what does it signify to us from whence the
Grammonts are descended? Do not you know, sir, that it is better to know
nothing at all, than to know too much?”

The Marquis maintained the contrary with great warmth, and was preparing
a formal argument to prove that an ignorant man is a fool; but the
Chevalier de Grammont, who was thoroughly acquainted with Matta saw very
clearly that he would send the logician to the devil before he should
arrive at the conclusion of his syllogism: for which reason, interposing
as soon as they began to raise their voices, he told them it was
ridiculous to quarrel about an affair in itself so trivial, and
treated the matter in a serious light, that it might make the greater
impression. Thus supper terminated peaceably, owing to the care he took
to suppress all disputes, and to substitute plenty of wine in their
stead.

The next day Matta went to the chase, the Chevalier de Grammont to
the bagnio, and the Marquis to his country house. While the latter was
making the necessary preparations for his guests, not forgetting the
music, and Matta pursuing his game to get an appetite, the Chevalier was
meditating on the execution of his project.

As soon as he had regulated his plan of operations in his own mind, he
privately sent anonymous intelligence to the officer of the guard at the
palace that the Marquis de Senantes had had some words with Monsieur de
Matta the preceding night at supper; that the one had gone out in the
morning; and the other could not be found in the city.

Madame Royale, alarmed at this advice, immediately sent for the
Chevalier de Grammont: he appeared surprised when her highness mentioned
the affair: he confessed, indeed, that some high words had passed
between them, but that he did not believe either of them would have
remembered them the next day. He said that if no mischief had yet taken
place, the best way would be to secure them both until the morning, and
that if they could be found, he would undertake to reconcile them, and
to obliterate all grievances: in this there was no great difficulty.
On inquiry at the Marquis’s they were informed that he was gone to his
country-house: there certainly he was, and there they found him; the
officer put him under an arrest, without assigning any reason for so
doing, and left him in very great surprise.

Immediately upon Matta’s return from hunting, her Royal Highness sent
the same officer to desire him to give her his word that he would not
stir out that evening. This compliment very much surprised him, more
particularly as no reason was assigned for it. He was expected at a good
entertainment he was dying with hunger, and nothing appeared to him more
unreasonable than to oblige him to stay at home, in a situation like the
present; but he had given his word, and not knowing to what this might
tend, his only resource was to send for his friend; but his friend did
not come to him until his return from the country. He had there found
the Marquis in the midst of his fiddlers, and very much vexed to find
himself a prisoner in his own house on account of Matta, whom he was
waiting for in order to feast him: he complained of him bitterly to
the Chevalier de Grammont: he said that he did not believe that he had
offended him; but that, since he was very desirous of a quarrel, he
desired the Chevalier to acquaint him, if he felt the least displeasure
on the present occasion, he should, on the very first opportunity,
receive what is called satisfaction. The Chevalier de Grammont assured
him that no such thought had ever entered the mind of Matta; that on the
contrary, he knew that he very greatly esteemed him; that all this could
alone arise from the extreme tenderness of his lady, who, being alarmed
upon the report of the servants who waited at table, must have gone to
her Royal Highness, in order to prevent any unpleasant consequences;
that he thought this the more probable, as he had often told the
Marchioness, when speaking of Matta, that he was the best swordsman
in France; for, in truth, the poor gentleman had never fought without
having the misfortune of killing his man.

The Marquis, being a little pacified, said he was very much obliged
to him, that he would severely chide his wife for her unseasonable
tenderness, and that he was extremely desirous of again enjoying the
pleasure of his dear friend Matta’s company.

The Chevalier de Grammont assured him that he would use all his
endeavours for that purpose, and at the same time gave strict charge
to his guard not to let him escape without orders from the Court, as he
seemed fully bent upon fighting, and they would be responsible for him:
there was no occasion to say more to have him strictly watched, though
there was no necessity for it.

One being thus safely lodged, his next step was to secure the other: he
returned immediately to town: and as soon as Matta saw him, “What the
devil,” said he, “is the meaning of this farce which I am obliged
to act? for my part, I cannot understand the foolish customs of this
country; how comes it that they make me a prisoner upon my parole?” “How
comes it?” said the Chevalier de Grammont, “it is because you yourself
are far more unaccountable than all their customs; you cannot help
disputing with a peevish fellow, whom you ought only to laugh at;
some officious footman has no doubt been talking of your last night’s
dispute; you were seen to go out of town in the morning, and the Marquis
soon after; was not this sufficient to make her Royal Highness think
herself obliged to take these precautions? The Marquis is in custody;
they have only required your parole; so far, therefore, from taking
the affair in the sense you do, I should send very humbly to thank her
Highness for the kindness she has manifested towards you in putting
you under arrest, since it is only on your account that she interests
herself in the affair. I shall take a walk to the palace, where I will
endeavour to unravel this mystery; in the mean time, as there is but
little probability that the matter should be settled this evening,
you would do well to order supper; for I shall come back to you
immediately.”

Matta charged him not to fail to express to her Royal Highness the
grateful sense he had of her favour, though in truth he as little feared
the Marquis as he loved him; and it is impossible to express the degree
of his fortitude in stronger terms.

The Chevalier de Grammont returned in about half an hour, with two or
three gentlemen whom Matta had got acquainted with at the chase, and
who, upon the report of the quarrel, waited upon him, and each offered
him separately his services against the unassisted and pacific Marquis.
Matta having returned them his thanks, insisted upon their staying
supper, and put on his robe de chambre.

As soon as the Chevalier de Grammont perceived that every thing
coincided with his wishes, and that towards the end of the entertainment
the toasts went merrily round, he knew he was sure of his man till
next day: then taking him aside with the permission of the company, and
making use of a false confidence in order to disguise a real treachery,
he acquainted him, after having sworn him several times to secrecy, that
he had at last prevailed upon the little Saint Germain to grant him an
interview that night; for which reason he would take his leave, under
pretence of going to play at Court; he therefore desired him fully
to satisfy the company that he would not have left them on any other
account, as the Piedmontese are naturally mistrustful. Matta promised he
would manage this point with discretion; that he would make an apology
for him, and that there was no occasion for his personally taking leave:
then, after congratulating him upon the happy posture of his affairs, he
sent him away with all the expedition and secrecy imaginable; so great
was his fear lest his friend should lose the present opportunity.

Matta then returned to the company, much pleased with the confidence
which had been placed in him, and with the share he had in the success
of this adventure. He put himself into the best humour imaginable in
order to divert the attention of his guests; he severely satirised
those, whose rage for gaming induced them to sacrifice to it every other
consideration; he loudly ridiculed the folly of the Chevalier upon this
article, and secretly laughed at the credulity of the Piedmontese, whom
he had deceived with so much ingenuity.

It was late at night before the company broke up, and Matta went to bed,
very well satisfied with what he had done for his friend; and, if we may
credit appearances, this friend enjoyed the fruit of his perfidy. The
amorous Marchioness received him like one who wished to enhance the
value of the favour she bestowed; her charms were far from being
neglected; and if there are any circumstances in which we may detest the
traitor while we profit by the treason, this was not one of them; and
however successful the Chevalier de Grammont was in his intrigues, it
was not owing to him that the contrary was not believed; but, be that
as it may, being convinced that in love whatever is gained by address
is gained fairly, it does not appear that he ever showed the smallest
degree of repentance for this trick. But it is now time for its to take
him from the court of Savoy, to see him shine in that of France.




CHAPTER FIFTH. HE RETURNS TO THE COURT OF FRANCE--HIS ADVENTURES AT THE
SIEGE OF ARRAS--HIS REPLY TO CARDINAL MAZARIN--HE IS BANISHED THE COURT


The Chevalier de Grammont, upon his return to France, sustained, with
the greatest success, the reputation he had acquired abroad: alert in
play, active and vigilant in love; sometimes successful, and always
feared, in his intrigues; in war alike prepared for the events of good
or ill fortune; possessing an inexhaustible fund of pleasantry in the
former, and full of expedients and dexterity in the latter.

Zealously attached to the Prince de Conde from inclination, he was a
witness, and, if we may be allowed to say it, his companion, in the
glory he had acquired at the celebrated battles of Lens, Norlinguen, and
Fribourg; and the details he so frequently gave of them were far from
diminishing their lustre.

   [Louis of Bourbon, Duke d’Enghien, afterwards, by the death of his
   father in 1656, Prince de Conde. Of this great man Cardinal de Retz
   says, “He was born a general, which never happened but to Caesar, to
   Spinola, and to himself. He has equalled the first: he has
   surpassed the second. Intrepidity is one of the least shining
   strokes in his character. Nature had formed him with a mind as
   great as his courage. Fortune, in setting him out in a time of
   wars, has given this last a full extent to work in: his birth, or
   rather his education, in a family devoted and enslaved to the court,
   has kept the first within too straight bounds. He was not taught
   time enough the great and general maxims which alone are able to
   form men to think always consistently. He never had time to learn
   them of himself, because he was prevented from his youth, by the
   great affairs that fell unexpectedly to his share, and by the
   continual success he met with. This defect in him was the cause,
   that with the soul in the world the least inclined to evil, he has
   committed injuries; that with the heart of an Alexander, he has,
   like him, had his failings; that with a wonderful understanding, he
   has acted imprudently; that having all the qualities which the Duke
   Francis of Guise had, he has not served the state in some occasions
   so well as he ought; and that having likewise having all the
   qualities of the Duke Henry of Guise, he has not carried faction so
   far as he might. He could not come up to the height of his merit;
   which, though it be a defect, must yet be owned to be very uncommon,
   and only to be found in persons of the greatest abilities.”]

So long as he had only some scruples of conscience, and a thousand
interests to sacrifice, he quitted all to follow a man, whom strong
motives and resentments, which in some manner appeared excusable, had
withdrawn from the paths of rectitude: he adhered to him in his first
disgrace, with a constancy of which there are few examples; but he could
not submit to the injuries which he afterwards received, and which such
an inviolable attachment so little merited. Therefore, without fearing
any reproach for a conduct which sufficiently justified itself, as he
had formerly deviated from his duty by entering into the service of the
Prince de Conde, he thought he had a right to leave him to return again
to his duty.

His peace was soon made at Court, where many, far more culpable than
himself, were immediately received into favour, when they desired it;
for the queen, still terrified at the dangers into which the civil wars
had plunged the State at the commencement of her regency, endeavoured by
lenient measures to conciliate the minds of the people.

   [Anne of Austria, daughter of Philip III. of Spain, widow of Louis
   XIII., to whom she was married in 1615, and mother of Louis XIV.
   She died in 1666. Cardinal de Retz speaks of her in the following
   terms. “The queen had more than anybody whom I ever knew, of that
   sort of wit which was necessary for her not to appear a fool to
   those that did not know her. She had in her more of harshness than
   haughtiness; more of haughtiness than of greatness; more of outward
   appearance than reality; more regard to money than liberality; more
   of liberality than of self-interest; more of self-interest than
   disinterestedness: she was more tied to persons by habit than by
   affection; she had more of insensibility than of cruelty; she had a
   better memory for injuries than for benefits; her intention towards
   piety was greater than her piety; she had in her more of obstinacy
   than of firmness; and more incapacity than of all the rest which I
   mentioned before.” Memoirs, vol. i., p. 247.]

The policy of the minister was neither sanguinary nor revengeful: his
favourite maxim was rather to appease the minds of the discontented by
lenity, than to have recourse to violent measures; to be content with
losing nothing by the war, without being at the expense of gaining any
advantage from the enemy; to suffer his character to be very severely
handled, provided he could amass much wealth, and to spin out the
minority to the greatest possible extent.

   [Cardinal Mazarin, who, during a few of the latter years of his
   life, governed France. He died at Vincennes the 9th of March 1661,
   aged 59 years, leaving as heir to his name and property the Alarquis
   de la Meilleray, who married his niece, and took the title of Duke
   of Mazarin. On his death, Louis XIV. and the court appeared in
   mourning, an honour not common, though Henry IV. had shewn it to the
   memory of Gabrielle d’Estrees. Voltaire, who appears unwilling to
   ascribe much ability to the cardinal, takes an opportunity, on
   occasion of his death, to make the following observation.
   --“We cannot refrain from combating the opinion, which supposes
   prodigious abilities, and a genius almost divine, in those who have
   governed empires with some degree of success. It is not a superior
   penetration that makes statesmen; it is their character. All men,
   how inconsiderable soever their share of sense may be, see their own
   interest nearly alike. A citizen of Bern or Amsterdam, in this
   respect, is equal to Sejanus, Ximenes, Buckingham, Richelieu, or
   Mazarin; but our conduct and our enterprises depend absolutely on
   our natural dispositions, and our success depends upon fortune.”
    Age of Louis XIV., chap. 5.]

His avidity to heap up riches was not alone confined to the thousand
different means, with which he was furnished by his authority, and the
situation in which he was placed: his whole pursuit was gain: he was
naturally fond of gaming; but he only played to enrich himself, and
therefore, whenever he found an opportunity, he cheated.

As he found the Chevalier de Grammont possessed a great deal of wit, and
a great deal of money, he was a man according to his wishes, and soon
became one of his set. The Chevalier soon perceived the artfulness and
dishonesty of the Cardinal, and thought it was allowable in him to put
in practice those talents which he had received from nature, not only in
his own defence, but even to attack him whenever an opportunity offered.
This would certainly be the place to mention these particulars; but who
can describe them with such ease and elegance as maybe expected by
those who have heard his own relation of them? Vain is the attempt to
endeavour to transcribe these entertaining anecdotes: their spirit seems
to evaporate upon paper; and in whatever light they are exposed the
delicacy of their colouring and their beauty is lost.

It is, then, enough to say, that upon all occasions where address was
reciprocally employed, the Chevalier gained the advantage; and that if
he paid his court badly to the minister, he had the consolation to find,
that those who suffered themselves to be cheated, in the end gained no
great advantage from their complaisance; for they always continued in
an abject submission, while the Chevalier de Grammont, on a thousand
different occasions, never put himself under the least restraint. Of
which the following is one instance:

The Spanish army, commanded by the Prince de Conde and the
archduke,--[Leopold, brother of the Emperor Ferdinand the
III.]--besieged Arras. The Court was advanced as far as Peronne.--[A
little bat strong town, standing among marshes on the river Somme, in
Picardy.]--The enemy, by the capture of this place, would have procured
a reputation for their army of which they were in great need; as the
French, for a considerable time past, had evinced a superiority in every
engagement.

The Prince supported a tottering party, as far as their usual inactivity
and irresolution permitted him; but as in the events of war it is
necessary to act independently on some occasions, which, if once
suffered to escape, can never be retrieved; for want of this power
it frequently happened that his great abilities were of no avail.
The Spanish infantry had never recovered itself since the battle of
Rocroy;--[This famous battle was fought and won 19th May, 1643, five
days after the death of Louis XIII.]--and he who had ruined them by
that victory, by fighting against them, was the only man who now, by
commanding their army, was capable of repairing the mischief he had done
them. But the jealousy of the generals, and the distrust attendant upon
their counsels, tied up his hands.

Nevertheless, the siege of Arras was vigorously carried on.

   [Voltaire observes, that it was the fortune of Turenne and Conde
   to be always victorious when they fought at the head of the French,
   and to be vanquished when they commanded the Spaniards. This was
   Conde’s fate before Arras, August 25, 1654, when he and the archduke
   besieged that city. Turenne attacked them in their camp, and forced
   their lines: the troops of the archduke were cut to pieces; and
   Conde, with two regiments of French and Lorrainers, alone sustained
   the efforts of Turenne’s army; and, while the archduke was flying,
   he defeated the Marshal de Hoquincourt, repulsed the Marshal de la
   Ferte, and retreated victoriously himself, by covering the retreat
   of the vanquished Spaniards. The king of Spain, in his letter to
   him after this engagement, had these words: “I have been informed
   that everything was lost, and that you have recovered everything.”]

The Cardinal was very sensible how dishonourable it would be to suffer
this place to be taken under his nose, and almost in sight of the king.
On the other hand, it was very hazardous to attempt its relief, the
Prince de Conde being a man who never neglected the smallest precaution
for the security of his lines; and if lines are attacked and not forced,
the greatest danger threatens the assailants. For, the more furious the
assault, the greater is the disorder in the retreat; and no man in the
world knew so well as the Prince de Conde how to make the best use of an
advantage. The army, commanded by Monsieur de Turenne, was considerably
weaker than that of the enemy; it was, likewise, the only resource they
had to depend upon. If this army was defeated, the loss of Arras was not
the only misfortune to be dreaded.

The Cardinal, whose genius was happily adapted to such junctures, where
deceitful negotiations could extricate him out of difficulties, was
filled with terror at the sight of imminent danger, or of a decisive
event: he was of opinion to lay siege to some other place, the capture
of which might prove an indemnification for the loss of Arras; but
Monsieur de Turenne, who was altogether of a different opinion from the
Cardinal, resolved to march towards the enemy, and did not acquaint him
with his intentions until he was upon his march. The courier arrived in
the midst of his distress, and redoubled his apprehensions and alarms;
but there was then no remedy.

The Marshal, whose great reputation had gained him the confidence of the
troops, had determined upon his measures before an express order from
the Court could prevent him. This was one of those occasions in which
the difficulties you encounter heighten the glory of success. Though the
general’s capacity, in some measure, afforded comfort to the Court, they
nevertheless were upon the eve of an event, which in one way or other
must terminate both their hopes and their fears while the rest of
the courtiers were giving various opinions concerning the issue,
the Chevalier de Grammont determined to be an eye-witness of it; a
resolution which greatly surprised the court; for those who had seen as
many actions as he had, seemed to be exempted from such eagerness; but
it was in vain that his friends opposed his resolutions.

The king was pleased with his intention; and the queen appeared no less
satisfied. He assured her that he would bring her good news; and she
promised to embrace him, if he was as good as his word. The Cardinal
made the same promise: to the latter, however, he did not pay much
attention; yet he believed it sincere, because the keeping of it would
cost him nothing.

He set out in the dusk of the evening with Caseau, whom Monsieur de
Turenne had sent express to their majesties. The Duke of York, and the
Marquis d’Humieres, commanded under the Marshal: the latter was upon
duty when the Chevalier arrived, it being scarce daylight. The Duke of
York did not at first recollect him; but the Marquis d’Humieres, running
to him with open arms, “I thought,” said he, “if any man came from
court to pay us a visit upon such an occasion as this, it would be the
Chevalier de Grammont. Well,” continued he, “what are they doing at
Peronne?”

   [Louis de Crevans, Marechal of France. He died 1694. Voltaire says
   of him, that he was the first who, at the siege of Arras, in 1658,
   was served in silver in the trenches, and had ragouts and entremets
   served up to his table.]

“They are in great consternation,” replied the Chevalier. “And what do
they think of us?” “They think,” said he, “that if you beat the Prince,
you will do no more than your duty; if you are beaten, they will
think you fools and madmen, thus to have risked everything, without
considering the consequences.” “Truly,” said the Marquis, “you bring
us very comfortable news. Will you now go to Monsieur de Turenne’s
quarters, to acquaint him with it; or will you choose rather to repose
yourself in mine? for you have been riding post all last night, and
perhaps did not experience much rest in the preceding.” “Where have you
heard that the Chevalier de Grammont had ever any occasion for sleep?”
 replied he: “Only order me a horse, that I may have the honour to attend
the Duke of York; for, most likely, he is not in the field so early,
except to visit some posts.”

The advanced guard was only at cannon shot from that of the enemy.
As soon as they arrived there, “I should like,” said the Chevalier
de Grammont, “to advance as far as the sentry which is posted on that
eminence: I have some friends and acquaintance in their army, whom
I should wish to inquire after: I hope the Duke of York will give me
permission.” At these words he advanced. The sentry, seeing him come
forward directly to his post, stood upon his guard the Chevalier stopped
as soon as he was within shot of him. The sentry answered the sign
which was made to him, and made another to the officer, who had begun to
advance as soon as he had seen the Chevalier come forward, and was soon
up with him; but seeing the Chevalier de Grammont alone, he made no
difficulty to let him approach. He desired leave of this officer to
inquire after some relations he had in their army, and at the same time
asked if the Duke d’Arscot was at the siege. “Sir,” said he, “there he
is, just alighted under those trees, which you see on the left of our
grand guard: it is hardly a minute since he was here with the Prince
d’Aremberg, his brother, the Baron de Limbec, and Louvigny.” “May I
see them upon parole?” said the Chevalier. “Sir,” said he, “if I were
allowed to quit my post, I would do myself the honour of accompanying
you thither; but I will send to acquaint them, that the Chevalier de
Grammont desires to speak to them:” and, after having despatched one
of his guard towards them, he returned. “Sir,” said the Chevalier de
Grammont, “may I take the liberty to inquire how I came to be known to
you?” “Is it possible,” said the other, “that the Chevalier de Grammont
should forget La Motte, who had the honour to serve so long in his
regiment?” “What! is it you, my good friend, La Motte? Truly, I was to
blame for not remembering you, though you are in a dress very different
from that which I first saw you in at Bruxelles, when you taught the
Duchess of Guise to dance the triolets: and I am afraid your affairs are
not in so flourishing a condition as they were the campaign after I had
given you the company you mention.” They were talking in this manner,
when the Duke d’Arscot, followed by the gentlemen above mentioned, came
up on full gallop. The Chevalier de Grammont was saluted by the whole
company before he could say a word. Soon after arrived an immense number
of others of his acquaintance, with many people, out of curiosity, on
both sides, who, seeing him upon the eminence, assembled together with
the greatest eagerness; so that the two armies, without design, without
truce, and without fraud, were going to join in conversation, if, by
chance, Monsieur de Turenne had not perceived it at a distance. The
sight surprised him: he hastened that way; and the Marquis d’Humieres
acquainted him with the arrival of the Chevalier de Grammont, who wished
to speak to the sentry before he went to the headquarters: he added,
that he could not comprehend how the devil he had managed to assemble
both armies around him, for it was hardly a minute since he had left
him. “Truly,” said Monsieur de Turenne, “he is a very extraordinary man;
but it is only reasonable that he should let us now have a little of his
company, since he has paid his first visit to the enemy.” At these words
he despatched an aide-de-camp, to recal the officers of his army, and to
acquaint the Chevalier de Grammont with his impatience to see him.

This order arrived at the same time, with one of the same nature, to the
enemy’s officers. The Prince de Conde, being informed of this peaceable
interview, was not the least surprised at it, when he heard that it was
occasioned by the arrival of the Chevalier de Grammont. He only gave
Lussan orders to recal the officers, and to desire the Chevalier to meet
him at the same place the next day; which the Chevalier promised to do,
provided Monsieur de Turenne should approve of it, as he made no doubt
he would.

His reception in the king’s army was equally agreeable as that which he
had experienced from the enemy. Monsieur de Turenne esteemed him no less
for his frankness than for the poignancy of his wit: he took it very
kindly that he was the only courtier who came to see him in a time so
critical as the present: the questions which he asked him about the
court were not so much for information, as to divert himself with
his manner of relating their different apprehensions and alarms. The
Chevalier de Grammont advised him to beat the enemy, if he did not
choose to be answerable for an enterprise which he had undertaken
without consulting the Cardinal. Monsieur de Turenne promised him he
would exert himself to the utmost to follow his advice, and assured him,
that if he succeeded, he would make the queen keep her word with him;
and concluded with saying, that he was not sorry the Prince de Conde
had expressed a desire to see him. His measures were taken for an
attack upon the lines: on this subject he discoursed in private with the
Chevalier de Grammont, and concealed nothing from him except the time
of execution: but this was all to no purpose; for the Chevalier had seen
too much, not to judge, from his own knowledge, and the observations he
had made, that from the situation of the army, the attack could be no
longer deferred.

He set out the next day for his rendezvous, attended by a trumpet, and
found the Prince at the place which Monsieur de Lussan had described to
him the evening before. As soon as he alighted: “Is it possible,” said
the Prince, embracing him, “that this can be the Chevalier de Grammont,
and that I should see him in the contrary party?” “It is you, my lord,
whom I see there,” replied the Chevalier, “and I refer it to yourself,
whether it was the fault of the Chevalier de Grammont, or your own, that
we now embrace different interests.” “I must confess,” said the Prince,
“that if there are some who have abandoned me like base ungrateful
wretches, you have left me, as I left myself, like a man of honour, who
thinks himself in the right: but let us forget all cause of resentment,
and tell me what was your motive for coming here, you, whom I thought at
Peronne with the court.” “Must I tell you?” said he: “why, faith then,
I came to save your life. I know that you cannot help being in the midst
of the enemy in a day of battle; it is only necessary for your horse
to be shot under you, and to be taken in arms, to meet with the same
treatment from this Cardinal, as your uncle Montmorency did from the
other.

   [Henry, Duke of Montmorency, who was taken prisoner first September,
   1692, and had his head struck off at Toulouse in the month of
   November following.]

“I come, therefore, to hold a horse in readiness for you, in case of
a similar misfortune, that you may not lose your head.” “It is not the
first time,” said the Prince, smiling, “that you have rendered me this
service, though the being taken prisoner at that time could not have
been so dangerous to me as now.”

From this conversation, they passed to more entertaining subjects. The
Prince asked him many questions concerning the court, the ladies, play,
and about his amours; and returning insensibly to the present situation
of affairs, the Chevalier having inquired after some officers of his
acquaintance, who had remained with him, the Prince told him that if he
chose, he might go to the lines, where he would have an opportunity
not only of seeing those whom he inquired after, but likewise the
disposition of the quarters and entrenchments. To this he consented, and
the Prince having shown him all the works and attended him back to their
rendezvous, “Well, Chevalier,” said he, “when do you think we shall see
you again?” “Faith,” replied he, “you have used me so handsomely, that
I shall conceal nothing from you. Hold yourself in readiness an hour
before daybreak; for, you may depend upon it, we shall attack you
to-morrow morning. I would not have acquainted you with this, perhaps,
had I been entrusted with the secret, but, nevertheless, in the present
case you may believe me.” “You are still the same man,” said the Prince,
again embracing him. The Chevalier returned to Monsieur de Turenne’s
camp towards night; every preparation was then making for the attack of
the lines, and it was no longer a secret among the troops.

“Well, Monsieur le Chevalier, were they all very glad to see you?”
 said Monsieur de Turenne; “the Prince, no doubt, received you with the
greatest kindness, and asked a great number of questions?” “He has
shown me all the civility imaginable,” replied the Chevalier; “and, to
convince me he did not take me for a spy, he led me round the lines
and entrenchments, and showed me the preparations he had made for
your reception.” “And what is his opinion?” said the Marshal. “He is
persuaded that you will attack him to-night, or to-morrow by daybreak;
for you great captains,” continued the Chevalier, “see through each
other’s designs in a wonderful manner.”

Monsieur de Turenne, with pleasure, received this commendation from
a man who was not indiscriminately accustomed to bestow praise. He
communicated to him the disposition of the attack; and at the same time
acquainted him, that he was very happy that a man who had seen so many
actions was to be present at this; and that he esteemed it no small
advantage to have the benefit of his advice, but as he believed that the
remaining part of the night would be hardly sufficient for his repose,
after having passed the former without any refreshment, he consigned him
to the Marquis d’Humieres, who provided him with a supper and a lodging.

The next day the lines of Arras were attacked, wherein Monsieur de
Turenne, being victorious, added additional lustre to his former glory;
and the Prince de Conde, though vanquished, lost nothing of his former
reputation.

There are so many accounts of this celebrated battle, that to mention it
here would be altogether superfluous. The Chevalier de Grammont, who,
as a volunteer, was permitted to go into every part, has given a better
description of it than any other person. Monsieur de Turenne reaped
great advantage from that activity which never forsook the Chevalier
either in peace or war; and that presence of mind which enabled him to
carry orders, as coming from the general, so very apropos, that Monsieur
de Turenne, otherwise very particular in such matters, thanked him, when
the battle was over, in the presence of all his officers, and despatched
him to court with the first news of his success.

All that is generally necessary in these expeditions, is to be
accustomed to hard riding, and to be well provided with fresh horses,
but he had a great many other obstacles to surmount. In the first
place, the parties of the enemy were dispersed over all the country,
and obstructed his passage. Then he had to prepare against greedy and
officious courtiers, who, on such occasions, post themselves in all the
avenues, in order to cheat the poor courier out of his news. However,
his address preserved him from the one, and deceived the others.

He had taken eight or ten troopers, commanded by an officer of his
acquaintance, to escort him half way to Bapaume, being persuaded that
the greatest danger would lie between the camp and the first stage. He
had not proceeded a league before he was convinced of the truth of what
he suspected, and turning to the officer who followed him closely, “If
you are not well mounted,” said he, “I would advise you to return to the
camp; for my part, I shall set spurs to my horse, and make the best of
my way.” “Sir,” said the officer, “I hope I shall be able to keep you
company, at whatever rate you go, until you are out of all danger.”
 “I doubt that,” replied the Chevalier, “for those gentlemen there seem
prepared to pay us a visit.” “Don’t you see,” said the officer, “they
are some of our own people who are grazing their horses?” “No,” said
the Chevalier; “but I see very well that they are some of the enemy’s
troopers.” Upon which, observing to him that they were mounting, he
ordered the horsemen that escorted him to prepare themselves to make a
diversion, and he himself set off full speed towards Bapaume.

He was mounted upon a very swift English horse; but having entangled
himself in a hollow way where the ground was deep and miry, he soon
had the troopers at his heels, who, supposing him to be some officer of
rank, would not be deceived, but continued to pursue him without paying
any attention to the others. The best mounted of the party began to
draw near him; for the English horses, swift as the wind on even ground,
proceeded but very indifferently in bad roads; the trooper presented
his carbine, and cried out to him, at some distance, “Good quarter.” The
Chevalier de Grammont, who perceived that they gained upon him, and
that whatever efforts his horse made in such heavy ground, he must be
overtaken at last, immediately quitted the road to Bapaume, and took a
causeway to the left, which led quite a different way; as soon as he had
gained it, he drew up, as if to hear the proposal of the trooper, which
afforded his horse an opportunity of recovering himself; while his
enemy, mistaking his intention, and thinking that he only waited to
surrender, immediately exerted every effort, that he might take him
before the rest of his companions, who were following, could arrive, and
by this means almost killed his horse.

One minute’s reflection made the Chevalier consider what a disagreeable
adventure it would be, thus coming from so glorious a victory, and
the dangers of a battle so warmly disputed, to be taken by a set of
scoundrels who had not been in it, and, instead of being received in
triumph, and embraced by a great queen, for the important news with
which he was charged, to see himself stripped by the vanquished.

During this short meditation, the trooper who followed him was arrived
within shot, and still presenting his carbine, offered him good quarter,
but the Chevalier de Grammont, to whom this offer, and the manner in
which it was made, were equally displeasing, made a sign to him to lower
his piece; and perceiving his horse to be in wind, he lowered his hand,
rode off like lightning, and left the trooper in such astonishment that
he even forgot to fire at him.

As soon as he arrived at Bapaume, he changed horses; the commander of
this place showed him the greatest respect, assuring him that no person
had yet passed; that he would keep the secret, and that he would retain
all that followed him, except the couriers of Monsieur de Turenne.

He now had only to guard against those who would be watching for him
about the environs of Peronne, to return as soon as they saw him,
and carry his news to court, without being acquainted with any of the
particulars. He knew very well that Marshal du Plessis, Marshal de
Villeroy, and Gaboury, had boasted of this to the Cardinal before his
departure. Wherefore, to elude this snare, he hired two well-mounted
horsemen at Bapaume, and as soon as he had got a league from that place,
and after giving them each two louis d’ors, to secure their fidelity,
he ordered them to ride on before, to appear very much terrified, and
to tell all those who should ask them any questions, “that all was lost,
that the Chevalier de Grammont had stopped at Bapaume, having no great
inclination to be the messenger of ill news; and that as for themselves,
they had been pursued by the enemy’s troopers, who were spread over the
whole country since the defeat.”

Everything succeeded to his wish: the horsemen were intercepted by
Gaboury, whose eagerness had outstripped the two marshals’; but whatever
questions were asked them, they acted their parts so well, that Peronne
was already in consternation, and rumours of the defeat were whispered
among the courtiers, when the Chevalier de Grammont arrived.

Nothing so enhances the value of good news, as when a false alarm of
bad has preceded; yet, though the Chevalier’s was accompanied with this
advantage, none but their Majesties received it with that transport of
joy it deserved.

The queen kept her promise to him in the most fascinating manner:
she embraced him before the whole court; the king appeared no less
delighted; but the Cardinal, whether with the view of lessening the
merit of an action which deserved a handsome reward, or whether it
was from a return of that insolence which always accompanied him in
prosperity, appeared at first not to pay any attention to what he said,
and being afterwards informed that the lines had been forced, that the
Spanish army was beaten, and that Arras was relieved, “Is the Prince de
Conde taken?” said he. “No,” replied the Chevalier de Grammont. “He is
dead then, I suppose?” said the Cardinal. “Not so, neither,” answered
the Chevalier. “Fine news indeed!” said the Cardinal, with an air of
contempt; and at these words he went into the queen’s cabinet with
their majesties. And happy it was for the Chevalier that he did so, for
without doubt he would have given him some severe reply, in resentment
for those two fine questions, and the conclusion he had drawn from them.

The court was filled with the Cardinal’s spies: the Chevalier, as is
usual on such an occasion, was surrounded by a crowd of courtiers and
inquisitive people, and he was very glad to ease himself of some part
of the load which laid heavy on his heart, within the hearing of the
Cardinal’s creatures, and which he would perhaps have told him to his
face. “Faith, gentlemen,” said he, with a sneer, “there is nothing like
being zealous and eager in the service of kings and great princes: you
have seen what a gracious reception his Majesty has given me; you are
likewise witnesses in what an obliging manner the queen kept her promise
with me; but as for the Cardinal, he has received my news as if he
gained no more by it than he did by the death of Peter Mazarin.”

   [Peter Mazarin was father to the Cardinal. He was a native of
   Palermo in Sicily, which place he left in order to settle at Rome,
   where he died in the year 1654.]

This was sufficient to terrify all those who were sincerely attached
to him; and the best established fortune would have been ruined at some
period by a jest much less severe: for it was delivered in the presence
of witnesses, who were only desirous of having an opportunity of
representing it in its utmost malignancy, to make a merit of their
vigilance with a powerful and absolute minister. Of this the Chevalier
de Grammont was thoroughly convinced; yet whatever detriment he foresaw
might arise from it, he could not help being much pleased with what he
had said.

The spies very faithfully discharged their duty: however, the affair
took a very different turn from what they expected. The next day, when
the Chevalier de Grammont was present while their Majesties were at
dinner, the Cardinal came in, and coming up to him, everybody making way
for him out of respect: “Chevalier,” said he, “the news which you have
brought is very good, their Majesties are very well satisfied with it;
and to convince you it is more advantageous to me than the death of
Peter Mazarin, if you will come and dine with me we will have some play
together; for the queen will give us something to play for, over and
above her first promise.”

In this manner did the Chevalier de Grammont dare to provoke a powerful
minister, and this was all the resentment which the least vindictive of
all statesmen expressed on the occasion. It was indeed very unusual for
so young a man to reverence the authority of ministers no farther, than
as they were themselves respectable by their merit; for this, his own
breast, as well as the whole court, applauded him, and he enjoyed the
satisfaction of being the only man who durst preserve the least shadow
of liberty, in a general state of servitude; but it was perhaps owing
to the Cardinal’s passing over this insult with impunity, that
he afterwards drew upon himself some difficulties, by other rash
expressions less fortunate in the event.

In the mean time the court returned: the Cardinal, who was sensible that
he could no longer keep his master in a state of tutelage, being himself
worn out with cares and sickness, and having amassed treasures he knew
not what to do with, and being sufficiently loaded with the weight
of public odium, he turned all his thoughts towards terminating, in a
manner the most advantageous for France, a ministry which had so cruelly
shaken that kingdom. Thus, while he was earnestly laying the foundations
of a peace so ardently wished for, pleasure and plenty began to reign at
court.

The Chevalier de Grammont experienced for a long time a variety of
fortune in love and gaming: he was esteemed by the courtiers, beloved by
beauties whom he neglected, and a dangerous favourite of those whom
he admired; more successful in play than in his amours; but the one
indemnifying him for want of success in the other, he was always full of
life and spirits; and in all transactions of importance, always a man of
honour.

It is a pity that we must be forced here to interrupt the course of his
history, by an interval of some years, as has been already done at
the commencement of these memoirs. In a life where the most minute
circumstances are always singular and diverting, we can meet with no
chasm which does not afford regret; but whether he did not think them
worthy of holding a place among his other adventures, or that he has
only preserved a confused idea of them, we must pass to the parts of
these fragments which are better ascertained, that we may arrive at the
subject of his journey to England.

The peace of the Pyrenees, the king’s marriage,--the return of the
Prince de Conde, and the death of the Cardinal, gave a new face to the
state.

   [Louis XIV. married Maria Theresa of Austria. She was born 20th
   September, 1638, married 1st June, 1660, and entered Paris 26th
   August following. She died at Versailles 30th July, 1683, and was
   buried at St. Denis.]

The eyes of the whole nation were fixed upon their king, who, for
nobleness of mien, and gracefulness of person, had no equal; but it was
not then known that he was possessed of those superior abilities, which,
filling his subjects with admiration, in the end made him so formidable
to Europe. Love and ambition, the invisible springs of the intrigues
and cabals of all courts, attentively observed his first steps: pleasure
promised herself an absolute empire over a prince who had been kept
in ignorance of the necessary rules of government, and ambition had no
hopes of reigning in the court except in the minds of those who were
able to dispute the management of affairs; when men were surprised
to see the king on a sudden display such brilliant abilities, which
prudence, in some measure necessary, had so long obliged him to conceal.

An application, inimical to the pleasures which generally attract that
age, and which unlimited power very seldom refuses, attached him solely
to the cares of government: all admired this wonderful change, but
all did not find their account in it: the great lost their consequence
before an absolute master, and the courtiers approached with reverential
awe the sole object of their respects and the sole master of their
fortunes: those who had conducted themselves like petty tyrants in
their provinces, and on the frontiers, were now no more than governors:
favours, according to the king’s pleasure, were sometimes conferred on
merit, and sometimes for services done the state; but to importune, or
to menace the court, was no longer the method to obtain them.

The Chevalier de Grammont regarded his master’s attention to the affairs
of state as a prodigy: he could not conceive how he could submit at his
age to the rules he prescribed himself, or that he should give up so
many hours of pleasure, to devote them to the tiresome duties, and
laborious functions of government; but he blessed the Lord that
henceforward no more homage was to be paid, no more court to be made,
but to him alone, to whom they were justly due. Disdaining as he did
the servile adoration usually paid to a minister, he could never crouch
before the power of the two Cardinals who succeeded each other:
he neither worshipped the arbitrary power of the one, nor gave his
approbation to the artifices of the other; he had never received
anything from Cardinal Richelieu but an abbey, which, on account of
his rank, could not be refused him; and he never acquired anything from
Mazarin but what he won of him at play.

By many years’ experience under an able general he had acquired a talent
for war; but this during a general peace was of no further service to
him. He therefore thought that, in the midst of a court flourishing in
beauties and abounding in wealth, he could not employ himself better
than in endeavouring to gain the good opinion of his master, in making
the best use of those advantages which nature had given him for play,
and in putting in practice new stratagems in love.

He succeeded very well in the two first of these projects, and as he had
from that time laid it down as the rule of his conduct to attach himself
solely to the king in all his views of preferment, to have no regard for
favour unless when it was supported by merit, to make himself beloved by
the courtiers and feared by the minister, to dare to undertake anything
in order to do good, and to engage in nothing at the expense of
innocence, he soon became one in all the king’s parties of pleasure,
without gaining the ill will of the courtiers. In play he was
successful, in love unfortunate; or, to speak more properly, his
restlessness and jealousy overcame his natural prudence, in a situation
wherein he had most occasion for it. La Motte Agencourt was one of the
maids of honour to the queen dowager, and, though no sparkling beauty,
she had drawn away lovers from the celebrated Meneville.

   [These two ladies at this period seem to have made a distinguished
   figure in the annals of gallantry. One of their contemporaries
   mentions them in these terms: “In this case, perhaps, I can give a
   better account than most people; as, for instance, they had raised a
   report, when the queen-mother expelled Mademoiselle de la Motte
   Agencourt, that it was on his score, when I am assured, upon very
   good grounds, that it was for entertaining the Marquis de Richelieu
   against her majesty’s express command. This lady, who was one of
   her maids of honour, was a person whom I was particularly acquainted
   with; and that so much, as I was supposed to have a passion for her:
   she was counted one of the finest women of the court, and therefore
   I was not at all displeased to have it thought so; for except
   Mademoiselle de Meneville, (who had her admirers,) there was none
   that could pretend to dispute it” Memoirs of the Comte de Rochfort,
   1696, p. 210. See also Anquetil, Louis XVI. sa Cour et le Regent,
   tome i. p. 46.]

It was sufficient in those days for the king to cast his eye upon a
young lady of the court to inspire her with hopes, and often with tender
sentiments; but if he spoke to her more than once, the courtiers took it
for granted, and those who had either pretensions to, or love for her,
respectfully withdrew both the one and the other, and afterwards only
paid her respect; but the Chevalier de Grammont thought fit to act quite
otherwise, perhaps to preserve a singularity of character, which upon
the present occasion was of no avail.

He had never before thought of her, but as soon as he found that she
was honoured with the king’s attention, he was of opinion that she
was likewise deserving of his. Having attached himself to her, he soon
became very troublesome, without convincing her he was much in love.
She grew weary of his persecutions, but he would not desist, neither on
account of her ill-treatment nor of her threats. This conduct of his at
first made no great noise, because she was in hopes that he would change
his behaviour; but finding him rashly persist in it, she complained
of him: and then it was that he perceived that if love renders all
conditions equal, it is not so between rivals. He was banished the
court, and not finding any place in France which could console him for
what he most regretted--the presence and sight of his prince--after
having made some slight reflections upon his disgrace, and bestowed a
few imprecations against her who was the cause of it, he at last formed
the resolution of visiting England.




CHAPTER SIXTH. HIS ARRIVAL AT THE ENGLISH COURT--THE VARIOUS PERSONAGES
OF THIS COURT


Curiosity to see a man equally famous for his crimes and his elevation,
had once before induced the Chevalier de Grammont to visit England.
Reasons of state assume great privileges. Whatever appears advantageous
is lawful, and every thing that is necessary is honourable in politics.
While the King of England sought the protection of Spain in the Low
Countries, and that of the States-General in Holland, other powers sent
splendid embassies to Cromwell.

This man, whose ambition had opened him a way to sovereign power by
the greatest crimes, maintained himself in it by accomplishments which
seemed to render him worthy of it by their lustre. The nation, of all
Europe the least submissive, patiently bore a yoke which did not even
leave her the shadow of that liberty of which she is so jealous; and
Cromwell, master of the Commonwealth, under the title of Protector,
feared at home, but yet more dreaded abroad, was at his highest pitch of
glory when he was seen by the Chevalier de Grammont; but the Chevalier
did not see any appearance of a court. One part of the nobility
proscribed, the other removed from employments; an affectation of purity
of manners, instead of the luxury which the pomp of courts displays all
taken together, presented nothing but sad and serious objects in the
finest city in the world; and therefore the Chevalier acquired nothing
by this voyage but the idea of some merit in a profligate man, and the
admiration of some concealed beauties he had found means to discover.

Affairs wore quite a different appearance at his second voyage. The joy
for the restoration of the royal family still appeared in all parts.
The nation, fond of change and novelty, tasted the pleasure of a natural
government, and seemed to breathe again after a long oppression. In
short, the same people who, by a solemn abjuration, had excluded
even the posterity of their lawful sovereign, exhausted themselves in
festivals and rejoicings for his return.

The Chevalier de Grammont arrived about two years after the restoration.
The reception he met with in this court soon made him forget the other;
and the engagements he in the end contracted in England lessened the
regret he had in leaving France.

This was a desirable retreat for an exile of his disposition.

Everything flattered his taste, and if the adventures he had in this
country were not the most considerable, they were at least the most
agreeable of his life. But before we relate them it will not be improper
to give some account of the English court, as it was at that period.

The necessity of affairs had exposed Charles II. from his earliest youth
to the toils and perils of a bloody war. The fate of the king his father
had left him for inheritance nothing but his misfortunes and disgraces.
They overtook him everywhere; but it was not until he had struggled with
his ill-fortune to the last extremity that he submitted to the decrees
of Providence.

All those who were either great on account of their birth or their
loyalty had followed him into exile; and all the young persons of the
greatest distinction having afterwards joined him, composed a court
worthy of a better fate.

Plenty and prosperity, which are thought to tend only to corrupt
manners, found nothing to spoil in an indigent and wandering court.
Necessity, on the contrary, which produces a thousand advantages whether
we will or no, served them for education; and nothing was to be seen
among them but an emulation in glory, politeness, and virtue.

With this little court, in such high esteem for merit, the King of
England returned two years prior to the period we mention, to ascend a
throne which, to all appearances, he was to fill as worthily as the
most glorious of his predecessors. The magnificence displayed on thus
occasion was renewed at his coronation.

The death of the Duke of Gloucester, and of the Princess Royal, which
followed soon after, had interrupted the course of this splendour by
a tedious mourning, which they quitted at last to prepare for the
reception of the Infanta of Portugal.

   [The Princess Royal: Mary, eldest daughter of Charles I., born
   November 4th, 1631, married to the Prince of Orange, 2nd May, 1641,
   who died 27th October, 1650. She arrived in England, September
   23rd, and died of the smallpox, December 24th, 1660,-according to
   Bishop Burnet, not much lamented. “She had lived,” says the author,
   “in her widowhood for some years with great reputation, kept a
   decent court, and supported her brothers very liberally; and lived
   within bounds. But her mother, who had the art of making herself
   believe anything she had a mind to, upon a conversation with the
   queen-mother of France, fancied the King of France might be inclined
   to marry her. So she wrote to her to come to Paris. In order to
   that, she made an equipage far above what she could support. So she
   ran herself into debt, sold all her jewels, and some estates that
   were in her power as her son’s guardian; and was not only
   disappointed of that vain expectation, but fell into some
   misfortunes that lessened the reputation she had formerly lived in.”
    History of his Own Times, vol. i., p. 238. She was mother of
   William III.]

   [“The Infanta, of Portugal landed in May (1662) at Portsmouth. The
   king went thither, and was married privately by Lord Aubigny, a
   secular priest, and almoner to the queen, according to the rites of
   Rome, in the queen’s chamber; none present but the Portuguese
   ambassador, three more Portuguese of quality, and two or three
   Portuguese women. What made this necessary was, that the Earl of
   Sandwich did not marry her by proxy, as usual, before she came away.
   How this happened, the duke knows not, nor did the chancellor know
   of this private marriage. The queen would not be bedded, till
   pronounced man and wife by Sheldon, bishop of London.”--Extract 2,
   from King James II.’s Journal.--Macpherson’s State Papers, vol. i.
   In the same collection is a curious letter from the King to Lord
   Clarendon, giving his opinion of the queen after having seen her.]

It was in the height of the rejoicings they were making for this new
queen, in all the splendour of a brilliant court, that the Chevalier de
Grammont arrived to contribute to its magnificence and diversions.

Accustomed as he was to the grandeur of the court of France, he was
surprised at the politeness and splendour of the court of England. The
king was inferior to none, either in shape or air; his wit was pleasant;
his disposition easy and affable; his soul, susceptible of opposite
impressions, was compassionate to the unhappy, inflexible to the wicked,
and tender even to excess; he showed great abilities in urgent affairs,
but was incapable of application to any that were not so: his heart was
often the dupe, but oftener the slave, of his engagements.

The character of the Duke of York was entirely different he had the
reputation of undaunted courage, an inviolable attachment for his word,
great economy in his affairs, hauteur, application, arrogance, each in
their turn: a scrupulous observer of the rules of duty and the laws of
justice; he was accounted a faithful friend, and an implacable enemy.

   [James, Duke of York, afterwards King James II. He was born 15th
   October, 1633; succeeded his brother 6th February, 1684-5; abdicated
   the crown in 1688; and died 6th September, 1701. Bishop Burnet’s
   character of him appears not very far from the truth.--“He was,”
    says this writer, “very brave in his youth; and so much magnified by
   Monsieur Turenne, that till his marriage lessened him, he really
   clouded the king, and passed for the superior genius. He was
   naturally candid and sincere, and a firm friend, till affairs and
   his religion wore out all his first principles and inclinations he
   had a great desire to understand affairs: and in order to that he
   kept a constant journal of all that passed, of which he showed me a
   great deal. The Duke of Buckingham gave me once a short but severe
   character of the two brothers. It was the more severe, because it
   was true: the king, (he said,) could see things if he would: and the
   duke would see things if he could. He had no true judgment, and was
   soon determined by those whom he trusted: but he was obstinate
   against all other advices. He was bred with high notions of kingly
   authority, and laid it down for a maxim, that all who opposed the
   king were rebels in their hearts. He was perpetually in one amour
   or other, without being very nice in his choice: upon which the king
   once said, he believed his brother had his mistress given him by his
   priests for penance. He was naturally eager and revengeful: and was
   against the taking off any, that set up in an opposition to the
   measures of the court, and who by that means grew popular in the
   house of commons. He was for rougher methods. He continued many
   years dissembling his religion, and seemed zealous for the church of
   England, but it was chiefly on design to hinder all propositions,
   that tended to unite us among ourselves. He was a frugal prince,
   and brought his court into method and magnificence, for he had
   L100,000. a-year allowed him. He was made high admiral, and he came
   to understand all the concerns of the sea very particularly.”]

His morality and justice, struggling for some time with prejudice, had
at last triumphed, by his acknowledging for his wife Miss Hyde, maid of
honour to the Princess Royal, whom he had secretly married in Holland.
Her father, from that time prime minister of England, supported by this
new interest, soon rose to the head of affairs, and had almost ruined
them: not that he wanted capacity, but he was too self-sufficient.

The Duke of Ormond possessed the confidence and esteem of his master:
the greatness of his services, the splendour of his merit and his birth,
and the fortune he had abandoned in adhering to the fate of his prince,
rendered him worthy of it nor durst the courtiers even murmur at seeing
him grand steward of the household, first lord of the bed-chamber,
and lord-lieutenant of Ireland. He exactly resembled the Marshal de
Grammont, in the turn of his wit and the nobleness of his manners: and
like him was the honour of his master’s court.

The Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of St. Albans were the same in
England as they appeared in France: the one full of wit and vivacity,
dissipated, without splendour, an immense estate upon which he had
just entered: the other, a man of no great genius, had raised himself a
considerable fortune from nothing, and by losing at play, and keeping a
great table, made it appear greater than it was.

   [“The Duke of Buckingham is again one hundred and forty thousand
   pounds in debt; and by this prorogation his creditors have time to
   tear all his lands to pieces.”--Andrew Marvell’s Works, 4to. edit.,
   vol. i. p. 406.]

Sir George Berkeley, afterwards Earl of Falmouth, was the confidant
and favourite of the King: he commanded the Duke of York’s regiment of
guards, and governed the Duke himself. He had nothing very remarkable
either in his wit, or his person; but his sentiments were worthy of the
fortune which awaited him, when, on the very point of his elevation, he
was killed at sea. Never did disinterestedness so perfectly characterise
the greatness of the soul: he had no views but what tended to the glory
of his master: his credit was never employed but in advising him
to reward services, or to confer favours on merit: so polished in
conversation, that the greater his power, the greater was his humility;
and so sincere in all his proceedings, that he would never have been
taken for a courtier.

The Duke of Ormond’s sons and his nephews had been in the king’s court
during his exile, and were far from diminishing its lustre after
his return. The Earl of Arran had a singular address in all kinds of
exercises, played well at tennis and on the guitar, and was pretty
successful in gallantry: his elder brother, the Earl of Ossory, was not
so lively, but of the most liberal sentiments, and of great probity.

The elder of the Hamiltons, their cousin, was the man who of all the
court dressed best: he was well made in his person, and possessed those
happy talents which lead to fortune, and procure success in love: he was
a most assiduous courtier, had the most lively wit, the most polished
manners, and the most punctual attention to his master imaginable: no
person danced better, nor was any one a more general lover: a merit of
some account in a court entirely devoted to love and gallantry. It is
not at all surprising, that with these qualities he succeeded my Lord
Falmouth in the King’s favour; but it is very extraordinary that he
should have experienced the same destiny, as if this sort of war had
been declared against merit only, and as if this sort of combat was
fatal to none but such as had certain hopes of a splendid fortune. This,
however, did not happen till some years afterwards.

The beau Sydney, less dangerous than he appeared to be, had not
sufficient vivacity to support the impression which his figure made; but
little Jermyn was on all sides successful in his intrigues.

   [Robert Sydney, third son of the Earl of Leicester, and brother of
   the famous Algernon Sydney, who was beheaded. This is Lord Orford’s
   account; though, on less authority, I should have been inclined to
   have considered Henry Sydney, his younger brother, who was
   afterwards created Earl of Rumney, and died 8th April, 1704, as the
   person intended. There are some circumstances which seem
   particularly to point to him. Burnet, speaking of him, says, “he
   was a, graceful man, and had lived long in the court, where he lead
   some adventures that became very public. He was a man of a sweet
   and caressing temper, had no malice in his heart, but too great a
   love of pleasure. He had been sent envoy to Holland in the year
   1679, where he entered into such particular confidences with the
   prince, that he had the highest measure of his trust and favour that
   any Englishman ever had.”--History of his Own Times, vol. ii., p.
   494.

   In the Essay on Satire, by Dryden and Mulgrave, he is spoken of in
   no very decent terms.

        “And little Sid, for simile renown’d,
        Pleasure has always sought, but never found
        Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
        His are so bad, sure he ne’er thinks at all.
        The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong;
        His meat and mistresses are kept too long.
        But sure we all mistake this pious man,
        Who mortifies his person all he can
        What we uncharitably take for sin,
        Are only rules of this odd capuchin;
        For never hermit, under grave pretence,
        Has lived more contrary to common sense.”

   These verses, however, have been applied to Sir Charles Sedley,
   whose name was originally spelt Sidley. Robert Sydney died at
   Pensburst, 1674.]

The old Earl of St. Albans, his uncle, had for a long time adopted him,
though the youngest of all his nephews. It is well known what a table
the good man kept at Paris, while the King his master was starving at
Brussels, and the Queen Dowager, his mistress, lived not over well in
France.

   [To what a miserable state the queen was reduced may be seen in the
   following extract from De Retz.--“Four or five days before the king
   removed from Paris, I went to visit the Queen of England, whom I
   found in her daughter’s chamber, who hath been since Duchess of
   Orleans. At my coming in she said, ‘You see I am come to keep
   Henrietta company. The poor child could not rise to-day for want of
   a fire.’ The truth is, that the cardinal for six months together
   had not ordered her any money towards her pension; that no
   trades-people would trust her for anything; and that there was not at
   her lodgings in the Louvre one single billet. You will do me the
   justice to suppose that the Princess of England did not keep her bed
   the next day for want of a faggot; but it was not this which the
   Princess of Conde meant in her letter. What she spoke about was,
   that some days after my visiting the Queen of England, I remembered
   the condition I had found her in, and had strongly represented the
   shame of abandoning her in that manner, which caused the parliament
   to send 40,000 livres to her majesty. Posterity will hardly believe
   that a Princess of England, grand-daughter of Henry the Great, hath
   wanted a faggot, in the month of January, to get out of bed in the
   Louvre, and in the eyes of a French court. We read in histories,
   with horror, of baseness less monstrous than this; and the little
   concern I have met with about it in most people’s minds, has obliged
   me to make, I believe, a thousand times, this reflection,--that
   examples of times past move men beyond comparison more than those of
   their own times. We accustom ourselves to what we see; and I have
   sometimes told you, that I doubted whether Caligula’s horse being
   made a consul would have surprised us so much as we imagine.”
    --Memoirs, vol. i., p. 261. As for the relative situation of the king
   and Lord Jermyn, (afterwards St. Albans,) Lord Clarendon says, that
   the “Marquis of Ormond was compelled to put himself in prison, with
   other gentlemen, at a pistole a-week for his diet, and to walk the
   streets a-foot, which was no honourable custom in Paris, whilst the
   Lord Jermyn kept an excellent table for those who courted him, and
   had a coach of his own, and all other accommodations incident to the
   most full fortune: and if the king had the most urgent occasion for
   the use but of twenty pistoles, as sometimes he had, he could not
   find credit to borrow it, which he often had experiment of.”
    --History of the Rebellion, vol. iii., p. 2.]

Jermyn, supported by his uncle’s wealth, found it no difficult matter to
make a considerable figure upon his arrival at the court of the Princess
of Orange: the poor courtiers of the king her brother could not vie with
him in point of equipage and magnificence; and these two articles often
produce as much success in love as real merit: there is no necessity
for any other example than the present; for though Jermyn was brave,
and certainly a gentleman, yet he had neither brilliant actions, nor
distinguished rank, to set him off; and as for his fibre, there was
nothing advantageous in it. He was little: his head was large and his
legs small; his features were not disagreeable, but he was affected in
his carriage and behaviour. All his wit consisted in expressions learnt
by rote, which he occasionally employed either in raillery, or in love.
This was the whole foundation of the merit of a man so formidable in
amours.

The Princess Royal was the first who was taken with him: Miss Hyde
seemed to be following the steps of her mistress: this immediately
brought him into credit, and his reputation was established in England
before his arrival. Prepossession in the minds of women is sufficient
to find access to their hearts: Jermyn found them in dispositions so
favourable for him, that he had nothing to do but to speak.

It was in vain they perceived that a reputation so lightly established,
was still more weakly sustained: the prejudice remained: the Countess of
Castlemaine, a woman lively and discerning followed the delusive shadow;
and though undeceived in a reputation which promised so much, and
performed so little, she nevertheless continued in her infatuation: she
even persisted in it, until she was upon the point of embroiling herself
with the King; so great was this first instance of her constancy.

Such were the heroes of the court. As for the beauties, you could not
look anywhere without seeing them: those of the greatest reputation were
this same Countess of Castlemaine, afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, Lady
Chesterfield, Lady Shrewsbury, the Mrs. Roberts, Mrs. Middleton, the
Misses Brooks, and a thousand others, who shone at court with equal
lustre; but it was Miss Hamilton and Miss Stewart who were its chief
ornaments.

   [Lady Shrewsbury: Anna, Maria, Countess of Shrewsbury, eldest
   daughter of Robert Brudenel, Earl of Cardigan, and wife of Francis,
   Earl of Shrewsbury, who was killed in a duel by George, Duke of
   Buckingham, March 16, 1667. She afterwards re-married with George
   Rodney Bridges, Esq., second son of Sir Thomas Bridges of Keynsham,
   in Somersetshire, knight, and died April 20, 1702. By her second
   husband she had one son, George Rodney Bridges, who died in 1751.
   This woman is said to have been so abandoned, as to have held, in
   the habit of a page, her gallant, the duke’s horse, while he fought
   and killed her husband; after which she went to bed with him,
   stained with her husband’s blood.]

The new queen gave but little additional brilliancy to the court, either
in her person or in her retinue, which was then composed of the Countess
de Panetra, who came over with her in quality of lady of the bedchamber;
six frights, who called themselves maids of honour, and a duenna,
another monster, who took the title of governess to those extraordinary
beauties.

   [Lord Clarendon confirms, in some measure, this account. “There
   was a numerous family of men and women, that were sent from
   Portugal, the most improper to promote that conformity in the queen
   that was necessary for her condition and future happiness that could
   be chosen; the women, for the most part, old, and ugly, and proud,
   incapable of any conversation with persons of quality and a liberal
   education: and they desired, and indeed had conspired so far to
   possess the queen themselves, that she should neither learn the
   English language, nor use their habit, nor depart from the manners
   and fashions of her own country in any particulars: which
   resolution,” they told, “would be for the dignity of Portugal, and
   would quickly induce the English ladies to conform to her majesty’s
   practice. And this imagination had made that impression, that the
   tailor who had been sent into Portugal to make her clothes could
   never be admitted to see her, or receive any employment. Nor when
   she came to Portsmouth, and found there several ladies of honour and
   prime quality to attend her in the places to which they were
   assigned by the king, did she receive any of them till the king
   himself came; nor then with any grace, or the liberty that belonged
   to their places and offices. She could not be persuaded to be
   dressed out of the wardrobe that the king had sent to her, but would
   wear the clothes which she had brought, until she found that the
   king was displeased, and would be obeyed; whereupon she conformed,
   against the advice of her women, who continued their opiniatrety,
   without any one of them receding from their own mode, which exposed
   them the more to reproach.”--Continuation of Clarendon’s Life, p.
   168. In a short time after their arrival in England, they were
   ordered back to Portugal.]

Among the men were Francisco de Melo, brother to the Countess de
Panetra; one Taurauvedez, who called himself Don Pedro Francisco Correo
de Silva, extremely handsome, but a greater fool than all the Portuguese
put together: he was more vain of his names than of his person; but the
Duke of Buckingham, a still greater fool than he, though more addicted
to raillery, gave him the additional name of Peter of the Wood. He
was so enraged at this, that, after many fruitless complaints and
ineffectual menaces, poor Pedro de Silva was obliged to leave England,
while the happy duke kept possession of a Portuguese nymph more hideous
than the queen’s maids of honour, whom he had taken from him, as well as
two of his names. Besides these, there were six chaplains, four bakers,
a Jew perfumer, and a certain officer, probably without an office, who
called himself her highness’s barber. Katharine de Braganza was far from
appearing with splendour in the charming court where she came to reign;
however, in the end she was pretty successful.

   [Lord Clarendon says, “the queen had beauty and wit enough to make
   herself agreeable to him (the king); and it is very certain, that,
   at their first meeting, and for some time after, the King had very
   good satisfaction in her.... Though she was of years enough
   to have had more experience of the world, and of as much wit as
   could be wished, and of a humour very agreeable at some seasons,
   yet, she had been bred, according to the mode and discipline of her
   country, in a monastery, where she had only seen the women who
   attended her, and conversed with the religious who resided there;
   and, without doubt, in her inclinations, was enough disposed to have
   been one of that number: and from this restraint she was called out
   to be a great queen, and to a free conversation in a court that was
   to be upon the matter new formed, and reduced from the manners of a
   licentious age to the old rules and limits which had been observed
   in better times; to which regular and decent conformity the present
   disposition of men or women was not enough inclined to submit, nor
   the king enough disposed to exact.”--Continuation of Lord
   Clarendon’s Life, p. 167. After some struggle, she submitted to the
   king’s licentious conduct, and from that time lived upon easy terms
   with him, until his death. On the 30th March, 1692, she left
   Somerset-house, her usual residence, and retired to Lisbon, where
   she died, 31st December, 1705, N. S.]

The Chevalier de Grammont, who had been long known to the royal family,
and to most of the gentlemen of the court, had only to get acquainted
with the ladies; and for this he wanted no interpreter: they all
spoke French enough to explain themselves, and they all understood it
sufficiently to comprehend what he had to say to them.

The queen’s court was always very numerous; that of the duchess was less
so, but more select. This princess had a majestic air, a pretty good
shape, not much beauty, a great deal of wit, and so just a discernment
of merit, that, whoever of either sex were possessed of it, were sure to
be distinguished by her: an air of grandeur in all her actions made her
be considered as if born to support the rank: which placed her so near
the throne.

   [“The Duchess of York,” says Bishop Burnet, “was a very
   extraordinary woman. She had great knowledge, and a lively sense of
   things. She soon understood what belonged to a princess, and took
   state on her rather too much. She wrote well, and had begun the
   duke’s life, of which she showed me a volume. It was all drawn from
   his journal; and he intended to have employed me in carrying it on.
   She was bred in great strictness in religion, and practised secret
   confession. Morley told me he was her confessor. She began at
   twelve years old, and continued under his direction till, upon her
   father’s disgrace, he was put from the court. She was generous and
   friendly, but was too severe an enemy.”--history of his Own Times,
   vol. i., p. 237. She was contracted to the duke at Breda,
   November 24, 1659, and married at Worcester-house, 3rd September,
   1660, in the night, between eleven and two, by Dr. Joseph Crowther,
   the duke’s chaplain; the Lord Ossory giving her in marriage.
   --Kennet’s Register, p. 246. She died 31st March, 1671, having
   previously acknowledged herself to be a Roman Catholic.--See also
   her character by Bishop Morley.--Kennet’s Register, p. 385, 390.]

The queen dowager returned after the marriage of the princess royal, and
it was in her court that the two others met.

The Chevalier de Grammont was soon liked by all parties those who
had not known him before were surprised to see a Frenchman of his
disposition. The king’s restoration having drawn a great number of
foreigners from all countries to the court, the French were rather in
disgrace; for, instead of any persons of distinction having appeared
among the first who came over, they had only seen some insignificant
puppies, each striving to outdo the other in folly and extravagance,
despising everything which was not like themselves, and thinking they
introduced the ‘bel air’, by treating the English as strangers in their
own country.

The Chevalier de Grammont, on the contrary, was familiar with everybody:
he gave in to their customs, eat of everything, and easily habituated
himself to their manner of living, which he looked upon as neither
vulgar nor barbarous; and as he showed a natural complaisance, instead
of the impertinent affectation of the others, all the nation was charmed
with a man, who agreeably indemnified them for what they had suffered
from the folly of the former.

He first of all made his court to the king, and was of all his parties
of pleasure: he played high, and lost but seldom: he found so little
difference in the manners and conversation of those with whom he
chiefly associated, that he could scarcely believe he was out of his
own country. Everything which could agreeably engage a man of his
disposition, presented itself to his different humours, as if the
pleasures of the court of France had quitted it to accompany him in his
exile.

He was every day engaged for some entertainment; and those who wished to
regale him in their turn, were obliged to take their measures in time,
and to invite him eight or ten days before hand. These importunate
civilities became tiresome in the long run; but as they seemed
indispensable to a man of his disposition, and as they were the most
genteel people of the court who loaded him with them, he submitted with
a good grace; but always reserved to himself the liberty of supping at
home.

His supper hour depended upon play, and was indeed very uncertain;
but his supper was always served up with the greatest elegance, by the
assistance of one or two servants, who were excellent caterers and good
attendants, but understood cheating still better.

The company, at these little entertainments, was not numerous, but
select: the first people of the court were commonly of the party; but
the man, who of all others suited him best on these occasions, never
failed to attend: that was the celebrated Saint Evremond, who with great
exactness, but too great freedom, had written the history of the treaty
of the Pyrenees: an exile like himself, though for very different
reasons.

Happily for them both, fortune had, some time before the arrival of the
Chevalier de Grammont, brought Saint Evremond to England, after he had
had leisure to repent in Holland of the beauties of that famous satire.

   [Charles de St. Denis, Seigneur de Saint Evremond, was born at St.
   Denis le Guast, in Lower Normandy, on the 1st of April, 1613. He
   was educated at Paris, with a view to the profession of the law; but
   he early quitted that pursuit, and went into the army, where he
   signalized himself on several occasions. At the time of the
   Pyrenean treaty, he wrote a letter censuring the conduct of Cardinal
   Mazarin, which occasioned his being banished France. He first took
   refuge in Holland; but, in 1662, he removed into England, where he
   continued, with a short interval, during the rest of his life. In
   1675, the Duchess of Mazarin came to reside in England; and with her
   St. Evremond passed much of his time. He preserved his health and
   cheerfulness to a very great age, and died 9th of September, 1703,
   aged ninety years, five months, and twenty days. His biographer
   Monsieur Des Maizeaux, describes him thus: “M. de St. Evremond had
   blue, lively, and sparkling eyes, a large forehead, thick eyebrows,
   a handsome mouth, and a sneering physiognomy. Twenty years before
   his death, a wen grew between his eye-brows, which in time increased
   to a considerable bigness. He once designed to have it cut off, but
   as it was no ways troublesome to him, and he little regarded that
   kind of deformity, Dr. Le Fevre advised him to let it alone, lest
   such an operation should be attended with dangerous symptoms in a
   man of his age. He would often make merry with himself on account
   of his wen, his great leather cap, and grey hair, which he chose to
   wear rather than a periwig.”  St. Evremond was a kind of Epicurean
   philosopher, and drew his own character in the following terms, in a
   letter to Count de Grammont. “He was a philosopher equally removed
   from superstition and impiety; a voluptuary who had no less aversion
   from debauchery than inclination for pleasure: a man who had never
   felt the pressure of indigence, and who had never been in possession
   of affluence: he lived in a condition despised by those who have
   everything, envied by those who have nothing, and relished by those
   who make their reason the foundation of their happiness. When he
   was young he hated profusion, being persuaded that some degree of
   wealth was necessary for the conveniencies of a long life: when he
   was old, he could hardly endure economy, being of opinion that want
   is little to be dreaded when a man has but little time left to be
   miserable. He was well pleased with nature, and did not complain of
   fortune. He hated vice, was indulgent to frailties, and lamented
   misfortunes. He sought not after the failings of men with a design
   to expose them; he only found what was ridiculous in them for his
   own amusement: he had a secret pleasure in discovering this himself,
   and would, indeed, have had a still greater in discovering this to
   others, had not he been checked by discretion. Life, in his
   opinion, was too short to read all sorts of books, and to burden
   one’s memory with a multitude of things, at the expense of one’s
   judgment. He did not apply himself to the most learned writings, in
   order to acquire knowledge, but to the most rational, to fortify his
   reason: he sometimes chose the most delicate, to give delicacy to
   his own taste, and sometimes the most agreeable, to give the same to
   his own genius. It remains that he should be described, such as he
   was, in friendship and in religion. In friendship he was more
   constant than a philosopher, and more sincere than a young man of
   good nature without experience. With regard to religion, his piety
   consisted more in justice and charity than in penance or
   mortification. He placed his confidence in God, trusting in His
   goodness, and hoping that in the bosom of His providence he should
   find his repose and his felicity.”--He was buried in Westminster
   Abbey.]

The Chevalier was from that time his hero: they had each of them
attained to all the advantages which a knowledge of the world, and
the society of people of fashion, could add to the improvement of good
natural talents. Saint Evremond, less engaged in frivolous pursuits,
frequently gave little lectures to the Chevalier, and by making
observations upon the past, endeavoured to set him right for the
present, or to instruct him for the future. “You are now,” said he, “in
the most agreeable way of life a man of your temper could wish for: you
are the delight of a youthful, sprightly, and gallant court: the king
has never a party of pleasure to which you are not admitted. You
play from morning to night, or, to speak more properly, from night to
morning, without knowing what it is to lose. Far from losing the money
you brought hither, as you have done in other places, you have doubled
it, trebled it, multiplied it almost beyond your wishes, notwithstanding
the exorbitant expenses you are imperceptibly led into. This, without
doubt, is the most desirable situation in the world: stop here,
Chevalier, and do not ruin your affairs by returning to your old sins.
Avoid love, by pursuing other pleasures: love has never been favourable
to you.

   [“Saint Evremond and Bussi-Rabutin, who have also written on the
   life of the Count de Grammont, agree with Hamilton in representing
   him as a man less fortunate in love than at play; not seeking for
   any other pleasure in the conquest of a woman but that of depriving
   another of her; and not able to persuade any one of his passion,
   because he spoke to her, as at all other times, in jest: but cruelly
   revenging himself on those who refused to hear him; corrupting the
   servants of those whom they did favour, counterfeiting their
   handwriting, intercepting their letters, disconcerting their
   rendezvous; in one word, disturbing their amours by everything which
   a rival, prodigal, indefatigable, and full of artifice, can be
   imagined to do. The straitest ties of blood could not secure any
   one from his detraction. His nephew, the Count de Guiche, was a
   victim: he had in truth, offended the Count de Grammont, by having
   supplanted him in the affection of the Countess de Fiesque, whom he
   loved afterwards for the space of twelve years. Here was enough to
   irritate the self-love of a man less persuaded of his own merit.”
    Hamilton does not describe the exterior of the count, but accuses
   Bussi-Rabutin of having, in the following description, given a more
   agreeable than faithful portrait of him: “The chevalier had laughing
   eyes, a well-formed nose, a beautiful mouth, a small dimple in the
   chin, which had an agreeable effect on his countenance, a certain
   delicacy in his physiognomy, and a handsome shape, if he had not
   stooped.”]

“You are sensible how much gallantry has cost you; and every person here
is not so well acquainted with that matter as yourself. Play boldly:
entertain the court with your wit: divert the king by your ingenious and
entertaining stories; but avoid all engagements which can deprive you of
this merit, and make you forget you are a stranger and an exile in this
delightful country.

“Fortune may bow weary of befriending you at play. What would have
become of you, if your last misfortune had happened to you when your
money had been at as low an ebb as I have known it? Attend carefully
then to this necessary deity, and renounce the other. You will be missed
at the court of France before you grow weary of this; but be that as
it may, lay up a good store of money: when a man is rich he consoles
himself for his banishment. I know you well, my dear Chevalier: if you
take it into your head to seduce a lady, or to supplant a lover, your
gains at play will by no means suffice for presents and for bribes: no,
let play be as productive to you as it can be, you will never gain so
much by it as you will lose by love, if you yield to it.

“You are in possession of a thousand splendid qualifications which
distinguish you here: generous, benevolent, elegant, and polite; and for
your engaging wit, inimitable. Upon a strict examination, perhaps, all
this would not be found literally true; but these are brilliant marks;
and since it is granted that you possess them, do not show yourself
here in any other light: for, in love, if your manner of paying your
addresses can be so denominated, you do not in the least resemble the
picture I have just now drawn.”

“My little philosophical monitor,” said the Chevalier de Grammont,
“you talk here as if you were the Cato of Normandy.” “Do I say anything
untrue?” replied Saint Evremond: “Is it not a fact, that as soon as a
woman pleases you, your first care is to find out whether she has any
other lover, and your second how to plague her; for the gaining her
affection is the last thing in your thoughts. You seldom engage in
intrigues, but to disturb the happiness of others: a mistress who has
no lovers would have no charms for you, and if she has, she would be
invaluable. Do not all the places through which you have passed furnish
me with a thousand examples? Shall I mention your coup d’essai at Turin?
the trick you played at Fontainebleau, where you robbed the Princess
Palatine’s courier upon the highway? and for what purpose was this fine
exploit, but to put you in possession of some proofs of her affection
for another, in order to give her uneasiness and confusion by reproaches
and menaces, which you had no right to use?

“Who but yourself ever took it into his head to place himself in ambush
upon the stairs, to disturb a man in an intrigue, and to pull him back
by the leg when he was half way up to his mistress’s chamber? yet did
not you use your friend the Duke of Buckingham in this manner, when he
was stealing at night to ------ although you were not in the least his
rival? How many spies did not you send out after d’Olonne?

   [Mademoiselle de la Loupe, who is mentioned in De Retz’s Memoirs,
   vol. iii., p. 95. She married the Count d’Olonne, and became
   famous for her gallantries, of which the Count de Bussi speaks so
   much, in his History of the Amours of the Gauls. Her maiden name
   was Catherine Henrietta d’Angennes, and she was daughter to Charles
   d’Angennes, Lord of la Loupe, Baron of Amberville, by Mary du
   Raynier. There is a long character of her by St. Evremond, in his
   works, vol. i., p. 17. The same writer, mentioning the concern of
   some ladies for the death of the Duke of Candale, says, “But his
   true mistress (the Countess d’Olonne) made herself famous by the
   excess of her affliction, and had, in my opinion, been happy, if she
   had kept it on to the last. One amour is creditable to a lady; and
   I know not whether it be not more advantageous to their reputation
   than never to have been in love.”--St. Evremond’s works, vol. ii.,
   p. 24.]

“How many tricks, frauds, and persecutions, did you not practise for the
Countess de Fiesque, who perhaps might have been constant to you, if you
had not yourself forced her to be otherwise? But, to conclude, for the
enumeration of your iniquities would be endless, give me leave to ask
you, how you came here? Are not we obliged to that same evil genius of
yours, which rashly inspired you to intermeddle even in the gallantries
of your prince? Show some discretion then on this point here, I beseech
you; all the beauties of the court are already engaged; and however
docile the English may be with respect to their wives, they can by no
means bear the inconstancy of their mistresses, nor patiently suffer the
advantages of a rival: suffer them therefore to remain in tranquillity,
and do not gain their ill-will for no purpose.

“You certainly will meet with no success with such as are unmarried:
honourable views, and good landed property, are required here; and you
possess as much of the one as the other. Every country has its
customs: in Holland, unmarried ladies are of easy access, and of tender
dispositions; but as soon as ever they are married, they become like
so many Lucretias: in France, the women are great coquettes before
marriage, and still more so afterwards; but here it is a miracle if a
young lady yields to any proposal but that of matrimony and I do not
believe you yet so destitute of grace as to think of that.”

Such were Saint Evremond’s lectures; but they were all to no purpose:
the Chevalier de Grammont only attended to them for his amusement;
and though he was sensible of the truth they contained, he paid little
regard to them: in fact, being weary of the favours of fortune, he had
just resolved to pursue those of love.

Mrs. Middleton was the first whom he attacked: she was one of the
Handsomest women in town, though then little known at court: so much
of the coquette as to discourage no one; and so great was her desire of
appearing magnificently, that she was ambitious to vie with those of the
greatest fortunes, though unable to support the expense. All this suited
the Chevalier de Grammont; therefore, without trifling away his time in
useless ceremonies, he applied to her porter for admittance, and chose
one of her lovers for his confidant.

This lover, who was not deficient in wit, was at that time a Mr. Jones,
afterwards Earl of Ranelagh: what engaged him to serve the Chevalier de
Grammont, was to traverse the designs of a most dangerous rival, and to
relieve himself from an expense which began to lie too heavy upon him.
In both respects the Chevalier answered his purpose.

Immediately spies were placed, letters and presents flew about: he was
received as well as he could wish: he was permitted to ogle: he was
even ogled again; but this was all. He found that the fair one was very
willing to accept, but was tardy in making returns. This induced him,
without giving up his pretensions to her, to seek his fortune elsewhere.

Among the queen’s maids of honour, there was one called Warmestre: she
was a beauty very different from the other. Mrs. Middleton was well
made, fair, and delicate; but had in her behaviour and discourse
something precise and affected. The indolent languishing airs she gave
herself did not please everybody: people grew weary of those sentiments
of delicacy, which she endeavoured to explain without understanding
them herself; and instead of entertaining she became tiresome. In these
attempts she gave herself so much trouble, that she made the company
uneasy, and her ambition to pass for a wit, only established her the
reputation of being tiresome, which lasted much longer than her beauty.

Miss Warmestre was brown: she had no shape at all, and still less air;
but she had a very lively complexion, very sparkling eyes, tempting
looks, which spared nothing that might ensnare a lover, and promised
everything which could preserve him. In the end, it very plainly
appeared that her consent went along with her eyes to the last degree of
indiscretion.

It was between these two goddesses that the inclinations of the
Chevalier de Grammont stood wavering, and between whom his presents were
divided. Perfumed gloves, pocket looking-glasses, elegant boxes, apricot
paste, essences, and other small wares of love, arrived every week from
Paris, with some new suit for himself; but, with regard to more solid
presents, such as ear-rings, diamonds, brilliants, and bright guineas,
all this was to be met with of the best sort in London, and the ladies
were as well pleased with them as if they had been brought from abroad.

Miss Stewart’s beauty began at this time to be celebrated.

   [Frances, Duchess of Richmond, daughter of Walter Stewart, son of
   Walter, Baron of Blantyre, and wife of Charles Stewart, Duke of
   Richmond and Lennox: a lady of exquisite beauty, if justly
   represented in a puncheon made by Roettiere, his majesty’s engraver
   of the mint, in order to strike a medal of her, which exhibits the
   finest face that perhaps was ever seen. The king was supposed to be
   desperately in love with her; and it became common discourse, that
   there was a design on foot to get him divorced from the queen, in
   order to marry this lady. Lord Clarendon was thought to have
   promoted the match with the Duke of Richmond, thereby to prevent the
   other design, which he imagined would hurt the king’s character,
   embroil his affairs at present, and entail all the evils of a
   disputed succession on the nation. Whether he actually encouraged
   the Duke of Richmond’s marriage, doth not appear; but it is certain
   that he was so strongly possessed of the king’s inclination to a
   divorce, that, even after his disgrace, he was persuaded the Duke of
   Buckingham had under taken to carry that matter through the
   parliament. It is certain too that the king considered him as the
   chief promoter of Miss Stewart’s marriage, and resented it in the
   highest degree. (See Pepys’ Diaries. Ed.) The ceremony took place
   privately, and it was publicly declared in April, 1667. From one of
   Sir Robert Southwell’s dispatches, dated Lisbon, December 12,
   1667, it appears that the report of the queen’s intended divorce had
   not then subsided in her native country.--History of the Revolutions
   of Portugal, 1740, p. 352. The duchess became a widow in 1672, and
   died October 15, 1702. See Burnet’s History, Ludlow’s Memoirs, and
   Carte’s Life of the Duke of Ormond. A figure in wax of this duchess
   is still to be seen in Westminster-abbey.]

The Countess of Castlemaine perceived that the king paid attention to
her; but, instead of being alarmed at it, she favoured, as far as she
was able, this new inclination, whether from an indiscretion common
to all those who think themselves superior to the rest of mankind, or
whether she designed, by this pastime, to divert the king’s attention
from the commerce which she held with Jermyn. She was not satisfied with
appearing without any degree of uneasiness at a preference which all
the court began to remark: she even affected to make Miss Stewart her
favourite, and invited her to all the entertainments she made for
the king; and, in confidence of her own charms, with the greatest
indiscretion, she often kept her to sleep. The king, who seldom
neglected to visit the countess before she rose, seldom failed likewise
to find Miss Stewart in bed with her. The most indifferent objects have
charms in a new attachment: however, the imprudent countess was not
jealous of this rival’s appearing with her, in such a situation, being
confident, that whenever she thought fit, she could triumph over all the
advantages which these opportunities could afford Miss Stewart; but she
was quite mistaken.

The Chevalier de Grammont took notice of this conduct, without being
able to comprehend it; but, as he was attentive to the inclinations of
the king, he began to make his court to him, by enhancing the merit
of this new mistress. Her figure was more showy than engaging: it was
hardly possible for a woman to have less wit, or more beauty: all her
features were fine and regular; but her shape was not good: yet she was
slender, straight enough, and taller than the generality of women: she
was very graceful, danced well, and spoke French better than her mother
tongue: she was well bred, and possessed, in perfection, that air of
dress which is so much admired, and which cannot be attained, unless it
be taken when young, in France. While her charms were gaining ground
in the king’s heart, the Countess of Castlemaine amused herself in the
gratification of all her caprices.

Mrs. Hyde was one of the first of the beauties who were prejudiced with
a blind prepossession in favour of Jermyn she had just married a
man whom she loved: by this marriage she became sister-in-law to the
duchess, brilliant by her own native lustre, and full of pleasantry and
wit. However, she was of opinion, that so long as she was not talked of
on account of Jermyn, all her other advantages would avail nothing for
her glory: it was, therefore, to receive this finishing stroke, that she
resolved to throw herself into his arms.

She was of a middle size, had a skin of a dazzling whiteness, fine
hands, and a foot surprisingly beautiful, even in England: long custom
had given such a languishing tenderness to her looks, that she never
opened her eyes but like a Chinese; and, when she ogled, one would have
thought she was doing something else.

Jermyn accepted of her at first; but, being soon puzzled what to do
with her, he thought it best to sacrifice her to Lady Castlemaine. The
sacrifice was far from being displeasing to her; it was much to her
glory to have carried off Jermyn from so many competitors; but this was
of no consequence in the end.

Jacob Hall (the famous rope-dancer) was at that time in vogue in London;
his strength and agility charmed in public, even to a wish to know what
he was in private; for he appeared, in his tumbling dress, to be quite
of a different make, and to have limbs very different from the fortunate
Jermyn.

   [“There was a symmetry and elegance, as well as strength and
   agility, in the person of Jacob Hall, which was much admired by the
   ladies, who regarded him as a due composition of Hercules and
   Adonis. The open-hearted Duchess of Cleveland was said to have been
   in love with this rope-dancer and Goodman the player at the same
   time. The former received a salary from her grace.”--Granger, vol.
   ii., part 2, p. 461. In reference to the connection between the
   duchess and the ropedancer, Mr. Pope introduced the following lines
   into his “Sober Advice from Horace:”

        “What push’d poor E--s on th’ imperial whore?
        ‘Twas but to be where Charles had been before,
        The fatal steel unjustly was apply’d,
        When not his lust offended, but his pride
        Too hard a penance for defeated sin,
        Himself shut out, and Jacob Hall let in.”]

The tumbler did not deceive Lady Castlemaine’s expectations, if report
may be believed; and as was intimated in many a song, much more to the
honour of the rope-dancer than of the countess; but she despised all
these rumours, and only appeared still more handsome.

While satire thus found employment at her cost, there were continual
contests for the favours of another beauty, who was not much more
niggardly in that way than herself; this was the Countess of Shrewsbury.

The Earl of Arran, who had been one of her first admirers, was not one
of the last to desert her; this beauty, less famous for her conquests
than for the misfortunes she occasioned, placed her greatest merits in
being more capricious than any other. As no person could boast of being
the only one in her favour; so no person could complain of having been
ill received.

Jermyn was displeased that she had made no advances to him, without
considering that she had no leisure for it; his pride was offended; but
the attempt which he made to take her from the rest of her lovers was
very ill-advised.

Thomas Howard, brother to the Earl of Carlisle, was one of them; there
was not a braver, nor a more genteel man in England; and though he was
of a modest demeanour, and his manners appeared gentle and pacific,
no person was more spirited nor more passionate. Lady Shrewsbury,
inconsiderately returning the first ogles of the invincible Jermyn, did
not at all make herself more agreeable to Howard; that, however, she
paid little attention to; yet, as she designed to keep fair with him,
she consented to accept an entertainment which he had often proposed,
and which she durst no longer refuse. A place of amusement, called
Spring Garden,--was fixed upon for the scene of this entertainment.

As soon as the party was settled, Jermyn was privately informed of it.
Howard had a company in the regiment of guards, and one of the soldiers
of his company played pretty well on the bagpipes; this soldier was
therefore at the entertainment. Jermyn was at the garden, as by chance;
and, puffed up with his former successes, he trusted to his victorious
air for accomplishing this last enterprise; he no sooner appeared on the
walks, than her ladyship showed herself upon the balcony.

I know not how she stood affected to her hero; but Howard did not fancy
him much; this did not prevent his coming up stairs upon the first sign
she made to him; and not content with acting the petty tyrant, at an
entertainment not made for himself, no sooner had he gained the soft
looks of the fair one, than he exhausted all his common-place, and all
his stock of low irony, in railing at the entertainment, and ridiculing
the music.

   [Spring Garden: They stay there so long as if they wanted not time
   to finish the race; for it is usual here to find some of the young
   company till midnight; and the thickets of the garden seem to be
   contrived to all advantages of gallantry, after they have refreshed
   with the collation, which is here seldom omitted, at a certain
   cabaret, in the middle of this paradise, where the forbidden fruits
   are certain trifling tarts, newts’ tongues, spacious meats, and bad
   Rhenish, for which the gallants pay sauce, as indeed they do at all
   such houses throughout England; for they think it a piece of
   frugality beneath them to bargain or account for what they eat in
   any place, however unreasonably imposed upon.’’-Character of
   England, 12mo., 1659, p. 56, written, it is said, by John Evelyn,
   Esq. Spring Garden is the scene of intrigue in many of our comedies
   of this period.]

Howard possessed but little raillery, and still less patience; three
times was the banquet on the point of being stained with blood; but
three times did he suppress his natural impetuosity, in order to satisfy
his resentment elsewhere with greater freedom.

Jermyn, without paying the least attention to his ill-humour, pursued
his point, continued talking to Lady Shrewsbury, and did not leave her
until the repast was ended.

He went to bed, proud of this triumph, and was awakened next morning by
a challenge. He took for his second Giles Rawlings, a man of intrigue,
and a deep player. Howard took Dillon, who was dexterous and brave, much
of a gentleman, and, unfortunately, an intimate friend to Rawlings.

In this duel fortune did not side with the votaries of love poor
Rawlings was left stone dead; and Jermyn, having received three wounds,
was carried to his uncle’s, with very little signs of life.

While the report of this event engaged the courtiers according to their
several interests, the Chevalier de Grammont was informed by Jones, his
friend, his confidant, and his rival, that there was another gentleman
very attentive to Mrs. Middleton: this was Montagu, no very dangerous
rival on account of his person, but very much to be feared for his
assiduity, the acuteness of his wit, and for some other talents which
are of importance, when a man is once permitted to display them.

There needed not half so much to bring into action all the Chevalier’s
vivacity, in point of competition: vexation awakened in him whatever
expedients the desire of revenge, malice, and experience, could suggest,
for troubling the designs of a rival, and tormenting a mistress. His
first intention was to return her letters, and demand his presents,
before he began to tease her; but, rejecting this project, as too weak a
revenge for the injustice done him, he was upon the point of conspiring
the destruction of poor Mrs. Middleton, when, by accident, he met with
Miss Hamilton. From this moment ended all his resentment against Mrs.
Middleton, and all his attachment to Miss Warmestre: no longer was he
inconstant: no longer were his wishes fluctuating: this object
fixed them all; and, of all his former habits, none remained, except
uneasiness and jealousy.

Here his first care was to please; but he very plainly saw, that to
succeed he must act quite in a different manner to that which he had
been accustomed to.

The family of the Hamiltons, being very numerous, lived in a large
and commodious house, near the court: the Duke of Ormond’s family was
continually with them; and here persons of the greatest distinction in
London, constantly met: the Chevalier de Grammont was here received in
a manner agreeable to his merit and quality, and was astonished that
he had spent so much time in other places; for, after having made this
acquaintance, he was desirous of no other.

All the world agreed that Miss Hamilton was worthy of the most ardent
and sincere affection: nobody could boast a nobler birth, nothing was
more charming than her person.

   [Elizabeth, sister of the author of these Memoirs, and daughter of
   Sir George Hamilton, fourth son of James, the first Earl of
   Abercorn, by Mary, third daughter of Thomas, Viscount Thurles,
   eldest son of Walter, eleventh Earl of Ormond, and sister to James,
   the first Duke of Ormond. She married Philibert, Count of Grammont,
   the hero of these Memoirs, by whom she had two daughters: Claude
   Charlotte, married, 3rd April, 1694, to Henry, Earl of Stafford; and
   another, who became superior, or abbess, of the Canonesses in
   Lorraine.]




CHAPTER SEVENTH. HE FALLS IN LOVE WITH MISS HAMILTON--VARIOUS ADVENTURES
AT THE BALL IN THE QUEEN’S DRAWING-ROOM--CURIOUS VOYAGE OF HIS
VALET-DE-CHAMBRE TO AND FROM PARIS


The Chevalier de Grammont, never satisfied in his amours, was fortunate
without being beloved, and became jealous without having an attachment.

Mrs. Middleton, as we have said, was going to experience what methods
he could invent to torment, after having experienced his powers of
pleasing.

He went in search of her to the queen’s drawing-room, where there was
a ball; there she was; but fortunately for her, Miss Hamilton was there
likewise. It had so happened, that of all the beautiful women at Court,
this was the lady whom he had least seen, and whom he had heard most
commended; this, therefore, was the first time that he had a close view
of her, and he soon found that he had seen nothing at court before this
instant; he asked her some questions, to which she replied; as long as
she was dancing, his eyes were fixed upon her; and from this time he no
longer resented Mrs. Middleton’s conduct. Miss Hamilton was at the happy
age when the charms of the fair sex begin to bloom; she had the finest
shape, the loveliest neck, and most beautiful arms in the world; she
was majestic and graceful in all her movements; and she was the original
after which all the ladies copied in their taste and air of dress. Her
forehead was open, white, and smooth; her hair was well set, and fell
with ease into that natural order which it is so difficult to imitate.
Her complexion was possessed of a certain freshness, not to be equalled
by borrowed colours: her eyes were not large, but they were lively,
and capable of expressing whatever she pleased: her mouth was full of
graces, and her contour uncommonly perfect; nor was her nose, which was
small, delicate, and turned up, the least ornament of so lovely a face.
In fine, her air, her carriage, and the numberless graces dispersed over
her whole person, made the Chevalier de Grammont not doubt but that
she was possessed of every other qualification. Her mind was a
proper companion for such a form: she did not endeavour to shine in
conversation by those sprightly sallies which only puzzle; and with
still greater care she avoided that affected solemnity in her discourse,
which produces stupidity; but, without any eagerness to talk, she just
said what she ought, and no more. She had an admirable discernment
in distinguishing between solid and false wit; and far from making an
ostentatious display of her abilities, she was reserved, though very
just in her decisions: her sentiments were always noble, and even lofty
to the highest extent, when there was occasion; nevertheless, she was
less prepossessed with her own merit than is usually the case with those
who have so much. Formed, as we have described, she could not fail
of commanding love; but so far was she from courting it, that she was
scrupulously nice with respect to those whose merit might entitle them
to form any pretensions to her.

The more the Chevalier de Grammont was convinced of these truths,
the more did he endeavour to please and engage her in his turn:
his entertaining wit, his conversation, lively, easy, and always
distinguished by novelty, constantly gained him attention; but he was
much embarrassed to find that presents, which so easily made their way
in his former method of courtship, were no longer proper in the mode
which, for the future, he was obliged to pursue.

He had an old valet-de-chambre, called Termes, a bold thief, and a still
more impudent liar: he used to send this man from London every week, on
the commissions we have before mentioned; but after the disgrace of
Mrs. Middleton, and the adventure of Miss Warmestre, Mr. Termes was only
employed in bringing his master’s clothes from Paris, and he did not
always acquit himself with the greatest fidelity in that employment, as
will appear hereafter.

The queen was a woman of sense, and used all her endeavours to please
the king, by that kind obliging behaviour which her affection made
natural to her: she was particularly attentive in promoting every sort
of pleasure and amusement especially such as she could be present at
herself.

She had contrived, for this purpose, a splendid masquerade, where those,
whom she appointed to dance, had to represent different nations; she
allowed some time for preparation, during which we may suppose, the
tailors, the mantua makers, and embroiderers, were not idle: nor were
the beauties, who were to be there, less anxiously employed; however,
Miss Hamilton found time enough to invent two or three little tricks, in
a conjuncture so favourable, for turning into ridicule the vain fools of
the court. There were two who were very eminently such: the one was Lady
Muskerry, who had married her cousin-german; and the other a maid of
honour to the Duchess, called Blague.

The first, whose husband most assuredly never married her for beauty,
was made like the generality of rich heiresses, to whom just nature
seems sparing of her gifts, in proportion as they are loaded with those
of fortune: she had the shape of a woman big with child, without being
so; but had a very good reason for limping; for, of two legs uncommonly
short, one was much shorter than the other. A face suitable to this
description gave the finishing stroke to this disagreeable figure.

Miss Blague was another species of ridicule: her shape was neither good
nor bad: her countenance bore the appearance of the greatest insipidity,
and her complexion was the same all over; with two little hollow eyes,
adorned with white eye-lashes, as long as one’s finger. With these
attractions she placed herself in ambuscade to surprise unwary hearts;
but she might have done so in vain, had it not been for the arrival
of the Marquis de Brisacier. Heaven seemed to have made them for each
other: he had in his person and manners every requisite to dazzle a
creature of her character he talked eternally, without saying anything,
and in his dress exceeded the most extravagant fashions. Miss Blague
believed that all this finery was on her account; and the Marquis
believed that her long eyelashes had never taken aim at any but himself:
everybody perceived their inclination for each other; but they had only
conversed by mute interpreters, when Miss Hamilton took it into her head
to intermeddle in their affairs.

She was willing to do everything in order, and therefore began with her
cousin Muskerry, on account of her rank. Her two darling foibles were
dress and dancing. Magnificence of dress was intolerable with her
figure; and though her dancing was still more insupportable, she never
missed a ball at court: and the queen had so much complaisance for the
public, as always to make her dance; but it was impossible to give her
a part in an entertainment so important and splendid as this masquerade:
however, she was dying with impatience for the orders she expected.

It was in consequence of this impatience, of which Miss Hamilton was
informed, that she founded the design of diverting herself at the
expense of this silly woman. The queen sent notes to those whom she
appointed to be present, and described the manner in which they were
to be dressed. Miss Hamilton wrote a note exactly in the same manner to
Lady Muskerry, with directions for her to be dressed in the Babylonian
fashion.

She assembled her counsel to advise about the means of sending it: this
cabinet was composed of one of her brothers and a sister, who were glad
to divert themselves at the expense of those who deserved it. After
having consulted some time, they at last resolved upon a mode of
conveying it into her own hands. Lord Muskerry was just going out, when
she received it: he was a man of honour, rather serious, very severe,
and a mortal enemy to ridicule. His wife’s deformity was not so
intolerable to him, as the ridiculous figure she made upon all
occasions. He thought that he was safe in the present case, not
believing that the queen would spoil her masquerade by naming Lady
Muskerry as one of the dancers nevertheless, as he was acquainted with
the passion his wife had to expose herself in public, by her dress and
dancing, he had just been advising her very seriously to content herself
with being a spectator of this entertainment, even though the queen
should have the cruelty to engage her in it: he then took the liberty to
show her what little similarity there was between her figure, and that
of persons to whom dancing and magnificence in dress were allowable. His
sermon concluded at last, by an express prohibition to solicit a place
at this entertainment, which they had no thoughts of giving her; but far
from taking his advice in good part, she imagined that he was the only
person who had prevented the queen from doing her an honour she so
ardently desired; and as soon as he was gone out, her design was to go
and throw herself at her Majesty’s feet to demand justice. She was in
this very disposition when she received the billet: three times did
she kiss it; and without regarding her husband’s injunctions, she
immediately got into her coach in order to get information of the
merchants who traded to the Levant, in what manner the ladies of quality
dressed in Babylon.

The plot laid for Miss Blague was of a different kind: she had such
faith in her charms, and was so confident of their effects, that she
could believe anything. Brisacier, whom she looked upon as desperately
smitten, had wit, which he set off with common-place talk, and
with little sonnets: he sung out of tune most methodically, and was
continually exerting one or other of these happy talents: the Duke of
Buckingham did all he could to spoil him, by the praises he bestowed
both upon his voice and upon his wit.

Miss Blague, who hardly understood a word of French, regulated herself
upon the Duke’s authority, in admiring the one and the other. It was
remarked, that all the words which he sung to her were in praise of fair
women, and that always taking this to herself, she cast down her eyes
in acknowledgment and consciousness. It was upon these observations they
resolved to make a jest of her, the first opportunity.

While these little projects were forming, the king, who always wished to
oblige the Chevalier de Grammont, asked him, if he would make one at the
masquerade, on condition of being Miss Hamilton’s partner? He did not
pretend to dance sufficiently well for an occasion like the present; yet
he was far from refusing the offer: “Sire,” said he, “of all the favours
you have been pleased to show me, since my arrival, I feel this more
sensibly than any other; and to convince you of my gratitude, I promise
you all the good offices in my power with Miss Stewart.” He said this,
because they had just given her an apartment separate from the rest of
the maids of honour, which made the courtiers begin to pay respect
to her. The king was very well pleased at this pleasantry, and having
thanked him for so necessary an offer: “Monsieur le Chevalier,” said he,
“in what style do you intend to dress yourself for the ball? I leave you
the choice of all countries.” “If so,” said the Chevalier, “I will dress
after the French manner, in order to disguise myself; for they already
do me the honour to take me for an Englishman in your city of London.
Had it not been for this, I should have wished to have appeared as a
Roman; but for fear of embroiling myself with Prince Rupert, who so
warmly espouses the interests of Alexander against Lord Thanet, who
declares himself for Caesar, I dare no longer think of assuming the
hero: nevertheless, though I may dance awkwardly, yet, by observing
the tune, and with a little alertness, I hope to come off pretty well;
besides, Miss Hamilton will take care that too much attention shall
not be paid to me. As for my dress, I shall send Termes off tomorrow
morning; and if I do not show you at his return the most splendid habit
you have ever seen, look upon mine as the most disgraced nation in your
masquerade.”

Termes set out with ample instructions, on the subject of his journey:
and his master, redoubling his impatience on an occasion like the
present, before the courier could be landed, began to count the minutes
in expectation of his return: thus was he employed until the very eve of
the ball; and that was the day that Miss Hamilton and her little society
had fixed for the execution of their project.

Martial gloves were then very much in fashion: she had by chance several
pairs of them: she sent one to Miss Blague, accompanied with four yards
of yellow riband, the palest she could find, to which she added this
note:

“You were the other day more charming than all the fair women in the
world: you looked yesterday still more fair than you did the day before:
if you go on, what will become of my heart? But it is a long time since
that has been a prey to your pretty little young wild boar’s eyes. Shall
you be at the masquerade to-morrow? But can there be any charms at an
entertainment, at which you are not present? It does not signify: I
shall know you in whatever disguise you may be: but I shall be better
informed of my fate, by the present I send you: you will wear knots of
this riband in your hair; and these gloves will kiss the most beautiful
hands in the universe.”

This billet, with the present, was delivered to Miss Blague with the
same success as the other had been conveyed to Lady Muskerry. Miss
Hamilton had just received an account of it, when the latter came to pay
her a visit: something seemed to possess her thoughts very much;
when, having stayed some time, her cousin desired her to walk into her
cabinet. As soon as they were there: “I desire your secrecy for what
I am going to tell you,” said Lady Muskerry. “Do not you wonder what
strange creatures men are? Do not trust to them, my dear cousin: my Lord
Muskerry, who, before our marriage, could have passed whole days and
nights in seeing me dance, thinks proper now to forbid me dancing, and
says it does not become me. This is not all: he has so often rung in my
ears the subject of this masquerade, that I am obliged to hide from him
the honour the queen has done me, in inviting me to it. However, I am
surprised I am not informed who is to be my partner: but if you knew
what a plague it is, to find out, in this cursed town, in what manner
the people of Babylon dress, you would pity me for what I have suffered
since the time I have been appointed: besides, the cost which it puts me
to is beyond all imagination.”

Here it was that Miss Hamilton’s inclination to laugh, which had
increased in proportion as she endeavoured to suppress it, at length
overcame her, and broke out in an immoderate fit: Lady Muskerry took it
in good humour, not doubting but it was the fantastical conduct of
her husband that she was laughing at. Miss Hamilton told her that all
husbands were much the same, and that one ought not to be concerned
at their whims; that she did not know who was to be her partner at the
masquerade; but that, as she was named, the gentleman named with
her would certainly not fail to attend her; although she could not
comprehend why he had not yet declared himself, unless he likewise had
some fantastical spouse, who had forbid him to dance.

This conversation being finished, Lady Muskerry went away in great
haste, to endeavour to learn some news of her partner. Those who were
accomplices in the plot were laughing very heartily at this visit, when
Lord Muskerry paid them one in his turn, and taking Miss Hamilton aside:
“Do you know,” said he, “whether there is to be any ball in the city
tomorrow?” “No,” said she; “but why do you ask?” “Because,” said he, “I
am informed that my wife is making great preparations of dress. I know
very well she is not to be at the masquerade: that I have taken care of;
but as the devil is in her for dancing, I am very much afraid that she
will be affording some fresh subject for ridicule, notwithstanding all
my precautions: however, if it was amongst the citizens, at some private
party, I should not much mind it.”

They satisfied him as well as they could, and having dismissed him,
under pretence of a thousand things they had to prepare for the next
day, Miss Hamilton thought herself at liberty for that morning, when
in came Miss Price, one of the maids of honour to the Duchess. This was
just what she was wishing for: This lady and Miss Blague had been at
variance some time, on account of Duncan, whom Miss Price had drawn away
from the other; and hatred still subsisted between these two divinities.

Though the maids of honour were not nominated for the masquerade, yet
they were to assist at it; and, consequently, were to neglect nothing to
set themselves off to advantage. Miss Hamilton had still another pair of
gloves of the same sort as those she had sent to Miss Blague, which she
made a present of to her rival, with a few knots of the same riband,
which appeared to have been made on purpose for her, brown as she was.
Miss Price returned her a thousand thanks, and promised to do herself
the honour of wearing them at the ball. “You will oblige me if you do,”
 said Miss Hamilton, “but if you mention that such a trifle as this comes
from me, I shall never forgive you; but,” continued she, “do not go and
rob poor Miss Blague of the Marquis Brisacier, as you already have of
Duncan: I know very well that it is wholly in your power: you have wit:
you speak French: and were he once to converse with you ever so little
the other could have no pretensions to him.” This was enough: Miss
Blague was only ridiculous and coquettish: Miss Price was ridiculous,
coquettish, and something else besides.

The day being come, the court, more splendid than ever, exhibited all
its magnificence at this masquerade. The company were all met except the
Chevalier de Grammont: every body was astonished that he should be one
of the last at such a time, as his readiness was so remarkable on every
occasion; but they were still more surprised to see him at length appear
in an ordinary court-dress, which he had worn before. The thing was
preposterous on such an occasion, and very extraordinary with respect
to him: in vain had he the finest point-lace, with the largest and best
powdered peruke imaginable his dress, magnificent enough for any other
purpose, was not at all proper for this entertainment.

The king immediately took notice of it: “Chevalier,” said he, “Termes
is not arrived then?” “Pardon me, sire,” said he, “God be thanked!” “Why
God be thanked?” said the king; “has anything happened to him on the
road?” “Sire,” said the Chevalier de Grammont, “this is the history of
my dress, and of Termes, my messenger.” At these words the ball,
ready to begin, was suspended: the dancers making a circle around the
Chevalier de Grammont, he continued his story in the following manner:

“It is now two days since this fellow ought to have been here, according
to my orders and his protestations: you may judge of my impatience all
this day, when I found he did not come: at last, after I had heartily
cursed him, about an hour ago he arrived, splashed all over from head
to foot, booted up to the waist, and looking as if he had been
excommunicated ‘Very well, Mr. Scoundrel,’ said I, ‘this is just like
you, you must be waited for to the very last minute, and it is a miracle
that you are arrived at all.’ ‘Yes, faith,’ said he, ‘it is a miracle.
You are always grumbling: I had the finest suit in the world made for
you, which the Duke de Guise himself was at the trouble of ordering.’
‘Give it me then, scoundrel,’ said I. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘if I did not
employ a dozen embroiderers upon it, who did nothing but work day and
night, I am a rascal: I never left them one moment: ‘And where is
it traitor?’ said I: ‘do not stand here prating, while I should be
dressing.’ ‘I had,’ continued he, ‘packed it up, made it tight, and
folded it in such a manner, that all the rain in the world could never
have been able to reach it; and I rid post, day and night, knowing your
impatience, and that you were not to be trifled with.’ ‘But where is
it?’ said I. ‘Lost, sir,’ said he, clasping his hands. ‘How! lost,’
said I, in surprise. ‘Yes, lost, perished, swallowed up: what can I say
more?’ ‘What! was the packet-boat cast away then?’ said I. ‘Oh! indeed,
sir, a great deal worse, as you shall see,’ answered he: ‘I was within
half a league of Calais yesterday morning, and I was resolved to go by
the sea-side, to make greater haste; but, indeed, they say very true,
that nothing is like the highway; for I got into a quicksand, where I
sunk up to the chin.’ ‘A quicksand,’ said I, ‘near Calais?’ ‘Yes, sir,’
said he, ‘and such a quicksand that, the devil take me, if they saw
anything but the top of my head when they pulled me out: as for my
horse, fifteen men could scarce get him out; but the portmanteau, where
I had unfortunately put your clothes, could never be found: it must be
at least a league under ground.’

“This, sire,” continued the Chevalier de Grammont, “is the adventure,
and the relation which this honest gentleman has given me of it. I
should certainly have killed him, but I was afraid of making Miss
Hamilton wait, and I was desirous of giving your Majesty immediate
advice of the quicksand, that your couriers may take care to avoid it.”

The King was ready to split his sides with laughing, when the Chevalier
de Grammont, resuming the discourse, “apropos, sire,” said he, “I had
forgot to tell you, that, to increase my ill-humour, I was stopped, as
I was getting out of my chair, by the devil of a phantom in masquerade,
who would by all means persuade me that the queen had commanded me
to dance with her; and as I excused myself with the least rudeness
possible, she charged me to find out who was to be her partner, and
desired me to send him to her immediately so that your Majesty will do
well to give orders about it; for she has placed herself in ambush in
a coach, to seize upon all those who pass through Whitehall. However,
I must tell you, that it is worth while to see her dress; for she must
have at least sixty ells of gauze and silver tissue about her, not
to mention a sort of a pyramid upon her head, adorned with a hundred
thousand baubles.”

This last account surprised all the assembly, except those who had a
share in the plot. The queen assured them, that all she had appointed
for the ball were present; and the king, having paused some minutes: “I
bet,” said he, “that it is the Duchess of Newcastle.” “And I,” said Lord
Muskerry, coming up to Miss Hamilton, “will bet it is another fool; for
I am very much mistaken if it is not my wife.”

The king was for sending to know who it was, and to bring her in:
Lord Muskerry offered himself for that service, for the reason already
mentioned; and it was very well he did so. Miss Hamilton was not sorry
for this, knowing very well that he was not mistaken in his conjecture;
the jest would have gone much farther than she intended, if the Princess
of Babylon had appeared in all her glory.

The ball was not very well executed, if one maybe allowed the
expression, so long as they danced only slow dances; and yet there were
as good dancers, and as beautiful women in this assembly, as were to be
found in the whole world: but as their number was not great, they left
the French, and went to country dances. When they had danced some time,
the king thought fit to introduce his auxiliaries, to give the others
a little respite; the queen’s and the duchess’s maids of honour were
therefore called in to dance with the gentlemen.

Then it was that they were at leisure to take notice of Miss Blague,
and they found that the billet they had conveyed to her on the part of
Brisacier had its effect: she was more yellow than saffron: her hair was
stuffed with the citron-coloured riband, which she had put there out of
complaisance; and, to inform Brisacier of his fate, she raised often to
her head her victorious hands, adorned with the gloves we have before
mentioned: but, if they were surprised to see her in a head-dress that
made her look more wan than ever, she was very differently surprised
to see Miss Price partake with her in every particular of Brisacier’s
present: her surprise soon turned to jealousy; for her rival had not
failed to join in conversation with him, on account of what had been
insinuated to her the evening before; nor did Brisacier fail to return
her first advances, without paying the least attention to the fair
Blague, nor to the signs which she was tormenting herself to make him,
to inform him of his happy destiny.

Miss Price was short and thick, and consequently no dancer, the Duke of
Buckingham, who brought Brisacier forward as often as he could, came to
desire him, on the part of the king, to dance with Miss Blague, without
knowing what was then passing in this nymph’s heart: Brisacier excused
himself, on account of the contempt that he had for country dances: Miss
Blague thought that it was herself that he despised; and, seeing that he
was engaged in conversation with her mortal enemy, she began to dance,
without knowing what she was doing. Though her indignation and jealousy
were sufficiently remarkable to divert the court, none but Miss Hamilton
and her accomplices, understood the joke perfectly: their pleasure was
quite complete; for Lord Muskerry returned, still more confounded at the
vision, of which the Chevalier de Grammont had given the description. He
acquainted Miss Hamilton, that it was Lady Muskerry herself, a thousand
times more ridiculous than she had ever been before, and that he had had
an immense trouble to get her home, and place a sentry at her chamber
door.

The reader may think, perhaps, that we have dwelt too long on these
trifling incidents; perhaps he may be right. We will therefore pass to
others.

Everything favoured the Chevalier de Grammont in the new passion which
he entertained: he was not, however, without rivals; but, what is
a great deal more extraordinary, he was without uneasiness: he was
acquainted with their understandings, and no stranger to Miss Hamilton’s
way of thinking.

Among her lovers, the most considerable, though the least professedly
so, was the Duke of York: it was in vain for him to conceal it, the
court was too well acquainted with his character to doubt of his
inclinations for her. He did not think it proper to declare such
sentiments as were not fit for Miss Hamilton to hear; but he talked to
her as much as he could, and ogled her with great assiduity. As hunting
was his favourite diversion, that sport employed him one part of the
day, and he came home generally much fatigued; but Miss Hamilton’s
presence revived him, when he found her either with the queen or the
duchess. There it was that, not daring to tell her of what lay heavy on
his heart, he entertained her with what he had in his head: telling her
miracles of the cunning of foxes and the mettle of horses; giving
her accounts of broken legs and arms, dislocated shoulders, and other
curious and entertaining adventures; after which, his eyes told her the
rest, till such time as sleep interrupted their conversation; for these
tender interpreters could not help sometimes composing themselves in the
midst of their ogling.

The duchess was not at all alarmed at a passion which her rival was far
from thinking sincere, and with which she used to divert herself, as
far as respect would admit her; on the contrary, as her highness had
an affection and esteem for Miss Hamilton, she never treated her more
graciously than on the present occasion.

The two Russells, uncle and nephew,--were two other of the Chevalier
de Grammont’s rivals: the uncle was full seventy, and had distinguished
himself by his courage and fidelity in the civil wars. His passions and
intentions, with regard to Miss Hamilton, appeared both at once; but
his magnificence only appeared by halves in those gallantries which love
inspires. It was not long since the fashion of high crowned hats had
been left off, in order to fall into the other extreme. Old Russell,
amazed at so terrible a change, resolved to keep a medium, which made
him remarkable: he was still more so, by his constancy for cut
doublets, which he supported a long time after they had been universally
suppressed; but, what was more surprising than all, was a certain
mixture of avarice and liberality, constantly at war with each other,
ever since he had entered the list with love.

His nephew was only of a younger brother’s family, but was considered as
his uncle’s heir; and though he was under the necessity of attending to
his uncle for an establishment, and still more so of humouring him, in
order to get his estate, he could not avoid his fate. Mrs. Middleton
showed him a sufficient degree of preference; but her favours could not
secure him from the charms of Miss Hamilton: his person would have had
nothing disagreeable in it, if he had but left it to nature; but he was
formal in all his actions, and silent even to stupidity; and yet rather
more tiresome when he did speak.

The Chevalier de Grammont, very much at his ease in all these
competitions, engaged himself more and more in his passion, without
forming other designs, or conceiving other hopes, than to render himself
agreeable. Though his passion was openly declared, no person at court
regarded it otherwise than as a habit of gallantry, which goes no
farther than to do justice to merit.

His monitor, Saint Evremond, was quite of a different opinion;
and finding, that, besides an immense increase of magnificence and
assiduity, he regretted those hours which he bestowed on play; that he
no longer sought after those long and agreeable conversations they used
to have together; and that this new attachment everywhere robbed him of
himself:

“Monsieur le Chevalier,” said he, “methinks that for some time you
have left the town beauties and their lovers in perfect repose: Mrs.
Middleton makes fresh conquests with impunity, and wears your presents,
under your nose, without your taking the smallest notice. Poor Miss
Warmestre has been very quietly brought to bed in the midst of the
court, without your having even said a word about it. I foresaw it
plain enough, Monsieur le Chevalier, you have got acquainted with Miss
Hamilton, and, what has never before happened to you, you are really in
love; but let us consider a little what may be the consequence. In
the first place, then, I believe, you have not the least intention
of seducing her: such is her birth and merit, that if you were in
possession of the estate and title of your family, it might be excusable
in you to offer yourself upon honourable terms, however ridiculous
marriage may be in general; for, if you only wish for wit, prudence,
and the treasures of beauty, you could not pay your addresses to a more
proper person: but for you, who possess only a very moderate share of
those of fortune, you cannot pay your addresses more improperly.

“For your brother Toulongeon, whose disposition I am acquainted with,
will not have the complaisance to die, to favour your pretensions: but
suppose you had a competent fortune for you both--and that is
supposing a good deal--are you acquainted with the delicacy, not to say
capriciousness, of this fair one about such an engagement? Do you know
that she has had the choice of the best matches in England? The Duke of
Richmond paid his addresses to her first; but though he was in love with
her, still he was mercenary: however, the king, observing that want of
fortune was the only impediment to the match, took that article upon
himself, out of regard to the Duke of Ormond, to the merit and birth of
Miss Hamilton, and to her father’s services; but, resenting that a
man, who pretended to be in love, should bargain like a merchant, and
likewise reflecting upon his character in the world, she did not think
that being Duchess of Richmond was a sufficient recompense for the
danger that was to be feared from a brute and a debauchee.

“Has not little Jermyn, notwithstanding his uncle’s great estate, and
his own brilliant reputation, failed in his suit to her? And has she
ever so much as vouchsafed to look at Henry Howard, who is upon the
point of being the first duke in England, and who is already in actual
possession of all the estates of the house of Norfolk? I confess that he
is a clown, but what other lady in all England would not have dispensed
with his stupidity and his disagreeable person, to be the first duchess
in the kingdom, with twenty-five thousand a year?

“To conclude, Lord Falmouth has told me himself, that he has always
looked upon her as the only acquisition wanting to complete his
happiness: but, that even at the height of the splendour of his fortune,
he never had had the assurance to open his sentiments to her; that
he either felt in himself too much weakness, or too much pride, to be
satisfied with obtaining her solely by the persuasion of her relations;
and that, though the first refusals of the fair on such occasions are
not much minded, he knew with what an air she had received the addresses
of those whose persons she did not like. After this, Monsieur le
Chevalier, consider what method you intend to pursue: for, if you are in
love, the passion will still increase, and the greater the attachment,
the less capable will you be of making those serious reflections that
are now in your power.”

“My poor philosopher,” answered the Chevalier de Grammont, “you
understand Latin very well, you can make good verses, you understand
the course, and are acquainted with the nature of the stars in the
firmament; but, as for the luminaries of the terrestrial globe, you
are utterly unacquainted with them: you have told me nothing about Miss
Hamilton, but what the king told me three days ago. That she has refused
the savages you have mentioned is all in her favour if she had admitted
their addresses, I would have had nothing to say to her, though I love
her to distraction. Attend now to what I am going to say: I am resolved
to marry her, and I will have my tutor Saint Evremond himself to be the
first man to commend me for it. As for an establishment, I shall make my
peace with the king, and will solicit him to make her one of the ladies
of the bed-chamber to the queen: this he will grant me. Toulongeon will
die, without my assistance.

   [Count de Toulongeon was elder brother to Count Grammont, who, by
   his death, in 1679, became, according to St. Evremond, on that
   event, one of the richest noblemen at court.--See St. Evremond’s
   Works. vol. ii., p. 327.]

“Notwithstanding all his care; Miss Hamilton will have Semeat,--[A
country seat belonging to the family of the Grammonts.]--with the
Chevalier de Grammont, as an indemnification for the Norfolks and
Richmonds. Now, have you any thing to advance against this project? For
I will bet you an hundred louis, that everything will happen as I have
foretold it.”

At this time the king’s attachment to Miss Stewart was so public, that
every person perceived, that if she was but possessed of art, she might
become as absolute a mistress over his conduct as she was over his
heart. This was a fine opportunity for those who had experience and
ambition. The Duke of Buckingham formed the design of governing her, in
order to ingratiate himself with the king: God knows what a governor he
would have been, and what a head he was possessed of, to guide another;
however, he was the properest man in the world to insinuate himself
with Miss Stewart: she was childish in her behaviour, and laughed at
everything, and her taste for frivolous amusements, though unaffected,
was only allowable in a girl about twelve or thirteen years old. A
child, however, she was, in every other respect, except playing with
a doll: blind man’s buff was her most favourite amusement: she was
building castles of cards, while the deepest play was going on in her
apartments, where you saw her surrounded by eager courtiers, who handed
her the cards, or young architects, who endeavoured to imitate her.

She had, however, a passion for music, and had some taste for singing.
The Duke of Buckingham, who built the finest towers of cards imaginable,
had an agreeable voice: she had no aversion to scandal: and the duke was
both the father and the mother of scandal, he made songs, and invented
old women’s stories, with which she was delighted; but his particular
talent consisted in turning into ridicule whatever was ridiculous in
other people, and in taking them off, even in their presence, without
their perceiving it: in short, he knew how to act all parts with so much
grace and pleasantry, that it was difficult to do without him, when he
had a mind to make himself agreeable; and he made himself so necessary
to Miss Stewart’s amusement, that she sent all over the town to seek for
him, when he did not attend the king to her apartments.

He was extremely handsome, and still thought himself much more so than
he really was: although he had a great deal of discernment, yet his
vanity made him mistake some civilities as intended for his person,
which were only bestowed on his wit and drollery: in short, being
seduced by too good an opinion of his own merit, he forgot his first
project and his Portuguese mistress, in order to pursue a fancy in which
he mistook himself; for he no sooner began to act a serious part with
Miss Stewart, than he met with so severe a repulse that he abandoned,
at once, all his designs upon her: however, the familiarity she had
procured him with the king, opened the way to those favours to which he
was afterwards advanced.

   [George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, was born 30th
   January, 1627. Lord Orford observes, “When this extraordinary man,
   with the figure and genius of Alcibiades, could equally charm the
   presbyterian Fairfax and the dissolute Charles; when he alike
   ridiculed that witty king and his solemn chancellor: when he plotted
   the ruin of his country with a cabal of bad ministers, or, equally
   unprincipled, supported its cause with bad patriots,--one laments
   that such parts should have been devoid of every virtue: but when
   Alcibiades turns chemist; when he is a real bubble and a visionary
   miser; when ambition is but a frolic; when the worst designs are for
   the foolishest ends,--contempt extinguishes all reflection on his
   character.”]

Lord Arlington took up the project which the Duke of Buckingham had
abandoned, and endeavoured to gain possession of the mind of the
mistress, in order to govern the master. A man of greater merit and
higher birth than himself might, however, have been satisfied with the
fortune he had already acquired. His first negotiations were during
the treaty of the Pyrenees: and though he was unsuccessful in his
proceedings for his employer, yet he did not altogether lose his time;
for he perfectly acquired, in his exterior, the serious air and profound
gravity of the Spaniards, and imitated pretty well their tardiness in
business: he had a scar across his nose, which was covered by a long
patch, or rather by a small plaister, in form of a lozenge.

Scars in the face commonly give a man a certain fierce and martial air,
which sets him off to advantage; but it was quite the contrary with him,
and this remarkable plaister so well suited his mysterious looks, that
it seemed an addition to his gravity and self-sufficiency.

Arlington, under the mask of this compound countenance where great
earnestness passed for business, and impenetrable stupidity for secrecy,
had given himself the character of a great politician; and no one having
leisure to examine him, he was taken at his word, and had been made
minister and secretary of state, upon the credit of his own importance.

His ambition soaring still above these high stations, after having
provided himself with a great number of fine maxims, and some historical
anecdotes, he obtained an audience of Miss Stewart, in order to display
them; at the same time offering her his most humble services, and best
advice, to assist her in conducting herself in the situation to which
it had pleased God and her virtue to raise her. But he was only in the
preface of his speech, when she recollected that he was at the head of
those whom the Duke of Buckingham used to mimic; and as his presence and
his language exactly revived the ridiculous ideas that had been given
her of him, she could not forbear bursting out into a fit of laughter in
his face, so much the more violent as she had for a long time struggled
to suppress it.

The minister was enraged: his pride became his post, and his punctilious
behaviour merited all the ridicule which could be attached to it: he
quitted her abruptly, with all the fine advice he had prepared for her,
and was almost tempted to carry it to Lady Castlemaine, and to unite
himself with her interests; or immediately to quit the court party, and
declaim freely in parliament against the grievances of the state, and
particularly to propose an act to forbid the keeping of mistresses; but
his prudence conquered his resentments; and thinking only how to enjoy
with pleasure the blessings of fortune, he sent to Holland for a wife,
in order to complete his felicity.

Hamilton was, of all the courtiers, the best qualified to succeed in
an enterprise, in which the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Arlington had
miscarried: he was thinking upon it; but his natural coquetry traversed
his intentions, and made him neglect the most advantageous prospects
in the world, in order unnecessarily to attend to the advances and
allurements thrown out to him by the Countess of Chesterfield. This was
one of the most agreeable women in the world: she had a most exquisite
shape, though she was not very tall; her complexion was extremely fair,
with all the expressive charms of a brunette; she had large blue eyes,
very tempting and alluring; her manners were engaging; her wit lively
and amusing; but her heart, ever open to tender sentiments, was neither
scrupulous in point of constancy, nor nice in point of sincerity.
She was daughter to the Duke of Ormond, and Hamilton, being her
cousin-german, they might be as much as they pleased in each other’s
company without being particular; but as soon as her eyes gave him some
encouragement, he entertained no other thoughts than how to please
her, without considering her fickleness, or the obstacles he had to
encounter.

   [This lady was Isabella, daughter to Lewis de Nassau, Lord Beverwaert,
   son to Maurice, Prince of Orange, and Count Nassau. By her, Lord
   Arlington had an only daughter, named Isabella.]

His intention, which we mentioned before, of establishing himself in the
confidence of Miss Stewart, no longer occupied his thoughts: she now
was of opinion that she was capable of being the mistress of her own
conduct: she had done all that was necessary to inflame the king’s
passions, without exposing her virtue by granting the last favours;
but the eagerness of a passionate lover, blessed with favourable
opportunities, is difficult to withstand, and still more difficult to
vanquish; and Miss Stewart’s virtue was almost exhausted, when the queen
was attacked with a violent fever, which soon reduced her to extreme
danger.

Then it was that Miss Stewart was greatly pleased with herself for the
resistance she had made, though she had paid dearly for it: a thousand
flattering hopes of greatness and glory filled her heart, and the
additional respect that was universally paid her, contributed not a
little to increase them. The queen was given over by her physicians: the
few Portuguese women that had not been sent back to their own country
filled the court with doleful cries; and the good nature of the king
was much affected with the situation in which he saw a princess, whom,
though he did not love her, yet he greatly esteemed. She loved him
tenderly, and thinking that it was the last time she should ever speak
to him, she told him, that the concern he showed for her death, was
enough to make her quit life with regret; but that not possessing charms
sufficient to merit his tenderness, she had at least the consolation in
dying to give place to a consort who might be more worthy of it, and to
whom heaven, perhaps, might grant a blessing that had been refused to
her. At these words, she bathed his hands with some tears, which he
thought would be her last: he mingled his own with hers; and without
supposing she would take him at his word, he conjured her to live for
his sake. She had never yet disobeyed him; and, however dangerous sudden
impulses may be, when one is between life and death, this transport
of joy, which might have proved fatal to her, saved her life, and the
king’s wonderful tenderness had an effect, for which every person did
not thank heaven in the same manner.

Jermyn had now for some time been recovered of his wounds: however, Lady
Castlemaine, finding his health in as deplorable a condition as ever,
resolved to regain the king’s heart, but in vain: for notwithstanding
the softness of her tears, and the violence of her passions, Miss
Stewart wholly possessed it. During this period the court was variously
entertained: sometimes there were promenades, and at others the court
beauties sallied out on horseback, and to make attacks with their charms
and graces, sometimes successfully, sometimes otherwise, but always to
the best of their abilities at other seasons there were such shows on
the river, as the city of London alone can afford.

The Thames washes the sides of a large though not a magnificent palace
of the kings of Great Britain:--[This was Whitehall, which was burnt
down, except the banqueting-house, 4th January, 1698.]--from the stairs
of this palace the court used to take water, in the summer evenings,
when the heat and dust prevented their walking in the park: an infinite
number of open boats, filled with the court and city beauties, attended
the barges, in which were the Royal Family: collations, music, and
fireworks, completed the scene. The Chevalier de Grammont always made
one of the company, and it was very seldom that he did not add something
of his own invention, agreeably to surprise by some unexpected stroke of
magnificence and gallantry. Sometimes he had complete concerts of vocal
and instrumental music, which he privately brought from Paris, and which
struck up on a sudden in the midst of these parties; sometimes he gave
banquets, which likewise came from France, and which, even in the
midst of London, surpassed the king’s collations. These entertainments
sometimes exceeded, as others fell short of his expectations, but they
always cost him an immense deal of money.

Lord Falmouth was one of those who had the greatest friendship and
esteem for the Chevalier de Grammont: this profusion gave him concern,
and as he often used to go and sup with him without ceremony, one day
finding only Saint Evremond there, and a supper fit for half a
dozen guests, who had been invited in form: “You must not,” said he,
addressing himself to the Chevalier de Grammont, “be obliged to me for
this visit. I come from the king’s ‘coucher’, where all the discourse
was about you; and I can assure you that the manner in which the king
spoke of you, could not afford you so much pleasure as I myself felt
upon the occasion. You know very well, that he has long since offered
you his good offices with the King of France; and for my own part,”
 continued he, smiling, “you know very well that I would solicit him so
to do, if it was not through fear of losing you as soon as your peace is
made; but, thanks to Miss Hamilton, you are in no great haste: however,
I am ordered by the king, my master, to acquaint you, that while you
remain here, until you are restored to the favour of your sovereign, he
presents you with a pension of fifteen hundred Jacobus’s: it is indeed a
trifle, considering the figure the Chevalier de Grammont makes among us;
but it will assist him,” said he, embracing him, “to give us sometimes a
supper.”

The Chevalier de Grammont received, as he ought, the offer of a favour
he did not think proper to accept: “I acknowledge,” said he, “the king’s
bounty in this proposal, but I am still more sensible of Lord Falmouth’s
generosity in it; and I request him to assure his Majesty of my perfect
gratitude: the king, my master, will not suffer me to want, when he
thinks fit to recall me; and while I continue here, I will let you
see that I have wherewithal to give my English friends now and then a
supper.”

At these words, he called for his strong box, and showed him seven or
eight thousand guineas in solid gold. Lord Falmouth, willing to improve
to the Chevalier’s advantage the refusal of so advantageous an offer,
gave Monsieur de Comminge, then ambassador at the English court, an
account of it; nor did Monsieur de Comminge fail to represent properly
the merit of such a refusal to the French court.

Hyde Park, every one knows, is the promenade of London! nothing was so
much in fashion, during the fine weather, as that promenade, which was
the rendezvous of magnificence and beauty: every one, therefore, who
had either sparkling eyes, or a splendid equipage, constantly repaired
thither; and the king seemed pleased with the place.

Coaches with glasses were then a late invention.

   [Coaches were first introduced into England in the year 1564.
   Taylor, the water poet, (Works, 1630, p. 240,) says,--“One William
   Boonen, a Dutchman, brought first the use of coaches hither; and the
   said Boonen was Queen Elizabeth’s coachman; for, indeed, a coach was
   a strange monster in those days, and the sight of them put both
   horse and man into amazement.” Dr. Percy observes, they were first
   drawn by two horses, and that it was the favourite Buckingham, who,
   about 1619, began to draw with six horses. About the same time, he
   introduced the sedan. ‘The Ultimum Vale of John Carleton’, 4to,
   1663, p. 23, will, in a great measure, ascertain the time of the
   introduction of glass coaches. He says, “I could wish her (i. e.
   Mary Carleton’s) coach (which she said my lord Taff bought for her
   in England, and sent it over to her, made of the new fashion, wide
   glasse, very stately; and her pages and lacquies were of the same
   livery,) was come for me,” &c.]

The ladies were afraid of being shut up in them: they greatly preferred
the pleasure of showing almost their whole persons, to the conveniences
of modern coaches: that which was made for the king not being remarkable
for its elegance, the Chevalier de Grammont was of opinion that
something ingenious might be invented, which should partake of the
ancient fashion, and likewise prove preferable to the modern; he
therefore sent away Termes privately with all the necessary instructions
to Paris: the Duke of Guise was likewise charged with this commission;
and the courier, having by the favour of Providence escaped the
quicksand, in a month’s time brought safely over to England the most
elegant and magnificent calash that had ever been seen, which the
Chevalier presented to the king.

The Chevalier de Grammont had given orders that fifteen hundred louis
should be expended upon it; but the Duke of Guise, who was his friend,
to oblige him, laid out two thousand. All the court was in admiration
at the magnificence of the present; and the king, charmed with the
Chevalier’s attention to everything which could afford him pleasure,
failed not to acknowledge it: he would not, however, accept a present of
so much value, but upon condition that the Chevalier should not refuse
another from him.

The queen, imagining that so splendid a carriage might prove fortunate
for her, wished to appear in it first, with the Duchess of York. Lady
Castlemaine, who had seen them in it, thinking that it set off a fine
figure to greater advantage than any other, desired the king to lend her
this wonderful calash to appear in it the first fine day in Hyde Park:
Miss Stewart had the same wish, and requested to have it on the same
day. As it was impossible to reconcile these two goddesses, whose former
union was turned into mortal hatred, the king was very much perplexed.

Lady Castlemaine was with child, and threatened to miscarry, if her
rival was preferred; Miss Stewart threatened, that she never would be
with child, if her request was not granted. This menace prevailed, and
Lady Castlemaine’s rage was so great, that she had almost kept her
word; and it was believed that this triumph cost her rival some of her
innocence.

The queen dowager, who, though she had no share in these broils, had no
objection to them, and as usual being diverted with this circumstance,
she took occasion to joke with the Chevalier de Grammont, for having
thrown this bone of contention among such competitors; and did not fail
to give him, in the presence of the whole court, those praises which so
magnificent a present deserved: “But how comes it,” said she, “that you
have no equipage yourself, though you are at so great an expense? for I
am told that you do not keep even a single footman, and that one of the
common runners in the streets lights you home with a stinking link.”
 “Madam,” said he, “the Chevalier de Grammont hates pomp: my linkboy, of
whom you speak, is faithful to my service; and besides, he is one of
the bravest fellows in the world. Your Majesty is unacquainted with
the nation of link-boys: it is a charming one, I can assure you: a man
cannot step out in the night without being surrounded by a dozen of
them. The first time I became acquainted with them, I retained all that
offered me their services; so that when I arrived at Whitehall, I had at
least two hundred about my chair: the sight was new; for those who had
seen me pass with this illumination, asked whose funeral it was. These
gentlemen, however, began fighting about some dozen shillings I had
thrown among them then; and he whom your Majesty mentions having beaten
three or four of his companions, I retained him for his valour. As for
the parade of coaches and footmen, I despise it: I have sometimes had
five or six valets-de-chambre at once, without having a single servant
in livery, except my chaplain Poussatin.” “How!” said the queen,
bursting out laughing, “a chaplain in your livery! he surely was not a
priest?” “Pardon me, madam,” said he, “and the first priest in the world
for dancing the Biscayan jig.” “Chevalier,” said the king, “pray tell us
the history of your chaplain Poussatin.”




CHAPTER EIGHTH. FUNNY ADVENTURE OF THE CHAPLAIN POUSSATIN--THE STORY
OF THE SIEGE OF LERIDA--MARRIAGE OF THE DUKE OF YORK, AND OTHER DETAILS
ABOUT THE ENGLISH COURT


“Sir,” said the Chevalier de Grammont, “the Prince de Conde besieged
Lerida: the place in itself was nothing; but Don Gregorio Brice who
defended it, was something. He was one of those Spaniards of the old
stamp, as valiant as the Cid, as proud as all the Guzmans put together,
and more gallant than all the Abencerrages of Granada: he suffered us
to make our first approaches to the place without the least molestation.
The Marshal de Grammont, whose maxim it was, that a governor who at
first makes a great blustering, and burns his suburbs in order to make
a noble defence, generally makes a very bad one, looked upon Gregorio de
Brice’s politeness as no good omen for us; but the prince, covered
with glory, and elated with the campaigns of Rocroy, Norlinguen,
and Fribourg, to insult both the place and the governor, ordered the
trenches to be mounted at noon-day by his own regiment, at the head of
which marched four-and-twenty fiddlers, as if it had been to a wedding.

“Night approaching, we were all in high spirits: our violins were
playing soft airs, and we were comfortably regaling ourselves: God knows
how we were joking about the poor governor and his fortifications, both
of which we promised ourselves to take in less than twenty-four hours.
This was going on in the trenches, when we heard an ominous cry from the
ramparts, repeated two or three times, of, ‘Alerte on the walls!’
This cry was followed by a discharge of cannon and musketry, and
this discharge by a vigorous sally, which, after having filled up the
trenches, pursued us as far as our grand guard.

“The next day Gregorio Brice sent by a trumpet a present of ice and
fruit to the Prince de Conde, humbly beseeching his highness to excuse
his not returning the serenade which he was pleased to favour him with,
as unfortunately he had no violins; but that if the music of last night
was not disagreeable to him, he would endeavour to continue it as long
as he did him the honour to remain before the place. The Spaniard was
as good as his word; and as soon as we heard, ‘Alerte on the walls,’ we
were sure of a sally, that cleared our trenches, destroyed our works,
and killed the best of our officers and soldiers. The prince was so
piqued at it, that, contrary to the opinion of the general officers, he
obstinately persisted in carrying on a siege which was like to ruin his
army, and which he was at last forced to quit in a hurry.

“As our troops were retiring, Don Gregorio, far from giving himself
those airs which governors generally do on such occasions, made no other
sally, than sending a respectful compliment to the prince. Signor Brice
set out not long after for Madrid, to give an account of his conduct,
and to receive the recompense he had merited. Your majesty perhaps will
be desirous to know what reception poor Brice met with, after having
performed the most brilliant action the Spaniards could boast of in all
the war--he was confined by the inquisition.”

“How!” said the Queen Dowager, “confined by the inquisition for his
services!” “Not altogether for his services,” said the Chevalier; “but
without any regard to his services, he was treated in the manner I have
mentioned for a little affair of gallantry, which I shall relate to the
King presently.

“The campaign of Catalonia being thus ended, we were returning home, not
overloaded with laurels; but as the Prince de Conde had laid up a great
store on former occasions, and as he had still great projects in his
head, he soon forgot this trifling misfortune: we did nothing but joke
with one another during the march, and the prince was the first to
ridicule the siege. We made some of those rhymes on Lerida, which were
sung all over France, in order to prevent others more severe; however,
we gained nothing by it, for notwithstanding we treated ourselves freely
in our own ballads, others were composed in Paris in which we were ten
times more severely handled. At last we arrived at Perpignan upon a
holy-day: a company of Catalans, who were dancing in the middle of the
street, out of respect to the prince came to dance under his windows:
Monsieur Poussatin, in a little black jacket, danced in the middle of
this company, as if he was really mad. I immediately recognized him
for my countryman, from his manner of skipping and frisking about: the
prince was charmed with his humour and activity. After the dance, I sent
for him, and inquired who he was: ‘A poor priest, at your service, my
lord,’ said he: ‘my name is Poussatin, and Bearn is my native country: I
was going into Catalonia to serve in the infantry, for, God be praised,
I can march very well on foot; but since the war is happily concluded,
if your lordship pleases to take me into your service, I would follow
you everywhere, and serve you faithfully.’ ‘Monsieur Poussatin,’ said I,
‘my lordship has no great occasion for a chaplain; but since you are so
well disposed towards me, I will take you into my service.’

“The Prince de Conde, who was present at this conversation, was
overjoyed at my having a chaplain. As poor Poussatin was in a very
tattered condition, I had no time to provide him with a proper habit
at Perpignan; but giving him a spare livery of one of the Marshal de
Grammont’s servants, I made him get up behind the prince’s coach, who
was like to die with laughing every time he looked at poor Poussatin’s
uncanonical mien in a yellow livery.

“As soon as we arrived in Paris, the story was told to the Queen, who at
first expressed some surprise at it: this, however, did not prevent her
from wishing to see my chaplain dance; for in Spain it is not altogether
so strange to see ecclesiastics dance, as to see them in livery.

“Poussatin performed wonders before the Queen; but as he danced with
great sprightliness, she could not bear the odour which his violent
motions diffused around her room the ladies likewise began to pray for
relief; for he had almost entirely got the better of all the perfumes
and essences with which they were fortified: Poussatin, nevertheless,
retired with a great deal of applause, and some louis d’or.

“Some time afterwards I procured a small benefice in the country for my
chaplain, and I have since been informed that Poussatin preached
with the same ease in his village as he danced at the wedding of his
parishioners.”

The King was exceedingly diverted at Poussatin’s history; and the Queen
was not much hurt at his having been put in livery: the treatment of
Gregorio Brice offended her far more; and being desirous to justify the
court of Spain, with respect to so cruel a proceeding: “Chevalier de
Grammont,” said she, “what heresy did Governor Brice wish to introduce
into the state? What crime against religion was he charged with, that he
was confined in the inquisition?” “Madam,” said he, “the history is not
very proper to be related before your majesty: it was a little amorous
frolic, ill-timed indeed; but poor Brice meant no harm: a school-boy
would not have been whipped for such a fault, in the most severe college
in France; as it was only for giving some proofs of his affection to
a young Spanish fair one, who had fixed her eyes upon him on a solemn
occasion.”

The King desired to know the particulars of the adventure; and the
Chevalier gratified his curiosity, as soon as the Queen and the rest of
the court were out of hearing. It was very entertaining to hear him
tell a story; but it was very disagreeable to differ with him, either in
competition, or in raillery: it is true that at that time there were few
persons at the English court who had merited his indignation: Russell
was sometimes the subject of his ridicule, but he treated him far more
tenderly than he usually did a rival.

This Russell was one of the most furious dancers in all England, I
mean, for country dances: he had a collection of two or three hundred in
print, all of which he danced at sight; and to prove that he was not an
old man, he sometimes danced until he was almost exhausted: his mode
of dancing was like that of his clothes, for they both had been out of
fashion full twenty years.

The Chevalier de Grammont was very sensible that he was very much
in love; but though he saw very well that it only rendered him more
ridiculous, yet he felt some concern at the information he received, of
his intention of demanding Miss Hamilton in marriage; but his concern
did not last long. Russell, being upon the point of setting out on
a journey, thought it was proper to acquaint his mistress with his
intentions before his departure. The Chevalier de Grammont was a great
obstacle to the interview, he was desirous of obtaining of her; but
being one day sent for, to go and play at Lady Castlemaine’s, Russell
seized the opportunity, and addressing himself to Miss Hamilton,
with less embarrassment than is usual on such occasions, he made his
declaration to her in the following manner: “I am brother to the Earl of
Bedford: I command the regiment of guards: I have three thousand pounds
a year, and fifteen thousand in ready money: all which, madam, I come to
present to you, along with my person. One present, I agree, is not worth
much without the other, and therefore I put them together. I am advised
to go to some of the watering places for something of an asthma, which,
in all probability, cannot continue much longer, as I have had it for
these last twenty years: if you look upon me as worthy of the happiness
of belonging to you, I shall propose it to your father, to whom I
did not think it right to apply before I was acquainted with your
sentiments: my nephew William is at present entirely ignorant of my
intention; but I believe he will not be sorry for it, though he will
thereby see himself deprived of a pretty considerable estate; for he
has great affection for me, and besides, he has a pleasure in paying
his respects to you since he has perceived my attachment. I am very much
pleased that he should make his court to me, by the attention he pays
to you; for he did nothing but squander his money upon that coquet
Middleton, while at present he is at no expense, though he frequents the
best company in England.”

Miss Hamilton had much difficulty to suppress her laughter during this
harangue: however, she told him that she thought herself much honoured
by his intentions towards her, and still more obliged to him for
consulting her, before he made any overtures to her relations: “It will
be time enough,” said she, “to speak to them upon the subject at your
return from the waters; for I do not think it is at all probable that
they will dispose of me before that time, and in case they should be
urgent in their solicitations, your nephew William will take care to
acquaint you; therefore, you may set out whenever you think proper; but
take care not to injure your health by returning too soon.”

The Chevalier de Grammont, having heard the particulars of this
conversation, endeavoured, as well as he could, to be entertained
with it; though there were certain circumstances in the declaration,
notwithstanding the absurdity of others, which did not fail to give
him some uneasiness. Upon the whole, he was not sorry for Russell’s
departure; and, assuming an air of pleasantry, he went to relate to the
king how Heaven had favoured him by delivering him from so dangerous a
rival. “He is gone then, Chevalier,” said the king. “Certainly, sir,”
 said he; “I had the honour to see him embark in a coach, with his
asthma, and country equipage, his perruque a calotte, neatly tied with
a yellow riband, and his old-fashioned hat covered with oil skin, which
becomes him uncommonly well: therefore, I have only to contend with
William Russell, whom he leaves as his resident with Miss Hamilton; and
as for him, I neither fear him upon his own account, nor his uncle’s;
he is too much in love himself to pay attention to the interests of
another; and as he has but one method of promoting his own, which is by
sacrificing the portrait, or some love-letters of Mrs. Middleton, I have
it easily in my power to counteract him in such kind of favours, though
I confess I have pretty well paid for them.”

“Since your affairs proceed so prosperously with the Russells,” said the
king, “I will acquaint you that you are delivered from another rival,
much more dangerous, if he were not already married: my brother has
lately fallen in love with Lady Chesterfield.” “How many blessings at
once!” exclaimed the Chevalier de Grammont: “I have so many obligations
to him for this inconstancy, that I would willingly serve him in his new
amour, if Hamilton was not his rival: nor will your majesty take it ill,
if I promote the interests of my mistress’s brother, rather than those
of your majesty’s brother.” “Hamilton, however,” said the king, “does
not stand so much in need of assistance, in affairs of this nature, as
the Duke of York; but I know Lord Chesterfield is of such a disposition,
that he will not suffer men to quarrel about his wife, with the same
patience as the complaisant Shrewsbury; though he well deserves the same
fate.” Here follows a true description of Lord Chesterfield.

   [Philip, the second Earl of Chesterfield. He was constituted, in
   1662, lord-chamberlain to the queen, and colonel of a regiment of
   foot, June 13, 1667. On November 29, 1679, he was appointed lord-
   warden and chief-justice of the king’s forests on this side Trent,
   and sworn of the privy-council, January 26, 1680. On November 6,
   1682, he was made colonel of the third regiment of foot, which, with
   the rest of his preferments, he resigned on the accession of James
   IT. He lived to the age of upwards of 80, and died, January 28,
   1713, at his house, in Bloomsbury-square.]

He had a very agreeable face, a fine head of hair, an indifferent shape,
and a worse air; he was not, however, deficient in wit: a long residence
in Italy had made him ceremonious in his commerce with men, and jealous
in his connection with women: he had been much hated by the king;
because he had been much beloved by Lady Castlemaine: it was reported
that he had been in her good graces prior to her marriage; and as
neither of them denied it, it was the more generally believed.

He had paid his devoirs to the eldest daughter of the Duke of Ormond,
while his heart was still taken up with his former passion: the king’s
love for Lady Castlemaine, and the advancement he expected from such an
alliance, made him press the match with as much ardour as if he had been
passionately in love: he had therefore married Lady Chesterfield without
loving her, and had lived some time with her in such coolness as to
leave her no room to doubt of his indifference. As she was endowed with
great sensibility and delicacy, she suffered at this contempt: she was
at first much affected with his behaviour, and afterwards enraged at
it; and, when he began to give her proofs of his affection, she had the
pleasure of convincing him of her indifference.

They were upon this footing, when she resolved to cure Hamilton, as she
had lately done her husband, of all his remaining tenderness for Lady
Castlemaine. For her it was no difficult undertaking: the conversation
of the one was disagreeable, from the unpolished state of her manners,
her ill-timed pride, her uneven temper, and extravagant humours Lady
Chesterfield, on the contrary, knew how to heighten her charms with all
the bewitching attractions in the power of a woman to invent who wishes
to make a conquest.

Besides all this, she had greater opportunities of making advances to
him than to any other: she lived at the Duke of Ormond’s, at Whitehall,
where Hamilton, as was said before, had free admittance at all hours:
her extreme coldness, or rather the disgust which she showed for her
husband’s returning affection, wakened his natural inclination to
jealousy: he suspected that she could not so very suddenly pass from
anxiety to indifference for him, without some secret object of a new
attachment; and, according to the maxim of all jealous husbands, he
immediately put in practice all his experience and industry, in order to
make a discovery, which was to destroy his own happiness.

Hamilton, who knew his disposition, was, on the other hand, upon his
guard, and the more he advanced in his intrigue, the more attentive
was he to remove every degree of suspicion from the Earl’s mind: he
pretended to make him his confidant, in the most unguarded and open
manner, of his passion for Lady Castlemaine: he complained of her
caprice, and most earnestly desired his advice how to succeed with a
person whose affections he alone had entirely possessed.

Chesterfield, who was flattered with this discourse, promised him his
protection with greater sincerity than it had been demanded:
Hamilton, therefore, was no further embarrassed than to preserve Lady
Chesterfield’s reputation, who, in his opinion, declared herself rather
too openly in his favour: but whilst he was diligently employed in
regulating, within the rules of discretion, the partiality she expressed
for him, and in conjuring her to restrain her glances within bounds, she
was receiving those of the Duke of York; and, what is more, made them
favourable returns.

He thought that he had perceived it, as well as every one besides; but
he thought likewise, that all the world was deceived as well as himself:
how could he trust his own eyes, as to what those of Lady Chesterfield
betrayed for this new rival? He could not think it probable, that
a woman of her disposition could relish a man, whose manners had a
thousand times been the subject of their private ridicule; but what he
judged still more improbable was, that she should begin another intrigue
before she had given the finishing stroke to that in which her own
advances had engaged her: however, he began to observe her with more
circumspection, when he found by his discoveries, that if she did not
deceive him, at least the desire of doing so was not wanting. This he
took the liberty of telling her of; but she answered him in so high
a strain, and treated what he said so much like a phantom of his own
imagination, that he appeared confused without being convinced: all
the satisfaction he could procure from her, was her telling him, in a
haughty manner, that such unjust reproaches as his ought to have had a
better foundation.

Lord Chesterfield had taken the same alarm; and being convinced, from
the observations he had made, that he had found out the happy lover who
had gained possession of his lady’s heart, he was satisfied; and
without teasing her with unnecessary reproaches, he only waited for an
opportunity to confound her, before he took his measures.

After all, how can we account for Lady Chesterfield’s conduct, unless
we attribute it to the disease incident to most coquettes, who, charmed
with superiority, put in practice every art to rob another of her
conquest, and spare nothing to preserve it.

But before we enter into the particulars of this adventure, let us
take a retrospect of the amours of his Royal Highness, prior to the
declaration of his marriage, and particularly of what immediately
preceded this declaration. It is allowable sometimes to drop the thread
of a narrative, when real facts, not generally known, give such a
variety upon the digression as to render it excusable: let us see then
how those things happened.

The Duke of York’s marriage, with the chancellor’s daughter, was
deficient in none of those circumstances which render contracts of this
nature valid in the eye of heaven the mutual inclination, the formal
ceremony, witnesses, and every essential point of matrimony, had been
observed.

   [The material facts in this narrative are confirmed by Lord
   Clarendon.--‘Continuation of his Life’, p. 33. It is difficult to
   speak of the persons concerned in this infamous transaction without
   some degree of asperity, notwithstanding they are, by a strange
   perversion of language, styled, all men of honour.]

Though the bride was no perfect beauty, yet, as there were none at
the court of Holland who eclipsed her, the Duke, during the first
endearments of matrimony, was so far from repenting of it, that he
seemed only to wish for the King’s restoration that he might have an
opportunity of declaring it with splendour; but when he saw himself
enjoying a rank which placed him so near the throne; when the possession
of Miss Hyde afforded him no new charms; when England, so abounding in
beauties, displayed all that was charming and lovely in the court of the
King his brother; and when he considered he was the only prince, who,
from such superior elevation, had descended so low, he began to reflect
upon it. On the one hand, his marriage appeared to him particularly ill
suited in every respect: he recollected that Jermyn had not engaged him
in an intimacy with Miss Hyde, until he had convinced him, by several
different circumstances, of the facility of succeeding: he looked upon
his marriage as an infringement of that duty and obedience he owed
to the King; the indignation with which the court, and even the whole
kingdom, would receive the account of his marriage presented itself to
his imagination, together with the impossibility of obtaining the King’s
consent to such an act, which for a thousand reasons he would be obliged
to refuse. On the other hand, the tears and despair of poor Miss Hyde
presented themselves; and still more than that, he felt a remorse
of conscience, the scruples of which began from that time to rise up
against him.

In the midst of this perplexity he opened his heart to Lord Falmouth,
and consulted with him what method he ought to pursue: He could not have
applied to a better man for his own interests, nor to a worse for Miss
Hyde’s; for at first, Falmouth maintained not only that he was not
married, but that it was even impossible that he could ever have formed
such a thought; that any marriage was invalid for him, which was made
without the King’s consent, even if the party was a suitable match:
but that it was a mere jest, even to think of the daughter of an
insignificant lawyer, whom the favour of his sovereign had lately made a
peer of the realm, without any noble blood, and chancellor, without
any capacity; that as for his scruples, he had only to give ear to some
gentlemen whom he could introduce, who would thoroughly inform him of
Miss Hyde’s conduct before he became acquainted with her; and provided
he did not tell them that he really was married, he would soon have
sufficient grounds to come to a determination.

The Duke of York consented, and Lord Falmouth, having assembled both
his council and his witnesses, conducted them to his Royal Highness’s
cabinet, after having instructed them how to act: these gentlemen were
the Earl of Arran, Jermyn, Talbot, and Killegrew, all men of honour;
but who infinitely preferred the Duke of York’s interest to Miss Hyde’s
reputation, and who, besides, were greatly dissatisfied, as well as the
whole court, at the insolent authority of the prime minister.

The Duke having told them, after a sort of preamble, that although they
could not be ignorant of his affection for Miss Hyde, yet they might be
unacquainted with the engagements his tenderness for her had induced him
to contract; that he thought himself obliged to perform all the
promises he had made her; but as the innocence of persons of her age
was generally exposed to court scandal, and as certain reports, whether
false or true, had been spread abroad on the subject of her conduct, he
conjured them as his friends, and charged them upon their duty, to
tell him sincerely everything they knew upon the subject, since he was
resolved to make their evidence the rule of his conduct towards her.
They all appeared rather reserved at first, and seemed not to dare to
give their opinions upon an affair of so serious and delicate a nature;
but the Duke of York having renewed his entreaties, each began to relate
the particulars of what he knew, and perhaps of more than he knew,
of poor Miss Hyde; nor did they omit any circumstance necessary to
strengthen the evidence. For instance the Earl of Arran, who spoke
first, deposed, that in the gallery at Honslaerdyk, where the Countess
of Ossory, his sister-in-law, and Jermyn, were playing at nine-pins,
Miss Hyde, pretending to be sick, retired to a chamber at the end of
the gallery; that he, the deponent, had followed her, and having cut her
lace, to give a greater probability to the pretence of the vapours, he
had acquitted himself to the best of his abilities, both to assist and
to console her.

Talbot said, that she had made an appointment with him in the
chancellor’s cabinet, while he was in council; and, that, not paying so
much attention to what was upon the table as to what they were engaged
in, they had spilled a bottle full of ink upon a despatch of four pages,
and that the King’s monkey, which was blamed for this accident, had been
a long time in disgrace.

Jermyn mentioned many places where he had received long and favourable
audiences: however, all these articles of accusation amounted only
to some delicate familiarities, or at most, to what is generally
denominated the innocent part of an intrigue; but Killegrew, who wished
to surpass these trivial depositions, boldly declared that he had had
the honour of being upon the most intimate terms with her he was of a
sprightly and witty humour, and had the art of telling a story in the
most entertaining manner, by the graceful and natural turn he could
give it: he affirmed that he had found the critical minute in a certain
closet built over the water, for a purpose very different from that
of giving ease to the pains of love: that three or four swans had been
witnesses to his happiness, and might perhaps have been witnesses to the
happiness of many others, as the lady frequently repaired to that place,
and was particularly delighted with it.

The Duke of York found this last accusation greatly out of bounds, being
convinced he himself had sufficient proofs of the contrary: he therefore
returned thanks to these officious informers for their frankness,
ordered them to be silent for the future upon what they had been telling
him, and immediately passed into the King’s apartment.

As soon as he had entered the cabinet, Lord Falmouth, who had followed
him, related what had passed to the Earl of Ossory, whom he met in the
presence chamber: they strongly suspected what was the subject of the
conversation of the two brothers, as it was long; and the Duke of York
appeared to be in such agitation when he came out, that they no longer
doubted that the result had been unfavourable for poor Miss Hyde. Lord
Falmouth began to be affected for her disgrace, and to relent that he
had been concerned in it, when the Duke of York told him and the Earl of
Ossory to meet him in about an hour’s time at the chancellor’s.

They were rather surprised that he should have the cruelty himself to
announce such a melancholy piece of news: they found his Royal Highness
at the appointed hour in Miss Hyde’s chamber: a few tears trickled down
her cheeks, which she endeavoured to restrain. The chancellor, leaning
against the wall, appeared to them to be puffed up with some thing,
which they did not doubt was--rage and despair. The Duke of York said to
them, with that serene and pleasant countenance with which men generally
announce good news: “As you are the two men of the court whom I most
esteem, I am desirous you should first have the honour of paying your
compliments to the Duchess of York: there she is.”

Surprise was of no use, and astonishment was unseasonable on the present
occasion: they were, however, so greatly possessed with both surprise
and astonishment, that in order to conceal it, they immediately fell
on their knees to kiss her hand, which she gave to them with as much
majesty as if she had been used to it all her life.

The next day the news was made public, and the whole court was eager to
pay her that respect, from a sense of duty, which in the end became very
sincere.

The petits-maitres who had spoken against her, seeing their intentions
disappointed, were not a little embarrassed. Women are seldom accustomed
to forgive injuries of this nature; and, if they promise themselves the
pleasure of revenge, when they gain the power they seldom forget it: in
the present case, however, the fears of these petits-maitres were their
only punishment.

The Duchess of York, being fully informed of all that was said in the
cabinet concerning her, instead of showing the least resentment, studied
to distinguish, by all manner of kindness and good offices, those who
had attacked her in so sensible a part; nor did she ever mention it to
them, but in order to praise their zeal, and to tell them that nothing
was a greater proof of the attachment of a man of honour, than his being
more solicitous for the interest of his friend or master, than for his
own reputation: a remarkable example of prudence and moderation, not
only for the fair sex, but even for those who value themselves most upon
their philosophy among the men.

The Duke of York, having quieted his conscience by the declaration of
his marriage, thought that he was entitled, by this generous effort, to
give way a little to his inconstancy: he therefore immediately seized
upon whatever he could first lay his hands upon: this was Lady Carnegy,
who had been in several other hands. She was still tolerably handsome,
and her disposition, naturally inclined to tenderness, did not oblige
her new lover long to languish. Everything coincided with their wishes
for some time: Lord Carnegy, her husband, was in Scotland; but his
father dying suddenly, he as suddenly returned with the title of
Southesk, which his wife detested; but which she took more patiently
than she received the news of his return. Some private intimation
had been given him of the honour that was done him in his absence:
nevertheless, he did not show his jealousy at first; but, as he was
desirous to be satisfied of the reality of the fact, he kept a strict
watch over his wife’s actions. The Duke of York and her ladyship had,
for some time, been upon such terms of intimacy, as not to pass their
time in frivolous amusements; however, the husband’s return obliged them
to maintain some decorum: he therefore never went to her house, but in
form, that is to say, always accompanied by some friend or other, to
give his amours at least the appearance of a visit.

About this time Talbot returned from Portugal: this connection had taken
place during his absence; and without knowing who Lady Southesk was, he
had been informed that his master was in love with her.

A few days after his arrival, he was carried, merely to keep up
appearances, to her house by the duke; and after being introduced, and
some compliments having been paid on both sides, he thought it his duty
to give his Royal Highness an opportunity to pay his compliments, and
accordingly retired into the ante-chamber, which looked into the street,
and placed himself at the window to view the people as they passed.

He was one of the best meaning men in the world on such occasions;
but was so subject to forgetfulness, and absence of mind, that he once
forgot, and left behind him at London, a complimentary letter which the
duke had given him for the Infanta of Portugal, and never recollected it
till he was going to his audience.

He stood sentry, as we have before said, very attentive to his
instructions, when he saw a coach stop at the door, without being in the
least concerned at it, and still less, at a man whom he saw get out of
it, and whom he immediately heard coming upstairs.

The devil, who ought to be civil upon such occasions, forgot himself in
the present instance, and brought up Lord Southesk ‘in propria persona’:
his Royal Highness’s equipage had been sent home, because my lady had
assured him that her husband was gone to see a bear and a bull baiting,
an entertainment in which he took great delight, and from whence he
seldom returned until it was very late; so that Southesk, not seeing any
equipage at the door, little imagined that he had such good company in
his house; but if he was surprised to see Talbot carelessly lolling in
his wife’s ante-chamber, his surprise was soon over. Talbot, who had not
seen him since they were in Flanders, and never supposing that he had
changed his name: “Welcome, Carnegy, welcome, my good fellow,” said he,
giving him his hand, “where the devil have you been, that I have never
been able to set eyes on you since we were at Brussels? What business
brought you here? Do you likewise wish to see Lady Southesk? If this is
your intention, my poor friend, you may go away again; for I must
inform you, the Duke of York is in love with her, and I will tell you in
confidence, that, at this very time, he is in her chamber.”

Southesk, confounded as one may suppose, had no time to answer all
these fine questions: Talbot, therefore, attended him downstairs as his
friend; and, as his humble servant, advised him to seek for a mistress
elsewhere. Southesk, not knowing what else to do at that time, returned
to his coach; and Talbot, overjoyed at the adventure, impatiently waited
for the duke’s return, that he might acquaint him with it; but he was
very much surprised to find that the story afforded no pleasure to those
who had the principal share in it; and his greatest concern was,
that Carnegy had changed his name, as if only to draw him into such a
confidence.

This accident broke off a commerce which the Duke of York did not much
regret; and indeed it was happy for him that he became indifferent; for
the traitor Southesk meditated a revenge, whereby, without using either
assassination or poison, he would have obtained some satisfaction upon
those who had injured him, if the connection had continued any longer.

He went to the most infamous places, to seek for the most infamous
disease, which he met with; but his revenge was only half completed; for
after he had gone through every remedy to get quit of his disease, his
lady did but return him his present, having no more connection with the
person for whom it was so industriously prepared.

   [Bishop Burnet, taking notice of the Duke of York’s amours, says,
   “a story was set about, and generally believed, that the Earl of
   Southesk, that had married a daughter of the Duke of Hamilton’s,
   suspecting some familiarities between the duke and his wife, had
   taken a sure method to procure a disease to himself, which he
   communicated to his wife, and was, by that means, sent round till it
   came to the duchess. Lord Southesk was, for some years, not ill
   pleased to have this believed. It looked like a peculiar strain of
   revenge, with which he seemed much delighted. But I know he has, to
   some of his friends, denied the whole of the story very solemnly.”
    --history of His Own Times, vol. i., p. 319. It is worthy of notice
   that the passage in the text was omitted in most editions of
   Grammont, and retained in that of Strawberry-hill, in 1772.]

Lady Robarts was then in the zenith of her glory; her beauty was
striking; yet, notwithstanding the brightness of the finest complexion,
with all the bloom of youth, and with every requisite for inspiring
desire, she nevertheless was not attractive. The Duke of York,
however, would probably have been successful, if difficulties, almost
insurmountable, had not disappointed his good intentions: Lord Robarts,
her husband, was an old, snarling, troublesome, peevish fellow, in
love with her to distraction, and to complete her misery, a perpetual
attendant on her person.

She perceived his Royal Highness’s attachment to her, and seemed as if
she was inclined to be grateful: this redoubled his eagerness, and every
outward mark of tenderness he could possibly show her; but the watchful
husband redoubling his zeal and assiduity, as he found the approaches
advance, every art was practised to render him tractable: several
attacks were made upon his avarice and his ambition. Those who possessed
the greatest share of his confidence, insinuated to him that it was his
own fault if Lady Robarts, who was so worthy of being at court, was
not received into some considerable post, either about the queen or the
duchess: he was offered to be made Lord Lieutenant of the county where
his estate was; or to have the management of the Duke of York’s revenues
in Ireland, of which he should have the entire disposal, provided
he immediately set out to take possession of his charge; and having
accomplished it, he might return as soon as ever he thought proper.

He perfectly well understood the meaning of these proposals, and was
fully apprised of the advantages he might reap from them: in vain did
ambition and avarice hold out their allurements; he was deaf to all
their temptations, nor could ever the old fellow be persuaded to be
made a cuckold. It is not always an aversion to, or a dread of this
distinction, which preserves us from it: of this her husband was
very sensible; therefore, under the pretence of a pilgrimage to
Saint Winifred, the virgin and martyr, who was said to cure women of
barrenness, he did not rest, until the highest mountains in Wales were
between his wife and the person who had designed to perform this miracle
in London, after his departure.

The duke was for some time entirely taken up with the pleasures of the
chase, and only now and then engaged in those of love; but his taste
having undergone a change in this particular, and the remembrance of
Lady Robarts wearing off by degrees, his eyes and wishes were turned
towards Miss Brook; and it was in the height of this pursuit that Lady
Chesterfield threw herself into his arms, as we shall see by resuming
the sequel of her adventures.

The Earl of Bristol, ever restless and ambitious, had put in practice
every art, to possess himself of the king’s favour. As this is the same
Digby whom Count Bussy mentions in his annals, it will be sufficient to
say that he was not at all changed: he knew that love and pleasure had
possession of a master, whom he himself governed, in defiance of the
chancellor; thus he was continually giving entertainments at his house;
and luxury and elegance seemed to rival each other in those nocturnal
feasts, which always lead to other enjoyments. The two Miss Brooks, his
relations, were always of those parties; they were both formed by nature
to excite love in others, as well as to be susceptible of it themselves;
they were just what the king wanted: the earl, from this commencement,
was beginning to entertain a good opinion of his project, when Lady
Castlemaine, who had lately gained entire possession of the king’s
heart, was not in a humour, at that time, to share it with another, as
she did very indiscreetly afterwards, despising Miss Stewart. As soon,
therefore, as she received intimation of these secret practices, under
pretence of attending the king in his parties, she entirely disconcerted
them; so that the earl was obliged to lay aside his projects, and Miss
Brook to discontinue her advances. The king did not even dare to think
any more on this subject; but his brother was pleased to look after what
he neglected; and Miss Brook accepted the offer of his heart, until it
pleased heaven to dispose of her otherwise, which happened soon after in
the following manner.

Sir John Denham, loaded with wealth as well as years, had passed his
youth in the midst of those pleasures which people at that age indulge
in without restraint; he was one of the brightest geniuses England
ever produced, for wit and humour, and for brilliancy of composition:
satirical and free in his poems, he spared neither frigid writers, nor
jealous husbands, nor even their wives: every part abounded with the
most poignant wit, and the most entertaining stories; but his most
delicate and spirited raillery turned generally against matrimony; and,
as if he wished to confirm, by his own example, the truth of what he had
written in his youth, he married, at the age of seventy-nine, this Miss
Brook of whom we are speaking, who was only eighteen.

The Duke of York had rather neglected her for some time before; but the
circumstance of so unequal a match rekindled his ardour; and she, on her
part, suffered him to entertain hopes of an approaching bliss, which a
thousand considerations had opposed before her marriage: she wished
to belong to the court; and for the promise of being made lady of the
bedchamber to the duchess, she was upon the point of making him another
promise, or of immediately performing it, if required, when, in the
middle of this treaty, Lady Chesterfield was tempted, by her evil
genius, to rob her of her conquest, in order to disturb all the world.

However, as Lady Chesterfield could not see the Duke of York, except
in public assemblies, she was under the necessity of making the most
extravagant advances, in order to seduce him from his former connection;
and as he was the most unguarded ogler of his time, the whole court was
informed of the intrigue before it was well begun.

Those who appeared the most attentive to their conduct were not the
least interested in it. Hamilton and Lord Chesterfield watched them
narrowly; but Lady Denham, vexed that Lady Chesterfield should have
stepped in before her, took the liberty of railing against her rival
with the greatest bitterness. Hamilton had hitherto flattered himself
that vanity alone had engaged Lady Chesterfield in this adventure; but
he was soon undeceived, whatever her indifference might have been when
she first commenced this intrigue. We often proceed farther than we at
first intended, when we indulge ourselves in trifling liberties which we
think of no consequence; for though perhaps the heart takes no part at
the beginning, it seldom fails to be engaged in the end.

The court, as we have mentioned before, was an entire scene of gallantry
and amusements, with all the politeness and magnificence which the
inclinations of a prince naturally addicted to tenderness and pleasure,
could suggest: the beauties were desirous of charming, and the men
endeavoured to please: all studied to set themselves off to the best
advantage: some distinguished themselves by dancing; others by show and
magnificence; some by their wit, many by their amours, but few by their
constancy. There was a certain Italian at court, famous for the guitar:
he had a genius for music, and he was the only man who could make
anything of the guitar: his style of play was so full of grace and
tenderness, that he would have given harmony to the most discordant
instruments. The truth is, nothing was so difficult as to play like
this foreigner. The king’s relish for his compositions had brought the
instrument so much into vogue, that every person played upon it, well or
ill; and you were as sure to see a guitar on a lady’s toilet as rouge or
patches. The Duke of York played upon it tolerably well, and the Earl
of Arran like Francisco himself. This Francisco had composed a saraband,
which either charmed or infatuated every person; for the whole guitarery
at court were trying at it; and God knows what an universal strumming
there was. The Duke of York, pretending not to be perfect in it, desired
Lord Arran to play it to him. Lady Chesterfield had the best guitar
in England. The Earl of Arran, who was desirous of playing his best,
conducted his Royal Highness to his sister’s apartments: she was lodged
at court, at her father’s, the Duke of Ormond’s; and this wonderful
guitar was lodged there too. Whether this visit had been preconcerted or
not, I do not pretend to say; but it is certain that they found both
the lady and the guitar at home: they likewise found there Lord
Chesterfield, so much surprised at this unexpected visit, that it was a
considerable time before he thought of rising from his seat to receive
them with due respect.

Jealousy, like a malignant vapour, now seized upon his brain: a thousand
suspicions, blacker than ink, took possession of his imagination, and
were continually increasing; for, whilst the brother played upon the
guitar to the duke, the sister ogled and accompanied him with her eyes,
as if the coast had been clear, and no enemy to observe them. This
saraband was at least repeated twenty times: the duke declared it
was played to perfection: Lady Chesterfield found fault with the
composition; but her husband, who clearly perceived that he was the
person played upon, thought it a most detestable piece. However, though
he was in the last agony at being obliged to curb his passion while
others gave a free scope to theirs, he was resolved to find out the
drift of the visit; but it was not in his power: for, having the
honour to be chamberlain to the queen, a messenger came to require his
immediate attendance on her majesty. His first thought was to pretend
sickness: the second to suspect that the queen, who sent for him at
such an unseasonable time, was in the plot; but at last, after all the
extravagant ideas of a suspicious man, and all the irresolutions of a
jealous husband, he was obliged to go.

We may easily imagine what his state of mind was when he arrived at the
palace. Alarms are to the jealous what disasters are to the unfortunate:
they seldom come alone, but form a series of persecution. He was
informed that he was sent for to attend the queen at an audience she
gave to seven or eight Muscovite ambassadors: he had scarce begun to
curse the Muscovites, when his brother-in-law appeared, and drew upon
himself all the imprecations he bestowed upon the embassy: he no longer
doubted his being in the plot with the two persons he had left together,
and in his heart sincerely wished him such recompense for his good
offices as such good offices deserved. It was with great difficulty
that he restrained himself from immediately acquainting him what was his
opinion of such conduct: he thought that what he had already seen was
a sufficient proof of his wife’s infidelity; but before the end of
the very same day, some circumstances occurred which increased his
suspicions, and persuaded him that they had taken advantage of his
absence, and of the honourable officiousness of his brother-in-law. He
passed, however, that night with tranquillity; but the next morning,
being reduced to the necessity either of bursting or giving vent to his
sorrows and conjectures, he did nothing but think and walk about the
room until Park-time. He went to court, seemed very busy, as if seeking
for some person or other, imagining that people guessed at the subject
of his uneasiness: he avoided everybody, but at length meeting with
Hamilton, he thought he was the very man that he wanted; and, having
desired him to take an airing with him in Hyde Park, he took him up in
his coach, and they arrived at the Ring, without a word having passed
between them.

Hamilton, who saw him as yellow as jealousy itself, and particularly
thoughtful, imagined that he had just discovered what all the world had
perceived long before; when Chesterfield, after a broken, insignificant
preamble, asked him how he succeeded with Lady Castlemaine. Hamilton,
who very well saw that he meant nothing by this question, nevertheless
thanked him; and as he was thinking of an answer: “Your cousin,” said
the earl, “is extremely coquettish, and I have some reason to suppose
she is not so prudent as she ought to be.” Hamilton thought the last
charge a little too severe; and as he was endeavouring to refute it:
“Good God!” said my lord, “you see, as well as the whole court, what
airs she gives herself: husbands are always the last people that are
spoken to about those affairs that concern them the most; but they are
not always the last to perceive it themselves: though you have made me
your confidant in other matters, yet I am not at all surprised you have
concealed this from me; but as I flatter myself with having some share
in your esteem, I should be sorry you should think me such a fool as to
be incapable of seeing, though I am so complaisant as not to express my
sentiments: nevertheless, I find that affairs are now carried on with
such barefaced boldness, that at length I find I shall be forced to take
some course or other. God forbid that I should act the ridiculous part
of a jealous husband: the character is odious; but then I do not intend,
through an excess of patience, to be made the jest of the town. Judge,
therefore, from what I am going to tell you, whether I ought to sit down
unconcerned, or whether I ought to take measures for the preservation of
my honour.

“His royal highness honoured me yesterday by a visit to my wife.”
 Hamilton started at this beginning. “Yes,” continued the other, “he
did give himself that trouble, and Lord Arran took upon himself that of
bringing him: do not you wonder, that a man of his birth should act such
a part? What advancement can he expect from one who employs him in such
base services? But we have long known him to be one of the silliest
creatures in England, with his guitar, and his other whims and follies.”
 Chesterfield, after this short sketch of his brother-in-law’s merit,
began to relate the observations he had made during the visit, and asked
Hamilton what he thought of his cousin Arran, who had so obligingly left
them together. “This may appear surprising to you,” continued he, “but
hear me out, and judge whether I have reason to think that the close
of this pretty visit passed in perfect innocence. Lady Chesterfield
is amiable, it must be acknowledged; but she is far from being such a
miracle of beauty as she supposes herself: you know she has ugly feet;
but perhaps you are not acquainted that she has still worse legs.”
 “Pardon me,” said Hamilton, within himself: and the other continuing the
description: “Her legs,” said his lordship, “are short and thick; and,
to remedy these defects as much as possible, she seldom wears any other
than green stockings.”

Hamilton could not for his life imagine the drift of all this discourse,
and Chesterfield, guessing his thoughts: “Have a little patience,” said
he: “I went yesterday to Miss Stewart’s, after the audience of those
damned Muscovites: the king arrived there just before me; and as if the
duke had sworn to pursue me wherever I went that day, he came in just
after me. The conversation turned upon the extraordinary appearance of
the ambassadors. I know not where that fool Crofts had heard that
all these Muscovites had handsome wives; and that all their wives had
handsome legs. Upon this the king maintained that no woman ever had
such handsome legs as Miss Stewart; and she, to prove the truth of his
majesty’s assertion, with the greatest imaginable ease, immediately
shewed her leg above the knee. Some were ready to prostrate themselves,
in order to adore its beauty; for indeed none can be handsomer; but
the duke alone began to criticise upon it. He contended that it was too
slender, and that as for himself he would give nothing for a leg that
was not thicker and shorter, and concluded by saying that no leg was
worth anything without green stockings. Now this, in my opinion, was a
sufficient demonstration that he had just seen green stockings, and had
them fresh in his remembrance.”

Hamilton was at a loss what countenance to put on during a narrative
which raised in him nearly the same conjectures; he shrugged up his
shoulders, and faintly said that appearances were often deceitful; that
Lady Chesterfield had the foible of all beauties, who place their merit
on the number of their admirers; and whatever airs she might imprudently
have given herself, in order not to discourage his royal highness,
there was no ground to suppose that she would indulge him in any greater
liberties to engage him: but in vain was it that he endeavoured to
give that consolation to his friend which he did not feel himself.
Chesterfield plainly perceived he did not think of what he was saying;
however, he thought himself much obliged to him for the interest he
seemed to take in his concerns.

Hamilton was in haste to go home to vent his spleen and resentment in a
letter to his cousin. The style of this billet was very different from
those which he formerly was accustomed to write to her: reproaches,
bitter expostulations, tenderness, menaces, and all the effusions of
a lover who thinks he has reason to complain, composed this epistle;
which, for fear of accidents, he went to deliver himself.

Never did she before appear so lovely, and never did her eyes speak so
kindly to him as at this moment: his heart quite relented; but he was
determined not to lose all the fine things he had said in his letter.
In receiving it, she squeezed his hand: this action completely disarmed
him, and he would have given his life to have had his letter again. It
appeared to him at this instant that all the grievances he complained
of were visionary and groundless: he looked upon her husband as a madman
and an impostor, and quite the reverse of what he supposed him to be
a few minutes before; but this remorse came a little too late: he had
delivered his billet, and Lady Chesterfield had shewn such impatience
and eagerness to read it as soon as she had got it that all
circumstances seemed to conspire to justify her, and to confound
him. She managed to get quit, some way or other, of some troublesome
visitors, to slip into her closet. He thought himself so culpable that
he had not the assurance to wait her return: he withdrew with the rest
of the company; but he did not dare to appear before her the next day,
to have an answer to his letter: however, he met her at court; and this
was the first time, since the commencement of their amour, that he
did not seek for her. He stood at a distance, with downcast looks,
and appeared in such terrible embarrassment that his condition was
sufficient to raise laughter or to cause pity, when Lady Chesterfield
approaching, thus accosted him: “Confess,” said she, “that you are in
as foolish a situation as any man of sense can be: you wish you had not
written to me: you are desirous of an answer: you hope for none: yet you
equally wish for and dread it: I have, however, written you one.”
 She had not time to say more; but the few words she had spoken were
accompanied with such an air, and such a look, as to make him believe
that it was Venus with all her graces who had addressed him. He was near
her when she sat down to cards, and as he was puzzling himself to devise
by what means he should get this answer, she desired him to lay her
gloves and fan down somewhere: he took them, and with them the billet
in question; and as he had perceived nothing severe or angry in the
conversation he had with her, he hastened to open her letter, and read
as follows:

“Your transports are so ridiculous that it is doing you a favour to
attribute them to an excess of tenderness, which turns your head: a man,
without doubt, must have a great inclination to be jealous, to entertain
such an idea of the person you mention. Good God! what a lover to have
caused uneasiness to a man of genius, and what a genius to have got the
better of mine! Are not you ashamed to give any credit to the visions
of a jealous fellow who brought nothing else with him from Italy? Is
it possible that the story of the green stockings, upon which he has
founded his suspicions, should have imposed upon you, accompanied as it
is with such pitiful circumstances? Since he has made you his confidant,
why did not he boast of breaking in pieces my poor harmless guitar?
This exploit, perhaps, might have convinced you more than all the rest:
recollect yourself, and if you are really in love with me, thank
fortune for a groundless jealousy, which diverts to another quarter the
attention he might pay to my attachment for the most amiable and the
most dangerous man of the court.”

Hamilton was ready to weep for joy at these endearing marks of kindness,
of which he thought himself so unworthy he was not satisfied with
kissing, in raptures, every part of this billet; he also kissed several
times her gloves and her fan. Play being over, Lady Chesterfield
received them from his hands, and read in his eyes the joy that her
billet had raised in his heart. Nor was he satisfied with expressing
his raptures, only by looks: he hastened home, and wrote to her at least
four times as much. How different was this letter from the other! Though
perhaps not so well written; for one does not show so much wit in suing
for pardon, as in venting reproaches, and it seldom happens that the
soft languishing style of a love-letter is so penetrating as that of
invective.

Be that as it may, his peace was made: their past quarrel gave new life
to their correspondence; and Lady Chesterfield, to make him as easy as
he had before been distrustful expressed on every occasion a feigned
contempt for his rival, and a sincere aversion for her husband.

So great was his confidence in her, that he consented she should show in
public some marks of attention to the duke, in order to conceal as
much as possible their private intelligence. Thus, at this time nothing
disturbed his peace of mind, but his impatience of finding a favourable
opportunity for the completion of his desires: he thought it was in
her power to command it; but she excused herself on account of several
difficulties which she enumerated to him, and which she was desirous he
should remove by his industry and attentions.

This silenced his complaints; but whilst he was endeavouring to surmount
these obstacles, still wondering how it was possible that two persons
who were so well disposed to each other, and who were agreed to make
each other happy, could not put their designs in execution, accident
discovered an unexpected adventure, which left him no room to doubt,
either of the happiness of his rival, or of the perfidy of his mistress.

Misfortunes often fall light when most feared; and frequently prove
heaviest when merited, and when least suspected. Hamilton was in the
middle of the most tender and passionate letter he had ever written
to Lady Chesterfield, when her husband came to announce to him the
particulars of this last discovery: he came so suddenly upon him, that
he had only just time to conceal his amorous epistle among his other
papers. His heart and mind were still so full of what he was writing to
his cousin, that her husband’s complaints against her, at first, were
scarce attended to; besides, in his opinion, he had come in the most
unfortunate moment on all accounts.

He was, however, obliged to listen to him, and he soon entertained quite
different sentiments: he appeared almost petrified with astonishment,
while the earl was relating to him circumstances of such an extravagant
indiscretion, as seemed to him quite incredible, notwithstanding the
particulars of the fact. “You have reason to be surprised at it,” said
my lord, concluding his story; “but if you doubt the truth of what I
tell you, it will be easy for you to find evidence that will convince
you; for the scene of their tender familiarities was no less public than
the room where the queen plays at cards, which while her majesty was at
play, was, God knows, pretty well crowded. Lady Denham was the first who
discovered what they thought would pass unperceived in the crowd; and
you may very well judge hew secret she would keep such a circumstance.
The truth is, she addressed herself to me first of all, as I entered the
room, to tell me that I should give my wife a little advice, as other
people might take notice of what I might see myself, if I pleased.

“Your cousin was at play, as I before told you: the duke was sitting
next to her: I know not what was become of his hand; but I am sure that
no one could see his arm below the elbow: I was standing behind them,
just in the place that Lady Denham had quitted: the duke turning round
perceived me, and was so much disturbed at my presence, that he almost
undressed my lady in pulling away his hand. I know not whether they
perceived that they were discovered; but of this I am convinced, that
Lady Denham will take care that everybody shall know it. I must confess
to you, that my embarrassment is so great, that I cannot find words to
express what I now feel: I should not hesitate one moment what course to
take, if I might be allowed to show my resentment against the person who
has wronged me. As for her, I could manage her well enough, if, unworthy
as she is of any consideration, I had not still some regard for an
illustrious family, that would be distracted were I to resent such an
injury as it deserves. In this particular you are interested yourself:
you are my friend, and I make you my confidant in an affair of the
greatest imaginable delicacy: let us then consult together what is
proper to be done in so perplexing and disagreeable a situation.”

Hamilton, if possible, more astonished, and more confounded than
himself, was far from being in a proper state to afford him advice on
the present occasion: he listened to nothing but jealousy, and breathed
nothing but revenge; but these emotions being somewhat abated, in hopes
that there might be calumny, or at least exaggeration in the charges
against Lady Chesterfield, he desired her husband to suspend his
resolutions, until he was more fully informed of the fact; assuring him,
however, that if he found the circumstances such as he had related, he
should regard and consult no other interest than his.

Upon this they parted; and Hamilton found, on the first inquiry, that
almost the whole court was informed of the adventure, to which every one
added something in relating it. Vexation and resentment, inflamed his
heart, and by degrees extinguished every remnant of his former passion.

He might easily have seen her, and have made her such reproaches as a
man is generally inclined to do, on such occasions; but he was too much
enraged to enter into any detail which might have led to an explanation:
he considered himself as the only person essentially injured in this
affair; for he could never bring his mind to think that the injuries of
the husband could be placed in competition with those of the lover.

He hastened to Lord Chesterfield, in the transport of his passion, and
told him that he had heard enough to induce him to give such advice, as
he should follow himself in the same situation, and that if he wished to
save a woman so strongly prepossessed, and who perhaps had not yet lost
all her innocence, though she had totally lost her reason, he ought
not to delay one single instant, but immediately to carry her into the
country with the greatest possible expedition, without allowing her the
least time to recover her surprise.

Lord Chesterfield readily agreed to follow this advice, which he had
already considered as the only counsel a friend could give him; but his
lady who did not suspect he had made this last discovery of her conduct,
thought he was joking with her, when he told her to prepare for going
into the country in two days: she was the more induced to think so as
it was in the very middle of an extremely severe winter; but she soon
perceived that he was in earnest: she knew from the air and manner of
her husband that he thought he had sufficient reason to treat her in
this imperious style; and finding all her relations serious and cold
to her complaint, she had no hope left in this universally abandoned
situation but in the tenderness of Hamilton. She imagined she should
hear from him the cause of her misfortunes, of which she was still
totally ignorant, and that his love would invent some means or other
to prevent a journey, which she flattered herself would be even more
affecting to him than to herself; but she was expecting pity from a
crocodile.

At last, when she saw the eve of her departure was come, that every
preparation was made for a long journey; that she was receiving farewell
visits in form, and that still she heard nothing from Hamilton, both
her hopes and her patience forsook her in this wretched situation. A few
tears perhaps might have afforded her some relief, but she chose
rather to deny herself that comfort, than to give her husband so much
satisfaction. Hamilton’s conduct on this occasion appeared to her
unaccountable; and as he still never came near her, she found means to
convey to him the following billet.

“Is it possible that you should be one of those, who, without
vouchsafing to tell me for what crime I am treated like a slave, suffer
me to be dragged from society? What means your silence and indolence in
a juncture wherein your tenderness ought most particularly to appear,
and actively exert itself? I am upon the point of departing, and am
ashamed to think that you are the cause of my looking upon it with
horror, as I have reason to believe that you are less concerned at it
than any other person: do, at least, let me know to what place I am to
be dragged; what is to be done with me within a wilderness? and on what
account you, like all the rest of the world, appear changed in your
behaviour towards a person whom all the world could not oblige to change
with regard to you, if your weakness or your ingratitude did not render
you unworthy of her tenderness.”

This billet did but harden his heart, and make him more proud of his
vengeance: he swallowed down full draughts of pleasure in beholding her
reduced to despair, being persuaded that her grief and regret for
her departure were on account of another person: he felt uncommon
satisfaction in having a share in tormenting her, and was particularly
pleased with the scheme he had contrived to separate her from a rival,
upon the very point perhaps of being made happy. Thus fortified as he
was against his natural tenderness, with all the severity of jealous
resentment, he saw her depart with an indifference which he did not even
endeavour to conceal from her: this unexpected treatment, joined to the
complication of her other misfortunes, had almost in reality plunged her
into despair.

The court was filled with the story of this adventure; nobody was
ignorant of the occasion of this sudden departure, but very few approved
of Lord Chesterfield’s conduct. In England they looked with astonishment
upon a man who could be so uncivil as to be jealous of his wife; and in
the city of London it was a prodigy, till that time unknown, to see a
husband have recourse to violent means, to prevent what jealousy fears,
and what it always deserves. They endeavoured, however, to excuse poor
Lord Chesterfield, as far as they could safely do it, without incurring
the public odium, by laying all the blame on his bad education. This
made all the mothers vow to God that none of their sons should ever set
a foot in Italy, lest they should bring back with them that infamous
custom of laying restraint upon their wives.




CHAPTER NINTH. VARIOUS LOVE INTRIGUES AT THE ENGLISH COURT


Every man who believes that his honour depends upon that of his wife
is a fool who torments himself, and drives her to despair; but he who,
being naturally jealous, has the additional misfortune of loving his
wife, and who expects that she should only live for him; is a perfect
madman, whom the torments of hell have actually taken hold of in this
world, and whom nobody pities. All reasoning and observation on these
unfortunate circumstances attending wedlock concur in this, that
precaution is vain and useless before the evil, and revenge odious
afterwards.

The Spaniards, who tyrannise over their wives, more by custom than
from jealousy, content themselves with preserving the niceness of their
honour by duennas, grates, and locks.

The Italians, who are wary in their suspicions, and vindictive in their
resentments, pursue a different line of conduct: some satisfy themselves
with keeping their wives under locks which they think secure: others
by ingenious precautions exceed whatever the Spaniards can invent for
confining the fair sex but the generality are of opinion, that in either
unavoidable danger or in manifest transgression, the surest way is to
assassinate.

But, ye courteous and indulgent nations, who, far from admitting these
savage and barbarous customs, give full liberty to your dear ribs,
and commit the care of their virtue to their own discretion, you pass
without alarms or strife your peaceful days, in all the enjoyments of
domestic indolence!

It was certainly some evil genius that induced Lord Chesterfield to
distinguish himself from his patient and good-natured countrymen, and
ridiculously to afford the world an opportunity of examining into the
particulars of an adventure which would perhaps never have been known
without the verge of the court, and which would everywhere have been
forgotten in less than a month; but now, as soon as ever he had turned
his back, in order to march away with his prisoner, and the ornaments
she was supposed to have bestowed upon him, God only knows what a
terrible attack there was made upon his rear: Rochester, Middlesex,
Sedley, Etheredge, and all the whole band of wits, exposed him in
numberless ballads, and diverted the public at his expense.

The Chevalier de Grammont was highly pleased with these lively and
humorous compositions; and wherever this subject was mentioned, never
failed to produce his supplement upon the occasion: “It is strange,”
 said he, “that the country, which is little better than a gallows or
a grave for young people, is allotted in this land only for the
unfortunate, and not for the guilty! poor Lady Chesterfield, for some
unguarded looks, is immediately seized upon by an angry husband, who
will oblige her to spend her Christmas at a country-house, a hundred and
fifty miles from London; while here there are a thousand ladies who
are left at liberty to do whatever they please, and who indulge in that
liberty, and whose conduct, in short, deserves a daily bastinado. I name
no person, God forbid I should; but Lady Middleton, Lady Denham, the
queen’s and the duchess’s maids of honour, and a hundred others, bestow
their favours to the right and to the left, and not the least notice is
taken of their conduct. As for Lady Shrewsbury, she is conspicuous. I
would take a wager she might have a man killed for her every day, find
she would only hold her head the higher for it: one would suppose she
imported from Rome plenary indulgences for her conduct: there are three
or four gentlemen who wear an ounce of her hair made into bracelets, and
no person finds any fault; and yet shall such a cross-grained fool as
Chesterfield be permitted to exercise an act of tyranny, altogether
unknown in this country, upon the prettiest woman in England, and all
for a mere trifle: but I am his humble servant; his precautions will
avail him nothing; on the contrary, very often a woman, who had no bad
intentions when she was suffered to remain in tranquillity, is prompted
to such conduct by revenge, or reduced to it by necessity: this is
as true as the gospel: hear now what Francisco’s saraband says on the
subject:

       “Tell me, jealous-paced swain,
          What avail thy idle arts,
          To divide united hearts?
          Love, like the wind, I trow,
          Will, where it listeth, blow;
        So, prithee, peace, for all thy cares are vain.

         “When you are by,
        Nor wishful look, be sure, nor eloquent sigh,
          Shall dare those inward fires discover,
          Which burn in either lover
        Yet Argus’ self, if Argus were thy spy,
          Should ne’er, with all his mob of eyes,
               Surprise.

         “Some joys forbidden,
           Transports hidden,
        Which love, through dark and secret ways,
        Mysterious love, to kindred souls conveys.”

The Chevalier de Grammont passed for the author of this sonnet:
neither the justness of the sentiment, nor turn of it, are surprisingly
beautiful; but as it contained some truths that flattered the genius
of the nation, and pleased those who interested themselves for the fair
sex, the ladies were all desirous of having it to teach their children.

During all this time the Duke of York, not being in the way of seeing
Lady Chesterfield, easily forgot her: her absence, however, had some
circumstances attending it which could not but sensibly affect the
person who had occasioned her confinement; but there are certain
fortunate tempers to which every situation is easy; they feel neither
disappointment with bitterness, nor pleasure with acuteness. In the mean
time, as the duke could not remain idle, he had no sooner forgotten Lady
Chesterfield, but he began to think of her whom he had been in love with
before, and was upon the point of relapsing into his old passion for
Miss Hamilton.

There was in London a celebrated portrait-painter called Lely, who had
greatly improved himself by studying the famous Vandyke’s pictures,
which were dispersed all over England in abundance. Lely imitated
Vandyke’s manner, and approached the nearest to him of all the moderns.
The Duchess of York, being desirous of having the portraits of the
handsomest persons at court, Lely painted them, and employed all his
skill in the performance; nor could he ever exert himself upon more
beautiful subjects. Every picture appeared a master-piece; and that of
Miss Hamilton appeared the highest finished: Lely himself acknowledged
that he had drawn it with a particular pleasure. The Duke of York took
a delight in looking at it, and began again to ogle the original: he had
very little reason to hope for success; and at the same time that his
hopeless passion alarmed the Chevalier de Grammont, Lady Denham thought
proper to renew the negotiation which had so unluckily been interrupted:
it was soon brought to a conclusion; for where both parties are sincere
in a negotiation, no time is lost in cavilling. Everything succeeded
prosperously on one side; yet, I know not what fatality obstructed the
pretensions of the other. The duke was very urgent with the duchess to
put Lady Denham in possession of the place which was the object of her
ambition; but as she was not guarantee for the performance of the
secret articles of the treaty, though till this time she had borne with
patience the inconstancy of the duke, and yielded submissively to
his desires; yet, in the present instance, it appeared hard and
dishonourable to her, to entertain near her person, a rival, who would
expose her to the danger of acting but a second part in the midst of her
own court. However, she saw herself upon the point of being forced to it
by authority, when a far more unfortunate obstacle for ever bereft poor
Lady Denham of the hopes of possessing that fatal place, which she had
solicited with such eagerness.

Old Denham, naturally jealous, became more and more suspicious, and
found that he had sufficient ground for such conduct: his wife was
young and handsome, he old and disagreeable: what reason then had he to
flatter himself that Heaven would exempt him from the fate of husbands
in the like circumstances? This he was continually saying to himself;
but when compliments were poured in upon him from all sides, upon the
place his lady was going to have near the duchess’s person, he formed
ideas of what was sufficient to have made him hang himself, if he had
possessed the resolution. The traitor chose rather to exercise his
courage against another. He wanted precedents for putting in practice
his resentments in a privileged country: that of Lord Chesterfield was
not sufficiently bitter for the revenge he meditated: besides, he had no
country-house to which he could carry his unfortunate wife. This being
the case, the old villain made her travel a much longer journey without
stirring out of London. Merciless fate robbed her of life, and of her
dearest hopes, in the bloom of youth.

As no person entertained any doubt of his having poisoned her, the
populace of his neighbourhood had a design of tearing him in pieces,
as soon as he should come abroad; but he shut himself up to bewail her
death, until their fury was appeased by a magnificent funeral, at which
he distributed four times more burnt wine than had ever been drunk at
any burial in England.

   [The lampoons of the day, some of which are to be found in Andrew
   Marvell’s Works, more than insinuate that she was deprived of life
   by a mixture infused into some chocolate. The slander of the times
   imputed her death to the jealousy of the Duchess of York.]

While the town was in fear of some great disaster, as an expiation for
these fatal effects of jealousy, Hamilton was not altogether so easy
as he flattered himself he should be after the departure of Lady
Chesterfield: he had only consulted the dictates of revenge in what he
had done. His vengeance was satisfied; but such was far from being
the case with his love; and having, since the absence of her he
still admired, notwithstanding his resentments, leisure to make those
reflections which a recent injury will not permit a man to attend
to: “And wherefore,” said he to himself, “was I so eager to make her
miserable, who alone, however culpable she may be, has it in her power
to make me happy? Cursed jealousy!” continued he, “yet more cruel to
those who torment than to those who are tormented! What have I gained by
having blasted the hopes of a more happy rival, since I was not able
to perform this without depriving myself, at the same time, of her upon
whom the whole happiness and comfort of my life was centred.”

Thus, clearly proving to himself, by a great many reasonings of the
same kind, and all out of season, that in such an engagement it was much
better to partake with another than to have nothing at all, he filled
his mind with a number of vain regrets and unprofitable remorse, when he
received a letter from her who occasioned them, but a letter so exactly
adapted to increase them, that, after he had read it, he looked upon
himself as the greatest scoundrel in the world. Here it follows:

“You will, no doubt, be as much surprised at this letter as I was at the
unconcerned air with which you beheld my departure. I am led to believe
that you had imagined reasons which, in your own mind, justified such
unseasonable conduct. If you are still under the impression of such
barbarous sentiments it will afford you pleasure to be made acquainted
with what I suffer in the most horrible of prisons. Whatever the country
affords most melancholy in this season presents itself to my view on all
sides: surrounded by impassable roads, out of one window I see nothing
but rocks, out of another nothing but precipices; but wherever I turn
my eyes within doors I meet those of a jealous husband, still more
insupportable than the sad objects that encompass me. I should add to
the misfortunes of my life that of seeming criminal in the eyes of a man
who ought to have justified me, even against convincing appearances, if
by my avowed innocence I had a right to complain or to expostulate: but
how is it possible for me to justify myself at such a distance; and how
can I flatter myself that the description of a most dreadful prison will
not prevent you from believing me? But do you deserve that I should
wish you did? Heavens! how I must hate you, if I did not love you to
distraction. Come, therefore, and let me once again see you, that you
may hear my justification; and I am convinced that if after this visit
you find me guilty it will not be with respect to yourself. Our Argus
sets out to-morrow for Chester, where a law-suit will detain him a week.
I know not whether he will gain it; but I am sure it will be entirely
your fault if he does not lose one, for which he is at least as anxious
as that he is now going after.”

This letter was sufficient to make a man run blindfold into an adventure
still more rash than that which was proposed to him, and that was rash
enough in all respects: he could not perceive by what means she could
justify herself; but as she assured him he should be satisfied with his
journey, this was all he desired at present.

There was one of his relations with Lady Chesterfield, who, having
accompanied her in her exile, had gained some share in their mutual
confidence; and it was through her means he received this letter,
with all the necessary instructions about his journey and his arrival.
Secrecy being the soul of such expeditions, especially before an amour
is accomplished, he took post, and set out in the night, animated by the
most tender and flattering wishes, so that, in less than no time almost,
in comparison with the distance and the badness of the roads, he
had travelled a hundred and fifty tedious miles at the last stage
he prudently dismissed the post-boy. It was not yet daylight, and
therefore, for fear of the rocks and precipices mentioned in her letter,
he proceeded with tolerable discretion, considering he was in love.

By this means he fortunately escaped all the dangerous places, and,
according to his instructions, alighted at a little hut adjoining to the
park wall. The place was not magnificent; but, as he only wanted rest,
it did well enough for that: he did not wish for daylight, and was even
still less desirous of being seen; wherefore, having shut himself up in
this obscure retreat, he fell into a profound sleep, and did not wake
until noon. As he was particularly hungry when he awoke, he ate and
drank heartily: and, as he was the neatest man at court, and was
expected by the neatest lady in England, he spent the remainder of the
day in dressing himself, and in making all those preparations which the
time and place permitted, without deigning once to look around him, or
to ask his landlord a single question. At last the orders he expected
with great impatience were brought him, in the beginning of the evening,
by a servant, who, attending him as a guide, after having led him for
about half an hour in the dirt, through a park of vast extent, brought
him at last into a garden, into which a little door opened: he was
posted exactly opposite to this door, by which, in a short time, he was
to be introduced to a more agreeable situation; and here his conductor
left him. The night advanced, but the door never opened.

Though the winter was almost over, the cold weather seemed only to be
beginning: he was dirtied up to his knees in mud, and soon perceived
that if he continued much longer in this garden it would all be
frozen. This beginning of a very dark and bitter night would have been
unbearable to any other; but it was nothing to a man who flattered
himself to pass the remainder of it in the height of bliss. However, he
began to wonder at so many precautions in the absence of a husband his
imagination, by a thousand delicious and tender ideas supported him
some time against the torments of impatience and the inclemency of
the weather; but he felt his imagination, notwithstanding, cooling by
degrees; and two hours, which seemed to him as tedious as two whole
ages, having passed, and not the least notice being taken of him, either
from the door or from the window, he began to reason with himself upon
the posture of his affairs, and what was the fittest conduct for him to
pursue in this emergency: “What if I should rap at this cursed door,”
 said he; “for if my fate requires that I should perish, it is at least
more honourable to die in the house than to be starved to death in
the garden but then,” continued he, “I may, thereby, perhaps, expose
a person whom some unforeseen accident may, at this very instant, have
reduced to greater perplexity than even I myself am in.” This thought
supplied him with a necessary degree of patience and fortitude against
the enemies he had to contend with; he therefore began to walk quickly
to and fro, with resolution to wait, as long as he could keep alive, the
end of an adventure which had such an uncomfortable beginning. All this
was to no purpose; for though he used every effort to keep himself warm,
and though muffled up in a thick cloak, yet he began to be benumbed in
all his limbs, and the cold gained the ascendancy over all his amorous
vivacity and eagerness. Daybreak was not far off, and judging now
that, though the accursed door should even be opened, it would be to no
purpose, he returned, as well as he could, to the place from whence he
had set out upon this wonderful expedition.

All the faggots that were in the cottage were hardly able to unfreeze
him: the more he reflected on his adventure, the circumstances attending
it appeared still the more strange and unaccountable; but so far
from accusing the charming countess, he suffered a thousand different
anxieties on her account. Sometimes he imagined that her husband might
have returned unexpectedly; sometimes, that she might suddenly have
been taken ill; in short, that some insuperable obstacle had unluckily
interposed, and prevented his happiness, notwithstanding his mistress’s
kind intentions towards him. “But wherefore,” said he, “did she forget
me in that cursed garden? Is it possible that she could not find a
single moment to make me at least, some sign or other, if she could
neither speak to me nor give me admittance?” He knew not which of these
conjectures to rely upon, or how to answer his own questions; but as he
flattered himself that everything would succeed better the next night,
after having vowed not to set a foot again into that unfortunate garden,
he gave orders to be awakened as soon as any person should inquire for
him: then he laid himself down in one of the worst beds in the world,
and slept as sound as if he had been in the best: he supposed that he
should not be awakened, but either by a letter or a message from Lady
Chesterfield; but he had scarce slept two hours when he was roused by
the sound of the horn and the cry of the hounds. The but which afforded
him a retreat, joining, as we before said, to the park wall, he called
his host, to know what was the occasion of that hunting, which made a
noise as if the whole pack of hounds had been in his bed-chamber. He was
told that it was my lord hunting a hare in his park. “What lord?” said
he, in great surprise. “The Earl of Chesterfield,” replied the pea sant.
He was so astonished at this that at first he hid his head under the
bed-clothes, under the idea that he already saw him entering with all
his bounds; but as soon as he had a little recovered himself he began
to curse capricious fortune, no longer doubting but this jealous fool’s
return had occasioned all his tribulations in the preceding night.

It was not possible for him to sleep again, after such an alarm; he
therefore got up, that he might revolve in his mind all the stratagems
that are usually employed either to deceive, or to remove out of the
way, a jealous scoundrel of a husband, who thought fit to neglect his
law-suit in order to plague his wife. He had just finished dressing
himself, and was beginning to question his landlord, when the same
servant who had conducted him to the garden delivered him a letter, and
disappeared, without waiting for an answer. This letter was from his
relation, and was to this effect:

“I am extremely sorry that I have innocently been accessary to bringing
you to a place, to which you were only invited to be laughed at: I
opposed this journey at first, though I was then persuaded it was wholly
suggested by her tenderness; but she has now undeceived me: she triumphs
in the trick she has played you: her husband has not stirred from hence,
but stays at home, out of complaisance to her: he treats her in the most
affectionate manner; and it was upon their reconciliation that she found
out that you had advised him to carry her into the country. She has
conceived such hatred and aversion against you for it, that I find, from
her discourse, she has not yet wholly satisfied her resentment. Console
yourself for the hatred of a person, whose heart never merited your
tenderness. Return: a longer stay in this place will but draw upon you
some fresh misfortune: for my part, I shall soon leave her: I know her,
and I thank God for it. I do not repent having pitied her at first; but
I am disgusted with an employment which but ill agrees with my way of
thinking.”

Upon reading this letter, astonishment, shame, hatred, and rage, seized
at once upon his heart: then menaces, invectives, and the desire of
vengeance, broke forth by turns, and excited his passion and resentment;
but, after he deliberately considered the matter, he resolved that it
was now the best way quietly to mount his horse, and to carry back
with him to London a severe cold, instead of the soft wishes and tender
desires he had brought from thence. He quitted this perfidious place
with much greater expedition than he had arrived at it, though his
mind was far from being occupied with such tender and agreeable ideas:
however, when he thought himself at a sufficient distance to be out of
danger of meeting Lord Chesterfield and his hounds, he chose to look
back, that he might at least have the satisfaction of seeing the prison
where this wicked enchantress was confined; but what was his surprise,
when he saw a very fine house, situated on the banks of a river, in
the most delightful and pleasant country imaginable. Neither rock nor
precipice was here to be seen; for, in reality, they were only in
the letter of his perfidious mistress. This furnished fresh cause for
resentment and confusion to a man who thought himself so well acquainted
with all the wiles, as well as weaknesses, of the fair sex; and who now
found himself the dupe of a coquette, who was reconciled to her husband
in order to be revenged on her lover.

At last he reached London, well furnished with arguments to maintain
that a man must be extremely weak to trust to the tenderness of a woman
who has once deceived him, but that he must be a complete fool to run
after her.

This adventure not being much to his credit, he suppressed, as much as
possible, both the journey and the circumstances attending it; but, as
we may easily suppose, Lady Chesterfield made no secret of it, the king
came to the knowledge of it; and, having complimented Hamilton upon it,
desired to be informed of all the particulars of the expedition. The
Chevalier de Grammont happened to be present at this recital; and,
having gently inveighed against the treacherous manner in which he had
been used, said: “If she is to be blamed for carrying the jest so
far, you are no less to be blamed for coming back so suddenly, like an
ignorant novice. I dare lay an hundred guineas, she has more than once
repented of a resentment which you pretty well deserved for the trick
you had played her: women love revenge; but their resentments seldom
last long; and if you had remained in the neighbourhood till the next
day, I will be hanged if she would not have given you satisfaction for
the first night’s sufferings.” Hamilton being of a different opinion,
the Chevalier de Grammont resolved to maintain his assertion by a case
in point; and, addressing himself to the king: “Sir,” said he, “your
majesty, I suppose, must have known Marion de l’Orme, the most charming
creature in all France: though she was as witty as an angel, she was as
capricious as a devil. This beauty having made me an appointment, a whim
seized her to put me off, and to give it to another; she therefore wrote
me one of the tenderest billets in the world, full of the grief and
sorrow she was in, by being obliged to disappoint me; on account of a
most terrible headache, that obliged her to keep her bed, and deprived
her of the pleasure of seeing me till the next day. This headache coming
all of a sudden, appeared to me very suspicious; and, never doubting but
it was her intention to jilt me: ‘Very well, mistress coquette,’ said I
to myself, ‘if you do not enjoy the pleasure of seeing me this day, you
shall not enjoy the satisfaction of seeing another.’

“Hereupon, I detached all my servants, some of whom patrolled about
her house, whilst others watched her door; one of the latter brought me
intelligence that no person had gone into her house all the afternoon;
but that a foot-boy had gone out as it grew dark; that he followed him
as far as the Rue Saint Antoine, where this boy met another, to whom
he only spoke two or three words. This was sufficient to confirm my
suspicions, and make me resolve either to make one of the party, or to
disconcert it.

   [Marion de l’Orme, born at Chalons, in Champagne, was esteemed the
   most beautiful woman of her times. It is believed that she was
   secretly married to the unfortunate Monsieur Cinqmars. After his
   death, she became the mistress of Cardinal Richelieu, and, at last,
   of Monsieur d’Emery, superintendent of the finances.]

“As the bagnio where I lodged was at a great distance from the Marais,
as soon as the night set in I mounted my horse, without any attendant.
When I came to the Place-Royale, the servant, who was sentry there,
assured me that no person was yet gone into Mademoiselle de l’Orme’s
house: I rode forward towards the Rue Saint Antoine; and, just as I was
going out of the Place-Royale, I saw a man on foot coming into it, who
avoided me as much as he possibly could; but his endeavour was all to no
purpose; I knew him to be the Duke de Brissac, and I no longer doubted
but he was my rival that night: I then approached towards him, seeming
as if I feared I mistook my man; and, alighting with a very busy air
‘Brissac, my friend,’ said I, ‘you must do me a service of the very
greatest importance: I have an appointment, for the first time, with
a girl who lives very near this place; and, as this visit is only
to concert measures, I shall make but a very short stay: be so kind,
therefore, as to lend me your cloak, and walk my horse about a little,
until I return; but, above all, do not go far from this place: you see
that I use you freely like a friend; but you know it is upon condition
that you may take the same liberty with me.’ I took his cloak, without
waiting for his answer, and he took my horse by the bridle, and followed
me with his eye; but he gained no intelligence by this; for, after
having pretended to go into a house opposite to him, I slipped under the
piazzas to Mademoiselle de l’Orme’s, where the door was opened as soon
as I knocked. I was so much muffled up in Brissac’s cloak that I was
taken for him: the door was immediately shut, not the least question
asked me; and having none to ask myself I went straight to the lady’s
chamber. I found her upon a couch in the most agreeable and genteelest
deshabille imaginable: she never in her life looked so handsome, nor was
so greatly surprised; and, seeing her speechless and confounded: ‘What
is the matter, my fair one?’ said I, ‘methinks this is a headache very
elegantly set off; but your headache, to all appearance, is now gone?’
‘Not in the least,’ said she, ‘I can scarce support it, and you will
oblige me in going away that I may go to bed.’ ‘As for your going to
bed, to that I have not the least objection,’ said I, ‘but as for
my going away, that cannot be, my little princess: the Chevalier de
Grammont is no fool; a woman does not dress herself with so much care
for nothing.’ ‘You will find, however,’ said she, ‘that it is for
nothing; for you may depend upon it that you shall be no gainer by it.’
‘What!’ said I, ‘after having made me an appointment!’ ‘Well,’ replied
she hastily, ‘though I had made you fifty, it still depends upon me,
whether I chose to keep them or not, and you must submit if I do
not.’ ‘This might do very well,’ said I, ‘if it was not to give it to
another.’ Mademoiselle de l’Orme, as haughty as a woman of the greatest
virtue, and as passionate as one who has the least, was irritated at a
suspicion which gave her more concern than confusion; and seeing that
she was beginning to put herself in a passion: ‘Madam,’ said I, ‘pray do
not talk in so high a strain; I know what perplexes you: you are afraid
lest Brissac should meet me here; but you may make yourself easy on that
account: I met him not far from this place, and God knows that I have so
managed the affair as to prevent his visiting you soon.’ Having spoken
these words in a tone somewhat tragical, she appeared concerned at
first, and, looking upon me with surprise: ‘What do you mean about the
Duke de Brissac?’ said she. ‘I mean,’ replied I, ‘that he is at the end
of the street, walking my horse about; but, if you will not believe me,
send one of your own servants thither, or look at his cloak which I left
in your ante-chamber.’ Upon this she burst into a fit of laughter, in
the midst of her astonishment, and, throwing her arms around my neck,
‘My dear Chevalier,’ said she, ‘I can hold out no longer; you are too
amiable and too eccentric not to be pardoned.’ I then told her the
whole story: she was ready to die with laughing; and, parting very good
friends, she assured me my rival might exercise horses as long as he
pleased, but that he should not set his foot within her doors that
night.

“I found the duke exactly in the place where I had left him: I asked him
a thousand pardons for having made him wait so long, and thanked him
a thousand times for his complaisance. He told me I jested, that such
compliments were unusual among friends; and to convince me that he had
cordially rendered me this piece of service, he would, by all means,
hold my horse while I was mounting. I returned him his cloak, bade him
good night, and went back to my lodgings, equally satisfied with my
mistress and my rival. This,” continued he, “proves that a little
patience and address are sufficient to disarm the anger of the fair, to
turn even their tricks to a man’s advantage.”

It was in vain that the Chevalier de Grammont diverted the court with
his stories, instructed by his example, and never appeared there but
to inspire universal joy; for a long time he was the only foreigner in
fashion. Fortune, jealous of the justice which is done to merit, and
desirous of seeing all human happiness depend on her caprice, raised
up against him two competitors for the pleasure he had long enjoyed of
entertaining the English court; and these competitors were so much the
more dangerous, as the reputation of their several merits had preceded
their arrival, in order to dispose the suffrages of the court in their
favour.

They came to display, in their own persons, whatever was the most
accomplished either among the men of the sword, or of the gown. The one
was the Marquis de Flamarens, the sad object of the sad elegies of the
Countess de la Suse, the other was the president Tambonneau, the most
humble and most obedient servant and admirer of the beauteous Luynes. As
they arrived together, they exerted every endeavour to shine in concert:
their talents were as different as their persons; Tambonneau, who was
tolerably ugly, founded his hopes upon a great store of wit, which,
however, no person in England could find out; and Flamarens, by his air
and mien, courted admiration, which was flatly denied him.

They had agreed mutually to assist each other, in order to succeed in
their intentions; and therefore, in their first visits, the one appeared
in state, and the other was the spokesman. But they found the ladies in
England of a far different taste from those who had rendered them famous
in France: the rhetoric of the one had no effect on the fair sex, and
the fine mien of the other distinguished him only in a minuet, which
he first introduced into England, and which he danced with tolerable
success. The English court had been too long accustomed to the solid wit
of Saint Evremond, and the natural and singular charms of his hero, to
be seduced by appearances; however, as the English have, in general, a
sort of predilection in favour of anything that has the appearance of
bravery, Flamarens was better received on account of a duel, which,
obliging him to leave his own country, was a recommendation to him in
England.

Miss Hamilton had, at first, the honour of being distinguished by
Tambonneau, who thought she possessed a sufficient share of wit to
discover the delicacy of his; and, being delighted to find that nothing
was lost in her conversation, either as to the turn, the expression, or
beauty of the thought, he frequently did her the favour to converse with
her; and, perhaps, he would never have found out that he was tiresome,
if, contenting himself with the display of his eloquence, he had not
thought proper to attack her heart. This was carrying the matter a
little too far for Miss Hamilton’s complaisance, who was of opinion that
she had already shown him too much for the tropes of his harangues:
he was therefore desired to try somewhere else the experiment of his
seducing tongue, and not to lose the merit of his former constancy by an
infidelity which would be of no advantage to him.

He followed this advice like a wise and tractable man; and some time
after, returning to his old mistress in France, he began to lay in a
store of politics for those important negotiations in which he has since
been employed.

It was not till after his departure that the Chevalier de Grammont heard
of the amorous declaration he had made: this was a confidence of no
great importance; it, however, saved Tambonneau from some ridicule
which might have fallen to his share before he went away. His colleague,
Flamarens, deprived of his support, soon perceived that he was not
likely to meet in England with the success he had expected, both from
love and fortune: but Lord Falmouth, ever attentive to the glory of his
master, in the relief of illustrious men in distress, provided for his
subsistence, and Lady Southesk for his pleasures: he obtained a pension
from the king, and from her everything he desired; and most happy was it
for him that she had no other present to bestow but that of her heart.

It was at this time that Talbot, whom we have before mentioned, and
who was afterwards created Duke of Tyrconnel, fell in love with Miss
Hamilton. There was not a more genteel man at court: he was indeed but
a younger brother, though of a very ancient family, which, however, was
not very considerable either for its renown or its riches; and though he
was naturally of a careless disposition, yet, being intent upon making
his fortune, and much in favour with the Duke of York, and fortune
likewise favouring him at play, he had improved both so well that he was
in possession of about forty thousand pounds a year in land. He offered
himself to Miss Hamilton, with this fortune, together with the almost
certain hopes of being made a peer of the realm, by his master’s credit;
and, over-and-above all, as many sacrifices as she could desire of Lady
Shrewsbury’s letters, pictures, and hair; curiosities which, indeed,
are reckoned for nothing in housekeeping, but which testify strongly in
favour of the sincerity and merit of a lover.

Such a rival was not to be despised; and the Chevalier de Grammont
thought him the more dangerous, as he perceived that Talbot was
desperately in love; that he was not a man to be discouraged by a first
repulse; that he had too much sense and good breeding to draw upon
himself either contempt or coldness by too great eagerness; and, besides
this, his brothers began to frequent the house. One of these brothers
was almoner to the queen, an intriguing Jesuit, and a great match-maker:
the other was what was called a lay-monk, who had nothing of his order
but the immorality and infamy of character which is ascribed to them;
and withal, frank and free, and sometimes entertaining, but ever ready
to speak bold and offensive truths, and to do good offices.

When the Chevalier de Grammont reflected upon all these things, there
certainly was strong ground for uneasiness: nor was the indifference
which Miss Hamilton showed for the addresses of his rival sufficient to
remove his fears; for being absolutely dependent on her father’s will,
she could only answer for her own intentions: but Fortune, who seemed to
have taken him under her protection in England, now delivered him from
all his uneasiness.

Talbot had for many years stood forward as the patron of the distressed
Irish: this zeal for his countrymen was certainly very commendable
in itself; at the same time, however, it was not altogether free from
self-interest: for, out of all the estates he had, through his credit,
procured the restoration of to their primitive owners, he had always
obtained some small compensation for himself; but, as each owner found
his advantage in it, no complaint was made. Nevertheless, as it is very
difficult to use fortune and favour with moderation, and not to swell
with the gales of prosperity, some of his proceedings had an air of
haughtiness and independence, which offended the Duke of Ormond, then
Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, as injurious to his Grace’s authority. The
Duke resented this behaviour with great spirit. As there certainly was
a great difference between them, both as to their birth and rank, and
to their credit, it had been prudent in Talbot to have had recourse to
apologies and submission; but such conduct appeared to him base, and
unworthy for a man of his importance to submit to: he accordingly acted
with haughtiness and insolence; but he was soon convinced of his error;
for, having inconsiderately launched out into some arrogant expressions,
which it neither became him to utter nor the Duke of Ormond to forgive,
he was sent prisoner to the Tower, from whence he could not be released
until he had made all necessary submissions to his Grace: he therefore
employed all his friends for that purpose, and was obliged to yield more
to get out of this scrape than would have been necessary to have avoided
it. By this imprudent conduct he lost all hopes of marrying into a
family, which, after such a proceeding, was not likely to listen to any
proposal from him.

   [A very exact account of this transaction is given by Lord
   Clarendon, by which it appears, that Talbot was committed to the
   Tower for threatening to assassinate the Duke of Ormond.
   --Continuation of Clarendon, p. 362.]

It was with great difficulty and mortification that he was obliged to
suppress a passion which had made far greater progress in his heart than
this quarrel had done good to his affairs. This being the case, he was
of opinion that his presence was necessary in Ireland, and that he was
better out of the way of Miss Hamilton, to remove those impressions
which still troubled his repose: his departure, therefore, soon followed
this resolution.

Talbot played deep, and was tolerably forgetful: the Chevalier de
Grammont won three or four hundred guineas of him the very evening on
which he was sent to the Tower. That accident had made him forget
his usual punctuality in paying the next morning whatever he had lost
over-night; and this debt had so far escaped his memory, that it never
once occurred to him after he was enlarged. The Chevalier de Grammont,
who saw him at his departure, without taking the least notice of the
money he owed him, wished him a good journey; and, having met him at
court, as he came to take his leave of the king: “Talbot,” said he, “if
my services can be of any use to you during your absence, you have
but to command them: you know old Russell has left his nephew as his
resident with Miss Hamilton: if you please, I will act for you in the
same capacity. Adieu, God bless you: be sure not to fall sick upon the
road; but if you should, pray remember me in your will.” Talbot, who,
upon this compliment, immediately recollected the money he owed the
Chevalier, burst out a-laughing, and embracing him: “My dear Chevalier,”
 said he, “I am so much obliged to you for your offer, that I resign you
my mistress, and will send you your money instantly.” The Chevalier de
Grammont possessed a thousand of these genteel ways of refreshing
the memories of those persons who were apt to be forgetful in their
payments. The following is the method he used some years after with
Lord Cornwallis: this lord had married the daughter of Sir Stephen
Fox,--treasurer of the king’s household, one of the richest and most
regular men in England. His son-in-law, on the contrary, was a young
spendthrift, was very extravagant, loved gaming, lost as much as any one
would trust him, but was not quite so ready at paying. His father-in-law
disapproved of his conduct, paid his debts, and gave him a lecture at
the same time. The Chevalier de Grammont had won of him a thousand or
twelve hundred guineas, which he heard no tidings of, although he was
upon the eve of his departure, and he had taken leave of Cornwallis in a
more particular manner than any other person. This obliged the Chevalier
to write him a billet, which was rather laconic. It was this:

   “MY LORD,

   “Pray remember the Count de Grammont, and do not forget Sir Stephen
   Fox.”

To return to Talbot: he went away more concerned than became a man who
had voluntarily resigned his mistress to another: neither his stay in
Ireland, nor his solicitude about his domestic affairs, perfectly
cured him; and if at his return he found himself disengaged from
Miss Hamilton’s chains, it was only to exchange them for others. The
alteration that had taken place in the two courts occasioned this change
in him, as we shall see in the sequel.

We have hitherto only mentioned the queen’s maids of honour, upon
account of Miss Stewart and Miss Warmestre the others were Miss
Bellenden, Mademoiselle de la Garde and Mademoiselle Bardou, all maids
of honour, as it pleased God.

Miss Bellenden was no beauty, but was a good-natured girl, whose chief
merit consisted in being plump and fresh-coloured; and who, not having
a sufficient stock of wit to be a coquette in form, used all her
endeavours to please every person by her complaisance. Mademoiselle de
la Garde, and Mademoiselle Bardou, both French, had been preferred to
their places by the queen dowager: the first was a little brunette, who
was continually meddling in the affairs of her companions; and the
other by all means claimed the rank of a maid of honour, though she only
lodged with the others, and both her title and services were constantly
contested.

It was hardly possible for a woman to be more ugly, with so fine a
shape; but as a recompense, her ugliness was set off with every art. The
use she was put to, was to dance with Flamarens, and sometimes, towards
the conclusion of a ball, possessed of castanets and effrontery, she
would dance some figured saraband or other, which amused the court. Let
us now see in what manner this ended.

As Miss Stewart was very seldom in waiting on the queen, she was
scarcely considered as a maid of honour: the others went off almost at
the same time, by different adventures; and this is the history of Miss
Warmestre, whom we have before mentioned, when speaking of the Chevalier
de Grammont.

Lord Taaffe, eldest son of the Earl of Carlingford, was supposed to be
in love with her; and Miss Warmestre not only imagined it was so, but
likewise persuaded herself that he would not fail to marry her the first
opportunity; and in the mean time she thought it her duty to entertain
him with all the civility imaginable. Taaffe had made the Duke of
Richmond his confidant: these two were particularly attached to each
other; but still more so to wine. The Duke of Richmond, notwithstanding
his birth, made but an indifferent figure at court; and the king
respected him still less than his courtiers did: and perhaps it was in
order to court his majesty’s favour that he thought proper to fall in
love with Miss Stewart. The Duke and Lord Taaffe made each other the
confidants of their respective engagements; and these were the measures
they took to put their designs in execution. Little Mademoiselle de la
Gardet was charged to acquaint Miss Stewart that the Duke of Richmond
was dying of love for her, and that when he ogled her in public it was
a certain sign that he was ready to marry her, as soon as ever she would
consent.

Taaffe had no commission to give the little ambassadress for Miss
Warmestre; for there everything was already arranged; but she was
charged to settle and provide some conveniences which were still wanting
for the freedom of their commerce, such as to have free egress and
regress to her at all hours of the day or night: this appeared difficult
to be obtained, but it was, however, at length accomplished.

The governess of the maids of honour, who for the world would not have
connived at anything that was not fair and honourable, consented that
they should sup as often as they pleased in Miss Warmestre’s apartments,
provided their intentions were honourable, and she one of the company.
The good old lady was particularly fond of green oysters, and had no
aversion to Spanish wine: she was certain of finding at every one of
these suppers two barrels of oysters; one to be eaten with the party,
and the other for her to carry away: as soon, therefore, as she had
taken her dose of wine, she took her leave of the company.

It was much about the time that the Chevalier de Grammont had cast his
eyes upon Miss Warmestre, that this kind of life was led in her chamber.
God knows how many ham pies, bottles of wine, and other products of his
lordship’s liberality were there consumed!

In the midst of these nocturnal festivals, and of this innocent
commerce, a relation of Killegrew’s came up to London about a lawsuit:
he gained his cause, but nearly lost his senses.

He was a country gentleman, who had been a widower about six months,
and was possessed of fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds a-year: the good
man, who had no business at court, went thither merely to see his cousin
Killegrew, who could have dispensed with his visits. He there saw
Miss Warmestre; and at first sight fell in love with her. His passion
increased to such a degree that, having no rest either by day or night,
he was obliged to have recourse to extraordinary remedies; he therefore
early one morning called upon his cousin Killegrew, told him his case,
and desired him to demand Miss Warmestre in marriage for him.

Killegrew was struck with wonder and astonishment when he heard his
design: nor could he cease wondering at what sort of creature, of all
the women in London, his cousin had resolved upon marrying. It was some
time before Killegrew could believe that he was in earnest; but when
he was convinced that he was, he began to enumerate the dangers and
inconveniences attending so rash an enterprise. He told him that a girl
educated at court, was a terrible piece of furniture for the country;
that to carry her thither against her inclination, would as effectually
rob him of his happiness and repose, as if he was transported to hell;
that if he consented to let her stay, he needed only to compute what
it would cost him in equipage, table, clothes, and gaming-money, to
maintain her in London according to her caprices; and then to cast up
how long his fifteen thousand a-year would last.

His cousin had already formed this computation; but, finding his reason
less potent than his love, he remained fixed in his resolution; and
Killegrew, yielding at length to his importunities, went and offered
his cousin, bound hand and foot, to the victorious fair. As he dreaded
nothing more than a compliance on her part, so nothing could astonish
him more than the contempt with which she received his proposal. The
scorn with which she refused him, made him believe that she was sure of
Lord Taaffe, and wonder how a girl like her could find out two men who
would venture to marry her. He hastened to relate this refusal, with all
the most aggravating circumstances, as the best news he could carry
to his cousin; but his cousin would not believe him: he supposed that
Killegrew disguised the truth, for the same reasons he had already
alleged; and not daring to mention the matter any more to him, he
resolved to wait upon her himself. He summoned all his courage for
the enterprise, and got his compliment by heart; but as soon as he
had opened his mouth for the purpose, she told him he might have saved
himself the trouble of calling on her about such a ridiculous affair;
that she had already given her answer to Killegrew; and that she
neither had, nor ever should have, any other to give; which words she
accompanied with all the severity with which importunate demands are
usually refused.

He was more affected than confounded at this repulse: everything became
odious to him in London, and he himself more so than all the rest: he
therefore left town, without taking leave of his cousin, went back to
his country seat, and thinking it would be impossible for him to live
without the inhuman fair, he resolved to neglect no opportunity in his
power to hasten his death.

But whilst, in order to indulge his sorrow, he had forsaken all
intercourse with dogs and horses; that is to say, renounced all the
delights and endearments of a country squire, the scornful nymph, who
was certainly mistaken in her reckoning, took the liberty of being
brought to-bed in the face of the whole court.

An adventure so public made no small noise, as we may very well
imagine: all the prudes at court at once broke loose upon it; and those
principally, whose age or persons secured them from any such scandal,
were the most inveterate, and cried most loudly for justice. But the
governess of the maids of honour, who might have been called to an
account for it, affirmed that it was nothing at all, and that she was
possessed of circumstances which would at once silence all censorious
tongues. She had an audience of the queen, in order to unfold the
mystery; and related to her majesty how everything had passed with her
consent, that is to say, upon honourable terms.

The queen sent to inquire of Lord Taaffe, whether he acknowledged Miss
Warmestre for his wife: to which he most respectfully returned for
answer, that he neither acknowledged Miss Warmestre nor her child,
and that he wondered why she should rather father it upon him than any
other. The unfortunate Warmestre, more enraged at this answer than at
the loss of such a lover, quitted the court as soon as ever she was
able, with a resolution of quitting the world the first opportunity.

Killegrew, being upon the point of setting out upon a journey, when this
adventure happened, thought he might as well call upon his afflicted
cousin in his way, to acquaint him with the circumstance; and as soon as
he saw him, without paying any attention to the delicacy of his love,
or to his feelings, he bluntly told him the whole story: nor did he omit
any colouring that could heighten his indignation, in order to make him
burst with shame and resentment.

We read that the gentle Tiridates quietly expired upon the recital of
the death of Mariamne; but Killegrew’s fond cousin falling devoutly
upon his knees, and lifting up his eyes to Heaven, poured forth this
exclamation:

“Praised be the Lord for a small misfortune, which perhaps may prove
the comfort of my life! Who knows but the beauteous Warmestre will now
accept of me for a husband; and that I may have the happiness of passing
the remainder of my days with a woman I adore, and by whom I may expect
to have heirs?” “Certainly,” said Killegrew, more confounded than his
cousin ought to have been on such an occasion, “you may depend upon
having both: I make no manner of doubt but she will marry you as soon
as ever she is recovered from her lying-in; and it would be a great
ill-nature in her, who already knows the way, to let you want children:
however, in the meantime I advise you to take that she has already, till
you get more.”

Notwithstanding this raillery, all that was said did take place. This
faithful lover courted her, as if she had been the chaste Lucretia, or
the beauteous Helen: his passion even increased after marriage, and
the generous fair, first out of gratitude, and afterwards through
inclination, never brought him a child of which he was not the father;
and though there have been many a happy couple in England, this
certainly was the happiest.

Some time after, Miss Bellenden, not being terrified by this example,
had the prudence to quit the court before she was obliged so to do: the
disagreeable Bardou followed her soon after; but for different reasons.
Every person was at last completely tired of her saraband, as well as of
her face; and the king, that he might see neither of them any more, gave
each a small pension for her subsistence. There now only remained little
Mademoiselle de la Garde to be provided for neither her virtues nor
her vices were sufficiently conspicuous to occasion her being either
dismissed from court, or pressed to remain there: God knows what would
have become of her, if a Mr. Silvius, a man who had nothing of a Roman
in him except the name, had not taken the poor girl to be his wife. We
have now shown how all these damsels deserved to be expelled, either for
their irregularities, or for their ugliness; and yet, those who replaced
them found means to make them regretted, Miss Wells only excepted.

She was a tall girl, exquisitely shaped: she dressed very genteel,
walked like a goddess; and yet, her face, though made like those that
generally please the most, was unfortunately one of those that pleased
the least: nature had spread over it a certain careless indolence that
made her look sheepish. This gave but a bad opinion of her wit: and
her wit had the ill-luck to make good that opinion: however, as she
was fresh coloured, and appeared inexperienced, the king, whom the fair
Stewart did not render over nice as to the perfections of the mind,
resolved to try whether the senses would not fare better with Miss
Wells’s person than fine sentiments with her understanding: nor was this
experiment attended with much difficulty: she was of a loyal family; and
her father having faithfully served Charles the First, she thought it
her duty not to revolt against Charles the Second. But this connection
was not attended with very advantageous circumstances for herself;
some pretended that she did not hold out long enough, and that she
surrendered at discretion before she was vigorously attacked; and others
said, that his majesty complained of certain other facilities still
less pleasing. The Duke of Buckingham made a couplet upon this occasion,
wherein the king, speaking to Progers, the confidant of his intrigues,
puns upon the name of the fair one, to the following purport:

     When the king felt the horrible depth of this Well,
     “Tell me, Progers,” cried Charlie, “where am I? oh tell!
     Had I sought the world’s centre to find, I had found it,
     But this Well! ne’er a plummet was made that could sound it.”

   [Edward Progers, Esq., was a younger son of Philip Progers, Esq., of
   the family of Garreddin, in Monmouthshire. His father was a colonel
   in the army, and equerry to James I. Edward was early introduced to
   court, and, after having been page to Charles I., was made groom of
   the bed-chamber to his son, while Prince of Wales. He attached
   himself to the king’s interest during the war with the parliament,
   with laudable fidelity. The following letter, from which
   antiquaries may derive the minute information that Charles II. did
   wear mourning for a whole year for his father, serves to shew the
   familiar style which Charles used to Progers, as well as his
   straitened circumstances while in the island of Jersey.

   “Progers, I wold have you (besides the embroidred sute) bring me a
   plaine riding suite, with an innocent coate, the suites I haue for
   horsebacke being so spotted and spoiled that they are not to be
   seene out of this island. The lining of the coate, and the petit
   toies are referred to your greate discretion, provided there want
   nothing when it comes to be put on. I doe not remember there was a
   belt, or a hat-band, in your directions for the embroidred suite,
   and those are so necessarie as you must not forget them.

   “Jearsey, 14th Jan. old stile, 1649.
   CHARLES R.”]

Miss Wells, notwithstanding this species of anagram upon her name,
and these remarks upon her person, shone the brightest among her new
companions. These were Miss Levingston, Miss Fielding, and Miss Boynton,
who little deserve to be mentioned in these memoirs; therefore we shall
leave them in obscurity until it please fortune to draw them out of it.

This was the new establishment of maids of honour to the queen. The
Duchess of York, nearly about the same time, likewise recruited hers;
but showed, by a happier and more brilliant choice, that England
possessed an inexhaustible stock of beauties. But before we begin to
speak of them, let us see who were the first maids of honour to her
royal highness, and on what account they were removed.

Besides Miss Blague and Miss Price, whom we have before mentioned, the
establishment was composed of Miss Bagot and Miss Hobart, the president
of the community. Miss Blague, who never knew the true reason of her
quarrel with the Marquis de Brisacier, took it up upon that fatal letter
she had received from him, wherein, without acquainting her that Miss
Price was to wear the same sort of gloves and yellow riband as herself,
he had only complimented her upon her hair, her fair complexion, and
her eyes marcassins. This word she imagined must signify something
particularly wonderful, since her eyes were compared to it; and
being desirous, some time afterwards, to know all the energy of the
expression, she asked the meaning of the French word marcassin. As there
are no wild boars in England, those to whom she addressed herself, told
her that it signified a young pig. This scandalous simile confirmed her
in the belief she entertained of his perfidy. Brisacier, more amazed at
her change, than she was offended at his supposed calumny, looked upon
her as a woman still more capricious than insignificant, and never
troubled himself more about her; but Sir Yarborough, of as fair a
complexion as herself, made her an offer of marriage in the height of
her resentment, and was accepted: chance made up this match, I suppose,
as an experiment to try what such a white-haired union would produce.

Miss Price was witty; and as her person was not very likely to attract
many admirers, which, however, she was resolved to have, she was far
from being coy when an occasion offered: she did not so much as make
any terms: she was violent in her resentments, as well as in her
attachments, which had exposed her to some inconveniences; and she
had very indiscreetly quarrelled with a young girl whom Lord Rochester
admired. This connection, which till then had been a secret, she had the
imprudence to publish to the whole world, and thereby drew upon herself
the most dangerous enemy in the universe: never did any man write with
more ease, humour, spirit, and delicacy; but he was at the same time the
most severe satirist.

Poor Miss Price, who had thus voluntarily provoked his resentment, was
daily exposed in some new shape: there was every day some new song or
other, the subject of which was her conduct, and the burden her name.
How was it possible for her to bear up against these attacks, in a
court, where every person was eager to obtain the most insignificant
trifle that came from the pen of Lord Rochester? The loss of her lover,
and the discovery that attended it, was only wanting to complete the
persecution that was raised against her.

About this time died Dongan, a gentleman of merit, who was succeeded by
Durfort, afterwards Earl of Feversham, in the post of lieutenant of
the duke’s life guards. Miss Price having tenderly loved him, his death
plunged her into a gulf of despair; but the inventory of his effects had
almost deprived her of her senses: there was in it a certain little
box sealed up on all sides: it was addressed in the deceased’s own
handwriting to Miss Price; but instead of receiving it, she had not
even the courage to look upon it. The governess thought it became her in
prudence to receive it, on Miss Price’s refusal, and her duty to deliver
it to the duchess herself, supposing it was filled with many curious and
precious commodities, of which perhaps she might make some advantage.
Though the duchess was not altogether of the same opinion, she had the
curiosity to see what was contained in a box sealed up in a manner
so particularly careful, and therefore caused it to be opened in the
presence of some ladies, who happened then to be in her closet.

All kinds of love trinkets were found in it; and all these favours, it
appeared, came from the tender-hearted Miss Price. It was difficult
to comprehend how a single person could have furnished so great a
collection; for, besides counting the pictures, there was hair of all
descriptions, wrought into bracelets, lockets, and into a thousand other
different devices, wonderful to see. After these were three or four
packets of letters, of so tender a nature, and so full of raptures and
languors so naturally expressed, that the duchess could not endure the
reading of any more than the two first.

Her royal highness was sorry that she had caused the box to be opened in
such good company; for being before such witnesses, she rightly judged
it was impossible to stifle this adventure; and, at the same time, there
being no possibility of retaining any longer such a maid of honour, Miss
Price had her valuables restored to her, with orders to go and finish
her lamentations, or to console herself for the loss of her lover, in
some other place.

Miss Hobart’s character was at that time as uncommon in England, as her
person was singular, in a country where, to be young, and not to be in
some degree handsome, is a reproach; she had a good shape, rather a bold
air, and a great deal of wit, which was well cultivated, without having
much discretion. She was likewise possessed of a great deal of vivacity,
with an irregular fancy: there was a great deal of fire in her eyes,
which, however, produced no effect upon the beholders and she had a
tender heart, whose sensibility some pretended was alone in favour of
the fair sex.

Miss Bagot was the first that gained her tenderness and affection, which
she returned at first with equal warmth and sincerity; but perceiving
that all her friendship was insufficient to repay that of Miss Hobart,
she yielded the conquest to the governess’s niece, who thought herself
as much honoured by it as her aunt thought herself obliged by the care
she took of the young girl.

It was not long before the report, whether true or false, of this
singularity, spread through the whole court, where people, being yet so
uncivilized as never to have heard of that kind of refinement in love
of ancient Greece, imagined that the illustrious Hobart, who seemed so
particularly attached to the fair sex, was in reality something more
than she appeared to be.

Satirical ballads soon began to compliment her upon these new
attributes; and upon the insinuations that were therein made, her
companions began to fear her. The governess, alarmed at these reports,
consulted Lord Rochester upon the danger to which her niece was exposed.
She could not have applied to a fitter person: he immediately advised
her to take her niece out of the hands of Miss Hobart; and contrived
matters so well that she fell into his own. The duchess, who had too
much generosity not to treat as visionary what was imputed to Miss
Hobart, and too much justice to condemn her upon the faith of lampoons,
removed her from the society of the maids of honour, to be an attendant
upon her own person.

Miss Bagot was the only one who was really possessed of virtue and
beauty among these maids of honour: she had beautiful and regular
features, and that sort of brown complexion, which, when in perfection,
is so particularly fascinating, and more especially in England, where it
is uncommon. There was an involuntary blush almost continually upon her
cheek, without having anything to blush for. Lord Falmouth cast his eyes
upon her: his addresses were better received than those of Miss Hobart,
and some time after Cupid raised her from the post of maid of honour
to the duchess to a rank which might have been envied by all the young
ladies in England.

The Duchess of York, in order to form her new court, resolved to see all
the young persons that offered themselves, and, without any regard to
recommendations, to choose none but the handsomest.

At the head of this new assembly appeared Miss Jennings and Miss Temple;
and indeed they so entirely eclipsed the other two, that we shall speak
of them only.

Miss Jennings, adorned with all the blooming treasures of youth, had the
fairest and brightest complexion that ever was seen: her hair was of
a most beauteous flaxen: there was something particularly lively and
animated in her countenance, which preserved her from that insipidity
which is frequently an attendant on a complexion so extremely fair.
Her mouth was not the smallest, but it was the handsomest mouth in the
world. Nature had endowed her with all those charms which cannot be
expressed, and the graces had given the finishing stroke to them. The
turn of her face was exquisitely fine, and her swelling neck was as
fair and as bright as her face. In a word, her person gave the idea of
Aurora, or the goddess of the spring, “such as youthful poets fancy when
they love.” But as it would have been unjust that a single person should
have engrossed all the treasures of beauty without any defect, there
was something wanting in her hands and arms to render them worthy of the
rest: her nose was not the most elegant, and her eyes gave some relief,
whilst her mouth and her other charms pierced the heart with a thousand
darts.

With this amiable person she was full of wit and sprightliness, and all
her actions and motions were unaffected and easy: her conversation was
bewitching, when she had a mind to please; piercing and delicate when
disposed to raillery; but as her imagination was subject to flights,
and as she began to speak frequently before she had done thinking, her
expressions did not always convey what she wished; sometimes exceeding,
and at others falling short of her ideas.

Miss Temple, nearly of the same age, was brown compared with the other:
she had a good shape, fine teeth, languishing, eyes, a fresh complexion,
an agreeable smile, and a lively air. Such was the outward form; but it
would be difficult to describe the rest; for she was simple and vain,
credulous and suspicious, coquettish and prudent, very self-sufficient
and very silly.

As soon as these new stars appeared at the duchess’s court, all eyes
were fixed upon them, and every one formed some design upon one or other
of them, some with honourable, and others with dishonest intentions.
Miss Jennings soon distinguished herself, and left her companions no
other admirers but such as remained constant from hopes of success: her
brilliant charms attracted at first sight, and the charms of her wit
secured her conquests.

The Duke of York having persuaded himself that she was part of his
property, resolved to pursue his claim by the same title whereby his
brother had appropriated to himself the favours of Miss Wells; but he
did not find her inclined to enter into his service, though she had
engaged in that of the duchess. She would not pay any attention to the
perpetual ogling with which he at first attacked her. Her eyes were
always wandering on other objects, when those of his royal highness were
looking for them; and if by chance he caught any casual glance, she did
not even blush. This made him resolve to change his manner of attack:
ogling having proved ineffectual, he took an opportunity to speak to
her; and this was still worse. I know not in what strain he told
his case; but it is certain the oratory of the tongue was not more
prevailing than the eloquence of his eyes.

Miss Jennings had both virtue and pride, and the proposals of the duke
were consistent with neither the one nor the other. Although from
her great vivacity one might suppose that she was not capable of much
reflection, yet she had furnished herself with some very salutary maxims
for the conduct of a young person of her age. The first was, that a
lady ought to be young to enter the court with advantage, and not old
to leave it with a good grace: that she could not maintain herself there
but by a glorious resistance, or by illustrious foibles and that, in
so dangerous a situation, she ought to use her utmost endeavours not to
dispose of her heart until she gave her hand.

Entertaining such sentiments, she had far less trouble to resist the
duke’s temptations, than to disengage herself from his perseverance: she
was deaf to all treaties for a settlement, with which her ambition was
sounded: and all offers of presents succeeded still worse. What was then
to be done to conquer an extravagant virtue that would not hearken to
reason? He was ashamed to suffer a giddy young girl to escape, whose
inclinations ought in some manner to correspond with the vivacity that
shone forth in all her actions, and who nevertheless thought proper to
be serious when no such thing as seriousness was required of her.

After he had attentively considered her obstinate behaviour, he thought
that writing might perhaps succeed, though ogling, speeches, and
embassies had failed. Paper receives everything, but it unfortunately
happened that she would not receive the paper. Every day billets,
containing the tenderest expressions, and most magnificent promises,
were slipped into her pockets, or into her muff: this, however, could
not be done unperceived; and the malicious little gipsy took care that
those who saw them slip in, should likewise see them fall out, unperused
and unopened; she only shook her muff, or pulled out her handkerchief;
as soon as ever his back was turned, his billets fell about her like
hail-stones, and whoever pleased might take them up. The duchess was
frequently a witness of this conduct, but could not find in her heart
to chide her for her want of respect to the duke. After this, the charms
and prudence of Miss Jennings were the only subjects of conversation in
the two courts: the courtiers could not comprehend how a young creature,
brought directly from the country to court, should so soon become its
ornament by her attractions, and its example by her conduct.

The king was of opinion that those who had attacked her had
ill-concerted their measures; for he thought it unnatural that she
should neither be tempted by promises, nor gained by importunity: she,
especially, who in all probability had not imbibed such severe precepts
from the prudence of her mother, who had never tasted any thing more
delicious than the plums and apricots of Saint Albans. Being resolved to
try her himself, he was particularly pleased with the great novelty that
appeared in the turn of her wit, and in the charms of her person;
and curiosity, which at first induced him to make the trial, was soon
changed into a desire of succeeding in the experiment. God knows what
might have been the consequence, for he greatly excelled in wit, and
besides he was king: two qualities of no small consideration. The
resolutions of the fair Jennings were commendable, and very judicious;
but yet she was wonderfully pleased with wit; and royal majesty
prostrate at the feet of a young person, is very persuasive. Miss
Stewart, however, would not consent to the king’s project.

She immediately took the alarm, and desired his majesty to leave to the
duke, his brother, the care of tutoring the duchess’s maids of honour,
and only to attend to the management of his own flock, unless his
majesty would in return allow her to listen to certain proposals of a
settlement which she did not think disadvantageous. This menace being
of a serious nature, the king obeyed; and Miss Jennings had all the
additional honour which arose from this adventure: it both added to her
reputation, and increased the number of her admirers. Thus she continued
to triumph over the liberties of others without ever losing her own: her
hour was not yet come, but it was not far distant; the particulars
of which we shall relate as soon as we have given some account of the
conduct of her companion.

Though Miss Temple’s person was particularly engaging, it was
nevertheless eclipsed by that of Miss Jennings; but she was still more
excelled by the other’s superior mental accomplishments. Two persons,
very capable to impart understanding, had the gift been communicable,
undertook at the same time to rob her of the little she really
possessed: these were Lord Rochester and Miss Hobart: the first began to
mislead her by reading to her all his compositions, as if she alone had
been a proper judge of them. He never thought proper to flatter her upon
her personal accomplishments; but told her that if heaven had made
him susceptible of the impressions of beauty, it would not have been
possible for him to have escaped her chains; but not being, thank God,
affected with anything but wit, he had the happiness of enjoying the
most agreeable conversation in the world without running any risk. After
so sincere a confession he either presented to her a copy of verses, or
a new song, in which whoever dared to come in competition in any respect
with Miss Temple was laid prostrate before her charms, most humbly to
solicit pardon: such flattering insinuations so completely turned her
head that it was a pity to see her.

The duchess took notice of it, and well knowing the extent of both their
geniuses, she saw the precipice into which the poor girl was running
headlong without perceiving it; but as it is no less dangerous to forbid
a connection that is not yet thought of, than it is difficult to put an
end to one that is already well established, Miss Hobart was charged to
take care, with all possible discretion, that these frequent and long
conversations might not be attended with any dangerous consequences:
with pleasure she accepted the commission, and greatly flattered herself
with success.

She had already made all necessary advances to gain possession of her
confidence and friendship; and Miss Temple, less suspicious of her
than of Lord Rochester, made all imaginable returns. She was greedy of
praise, and loved all manner of sweetmeats, as much as a child of nine
or ten years old: her taste was gratified in both these respects. Miss
Hobart having the superintendence of the duchess’s baths, her apartment
joined them, in which there was a closet stored with all sorts of
sweetmeats and liqueurs: the closet suited Miss Temple’s taste, as
exactly as it gratified Miss Hobart’s inclination, to have something
that could allure her.

Summer, being now returned, brought back with it the pleasures and
diversions that are its inseparable attendants. One day, when the ladies
had been taking the air on horseback, Miss Temple, on her return from
riding, alighted at Miss Hobart’s, in order to recover her fatigue at
the expense of the sweetmeats, which she knew were there at her service;
but before she began she desired Miss Hobart’s permission to undress
herself, and change her linen in her apartment; which request was
immediately complied with: “I was just going to propose it to you,”
 said Miss Hobart, “not but that you are as charming as an angel in your
riding habit; but there is nothing so comfortable as a loose dress, and
being at one’s ease: you cannot imagine, my dear Temple,” continued
she, embracing her, “how much you oblige me by thus free unceremonious
conduct; but, above all, I am enchanted with your particular attention
to cleanliness: how greatly you differ in this, as in many other things,
from that silly creature Jennings! Have you remarked how all our court
fops admire her for her brilliant complexion, which perhaps, after all,
is not wholly her own; and for blunders, which are truly original, and
which they are such fools as to mistake for wit: I have not conversed
with her long enough to perceive in what her wit consists; but of this
I am certain, that if it is not better than her feet, it is no great
matter. What stories have I heard of her sluttishness! No cat ever
dreaded water so much as she does: fie upon her! Never to wash for her
own comfort, and only to attend to those parts which must necessarily be
seen, such as the neck and hands.”

Miss Temple swallowed all this with even greater pleasure than the
sweetmeats; and the officious Hobart, not to lose time, was helping her
off with her clothes, while the chambermaid was coming. She made some
objections to this at first, being unwilling to occasion that trouble
to a person, who, like Miss Hobart, had been advanced to a place of
dignity; but she was overruled by her, and assured that it was with
the greatest pleasure she showed her that small mark of civility. The
collation being finished, and Miss Temple undressed: “Let us retire,”
 said Miss Hobart, “to the bathing closet, where we may enjoy a little
conversation secure from any impertinent visit.” Miss Temple consented,
and both of them sitting down on a couch: “You are too young, my dear
Temple,” said she, “to know the baseness of men in general, and too
short a time acquainted with the court to know the character of its
inhabitants. I will give you a short sketch of the principal persons, to
the best of my knowledge, without injury to any one; for I abominate the
trade of scandal.

“In the first place, then, you ought to set it down as an undoubted
fact that all courtiers are deficient either in honesty, good sense,
judgment, wit, or sincerity; that is to say, if any of them by chance
possess some one of these qualities, you may depend upon it he is
defective in the rest: sumptuous in their equipages, deep play, a great
opinion of their own merit, and contempt of that of others, are their
chief characteristics.

“Interest or pleasure are the motives of all their actions: those who
are led by the first would sell God Almighty, as Judas sold his Master,
and that for less money. I could relate you a thousand noble instances
of this, if I had time. As for the sectaries of pleasure, or those who
pretend to be such, for they are not all so bad as they endeavour to
make themselves appear, these gentlemen pay no manner of regard either
to promises, oaths, law, or religion; that is to say, they are literally
no respecters of persons; they care neither for God nor man, if they can
but gain their ends. They look upon maids of honour only as amusements,
placed expressly at court for their entertainment; and the more merit
any one has, the more she is exposed to their impertinence, if she gives
any ear to them; and to their malicious calumnies, when she ceases to
attend to them. As for husbands, this is not the place to find them; for
unless money or caprice make up the match, there is but little hopes
of being married: virtue and beauty in this respect here are equally
useless. Lady Falmouth is the only instance of a maid of honour well
married without a portion; and if you were to ask her poor weak husband
for what reason he married her, I am persuaded that he can assign none,
unless it be her great red ears and broad feet. As for the pale Lady
Yarborough, who appeared so proud of her match, she is wife, to be sure,
of a great country bumpkin, who, the very week after their marriage, bid
her take her farewell of the town for ever, in consequence of five or
six thousand pounds a year he enjoys on the borders of Cornwall. Alas!
poor Miss Blague! I saw her go away about this time twelvemonth, in a
coach with four such lean horses, that I cannot believe she is yet half
way to her miserable little castle. What can be the matter! all the
girls seem afflicted with the rage of wedlock, and however small
their portion of charms may be, they think it only necessary to show
themselves at court in order to pick and choose their men: but was this
in reality the case, the being a wife is the most wretched condition
imaginable for a person of nice sentiments. Believe me, my dear Temple,
the pleasures of matrimony are so inconsiderable in comparison with its
inconveniences, that I cannot imagine how any reasonable creature can
resolve upon it: rather fly, therefore, from this irksome engagement
than court it. Jealousy, formerly a stranger to these happy isles, is
now coming into fashion, with many recent examples of which you are
acquainted. However brilliant the phantom may appear, suffer not
yourself to be caught by its splendour, and never be so weak as to
transform your slave into your tyrant: as long as you preserve your own
liberty, you will be mistress of that of others. I will relate to you a
very recent proof of the perfidy of man to our sex, and of the impunity
they experience in all attempts upon our innocence. The Earl of Oxford
fell in love with a handsome, graceful actress belonging to the duke’s
theatre, who performed to perfection, particularly the part of Roxana,
in a very fashionable new play, insomuch that she ever after retained
that name: this creature being both very virtuous and very modest, or,
if you please, wonderfully obstinate, proudly rejected the addresses and
presents of the Earl of Oxford. This resistance inflamed his passion:
he had recourse to invectives, and even to spells; but all in vain. This
disappointment had such effect upon him that he could neither eat nor
drink; this did not signify to him; but his passion at length became so
violent, that he could neither play nor smoke. In this extremity love
had recourse to Hymen; the Earl of Oxford, one of the first peers of
the realm, is, you know, a very handsome man: he is of the order of the
garter, which greatly adds to an air naturally noble. In short, from his
outward appearance, you would suppose he was really possessed of
some sense; but as soon as ever you hear him speak, you are perfectly
convinced of the contrary. This passionate lover presented her with a
promise of marriage, in due form, signed with his own hand: she would
not, however, rely upon this, but the next day she thought there could
be no danger, when the earl himself came to her lodgings attended by a
clergyman, and another man for a witness: the marriage was accordingly
solemnized with all due ceremonies, in the presence of one of her
fellow players, who attended as a witness on her part. You will suppose,
perhaps, that the new countess had nothing to do but to appear at court
according to her rank, and to display the earl’s arms upon her carriage.
This was far from being the case. When examination was made concerning
the marriage, it was found to be a mere deception: it appeared that the
pretended priest was one of my lord’s trumpeters, and the witness his
kettle drummer. The parson and his companion never appeared after the
ceremony was over; and as for the other witness, they endeavoured to
persuade her that the Sultana Roxana might have supposed, in some
part or other of a play, that she was really married. It was all to no
purpose, that the poor creature claimed the protection of the laws of
God and man, both which were violated and abused, as well as herself,
by this infamous imposition: in vain did she throw herself at the King’s
feet to demand justice: she had only to rise up again without redress;
and happy might she think herself to receive an annuity of one thousand
crowns, and to resume the name of Roxana, instead of Countess of Oxford.
You will say, perhaps, that she was only a player; that all men have
not the same sentiments as the earl; and, that one may at least believe
them, when they do but render justice to such merit as yours. But still
do not believe them, though I know you are liable to it, as you have
admirers; for all are not infatuated with Miss Jennings: the handsome
Sydney ogles you; Lord Rochester is delighted with your conversation;
and the most serious Sir Lyttleton forsakes his natural gravity in
favour of your charms. As for the first, I confess his figure is very
likely to engage the inclinations of a young person like yourself; but
were his outward form attended with other accomplishments, which I know
it is not, and that his sentiments in your favour were as real as he
endeavours to persuade you they are, and as you deserve, yet I would not
advise you to form any connections with him, for reasons which I cannot
tell you at present.

“Sir Lyttleton is undoubtedly in earnest, since he appears ashamed of
the condition to which you have reduced him; and I really believe if he
could get the better of those vulgar chimerical apprehensions, of being
what is vulgarly called a cuckold, the good man would marry you, and you
would be his representative in his little government, where you might
merrily pass your days in casting up the weekly bills of housekeeping,
and in darning old napkins. What a glory would it be to have a Cato for
a husband, whose speeches are as many lectures, and whose lectures are
composed of nothing but ill-nature and censure!

“Lord Rochester is, without contradiction, the most witty man in all
England; but then he is likewise the most unprincipled, and devoid even
of the least tincture of honour; he is dangerous to our sex alone; and
that to such a degree that there is not a woman who gives ear to him
three times, but she irretrievably loses her reputation. No woman can
escape him, for he has her in his writings, though his other attacks be
ineffectual; and in the age we live in, the one is as bad as the other
in the eye of the public. In the mean time nothing is more dangerous
than the artful insinuating manner with which he gains possession of
the mind: he applauds your taste, submits to your sentiments, and at the
very instant that he himself does not believe a single word of what he
is saying, he makes you believe it all. I dare lay a wager, that from
the conversation you have had with him, you thought him one of the most
honourable and sincerest men living; for my part I cannot imagine what
he means by the assiduity he pays you not but your accomplishments are
sufficient to excite the adoration and praise of the whole world; but
had he even been so fortunate as to have gained your affections, he
would not know what to do with the loveliest creature at court: for it
is a long time since his debauches have brought him to order, with the
assistance of the favours of all the common street-walkers. See then, my
dear Temple, what horrid malice possesses him, to the ruin and confusion
of innocence! A wretch! to have no other design in his addresses and
assiduities to Miss Temple, but to give a greater air of probability
to the calumnies with which he has loaded her. You look upon me with
astonishment, and seem to doubt the truth of what I advance; but I do
not desire you to believe me without evidence: ‘Here,’ said she, drawing
a paper out of her pocket, ‘see what a copy of verses he has made
in your praise, while he lulls your credulity to rest, by flattering
speeches and feigned respect.’”

After saying this, the perfidious Hobart showed her half-a-dozen
couplets full of strained invective and scandal, which Rochester had
made against the former maids of honour. This severe and cutting lampoon
was principally levelled against Miss Price, whose person he took to
pieces in the most frightful and hideous manner imaginable. Miss Hobart
had substituted the name of Temple instead of Price, which she made
to agree both with the measure and tune of the song. This effectually
answered Hobart’s intentions: the credulous Temple no sooner heard her
sing the lampoon, but she firmly believed it to be made upon herself;
and in the first transports of her rage, having nothing so much at heart
as to give the lie to the fictions of the poet: “Ah! as for this, my
dear Hobart,” said she, “I can bear it no longer: I do not pretend to be
so handsome as some others; but as for the defects that villain charges
me with, I dare say, my dear Hobart, there is no woman more free from
them: we are alone, and I am almost inclined to convince you by ocular
demonstration.” Miss Hobart was too complaisant to oppose this motion;
but, although she soothed her mind by extolling all her beauties, in
opposition to Lord Rochester’s song, Miss Temple was almost driven
to distraction by rage and astonishment, that the first man she ever
attended to should, in his conversation with her, not even make use of a
single word of truth, but that he should likewise have the unparalleled
cruelty falsely to accuse her of defects; and not being able to find
words capable of expressing her anger and resentment, she began to weep
like a child.

Miss Hobart used all her endeavours to comfort her, and chid her for
being so much hurt with the invectives of a person whose scandalous
impostures were too well known to make any impression: she however
advised her never to speak to him any more, for that was the only method
to disappoint his designs; that contempt and silence were, on such
occasions, much preferable to any explanation, and that if he could once
obtain a hearing, he would be justified, but she would be ruined.

Miss Hobart was not wrong in giving her this counsel: she knew that an
explanation would betray her, and that there would be no quarter for
her if Lord Rochester had so fair an opportunity of renewing his former
panegyrics upon her; but her precaution was in vain: this conversation
had been heard from one end to the other, by the governess’s niece, who
was blessed with a most faithful memory; and having that very day an
appointment with Lord Rochester, she conned it over three or four times,
that she might not forget one single word, when she should have the
honour of relating it to her lover. We shall show in the next chapter,
what were the consequences resulting from it.




CHAPTER TENTH. OTHER LOVE INTRIGUES AT THE ENGLISH COURT


The conversation before related was agreeable only to Miss Hobart; for
if Miss Temple was entertained with its commencement, she was so much
the more irritated by its conclusion this indignation was succeeded by
the curiosity of knowing the reason why, if Sidney had a real esteem for
her, she should not be allowed to pay some attention to him.

As soon as they retired from the closet, Miss Sarah came out of the
bath, where during all this conversation, she had been almost perished
with cold, without daring to complain. This little gipsy had, it seems,
obtained leave of Miss Hobart’s woman to bathe herself unknown to her
mistress; and having, I know not how, found means to fill one of the
baths with cold water, Miss Sarah had just got into it, when they
were both alarmed with the arrival of the other two. A glass partition
enclosed the room where the baths were, and Indian silk curtains, which
drew on the inside, screened those that were bathing. Miss Hobart’s
chamber-maid had only just time to draw these curtains, that the girl
might not be seen to lock the partition door, and to take away the key,
before her mistress and Miss Temple came in.

These two sat down on a couch placed along the partition, and Miss
Sarah, notwithstanding her alarms, had distinctly heard, and perfectly
retained the whole conversation. As the little girl was at all this
trouble to make herself clean, only on Lord Rochester’s account, as
soon as ever she could make her escape she regained her garret; where
Rochester, having repaired thither at the appointed hour, was fully
informed of all that had passed in the bathing room. He was astonished
at the audacious temerity of Hobart, in daring to put such a trick upon
him; but, though he rightly judged that love and jealousy were the real
motives, he would not excuse her. Little Sarah desired to know whether
he had a real affection for Miss Temple, as Miss Hobart said she
supposed that was the case. “Can you doubt it,” replied he, “since that
oracle of sincerity has affirmed it? But then you know that I am not now
capable of profiting by my perfidy, were I even to gain Miss Temple’s
compliance, since my debauches and the street-walkers have brought me to
order.”

This answer made Miss Sarah very easy, for she concluded that the first
article was not true, since she knew from experience that the latter
was false. Lord Rochester was resolved that very evening to attend the
duchess’s court, to see what reception he would meet with after the fine
portrait Miss Hobart had been so kind as to draw of him. Miss Temple did
not fail to be there likewise, with the intention of looking on him with
the most contemptuous disdain possible, though she had taken care to
dress herself as well as she could. As she supposed that the lampoon
Miss Hobart had sung to her was in everybody’s possession, she was under
great embarrassment lest all those whom she met should think her such
a monster as Lord Rochester had described her. In the mean time, Miss
Hobart, who had not much confidence in her promises never more to speak
to him, narrowly watched her. Miss Temple never in her life appeared so
handsome every person complimented her upon it; but she received all
the civilities with such an air, that every one thought she was mad; for
when they commended her shape, her fresh complexion, and the brilliancy
of her eyes: “Pshaw,” said she, “it is very well known that I am but a
monster, and formed in no respect like other women: all is not gold
that glisters; and though I may receive some compliments in public, it
signifies nothing.” All Miss Hobart’s endeavours to stop her tongue were
ineffectual; and continuing to rail at herself ironically, the whole
court was puzzled to comprehend her meaning.

When Lord Rochester came in, she first blushed, then turned pale, made
a motion to go towards him, drew back again, pulled her gloves one
after the other up to the elbow; and after having three times violently
flirted her fan, she waited until he paid his compliments to her as
usual, and as soon as he began to bow, the fair one immediately turned
her back upon him. Rochester only smiled, and being resolved that her
resentment should be still more remarked, he turned round and posting
himself face to face: “Madam,” said he, “nothing can be so glorious as
to look so charming as you do, after such a fatiguing day: to support
a ride of three long hours, and Miss Hobart afterwards, without being
tired, shows indeed a very strong constitution.”

Miss Temple had naturally a tender look, but she was transported with
such a violent passion at his having the audacity to speak to her, that
her eyes appeared like two fireballs when she turned them upon him.
Hobart pinched her arm, as she perceived that this look was likely to be
followed by a torrent of reproaches and invectives.

Lord Rochester did not wait for them, and delaying until another
opportunity the acknowledgments he owed Miss Hobart, he quietly retired.
The latter, who could not imagine that he knew anything of their
conversation at the bath, was, however, much alarmed at what he had
said; but Miss Temple, almost choked with the reproaches with which she
thought herself able to confound him and which she had not time to give
vent to, vowed to ease her mind of them upon the first opportunity,
notwithstanding the promise she had made; but never more to speak to him
afterwards.

Lord Rochester had a faithful spy near these nymphs: this was Miss
Sarah, who, by his advice, and with her aunt’s consent, was reconciled
with Miss Hobart, the more effectually to betray her: he was informed by
this spy, that Miss Hobart’s maid, being suspected of having listened
to them in the closet, had been turned away; that she had taken another,
whom in all probability, she would not keep long, because, in the first
place, she was ugly, and, in the second, she eat the sweetmeats that
were prepared for Miss Temple. Although this intelligence was not
very material, Sarah was nevertheless praised for her punctuality
and attention; and a few days afterwards she brought him news of real
importance.

Rochester was by her informed, that Miss Hobart and her new favourite
designed, about nine o’clock in the evening to walk in the Mall, in
the Park; that they were to change clothes with each other, to put on
scarfs, and wear black-masks: she added, that Miss Hobart had strongly
opposed this project, but that she was obliged to give way at last, Miss
Temple having resolved to indulge her fancy.

Upon the strength of this intelligence, Rochester concerted his
measures: he went to Killegrew, complained to him of the trick which
Miss Hobart had played him, and desired his assistance in order to be
revenged: this was readily granted, and having acquainted him with the
measures he intended to pursue, and given him the part he was to act in
this adventure, they went to the Mall.

Presently after appeared our two nymphs in masquerade: their shapes were
not very different, and their faces, which were very unlike each other,
were concealed with their masks. The company was but thin in the Park;
and as soon as Miss Temple perceived them at a distance, she quickened
her pace in order to join them, with the design, under her disguise,
severely to reprimand the perfidious Rochester; when Miss Hobart
stopping her: “Where are you running to?” said she; “have you a mind to
engage in conversation with these two devils, to be exposed to all
the insolence and impertinence for which they are so notorious?” These
remonstrances were entirely useless: Miss Temple was resolved to try the
experiment: and all that could be obtained from her, was, not to answer
any of the questions Rochester might ask her.

They were accosted just as they had done speaking: Rochester fixed
upon Hobart, pretending to take her for the other; at which she was
overjoyed; but Miss Temple was extremely sorry she fell to Killegrew’s
share, with whom she had nothing to do: he perceived her uneasiness,
and, pretending to know her by her clothes: “Ah! Miss Hobart,” said he,
“be so kind as look this way if you please: I know not by what chance
you both came hither, but I am sure it is very apropos for you, since I
have something to say to you, as your friend and humble servant.”

This beginning raising her curiosity, Miss Temple appeared more inclined
to attend him; and Killegrew perceiving that the other couple had
insensibly proceeded some distance from them: “In the name of God,” said
he: “what do you mean by railing so against Lord Rochester, whom
you know to be one of the most honourable men at court, and whom you
nevertheless described as the greatest villain, to the person whom of
all others he esteems and respects the most? What do you think would
become of you, if he knew that you made Miss Temple believe she is the
person alluded to in a certain song, which you know as well as myself
was made upon the clumsy Miss Price, above a year before the fair Temple
was heard of? Be not surprised that I know so much of the matter; but
pay a little attention, I pray you, to what I am now going to tell you
out of pure friendship: your passion and inclinations for Miss Temple
are known to every one but herself; for whatever methods you used to
impose upon her innocence, the world does her the justice to believe
that she would treat you as Lady Falmouth did, if the poor girl knew
the wicked designs you had upon her: I caution you, therefore, against
making any farther advances, to a person, too modest to listen to them:
I advise you likewise to take back your maid again, in order to silence
her scandalous tongue; for she says everywhere, that she is with child,
that you are the occasion of her being in that condition, and accuses
you of behaving towards her with the blackest ingratitude, upon trifling
suspicions only: you know very well, these are no stories of my own
invention; but that you may not entertain any manner of doubt, that I
had all this from her own mouth, she has told me your conversation in
the bathing-room, the characters you there drew of the principal men at
court, your artful malice in applying so improperly a scandalous song
to one of the loveliest women in all England; and in what manner the
innocent girl fell into the snare you had laid for her, in order to
do justice to her charms. But that which might be of the most fatal
consequences to you in that long conversation, is the revealing certain
secrets, which, in all probability, the duchess did not entrust you
with, to be imparted to the maids of honour: reflect upon this, and
neglect not to make some reparation to Sir Lyttleton, for the ridicule
with which you were pleased to load him. I know not whether he had his
information from your femme-de-chambre, but I am very certain that he
has sworn he will be revenged, and he is a man that keeps his word;
for after all, that you may not be deceived by his look, like that of a
Stoic, and his gravity, like that of a judge, I must acquaint you, that
he is the most passionate man living. Indeed, these invectives are of
the blackest and most horrible nature: he says it is most infamous, that
a wretch like yourself should find no other employment than to blacken
the characters of gentlemen, to gratify your jealousy; that if you
do not desist from such conduct for the future, he will immediately
complain of you; and that if her royal highness will not do him justice,
he is determined to do himself justice, and to run you through the body
with his own sword, though you were even in the arms of Miss Temple; and
that it is most scandalous that all the maids of honour should get into
your hands before they can look around them.

“These things, madam, I thought it my duty to acquaint you with: you are
better able to judge than myself, whether what I have now advanced be
true, and I leave it to your own discretion to make what use you think
proper of my advice; but were I in your situation, I would endeavour to
reconcile Lord Rochester and Miss Temple. Once more I recommend to you
to take care that your endeavours to mislead her innocency, in order
to blast his honour, may not come to his knowledge; and do not estrange
from her a man who tenderly loves her, and whose probity is so great,
that he would not even suffer his eyes to wander towards her, if his
intention was not to make her his wife.”

Miss Temple observed her promise most faithfully during this discourse:
she did not even utter a single syllable, being seized with such
astonishment and confusion, that she quite lost the use of her tongue.

Miss Hobart and Lord Rochester came up to her, while she was still
in amazement at the wonderful discoveries she had made; things in
themselves, in her opinion, almost incredible, but to the truth of
which she could not refuse her assent, upon examining the evidences and
circumstances on which they were founded. Never was confusion equal to
that with which her whole frame was seized by the foregoing recital.

Rochester and Killegrew took leave of them before she recovered from her
surprise; but as soon as she had regained the free use of her senses,
she hastened back to St. James, without answering a single question that
the other put to her; and having locked herself up in her chamber, the
fast thing she did, was immediately to strip off Miss Hobart’s clothes,
lest she should be contaminated by them; for after what she had been
told concerning her, she looked upon her as a monster, dreadful to the
innocence of the fair sex, of whatever sex she might be: she blushed at
the familiarities she had been drawn into with a creature, whose maid
was with child, though she never had been in any other service but hers:
she therefore returned her all her clothes, ordered her servant to bring
back all her own, and resolved never more to have any connection with
her. Miss Hobart, on the other hand, who supposed Killegrew had mistaken
Miss Temple for herself, could not comprehend what could induce her to
give herself such surprising airs, since that conversation; but being
desirous to come to an explanation, she ordered Miss Temple’s maid to
remain in her apartments, and went to call upon Miss Temple herself,
instead of sending back her clothes; and being desirous to give her some
proof of friendship before they entered upon expostulations, she slipt
softly into her chamber, when she was in the very act of changing her
linen, and embraced her. Miss Temple finding herself in her arms before
she had taken notice of her, everything that Killegrew had mentioned,
appeared to her imagination: she fancied that she saw in her looks
the eagerness of a satyr, or, if possible, of some monster still more
odious; and disengaging herself with the highest indignation from her
arms, she began to shriek and cry in the most terrible manner, calling
both heaven and earth to her assistance.

The first whom her cries raised were the governess and her niece. It
was near twelve o’clock at night: Miss Temple in her shift, almost
frightened to death, was pushing back with horror Miss Hobart, who
approached her with no other intent than to know the occasion of those
transports. As soon as the governess saw this scene, she began to
lecture Miss Hobart with all the eloquence of a real duenna: she
demanded of her, whether she thought it was for her that her royal
highness kept the maids of honour? whether she was not ashamed to come
at such an unseasonable time of night into their very apartments to
commit such violences? and swore that she would, the very next day,
complain to the duchess. All this confirmed Miss Temple in her mistaken
notions: and Hobart was obliged to go away at last, without being able
to convince or bring to reason creatures, whom she believed to be either
distracted or mad. The next day Miss Sarah did not fail to relate this
adventure to her lover, telling him how Miss Temple’s cries had alarmed
the maids of honour’s apartment, and how herself and her aunt, running
to her assistance, had almost surprised Miss Hobart in the very act.

Two days after, the whole adventure, with the addition of several
embellishments, was made public: the governess swore to the truth of
it, and related in every company what a narrow escape Miss Temple had
experienced, and that Miss Sarah, her niece, had preserved her honour,
because, by Lord Rochester’s excellent advice, she had forbidden her
all manner of connection with so dangerous a person. Miss Temple was
afterwards informed, that the song that had so greatly provoked her,
alluded to Miss Price only: this was confirmed to her by every person,
with additional execrations against Miss Hobart, for such a scandalous
imposition. Such great coldness after so much familiarity, made many
believe, that this adventure was not altogether a fiction.

This had been sufficient to have disgraced Miss Hobart at court, and to
have totally ruined her reputation in London, had she not been, upon the
present, as well as upon a former occasion, supported by the duchess:
her royal highness pretended to treat the whole story as romantic
and visionary, or as solely arising from private pique: she chid Miss
Temple, for her impertinent credulity: turned away the governess and
her niece, for the lies with which she pretended they supported the
imposture; and did many improper things in order to re-establish Miss
Hobart’s honour, which, however, she failed in accomplishing. She had
her reasons for not entirely abandoning her, as will appear in the
sequel.

Miss Temple, who continually reproached herself with injustice, with
respect to Lord Rochester, and who, upon the faith of Killegrew’s word,
thought him the most Honourable man in England, was only solicitous
to find out some opportunity of easing her mind, by making him some
reparation for the rigour with which she had treated him: these
favourable dispositions, in the hands of a man of his character, might
have led to consequences of which she was not aware; but heaven did not
allow him an opportunity of profiting by them.

Ever since he had first appeared at court he seldom failed being
banished from it, at least once in the year; for whenever a word
presented itself to his pen, or to his tongue, he immediately committed
it to paper, or produced it in conversation, without any manner of
regard to the consequences the ministers, the mistresses, and even the
king himself, were frequently the subjects of his sarcasms; and had
not the prince, whom he thus treated, been possessed of one of the most
forgiving and gentle tempers, his first disgrace had certainly been his
last.

Just at the time that Miss Temple was desirous of seeing him, in order
to apologize for the uneasiness which the infamous calumnies and black
aspersions of Miss Hobart had occasioned both of them, he was forbid the
court for the third time: he departed without having seen Miss Temple,
carried the disgraced governess down with him to his country seat, and
exerted all his endeavours to cultivate in her niece some dispositions
which she had for the stage; but though she did not make the same
improvement in this line, as she had by his other instructions, after
he had entertained both the niece and the aunt for some months in the
country, he got her entered in the king’s company of comedians the next
winter; and the public was obliged to him for the prettiest, but at the
same time, the worst actress in the kingdom.

   [Though no name is given to this lady, there are circumstances
   enough mentioned to fix on the celebrated Mrs. Barry, as the person
   intended by the author. Mrs. Barry was introduced to the stage by
   Lord Rochester, with whom she had an intrigue, the fruit of which
   was a daughter, who lived to the age of thirteen years, and is often
   mentioned in his collection of love-letters, printed in his works,
   which were written to Mrs. Barry. On her first theatrical attempts,
   so little hopes were entertained of her, that she was, as Cibber
   declares, discharged the company at the end of the first year, among
   others that were thought to be a useless expense to it. She was
   well born; being daughter of Robert Barry, Esq., barrister at law; a
   gentleman of an ancient family and good estate, who hurt his fortune
   by his attachment to Charles I.; for whom he raised a regiment at
   his own expense. Tony Aston, in his Supplement to Cibber’s Apology,
   says, she was woman to lady Shelton of Norfolk, who might have
   belonged to the court. Curl, however, says, she was early taken
   under the patronage of Lady Davenant. Both these accounts may be
   true. The time of her appearance on the stage was probably not much
   earlier that 1671; in which year she performed in Tom Essence, and
   was, it may be conjectured, about the age of nineteen. Curl
   mentions the great pains taken by Lord Rochester in instructing her;
   which were repaid by the rapid progress she daily made in her
   profession. She at last eclipsed all her competitors, and in the
   part of Monimia established her reputation. From her performance in
   this character, in that of Belvidera, and of Isabella, in the Fatal
   Marriage, Downes says she acquired the name of the famous Mrs.
   Barry, both at court and in the city. “Mrs. Barry,” says Dryden, in
   his Preface to Cleomenes, “always excellent, has in this tragedy
   excelled herself, and gained a reputation beyond any woman I have
   ever seen on the theatre.” “In characters of greatness,” says
   Cibber, “Mrs. Barry had a presence of elevated dignity; her mien
   and motion superb, and gracefully majestic; her voice full, clear,
   and strong; so that no violence of passion could be too much for
   her; and when distress or tenderness possessed her, she subsided
   into the most affecting melody and softness. In the art of exciting
   pity, she had a power beyond all the actresses I have yet seen, or
   what your imagination can conceive. In scenes of anger, defiance,
   or resentment, while she was impetuous and terrible, she poured out
   the sentiment with an enchanting harmony; and it was this particular
   excellence for which Dryden made her the above-recited compliment,
   upon her acting Cassandra in his Cleomenes. She was the first
   person whose merit was distinguished by the indulgence of having an
   annual benefit play, which was granted to her alone in King James’s
   time, and which did not become common to others till the division of
   this company, after the death of King William and Queen Mary.”]

About this time Talbot returned from Ireland: he soon felt the absence
of Miss Hamilton, who was then in the country with a relation, whom
we shall mention hereafter. A remnant of his former tenderness still
subsisted in his heart, notwithstanding his absence, and the promises
he had given the Chevalier de Grammont at parting: he now therefore
endeavoured to banish her entirely from his thoughts, by fixing his
desires upon some other object; but he saw no one in the queen’s new
court whom he thought worthy of his attention: Miss Boynton, however,
thought him worthy of hers. Her, person was slender and delicate, to
which a good complexion and large motionless eyes gave at a distance an
appearance of beauty, that vanished upon nearer inspection: she affected
to lisp, to languish, and to have two or three fainting-fits a day. The
first time that Talbot cast his eyes upon her she was seized with one
of these fits: he was told that she swooned away upon his account: he
believed it, was eager to afford her assistance; and ever after that
accident showed her some kindness, more with the intention of saving
her life, than to express any affection he felt for her. This seeming
tenderness was well received, and at first she was visibly affected by
it. Talbot was one of the tallest men in England, and in all appearance
one of the most robust; yet she showed sufficiently that she was willing
to expose the delicacy of her constitution, to whatever might happen,
in order to become his wife; which event perhaps might then have taken
place, as it did afterwards, had not the charms of the fair Jennings at
that time, proved an obstacle to her wishes.

I know not how it came to pass that he had not yet seen her; though he
had heard her much praised, and her prudence, wit, and vivacity equally
commended; he believed all this upon the faith of common report. He
thought it very singular that discretion and sprightliness should be so
intimately united in a person so young, more particularly in the midst
of a court where love and gallantry were so much in fashion; but he
found her personal accomplishments greatly to exceed whatever fame had
reported of them.

As it was not long before he perceived he was in love, neither was
it long before he made a declaration of it: as his passion was likely
enough to be real, Miss Jennings thought she might believe him, without
exposing herself to the imputation of vanity. Talbot was possessed of
a fine and brilliant exterior, his manners were noble and majestic:
besides this, he was particularly distinguished by the favour and
friendship of the duke; but his most essential merit, with her, was his
forty thousand pounds a-year, landed property, besides his employments.
All these qualities came within the rules and maxims she had resolved to
follow with respect to lovers: thus, though he had not the satisfaction
to obtain from her an entire declaration of her sentiments, he had at
least the pleasure of being better received than those who had paid
their addresses to her before him.

No person attempted to interrupt his happiness; and Miss Jennings,
perceiving that the duchess approved of Talbot’s pretensions; and after
having well weighed the matter, and consulted her own inclinations,
found that her reason was more favourable to him than her heart, and
that the most she could do for his satisfaction was to marry him without
reluctance.

Talbot, too fortunate in a preference which no man had before
experienced, did not examine whether it was to her heart or to her head
that he was indebted for it, and his thoughts were solely occupied in
hastening the accomplishment of his wishes: one would have sworn that
the happy minute was at hand; but love would no longer be love, if he
did not delight in obstructing, or in overturning the happiness of those
who live under his dominion.

Talbot, who found nothing reprehensible either in the person, in the
conversation, or in the reputation of Miss Jennings, was however rather
concerned at a now acquaintance she had lately formed; and having taken
upon him to give her some cautions upon this subject, she was much
displeased at his conduct.

Miss Price, formerly maid of honour, that had been set aside, as we have
before mentioned, upon her leaving the duchess’s service, had recourse
to Lady Castlemaine’s protection: she had a very entertaining wit:
her complaisance was adapted to all humours, and her own humour was
possessed of a fund of gaiety and sprightliness which diffused universal
mirth and merriment wherever she came. Her acquaintance with Miss
Jennings was prior to Talbot’s.

As she was thoroughly acquainted with all the intrigues of the court,
she related them without any manner of reserve to Miss Jennings, and her
own with the same frankness as the others: Miss Jennings was extremely
well pleased with her stories; for though she was determined to make no
experiment in love, but upon honourable terms, she however was desirous
of knowing from her recitals, all the different intrigues that were
carrying on: thus, as she was never wearied with her conversation, she
was overjoyed whenever she could see her.

Talbot, who remarked the extreme relish she had for Miss Price’s
company, thought that the reputation such a woman had in the world might
prove injurious to his mistress, more especially from the particular
intimacy there seemed to exist between them: whereupon, in the tone of
a guardian rather than a lover, he took upon him to chide her for
the disreputable company she kept. Miss Jennings was haughty beyond
conception, when once she took it into her head; and as she liked Miss
Price’s conversation much better than Talbot’s, she took the liberty
of desiring him “to attend to his own affairs, and that if he only
came from Ireland to read lectures about her conduct, he might take the
trouble to go back as soon as he pleased.” He was offended at a sally
which he thought ill-timed, considering the situation of affairs between
them; and went out of her presence more abruptly than became the respect
due from a man greatly in love. He for some time appeared offended;
but perceiving that he gained nothing by such conduct, he grew weary of
acting that part, and assumed that of an humble lover, in which he
was equally unsuccessful; neither his repentance nor submissions could
produce any effect upon her, and the mutinous little gipsy was still in
her pouts when Jermyn returned to court.

It was above a year since he had triumphed over the weakness of
Lady Castlemaine, and above two since the king had been weary of his
triumphs: his uncle, being vile of the first who perceived the king’s
disgust, obliged him to absent himself from court, at the very time that
orders were going to be issued for that purpose; for though the king’s
affections for Lady Castlemaine were now greatly diminished, yet he did
not think it consistent with his dignity that a mistress, whom he had
honoured with public distinction, and who still received a considerable
support from him, should appear chained to the car of the most
ridiculous conqueror that ever existed. His majesty had frequently
expostulated with the countess upon this subject: but his expostulations
were never attended to; it was in one of these differences that
he, advising her rather to bestow her favours upon Jacob Hall, the
rope-dancer, who was able to return them, than lavish away her money
upon Jermyn to no purpose, since it would be more honourable for her to
pass for the mistress of the first, than for the very humble servant of
the other, she was not proof against his raillery. The impetuosity of
her temper broke forth like lightning: she told him “that it very ill
became him to throw out such reproaches against one, who, of all the
women in England, deserved them the least; that he had never ceased
quarrelling thus unjustly with her, ever since he had betrayed his own
mean low inclinations; that to gratify such a depraved taste as his,
he wanted only such silly things as Stewart, Wells, and that pitiful
strolling actress,--[Probably Nell Gwyn.]--whom he had lately introduced
into their society.” Floods of tears from rage, generally attended these
storms; after which, resuming the part of Medea, the scene closed with
menaces of tearing her children in pieces, and setting his palace on
fire. What course could he pursue with such an outrageous fury, who,
beautiful as she was, resembled Medea less than her dragons, when she
was thus enraged!

The indulgent monarch loved peace; and as he seldom contended for it on
these occasions without paying something to obtain it, he was obliged
to be at great expense, in order to reconcile this last rupture: as they
could not agree of themselves, and both parties equally complained, the
Chevalier de Grammont was chosen, by mutual consent, mediator of the
treaty. The grievances and pretensions on each side were communicated
to him, and what is very extraordinary, he managed so as to please them
both. Here follow the articles of peace, which they agreed to:

“That Lady Castlemaine should for ever abandon Jermyn; that as a proof
of her sincerity, and the reality of his disgrace, she should consent
to his being sent, for some time, into the country; that she should
not rail any more against Miss Wells, nor storm any more against Miss
Stewart; and this without any restraint on the king’s behaviour towards
her that in consideration of these condescensions, his majesty should
immediately give her the title of duchess, with all the honours and
privileges thereunto belonging, and an addition to her pension, in order
to enable her to support the dignity.”

   [The title of Duchess of Cleveland was conferred on her 3rd August,
   22 Charles II., 1670.]

As soon as this peace was proclaimed, the political critics, who, in all
nations, never fail to censure all state proceedings, pretended that the
mediator of this treaty, being every day at play with Lady Castlemaine,
and never losing, had, for his own sake, insisted a little too strongly
upon this last article.

Some days after, she was created Duchess of Cleveland, and little Jermyn
repaired to his country-seat: however, it was in his power to have
returned in a fortnight; for the Chevalier de Grammont, having procured
the king’s permission, carried it to the Earl of St. Alban’s: this
revived the good old man; but it was to little purpose he transmitted it
to his nephew; for whether he wished to make the London beauties deplore
and lament his absence, or whether he wished them to declaim against
the injustice of the age, or rail against the tyranny of the prince,
he continued above half a year in the country, setting up for a little
philosopher, under the eyes of the sportsmen in the neighbourhood, who
regarded him as an extraordinary instance of the caprice of fortune.
He thought the part he acted so glorious, that he would have continued
there much longer had he not heard of Miss Jennings: he did not,
however, pay much attention to what his friends wrote to him concerning
her charms, being persuaded he had seen equally as great in others: what
was related to him of her pride and resistance, appeared to him of far
greater consequence; and to subdue the last, he even looked upon as an
action worthy of his prowess; and quitting his retreat for this purpose,
he arrived in London at the time that Talbot, who was really in love,
had quarrelled, in his opinion, so unjustly with Miss Jennings.

She had heard Jermyn spoken of as a hero in affairs of love and
gallantry. Miss Price, in the recital of those of the Duchess of
Cleveland, had often mentioned him, without in any respect diminishing
the insignificancy with which fame insinuated he had conducted himself
in those amorous encounters: she nevertheless had the greatest curiosity
to see a man, whose entire person, she thought, must be a moving trophy,
and monument of the favours and freedoms of the fair sex.

Thus Jermyn arrived at the right time to satisfy her curiosity by his
presence; and though his brilliancy appeared a little tarnished by his
residence in the country; though his head was larger, and his legs more
slender than usual, yet the giddy girl thought she had never seen any
man so perfect; and yielding to her destiny, she fell in love with him,
a thousand times more unaccountably than all the others had done before
her. Everybody remarked this change of conduct in her with surprise;
for they expected something more from the delicacy of a person who, till
this time, had behaved with so much propriety in all her actions.

Jermyn was not in the least surprised at this conquest, though not a
little proud of it; for his heart had very soon as great a share in
it as his vanity. Talbot, who saw with amazement the rapidity of this
triumph, and the disgrace of his own defeat, was ready to die with
jealousy and spite; yet he thought it would be more to his credit to die
than to vent those passions unprofitably; and shielding himself under
a feigned indifference, he kept at a distance to view how far such an
extravagant prepossession would proceed.

In the mean time Jermyn quietly enjoyed the happiness of seeing the
inclinations of the prettiest and most extraordinary creature in
England declared in his favour. The duchess, who had taken her under her
protection ever since she had declined placing herself under that of the
duke, sounded Jermyn’s intentions towards her, and was satisfied
with the assurances she received from a man, whose probity infinitely
exceeded his merit in love: he therefore let all the court see that he
was willing to marry her, though, at the same time, he did not appear
particularly desirous of hastening the consummation. Every person now
complimented Miss Jennings upon having reduced to this situation the
terror of husbands, and the plague of lovers: the court was in full
expectation of this miracle, and Miss Jennings of a near approaching
happy settlement: but in this world one must have fortune in one’s
favour, before one can calculate with certainty upon happiness.

The king did not use to let Lord Rochester remain so long in exile: he
grew weary of it, and being displeased that he was forgotten, he posted
up to London to wait till it might be his majesty’s pleasure to recall
him.

He first took up his habitation in the city, among the capital tradesmen
and rich merchants, where politeness indeed is not so much cultivated
as at court; but where pleasure, luxury, and abundance reign with less
confusion, and more sincerity. His first design was only to be initiated
into the mysteries of those fortunate and happy inhabitants: that is to
say, by changing his name and dress, to gain admittance to their feasts
and entertainments; and, as occasion offered, to those of their loving
spouses; as he was able to adapt himself to all capacities and humours,
he soon deeply insinuated himself into the esteem of the substantial
wealthy aldermen, and into he affections of their more delicate,
magnificent, and tender ladies: he made one in all their feasts, and
at all their assemblies; and, whilst in the company of the husbands, he
declaimed against the faults and mistakes of government, he joined their
wives in railing against the profligacy of the court ladies, and in
inveighing against the king’s mistresses: he agreed with them, that the
industrious poor were to pay for these cursed extravagances; that the
city beauties were not inferior to those of the other end of the town,
and yet a sober husband in this quarter of the town was satisfied with
one wife; after which, to out-do their murmurings, he said, that he
wondered Whitehall was not yet consumed by fire from heaven, since such
rakes as Rochester, Killegrew, and Sidney were suffered there, who had
the impudence to assert that all married men in the city were cuckolds,
and all their wives painted. This conduct endeared him so much to the
cits, and made him so welcome at their clubs, that at last he grew sick
of their cramming and endless invitations.

But, instead of approaching nearer the court, he retreated into one of
the most obscure corners of the city: where, again changing both his
name and his dress, in order to act a new part, he caused bills to
be dispersed, giving notice of “The recent arrival of a famous German
doctor, who, by long application and experience, had found out wonderful
secrets, and infallible remedies.”

   [Bishop Burnet confirms this account.--“Being under an unlucky
   accident, which obliged him to keep out of the way, he disguised
   himself so, that his nearest friends could not have known him, and
   set up in Tower Street for an Italian mountebank, where he practised
   physic for some weeks, not without success. In his latter years he
   read books of history more. He took pleasure to disguise himself as
   a porter, or as a beggar; sometimes to follow some mean amours,
   which, for the variety of them, he affected. At other times, merely
   for diversion, he would go about in odd shapes; in which he acted
   his part so naturally, that even those who were in the secret, and
   saw him in these shapes, could perceive nothing by which he might be
   discovered.”--Burnet’s Life of Rochester, ed. 1774, p. 14.]

His secrets consisted in knowing what was past, and foretelling what was
to come, by the assistance of astrology: and the virtue of his remedies
principally consisted in giving present relief to unfortunate young
women in all manner of diseases, and all kinds of accidents incident to
the fair sex, either from too unbounded charity to their neighbours, or
too great indulgence to themselves.

His first practice being confined to his neighbourhood, was not very
considerable; but his reputation soon extending to the other end of the
town, there presently flocked to him the women attending on the court,
next, the chamber-maids of ladies of quality, who, upon the wonders
they related concerning the German doctor, were soon followed by some of
their mistresses.

Among all the compositions of a ludicrous and satirical kind, there
never existed any that could be compared to those of Lord Rochester,
either for humour, fire, or wit; but, of all his works, the most
ingenious and entertaining is that which contains a detail of the
intrigues and adventures in which he was engaged while he professed
medicine and astrology in the suburbs of London.

The fair Jennings was very near getting a place in this collection; but
the adventure that prevented her from it, did not, however, conceal from
the public her intention of paying a visit to the German doctor.

The first chamber-maids that consulted him were only those of the maids
of honour; who had numberless questions to ask, and not a few doubts
to be resolved, both upon their own and their mistresses’ accounts.
Notwithstanding their disguise, he recognised some of them, particularly
Miss Temple’s and Miss Price’s maids, and her whom Miss Hobart had
lately discarded: these creatures all returned either filled with
wonder and amazement, or petrified with terror and fear. Miss Temple’s
chamber-maid deposed that he assured her she would have the small-pox,
and her mistress the great, within two months at farthest, if her
aforesaid mistress did not guard against a man in woman’s clothes. Miss
Price’s woman affirmed that, without knowing her, and only looking in
her hand, he told her at first sight that, according to the course of
the stars, he perceived that she was in the service of some good-natured
lady, who had no other fault than loving wine and men. In short, every
one of them, struck with some particular circumstance relating to their
own private affairs, had either alarmed or diverted their mistresses
with the account, not failing, according to custom, to embellish the
truth, in order to enhance the wonder.

Miss Price, relating these circumstances one day to her new friend, the
devil immediately tempted her to go in person, and see what sort of a
creature this new magician was. This enterprise was certainly very rash;
but nothing was too rash for Miss Jennings, who was of opinion that a
woman might despise appearances, provided she was in reality virtuous.
Miss Price was all compliance, and thus having fixed upon this glorious
resolution, they only thought of the proper means of putting it into
execution.

It was very difficult for Miss Jennings to disguise herself, on account
of her excessive fair and bright complexion, and of something particular
in her air and manner: however, after having well considered the matter
the best disguise they could think of was to dress themselves like
orange girls.

   [These frolics appear to have been not unfrequent with persons of
   high rank at this period. In a letter from Mr. Henshaw to Sir
   Robert Paston, afterwards Earl of Yarmouth, dated October 13, 1670,
   we have the following account: “Last week, there being a faire
   neare Audley-end, the queen, the Dutchess of Richmond, and the
   Dutchess of Buckingham, had a frolick to disguise themselves like
   country lasses, to red petticoats, wastcotes, &c., and so goe see
   the faire. Sir Barnard Gascoign, on a cart jade, rode before the
   queen; another stranger before the Dutchess of Buckingham; and Mr.
   Roper before Richmond. They had all so overdone it in their
   disguise, and looked so much more like antiques than country volk,
   that, as soon as they came to the faire, the people began to goe
   after them; but the queen going to a booth, to buy a pair of yellow
   stockings for her sweet hart, and Sir Bernard asking for a pair of
   gloves sticht with blew, for his sweet hart, they were soon, by
   their gebrish, found to be strangers, which drew a bigger flock
   about them. One amongst them had seen the queen at dinner, knew
   her, and was proud of her knowledge. This soon brought all the
   faire into a crowd to stare at the queen. Being thus discovered,
   they, as soon as they could, got to their horses; but as many of the
   faire as had horses got up, with their wives, children, sweet harts,
   or neighbours, behind them, to get as much gape as they could, till
   they brought them to the court gate. Thus, by ill conduct, was a
   merry frolick turned into a penance.”--I’ve’s Select Papers, p. 39.

   Bishop Burnet says, “at this time, (1668) the court fell into much
   extravagance in masquerading: both the king and queen, all the
   court, went about masked, and came into houses unknown, and danced
   there, with a great deal of wild frolic. In all this people were so
   disguised, that, without being in the secret, none could distinguish
   them. They were carried about in hackney chairs. Once the queen’s
   chairmen, not knowing who she was, went from her. So she was alone,
   and was much disturbed, and came to Whitehall in a hackney coach;
   some say in a cart.”--Burnet’s History, vol. i., p. 368.]

This was no sooner resolved upon, but it was put in execution they
attired themselves alike, and, taking each a basket of oranges under
their arms, they embarked in a hackney coach, and committed themselves
to fortune, without any other escort than their own caprice and
indiscretion.

The duchess was gone to the play with her sister: Miss Jennings had
excused herself under pretence of indisposition she was overjoyed at
the happy commencement of their adventure; for they had disguised
themselves, had crossed the Park, and taken their hackney coach at
Whitehall gate, without the least accident. They mutually congratulated
each other upon it, and Miss Price, taking a beginning so prosperous as
a good omen of their success, asked her companion what they were to do
at the fortune-teller’s, and what they should propose to him.

Miss Jennings told her that, for her part, curiosity was her principal
inducement for going thither; that, however, she was resolved to ask
him, without naming any person, why a man, who was in love with a
handsome young lady, was not urgent to marry her, since this was in his
power to do, and by so doing he would have an opportunity of gratifying
his desires. Miss Price told her, smiling, that, without going to the
astrologer, nothing was more easy than to explain the enigma, as she
herself had almost given her a solution of it in the narrative of the
Duchess of Cleveland’s adventures.

Having by this time nearly arrived at the playhouse, Miss Price, after
a moment’s reflection, said, that since fortune favoured them, a fair
opportunity was now offered to signalize their courage, which was to go
and sell oranges in the very playhouse, in the sight of the duchess and
the whole court. The proposal being worthy of the sentiments of the one,
and of the vivacity of the other, they immediately alighted, paid off
their hack, and, running through the midst of an immense number of
coaches, with great difficulty they reached the playhouse door. Sidney,
more handsome than the beautiful Adonis, and dressed more gay than
usual, alighted just then from his coach: Miss Price went boldly up to
him, as he was adjusting his curls; but he was too much occupied with
his own dear self to attend to anything else, and so passed on without
deigning to give her an answer. Killegrew came next, and the fair
Jennings, partly encouraged by the other’s pertness, advanced towards
him, and offered him her basket, whilst Price, more used to the
language, desired him to buy her fine oranges. “Not now,” said he,
looking at them with attention; “but if thou wilt to-morrow morning
bring this young girl to my lodgings, I will make it worth all the
oranges in London to thee” and while he thus spoke to the one he chucked
the other under the chin, examining her bosom. These familiarities
making little Jennings forget the part she was acting, after having
pushed him away with all the violence she was able, she told him with
indignation that it was very insolent to dare--“Ha! ha!” said he,
“here’s a rarity indeed! a young w----, who, the better to sell her
goods, sets up for virtue, and pretends innocence!”

Price immediately perceived that nothing could be gained by continuing
any longer in so dangerous a place; and, taking her companion under the
arm, she dragged her away, while she was still in emotion at the insult
that had been offered to her.

Miss Jennings, resolving to sell no more oranges on these terms, was
tempted to return, without accomplishing the other adventure; but Price
having represented to her the disgrace of such cowardly behaviour, more
particularly after having before manifested so much resolution, she
consented to go and pay the astrologer a short visit, so as they might
be enabled to regain the palace before the play was ended.

They had one of the doctor’s bills for a direction, but there was no
occasion for it; for the driver of the coach they had taken told them he
knew very well the place they wanted, for he had already carried above
an hundred persons to the German doctor’s: they were within half a
street of his house, when fortune thought proper to play them a trick.

Brounker had dined by chance with a merchant in that part of the city,
and just as he was going away they ordered their coach to stop, as
ill-luck would have it, just opposite to him. Two orange girls in
a hackney coach, one of whom appeared to have a very pretty face,
immediately drew his attention; besides, he had a natural curiosity for
such objects.

   [Gentleman of the chamber to the Duke of York, and brother to Lord
   Viscount Brounker, president of the royal society. Lord Clarendon
   imputes to him the cause of the great sea-fight, in 1665, not being
   so well improved as it might have been, and adds, “nor did the duke
   come to hear of it till some years after, when Mr. Brounker’s ill
   course of life, and his abominable nature, had rendered him so
   odious, that it was taken notice of in parliament, and, upon
   examination, found to be true, as is here related; upon which he was
   expelled the house of commons, whereof he was a; member, as an
   infamous person, though his friend Coventry adhered to him, and used
   many indirect acts to have protected him, and afterwards procured
   him to have more countenance from the king than most men thought he
   deserved; being a person, throughout his whole life, never notorious
   for anything but the highest degree of impudence, and stooping to
   the most infamous offices, and playing very well at chess, which
   preferred him more than the most virtuous qualities could have
   done.”--Continuation of Clarendon’s Life, p. 270.]

Of all the men at court, he had the least regard for the fair sex, and
the least attention to their reputation: he was not young, nor was his
person agreeable; however, with a great deal of wit he had a violent
passion for women. He did himself justice respecting his own merit; and,
being persuaded that he could only succeed with those who were desirous
of having his money, he was at open war with all the rest. He had a
little country-house four or five miles from London always well stocked
with girls: in other respects he was a very honest man, and the best
chess-player in England.

Price, alarmed at being thus closely examined by the most dangerous
enemy they could encounter, turned her head the other way, bid her
companion do the same, and told the coachman to drive on. Brounker
followed them unperceived on foot; and the coach having stopped twenty
or thirty yards farther up the street, they alighted. He was just
behind them, and formed the same judgment of them which a man much more
charitable to the sex must unavoidably have done, concluding that Miss
Jennings was a young courtesan upon the look-out, and that Miss Price
was the mother-abbess. He was, however, surprised to see them have much
better shoes and stockings than women of that rank generally wear, and
that the little orange girl, in getting out of a very high coach, showed
one of the handsomest legs he had ever seen: but as all this was no
obstruction to his designs, he resolved to purchase her at any rate, in
order to place her in his seraglio.

He came up to them, as they were giving their baskets in guard to the
coachman, with orders to wait for them exactly in that place. Brounker
immediately pushed in between them: as soon as they saw him, they gave
themselves up for lost; but he, without taking the least notice of their
surprise, took Price aside with one hand, and his purse with the other,
and began immediately to enter upon business, but was astonished to
perceive that she turned away her face, without either answering or
looking at him: As this conduct appeared to him unnatural, he stared her
full in the face, notwithstanding all her endeavours to prevent him:
he did the same to the other: and immediately recognised them, but
determined to conceal his discovery.

The old fox possessed a wonderful command of temper on such occasions,
and having teazed them a little longer to remove all suspicions he
quitted them, telling Price; “That she was a great fool to refuse his
offers, and that her girl would not, perhaps, get so much in a year,
as she might with him in one day; that the times were greatly changed,
since the queen’s and the duchess’s maids of honour forestalled the
market, and were to be had cheaper than the town ladies.” Upon this he
went back to his coach, whilst they blessed themselves, returning heaven
their most hearty thanks for having escaped this danger without being
discovered.

Brounker, on the other hand, would not have taken a thousand guineas
for this rencounter: he blessed the Lord that he had not alarmed them to
such a degree as to frustrate their intention; for he made no doubt but
Miss Price had managed some intrigue for Miss Jennings: he therefore
immediately concluded, that at present it would be improper to make
known his discovery, which would have answered no other end but to have
overwhelmed them with confusion.

Upon this account, although Jermyn was one of his best friends, he felt
a secret joy in not having prevented his being made a cuckold, before
his marriage; and the apprehension he was in of preserving him from that
accident, was his sole reason for quitting them with the precautions
aforementioned.

Whilst they were under these alarms, their coachman was engaged in a
squabble with some blackguard boys, who had gathered round his coach
in order to steal the oranges: from words they came to blows: the two
nymphs saw the commencement of the fray as they were returning to
the coach, after having abandoned the design of going to the
fortuneteller’s. Their coachman being a man of spirit, it was with great
difficulty they could persuade him to leave their oranges to the mob,
that they might get off without any further disturbance: having thus
regained their hack, after a thousand frights, and after having received
an abundant share of the most low and infamous abuse applied to them
during the fracas, they at length reached St. James’s, vowing never
more to go after fortune-tellers, through so many dangers, terrors, and
alarms, as they had lately undergone.

Brounker, who, from the indifferent opinion he entertained of the fair
sex, would have staked his life that Miss Jennings did not return from
this expedition in the same condition she went, kept his thoughts,
however, a profound secret; since it would have afforded him the highest
satisfaction to have seen the all-fortunate Jermyn marry a little
street-walker, who pretended to pass for a pattern of chastity, that he
might, the day after his marriage, congratulate him upon his virtuous
spouse; but heaven was not disposed to afford him that satisfaction, as
will appear in the sequel of these memoirs.

Miss Hamilton was in the country, as we before mentioned, at a
relation’s: the Chevalier de Grammont bore this short absence of hers
with great uneasiness, since she would not allow him permission to visit
her there, upon any pretence whatever; but play, which was favourable to
him, was no small relief to his extreme impatience.

Miss Hamilton, however, at last returned. Mrs. Wetenhall (for that was
the name of her relation) would by all means wait upon her to London, in
appearance out of politeness; for ceremony, carried beyond all bearing,
is the grand characteristic of country gentry: yet this mark of civility
was only a pretence, to obtain a peevish husband’s consent to his
wife’s journey to town. Perhaps he would have done himself the honour
of conducting Miss Hamilton up to London, had he not been employed in
writing some remarks upon the ecclesiastical history, a work in which he
had long been engaged: the ladies were more civil than to interrupt him
in his undertaking, and besides, it would entirely have disconcerted all
Mrs. Wetenhall’s schemes.

This lady was what may be properly called a beauty, entirely English,
made up of lilies and roses, of snow and milk, as to colour; and of wax,
with respect to the arms, hands, neck, and feet, but all this without
either animation or air; her face was uncommonly pretty; but there was
no variety, no change of countenance in it: one would have thought she
took it in the morning out of a case, in order to put it up again at
night, without using it in the smallest degree in the daytime. What can
I say of her! nature had formed her a baby from her infancy, and a
baby remained till death the fair Mrs. Wetenhall. Her husband had been
destined for the church; but his elder brother dying just at the time he
had gone through his studies of divinity, instead of taking orders, he
came to England, and took to wife Miss Bedingfield, the lady of whom we
are now speaking.

His person was not disagreeable, but he had a serious contemplative air,
very apt to occasion disgust: as for the rest, she might boast of having
one of the greatest theologists in the kingdom for her husband: he was
all day poring over his books, and went to bed soon, in order to rise
early; so that his wife found him snoring when she came to bed, and when
he arose he left her there sound asleep: his conversation at table would
have been very brisk, if Mrs. Wetenhall had been as great a proficient
in divinity, or as great a lover of controversy, as he was; but being
neither learned in the former, nor desirous of the latter, silence
reigned at their table, as absolutely as at a refectory.

She had often expressed a great desire to see London; but though they
were only distant a very short day’s journey from it, she had never been
able to satisfy her curiosity: it was not therefore without reason,
that she grew weary of the life she was forced to lead at Peckham. The
melancholy retired situation of the place was to her insupportable;
and as she had the folly, incident to many other women, of believing
sterility to be a kind of reproach, she was very much hurt to see
that she might fall under that suspicion; for she was persuaded, that
although heaven had denied her children, she nevertheless had all the
necessary requisites on her part, if it had been the will of the Lord.
This had occasioned her to make some reflections, and then to reason
upon those reflections; as for instance, that since her husband
chose rather to devote himself to his studies, than to the duties of
matrimony, to turn over musty old books, rather than attend to the
attractions of beauty, and to gratify his own pleasures, rather than
those of his wife, it might be permitted her to relieve some necessitous
lover, in neighbourly charity, provided she could do it conscientiously,
and to direct her inclinations in so just a, manner, that the evil
spirit should have no concern in it. Mr. Wetenhall, a zealous partisan
for the doctrine of the casuists, would not perhaps have approved of
these decisions; but he was not consulted.

The greatest misfortune was, that neither solitary Peckham nor its
sterile neighbourhood, presented any expedients, either for the
execution of the afore-mentioned design, or for the relief of poor Mrs.
Wetenhall: she was visibly pining away, when, through fear of dying
either with solitude or of want, she had recourse to Miss Hamilton’s
commiseration.

Their first acquaintance was formed at Paris, whither Mr. Wetenhall had
taken his wife half a year after they were married, on a journey thither
to buy books: Miss Hamilton, who from that very time greatly pitied her,
consented to pass some time in the country with her, in hopes by that
visit to deliver her, for a short time at least, out of her captivity;
which project succeeded according to her wish.

The Chevalier de Grammont, being informed of the day on which they were
to arrive, borne on the wings of love and impatience, had engaged George
Hamilton to go with him, and meet them some miles out of London. The
equipage he had prepared for the purpose, corresponded with his usual
magnificence; and on such an occasion, we may reasonably suppose he had
not neglected his person: however, with all his impatience, he checked
the ardour of the coachman, through fear of accidents, rightly judging
that upon a road prudence is preferable to eagerness. The ladies at
length appeared, and Miss Hamilton, being in his eyes, ten or twelve
times more handsome than before her departure from London, he would have
purchased with his life so kind a reception as she gave her brother.

Mrs. Wetenhall had her share of the praises, which at this interview
were liberally bestowed upon her beauty, for which her beauty was very
thankful to those who did it so much honour; and as Hamilton regarded
her with a tender attention, she regarded Hamilton as a man very well
qualified for putting in execution the little projects she had concerted
with her conscience.

As soon as she was in London, her head was almost turned, through an
excess of contentment and felicity: everything appeared like enchantment
to her in this superb city; more particularly, as in Paris she had never
seen anything farther than the Rue Saint Jacques, and a few booksellers’
shops. Miss Hamilton entertained her at her own house, and she was
presented, admired, and well received at both courts.

The Chevalier de Grammont, whose gallantry and magnificence were
inexhaustible, taking occasion, from this fair stranger’s arrival, to
exhibit his grandeur, nothing was to be seen but balls, concerts, plays,
excursions by land and by water, splendid collations and sumptuous
entertainments: Mrs. Wetenhall was transported with pleasures, of which
the greatest part were entirely new to her; she was greatly delighted
with all, except now and then at a play, when tragedy was acted, which
she confessed she thought rather wearisome: she agreed, however, that
the show was very interesting, when there were many people killed upon
the stage, but thought the players were very fine handsome fellows, who
were much better alive than dead.

Hamilton, upon the whole, was pretty well treated by her, if a man in
love, who is never satisfied until the completion of his wishes, could
confine himself within the bounds of moderation and reason: he used all
his endeavours to determine her to put in execution the projects she had
formed at Peckham: Mrs. Wetenhall, on the other hand, was much pleased
with him. This is the Hamilton who served in the French army with
distinction; he was both agreeable and handsome. All imaginable
opportunities conspired to favour the establishment of an intimacy,
whose commencement had been so brisk, that in all probability it would
not languish for a conclusion; but the more he pressed her to it, the
more her resolution began to fail, and regard for some scruples, which
she had not well weighed, kept her in suspense: there was reason to
believe that a little perseverance would have removed these obstacles;
yet this at the present time was not attempted. Hamilton, not able to
conceive what could prevent her from completing his happiness, since in
his opinion the first and greatest difficulties of an amour were already
overcome, with respect to the public, resolved to abandon her to
her irresolutions, instead of endeavouring to conquer them by a more
vigorous attack. It was not consistent with reason, to desist from an
enterprise, where so many prospects of success presented themselves, for
such inconsiderable obstacles; but he suffered himself to be intoxicated
with chimeras and visions, which unseasonably cooled the vigour of his
pursuit, and led him astray in another unprofitable undertaking.

   [I apprehend he is the same George Hamilton already described, who
   married Miss Jennings, and not the author of this work, as Lord
   Orford supposes. In a letter from Arlington to Sir William
   Godolphin, dated September 7, 1671, it is said, “the Conde de Molina
   complains to us of certain levies Sir George Hamilton hath made in
   Ireland. The king hath always told him he had no express license
   for it; and I have told the Conde he must not find it strange that a
   gentleman who had been bred the king’s page abroad, and losing his
   employment at home, for being a Roman Catholic, should have some
   more than ordinary connivance towards the making his fortune abroad
   by the countenance of his friends and relations in Ireland: and yet
   take the matter in the worst sense he could give, it would not
   amount to the breach of any article betwixt the king my master and
   the court of Spain.”--Arlington’s letters, vol. ii., p. 332. In
   a letter from the same nobleman to Lord Sandwich, written about
   October, 1667, we find the cause of Sir George Hamilton’s entering
   into the French service “Concerning the reformadoes of the guards
   of horse, his majesty thought fit, the other day, to have them
   dismissed, according to his promise, made to the parliament at the
   last session. Mr. Hamilton had a secret overture made him, that he,
   with those men, should be welcome into the French service; his
   majesty, at their dismissal, having declared they should have leave
   to go abroad whither they pleased.” They accepted of Mr. Hamilton’s
   offer to carry them into France. “Arlington’s Letters,” vol. i., p.
   185. Lodge, in his Peerage of Ireland, says, Sir George Hamilton
   died in 1667, which, from the first extract above, appears to be
   erroneous. He has evidently confounded the father and son; the
   former of whom was the person who died in 1667.]

I know not whether poor Wetenhall took the blame upon herself; but it is
certain, she was extremely mortified upon it. Soon after being obliged
to return to her cabbages and turkeys at Peckham, she had almost gone
distracted: that residence appeared a thousand times more dreadful to
her, since she had been initiated into the amusements of London; but
as the queen was to set out within a month for Tunbridge Wells, she was
obliged to yield to necessity, and return to the philosopher, Wetenhall,
with the consolation of having engaged Miss Hamilton to come and live at
her house, which was within ten or twelve miles of Tunbridge, as long as
the court remained there.

Miss Hamilton promised not to abandon her in her retirement, and further
engaged to bring the Chevalier de Grammont along with her, whose humour
and conversation extremely delighted her. The Chevalier de Grammont,
who on all occasions started agreeable raillery, engaged on his part
to bring George Hamilton, which words overwhelmed her with blushes. The
court set out soon after to pass about two months in the place of all
Europe the most rural and simple, and yet, at the same time, the most
entertaining and agreeable. Tunbridge is the same distance from London,
that Fontainebleau is from Paris, and is, at the season, the general
rendezvous of all the gay and handsome of both sexes. The company,
though always numerous, is always select: since those who repair thither
for diversion, ever exceed the number of those who go thither for
health. Everything there breathes mirth and pleasure: constraint is
banished, familiarity is established upon the first acquaintance, and
joy and pleasure are the sole sovereigns of the place.

The company are accommodated with lodgings in little, clean, and
convenient habitations, that lie straggling and separated from each
other, a mile and a half all round the Wells, where the company meet
in the morning: this place consists of a long walk, shaded by spreading
trees, under which they walk while they are drinking the waters: on one
side of this walk is a long row of shops, plentifully stocked with all
manner of toys, lace, gloves, stockings, and where there is raffling, as
at Paris, in the Foire de Saint Germain: on the other side of the walk
is the market; and, as it is the custom here for every person to buy
their own provisions, care is taken that nothing offensive appears on
the stalls. Here young, fair, fresh-coloured country girls, with clean
linen, small straw hats, and neat shoes and stockings, sell game,
vegetables, flowers and fruit: here one may live as one pleases: here
is, likewise, deep play, and no want of amorous intrigues. As soon as
the evening comes, every one quits his little palace to assemble at the
bowling-green, where, in the open air, those who choose, dance upon a
turf more soft and smooth than the finest carpet in the world.

Lord Muskerry had, within two or three short miles of Tunbridge, a very
handsome seat called Summer-hill: Miss Hamilton, after having spent
eight or ten days at Peckham, could not excuse herself from passing the
remainder of the season at his house; and, having obtained leave of Mr.
Wetenhall, that his lady should accompany her, they left the melancholy
residence of Peckham, and its tiresome master, and fixed their little
court at Summer-hill.

They went every day to court, or the court came to them. The queen
even surpassed her usual attentions in inventing and supporting
entertainments: she endeavoured to increase the natural ease and
freedom of Tunbridge, by dispensing with, rather than requiring, those
ceremonies that were due to her presence; and, confining in the bottom
of her heart that grief and uneasiness she could not overcome, she saw
Miss Stewart triumphantly possess the affections of the king without
manifesting the least uneasiness.

Never did love see his empire in a more flourishing condition than on
this spot: those who were smitten before they came to it, felt a mighty
augmentation of their flame; and those who seemed the least susceptible
of love, laid aside their natural ferocity, to act in a new character.
For the truth of the latter, we shall only relate the change which soon
appeared in the conduct of Prince Rupert.

   [Lord Orford’s contrast to this character of Prince Rupert is too
   just to be here omitted. “Born with the taste of an uncle whom his
   sword was not fortunate in defending, Prince Rupert was fond of
   those sciences which soften and adorn a hero’s private hours, and
   knew how to mix them with his minutes of amusement, without
   dedicating his life to their pursuit, like us, who, wanting capacity
   for momentous views, make serious study of what is only the
   transitory occupation of a genius. Had the court of the first
   Charles been peaceful, how agreeably had the prince’s congenial
   propensity flattered and confirmed the inclination of his uncle!
   How the muse of arts would have repaid the patronage of the monarch,
   when, for his first artist, she would have presented him with his
   nephew! How different a figure did the same prince make in a reign
   of dissimilar complexion! The philosophic warrior, who could relax
   himself into the ornament of a refined court, was thought a savage
   mechanic, when courtiers were only voluptuous wits. Let me
   transcribe a picture of Prince Rupert, drawn by a man who was far
   from having the least portion of wit in that age, who was superior
   to its indelicacy, and who yet was so overborne by its prejudices,
   that he had the complaisance to ridicule virtue, merit, talents.
   --But Prince Rupert, alas! was an awkward lover!” Lord Orford here
   inserts the character in the text, and then adds, “What pity that
   we, who wish to transmit this prince’s resemblance to posterity on a
   fairer canvas, have none of these inimitable colours to efface the
   harsher likeness! We can but oppose facts to wit, truth to satire.
   --How unequal the pencils! yet what these lines cannot do they may
   suggest: they may induce the reader to reflect, that if the prince
   was defective in the transient varnish of a court, he at least was
   adorned by the arts with that polish which alone can make a court
   attract the attention of subsequent ages.”--Catalogue of Engravers,
   p 135, 8vo ed.]

He was brave and courageous, even to rashness; but cross-grained
and incorrigibly obstinate: his genius was fertile in mathematical
experiments, and he possessed some knowledge of chemistry: he was polite
even to excess, unseasonably; but haughty, and even brutal, when he
ought to have been gentle and courteous: he was tall, and his manners
were ungracious: he had a dry hard-favoured visage, and a stern look,
even when he wished to please; but, when he was out of humour, he was
the true picture of reproof.

The queen had sent for the players, either that there might be no
intermission in the diversions of the place, or, perhaps, to retort upon
Miss Stewart, by the presence of Nell Gwyn, part of the uneasiness she
felt from hers. Prince Rupert found charms in the person of another
player called Hughes, who brought down and greatly subdued his natural
fierceness.

   [Mrs. Hughes was one of the actresses belonging to the king’s
   company, and one of the earliest female performers. According to
   Downs, she commenced her theatrical career after the opening of
   Drury lane theatre, in 1663. She appears to have been the first
   female representative of Desdemona. By Prince Rupert she had a
   daughter, named Ruperta, married to Lieutenant-general Howe, who
   survived her husband many years, dying at Somerset house, about the
   year 1740.]

From this time, adieu alembics, crucibles, furnaces, and all the
black furniture of the forges: a complete farewell to all mathematical
instruments and chemical speculations: sweet powder and essences were
now the only ingredients that occupied any share of his attention. The
impertinent gipsy chose to be attacked in form; and proudly refusing
money, that, in the end she might sell her favours at a dearer rate,
she caused the poor prince to act a part so unnatural, that he no longer
appeared like the same person. The king was greatly pleased with this
event, for which great rejoicings were made at Tunbridge; but nobody was
bold enough to make it the subject of satire, though the same constraint
was not observed with other ridiculous personages.

There was dancing every day at the queen’s apartments, because the
physicians recommended it, and no person thought it amiss: for even
those who cared least for it, chose that exercise to digest the waters
rather than walking. Lord Muskerry thought himself secure against
his lady’s rage for dancing; for, although he was ashamed of it, the
princess of Babylon was, by the grace of God, six or seven months
advanced in pregnancy; and, to complete her misfortune, the child had
fallen all on one side, so that even Euclid would have been puzzled to
say what her figure was. The disconsolate lady, seeing Miss Hamilton
and Mrs. Wetenhall set out every morning, sometimes on horseback and
sometimes in a coach, but ever attended by a gallant troop to conduct
them to court, and to convey them back, she fancied a thousand times
more delights at Tunbridge than in reality there were, and she did not
cease in her imagination, to dance over at Summer-hill all the country
dances which she thought had been danced at Tunbridge. She could no
longer support the racking torments which disturbed her mind, when
relenting heaven, out of pity to her pains and sufferings, caused Lord
Muskerry to repair to London, and kept him there two whole days: as soon
as ever he had turned his back, the Babylonian princess declared her
resolution to make a trip to court.

She had a domestic chaplain who did not want sense, and Lord Muskerry,
for fear of accidents, had recommended her to the wholesome counsels and
good prayers of this prudent divine; but in vain were all his preachings
and exhortations to stay at home; in vain did he set before her eyes her
husband’s commands, and the dangers to which she would expose herself
in her present condition; he likewise added that her pregnancy, being a
particular blessing from heaven, she ought therefore to be so much the
more careful for its preservation, since it cost her husband, perhaps,
more trouble than she was aware of, to obtain it. These remonstrances
were altogether ineffectual: Miss Hamilton and her cousin Wetenhall,
having the complaisance to confirm her in her resolution, they assisted
in dressing her the next morning, and set out along with her all their
skill and dexterity were requisite to reduce her shape into some kind of
symmetry; but, having at last pinned a small cushion under her petticoat
on the right side, to counteract the untoward appearance the little
infant occasioned by throwing itself on the left, they almost split
their sides with laughter, assuring her at the same time that she looked
perfectly charming.

As soon as she appeared, it was generally believed that she had dressed
herself in a farthingale, in order to make her court to the queen; but
every person was pleased at her arrival: those who were unacquainted
with the circumstances assured her in earnest that she was pregnant
with twins; and the queen, who envied her condition, notwithstanding
the ridiculous appearance she then made, being made acquainted with the
motive of her journey, was determined to gratify her inclinations.

As soon as the hour for country dances arrived, her cousin Hamilton was
appointed her partner: she made some faint excuses at first on account
of the inconvenient situation she was then in: but soon suffered them to
be overcome, in order, as she said, to show her duty to the queen; and
never did a woman in this world enjoy such complete satisfaction.

We have already observed, that the greatest prosperity is liable to the
greatest change: Lady Muskerry, trussed up as she was, seemed to feel no
manner of uneasiness from the motion in dancing; on the contrary, being
only apprehensive of the presence of her husband, which would have
destroyed all her happiness, she danced with uncommon briskness, lest
her ill stars should bring him back before she had fully satisfied
herself with it. In the midst, therefore, of her capering in this
indiscreet manner, her cushion came loose, without her perceiving it,
and fell to the ground in the very middle of the first round. The Duke
of Buckingham, who watched her, took it up instantly, wrapped it up in
his coat, and, mimicking the cries of a new-born infant, he went about
inquiring for a nurse for the young Muskerry among the maids of honour.

This buffoonery, joined to the strange figure of the poor lady, had
almost thrown Miss Stewart into hysterics; for the princess of Babylon,
after this accident, was quite flat on one side, and immoderately
protuberant on the other. All those who had before suppressed their
inclinations to laugh, now gave themselves free scope, when they saw
that Miss Stewart was ready to split her sides. The poor lady was
greatly disconcerted: every person was officious to console her; but
the queen, who inwardly laughed more heartily than any, pretended to
disapprove of their taking such liberties.

Whilst Miss Hamilton and Mrs. Wetenhall endeavoured to refit Lady
Muskerry in another room, the Duke of Buckingham told the king that,
if the physicians would permit a little exercise immediately after a
delivery, the best way to recover Lady Muskerry was to renew the dance
as soon as ever her infant was replaced; this advice was approved,
and accordingly put in execution. The queen proposed, as soon as she
appeared, a second round of country-dances; and Lady Muskerry accepting
the offer, the remedy had its desired effect, and entirely removed every
remembrance of her late mishap.

Whilst these things were passing at the king’s court, that of the Duke
of York took a journey on the other side of London; the pretence of this
journey was to visit the county whose name he bore; but love was the
real motive. The duchess, since her elevation, had conducted herself
with such prudence and circumspection, as could not be sufficiently
admired: such were her manners, and such the general estimation in which
she was held, that she appeared to have found out the secret of pleasing
every one; a secret yet more rare than the grandeur to which she had
been raised: but, after having gained universal esteem, she was
desirous of being more particularly beloved; or, more properly speaking,
malicious Cupid assaulted her heart, in spite of the discretion,
prudence, and reason, with which she had fortified it.

In vain had she said to herself a hundred times, that if the duke had
been so kind as to do her justice by falling in love with her, he had
done her too much honour by making her his wife; that with respect to
his inconstant disposition, which estranged him from her, she ought to
bear it with patience, until it pleased heaven to produce a change in
his conduct; that the frailties on his part, which might to her appear
injurious, would never justify in her the least deviation from her duty;
and, as resentment was still less allowable, she ought to endeavour to
regain him by a conduct entirely opposite to his own. In vain was it, as
we have said before, that she had long resisted Love and his emissaries
by the help of these maxims: how solid soever reason, and however
obstinate wisdom and virtue may be, there are yet certain attacks which
tire by their length, and, in the end, subdue both reason and virtue
itself.

The Duchess of York was one of the highest feeders in England: as
this was an unforbidden pleasure she indulged herself in it, as an
indemnification for other self-denials. It was really an edifying sight
to see her at table. The duke, on the contrary, being incessantly in
the hurry of new fancies, exhausted himself by his inconstancy, and was
gradually wasting away; whilst the poor princess, gratifying her good
appetite, grew so fat and plump that it was a blessing to see her. It
is not easy to determine how long things would have continued in this
situation, if Love, who was resolved to have satisfaction for her late
conduct, so opposite to the former, had not employed artifice as well as
force, to disturb her repose.

He at first let loose upon her resentment and jealousy two mortal
enemies to all tranquillity and happiness. A tall creature, pale-faced,
and nothing but skin and bone, named Churchill, whom she had taken for a
maid of honour, became the object of her jealousy, because she was then
the object of the duke’s affection. The court was not able to comprehend
how, after having been in love with Lady Chesterfield, Miss Hamilton,
and Miss Jennings, he could have any inclination for such a creature;
but they soon perceived that something more than unaccountable variety
had a great share in effecting this conquest.

   [Miss Arabella Churchill, daughter of Sir Winston Churchill of
   Wotton Basset, in the county of Wilts, and sister to the celebrated
   John, Duke of Marlborough. She was born 1648.]

The duchess beheld with indignation a choice which seemed to debase her
own merit in a much greater degree than any of the former; at the very
instant that indignation and jealousy began to provoke her spleen,
perfidious Cupid threw in the way of her passions and resentments the
amiable, handsome Sidney; and, whilst he kept her eyes fixed upon
his personal perfections, diverted her attention from perceiving the
deficiency of his mental accomplishments: she was wounded before she was
aware of her danger; but the good opinion Sidney had of his own merit
did not suffer him long to be ignorant of such a glorious conquest;
and, in order more effectually to secure it, his eyes rashly answered
everything which those of her royal highness had the kindness to tell
him, whilst his personal accomplishments were carefully heightened by
all the advantages of dress and show.

The duchess, foreseeing the consequences of such an engagement, strongly
combated the inclination that hurried her away; but Miss Hobart, siding
with that inclination, argued the matter with her scruples, and, in the
end, really vanquished them. This girl had insinuated herself into
her royal highness’s confidence by a fund of news with which she was
provided the whole year round: the court and the city supplied her; nor
was it very material to her whether her stories were true or false, her
chief care being that they should prove agreeable to her mistress: she
knew, likewise, how to gratify her palate, and constantly provided
a variety of those dishes and liquors which she liked best. These
qualifications had rendered her necessary; but, desirous of being still
more so, and having perceived both the airs that Sidney gave himself,
and what was passing in the heart of her mistress, the cunning Hobart
took the liberty of telling her royal highness that this unfortunate
youth was pining away solely on her account; that it was a thousand
pities a man of his figure should lose the respect for her which was
most certainly her due, merely because she had reduced him to such a
state that he could no longer preserve it; that he was gradually dying
away on her account, in the sight of the whole court; that his situation
would soon be generally remarked, except she made use of the proper
means to prevent it; that, in her opinion, her royal highness ought to
pity the miserable situation into which her charms had reduced him, and
to endeavour to alleviate his pain in some way or other. The duchess
asked her what she meant by “endeavouring to alleviate his pain in some
way or other.” “I mean, madam,” answered Miss Hobart, “that, if either
his person be disagreeable, or his passion troublesome, you will give
him his discharge; or, if you choose to retain him in your service, as
all the princesses in the world would do in your place, you will permit
me to give him directions from you for his future conduct, mixed with a
few grains of hope, to prevent his entirely losing his senses, until
you find a proper occasion yourself to acquaint him with your wishes.”
 “What!” said the duchess, “would you advise me, Hobart--you, who really
love me--to engage in an affair of this nature, at the expense of my
honour, and the hazard of a thousand inconveniences! If such frailties
are sometimes excusable, they certainly are not so in the high station
in which I am placed; and it would be an ill-requital on my part for his
goodness who raised me to the rank I now fill to----” “All this is very
fine,” interrupted Miss Hobart: “but is it not very well known that he
only married you because he was importuned so to do? Since that I refer
to yourself whether he has ever restrained his inclination a single
moment, giving you the most convincing proofs of the change that has
taken place in his heart, by a thousand provoking infidelities? Is it
still your intention to persevere in a state of indolence and humility,
whilst the duke, after having received the favours, or suffered the
repulses, of all the coquettes in England, pays his addresses to the
maids of honour, one after the other, and at present places his whole
ambition and desires in the conquest of that ugly skeleton, Churchill?
What! Madam, must then your prime of life be spent in a sort of
widowhood in deploring your misfortunes, without ever being permitted
to make use of any remedy that may offer? A woman must be endowed with
insuperable patience, or with an inexhaustible degree of resignation, to
bear this. Can a husband, who disregards you both night and day, really
suppose, because his wife eats and drinks heartily, as, God be thanked,
your royal highness does, that she wants nothing else than to sleep well
too? Faith, such conduct is too bad: I therefore once more repeat that
there is not a princess in the universe who would refuse the homage of a
man like Sidney, when a husband pays his addresses elsewhere.”

These reasons were certainly not morally good; but had they been still
worse the duchess would have yielded to them, so much did her heart act
in concert with Miss Hobart, to overthrow her discretion and prudence.

This intrigue began at the very time that Miss Hobart advised Miss
Temple not to give any encouragement to the addresses of the handsome
Sidney. As for him, no sooner was he informed by the confidant Hobart
that the goddess accepted his adoration than he immediately began to
be particularly reserved and circumspect in his behaviour, in order
to divert the attention of the public; but the public is not so easily
deceived as some people imagine.

As there were too many spies, too many inquisitive people and critics,
in a numerous court, residing in the midst of a populous city, the
duchess to avoid exposing the inclinations of her heart to the scrutiny
of so many inquisitors, engaged the Duke of York to undertake the
journey before mentioned, whilst the queen and her court were at
Tunbridge.

This conduct was prudent; and, if agreeable to her, was far from
displeasing to any of her court, except Miss Jennings: Jermyn was not of
the party; and, in her opinion, every party was insipid in which he was
not one of the company. He had engaged himself in an enterprise above
his strength, in laying a wager which the Chevalier de Grammont had
laid before, and lost. He betted five hundred guineas that he would ride
twenty miles in one hour upon the same horse, in the high road. The day
he had fixed upon for this race was the very same in which Miss Jennings
went to the fortune-teller’s.

Jermyn was more fortunate than her in this undertaking he came off
victorious; but as his courage had far exceeded the strength of his
constitution in this exertion to win the wager, he got a violent fever
into the bargain, which brought him very low. Miss Jennings inquired
after his health; but that was all she dared to do. In modern romances,
a princess need only pay a visit to some hero, abandoned by his
physicians, a perfect cure would be wrought in three days; but since
Miss Jennings had not been the cause of Jermyn’s fever, she was not
certain of relieving him from it, although she had been sure that a
charitable visit would not have been censured in a malicious court.
Without therefore paying any attention to the uneasiness she might feel
upon the occasion, the court set out without him: she had, however, the
gratification to testify her ill-humour throughout the whole journey, by
appearing displeased with everything which seemed to afford satisfaction
to all the rest of the company.

Talbot made one of the company; and flattering himself that the absence
of a dangerous rival might produce some change in his favour, he was
attentive to all the actions, motions, and even gestures, of his former
mistress. There was certainly enough fully to employ his attention: it
was contrary to her disposition to remain long in a serious humour. Her
natural vivacity hurried her away, from being seemingly lost in thought,
into sallies of wit, which afforded him hopes that she would soon
forget Jermyn, and remember that his own passion was the first she had
encouraged. However, he kept his distance, notwithstanding his love
and his hopes, being of opinion that it ill became an injured lover to
betray either the least weakness, or the smallest return of affection,
for an ungrateful mistress, who had deserted him.

Miss Jennings was so far from thinking of his resentments, that she
did not even recollect he had ever paid his addresses to her; and her
thoughts being wholly occupied upon the poor sick man, she conducted
herself towards Talbot as if they never had had anything to say to each
other. It was to him that she most usually gave her hand, either in
getting into or out of the coach; she conversed more readily with him
than any other person, and, without intending it, did everything to make
the court believe she was cured of her passion for Jermyn in favour of
her former lover.

Of this he seemed likewise convinced, as well as the rest; and thinking
it now proper to act another part, in order to let her know that his
sentiments with respect to her were still the same, he had resolved
to address her in the most tender and affectionate manner upon this
subject. Fortune seemed to have favoured him, and to have smoothed the
way for this intended harangue: he was alone with her in her chamber;
and, what was still better, she was rallying him concerning Miss
Boynton; saying, “that they were undoubtedly much obliged to him for
attending them on their journey, whilst poor Miss Boynton had fainting
fits at Tunbridge, at least twice every day, for love of him.” Upon
this discourse, Talbot thought it right to begin the recital of his
sufferings and fidelity, when Miss Temple, with a paper in her hand,
entered the room. This was a letter in verse, which Lord Rochester had
written some time before, upon the intrigues of the two courts; wherein,
upon the subject of Miss Jennings, he said: “that Talbot had struck
terror among the people of God, by his gigantic stature; but that
Jermyn, like a little David, had vanquished the great Goliath.”
 Jennings, delighted with this allusion, read it over two or three
times, thought it more entertaining than Talbot’s conversation, at first
heartily laughed at it, but soon after, with a tender air, “Poor little
David!” said she, with a deep sigh, and turning her head on one side
during this short reverie, she shed a few tears, which assuredly did not
flow for the defeat of the giant. This stung Talbot to the quick; and,
seeing himself so ridiculously deceived in his hopes, he went abruptly
out of the room, vowing never to think any more of a giddy girl, whose
conduct was regulated neither by sense nor reason; but he did not keep
his resolution.

The other votaries of love, who were numerous in this court, were more
successful, the journey being undertaken solely on that account. There
were continual balls and entertainments upon the road; hunting, and all
other diversions, wherever the court halted in its progress. The tender
lovers flattered themselves with the thought of being able to crown
their happiness as they proceeded in their journey; and the beauties
who governed their destiny did not forbid them to hope. Sidney paid his
court with wonderful assiduity: the duchess made the duke take notice
of his late perfect devotion to his service: his royal highness
observed it, and agreed that he ought to be remembered upon the first
opportunity, which happened soon after.

Montagu, as before mentioned, was master of the horse to the duchess:
he was possessed of a great deal of wit, had much penetration, and loved
mischief. How could she bear such a man near her person, in the present
situation of her heart? This greatly embarrassed her; but Montagu’s
elder brother having, very a-propos, got himself killed where he had no
business, the duke obtained for Montagu the post of master of the horse
to the queen, which the deceased enjoyed; and the handsome Sidney was
appointed to succeed him in the same employment to the duchess. All this
happened according to her wish; and the duke was highly pleased that he
had found means to promote these two gentlemen at once, without being at
the least expense.

Miss Hobart greatly applauded these promotions: she had frequent and
long conversations with Sidney, which, being remarked, some did her the
honour to believe it was upon her own account; and the compliments that
were made her upon the occasion she most willingly received. The duke,
who believed it at first, observed to the duchess the unaccountable
taste of certain persons, and how the handsomest young fellow in England
was infatuated with such a frightful creature.

The duchess confessed that taste was very arbitrary; the truth whereof
he himself seemed to be convinced of, since he had fixed upon the
beauteous Helen for his mistress. I know not whether this raillery
caused him to reflect for what reasons he had made his choice; but it
is certain he began to cool in his affections for Miss Churchill;
and perhaps he would entirely have abandoned this pursuit, had not an
accident taken place, which raised in him an entirely new inclination
for her.

The court having halted for a few days in a fine open country, the
duchess was desirous of seeing a greyhound course. This diversion is
practised in England upon large downs, where the turf, eaten by the
sheep, is particularly green, and wonderfully even. She was in her
coach, and all the ladies on horseback, every one of them being attended
by her squire; it therefore was but reasonable that the mistress should
likewise have her squire. He accordingly was at the side of her coach,
and seemed to compensate for his deficiencies in conversation, by the
uncommon beauty of his mien and figure.

The duke attended Miss Churchill, not for the sake of besieging her with
soft flattering tales of love, but, on the contrary, to chide her for
sitting so ill on horseback: She was one of the most indolent creatures
in the world; and although the maids of honour are generally the worst
mounted of the whole court, yet, in order to distinguish her, on account
of the favour she enjoyed, they had given her a very pretty, though
rather a high-spirited horse; a distinction she would very willingly
have excused them.

The embarrassment and fear she was under had added to her natural
paleness. In this situation, her countenance had almost completed
the duke’s disgust, when her horse, desirous of keeping pace with the
others, set off in a gallop, notwithstanding her greatest efforts to
prevent it; and her endeavours to hold him in, firing his mettle, he at
length set off at full speed, as if he was running a race against the
duke’s horse.

Miss Churchill lost her seat, screamed out, and fell from her horse.
A fall in so quick a pace must have been violent; and yet it proved
favourable to her in every respect; for, without receiving any hurt, she
gave the lie to all the unfavourable suppositions that had been formed
of her person, in judging from her face. The duke alighted, in order to
help her: she was so greatly stunned, that her thoughts were otherwise
employed than about decency on the present occasion; and those who first
crowded around her found her rather in a negligent posture: they could
hardly believe that limbs of such exquisite beauty could belong to Miss
Churchill’s face. After this accident, it was remarked that the duke’s
tenderness and affection for her increased every day; and, towards the
end of the winter, it appeared that she had not tyrannized over his
passion, nor made him languish with impatience.

The two courts returned to London much about the same time, equally
satisfied with their respective excursions; though the queen was
disappointed in the hopes she had entertained of the good effects of the
Tunbridge waters.

It was about this time that the Chevalier de Grammont received a letter
from the Marchioness de Saint-Chaumont, his sister, acquainting him,
that he might return when he thought proper, the king having given him
leave. He would have received this news with joy at any other time,
whatever had been the charms of the English court; but, in the present
situation of his heart, he could not resolve to quit it.

He had returned from Tunbridge a thousand times deeper in love than
ever; for, during this agreeable excursion, he had every day seen
Miss Hamilton, either in the marshes of melancholy Peckham, or in the
delicious walks of cheerful Summerhill, or in the daily diversions
and entertainments of the queen’s court; and whether he saw her on
horseback, heard her conversation, or observed her in the dance, still
he was persuaded that Heaven had never formed an object in every respect
more worthy of the love, and more deserving of the affection, of a man
of sense and delicacy. How then was it possible for him to bear the
thoughts of leaving her? This appeared to him absolutely impracticable;
however, as he was desirous of making a merit with her, of the
determination he had made to neglect his fortune, rather than to be
separated from her charms, he showed her his sister’s letter: but this
confidence had not the success he expected.

Miss Hamilton, in the first place, congratulated him upon his recall:
She returned him many thanks for the sacrifice he intended to make her;
but as this testimony of affection greatly exceeded the bounds of mere
gallantry, however sensibly she might feel this mark of his tenderness,
she was, however, determined not to abuse it. In vain did he protest
that he would rather meet death than part from her irresistible charms;
and her irresistible charms protested that he should never see them
more, unless he departed immediately. Thus was he forced to obey.
However, he was allowed to flatter himself, that these positive orders,
how harsh soever they might appear, did not flow from indifference;
that she would always be more pleased with his return than with his
departure, for which she was now so urgent; and having generously given
him assurances that, so far as depended upon herself, he would find,
upon his return, no variation in her sentiments during his absence, he
took leave of his friends, thinking of nothing but his return, at the
very time he was making preparations for his departure.




CHAPTER ELEVENTH. RETURN OF THE CHEVALIER GRAMMONT TO FRANCE--HE IS SENT
BACK TO ENGLAND--VARIOUS LOVE INTRIGUES AT THIS COURT, AND MARRIAGE OF
MOST OF THE HEROES OF THESE MEMOIRS


The nearer the Chevalier de Grammont approached the court of France, the
more did he regret his absence from that of England.

A thousand different thoughts occupied his mind upon the journey:
Sometimes he reflected upon the joy and satisfaction his friends
and relations would experience upon his return; sometimes upon the
congratulations and embraces of those who, being neither the one nor the
other, would, nevertheless, overwhelm him with impertinent compliments:
All these ideas passed quickly through his head; for a man deeply in
love makes it a scruple of conscience not to suffer any other thoughts
to dwell upon his mind than those of the object beloved. It was then
the tender, endearing remembrance of what he had left in London that
diverted his thoughts from Paris; and it was the torments of absence
that prevented his feeling those of the bad roads and the bad horses.
His heart protested to Miss Hamilton, between Montreuil and Abbeville
that he only tore himself from her with such haste, to return the
sooner; after which, by a short reflection, comparing the regret he had
formerly felt upon the same road, in quitting France for England, with
that which he now experienced, in quitting England for France, he found
the last much more insupportable than the former.

It is thus that a man in love entertains himself upon the road; or
rather, it is thus that a trifling writer abuses the patience of his
reader, either to display his own sentiments, or to lengthen out a
tedious story; but God forbid that this character should apply to
ourselves, since we profess to insert nothing in these memoirs, but
what we have heard from the mouth of him whose actions and sayings we
transmit to posterity.

Who, except Squire Feraulas, has ever been able to keep a register of
all the thoughts, sighs, and exclamations, of his illustrious master?
For my own part, I should never have thought that the attention of the
Count de Grammont, which is at present so sensible to inconveniences
and dangers, would have ever permitted him to entertain amorous thoughts
upon the road, if he did not himself dictate to me what I am now
writing.

But let us speak of him at Abbeville. The postmaster was his old
acquaintance: His hotel was the best provided of any between Calais and
Paris; and the Chevalier de Grammont, alighting, told Termes he would
drink a glass of wine during the time they were changing horses. It
was about noon; and, since the preceding night, when they had landed at
Calais, until this instant, they had not eat a single mouthful. Termes,
praising the Lord, that natural feelings had for once prevailed over the
inhumanity of his usual impatience, confirmed him as much as possible in
such reasonable sentiments.

Upon their entering the kitchen, where the Chevalier generally paid his
first visit, they were surprised to see half a dozen spits loaded
with game at the fire, and every other preparation for a magnificent
entertainment. The heart of Termes leaped for joy: he gave private
orders to the hostler to pull the shoes off some of the horses, that
he might not be forced away from this place before he had satisfied his
craving appetite.

Soon after, a number of violins and hautboys, attended by all the mob
of the town, entered the court. The landlord, being asked the reason of
these great preparations, acquainted the Chevalier de Grammont that
they were for the wedding of one of the most wealthy gentlemen in the
neighbourhood with one of the handsomest girls in the whole province;
that the entertainment was to be at his house; and that, if his lordship
chose to stop, in a very short time he would see the new-married couple
arrive from the church, since the music was already come. He was right
in his conjectures; for these words were scarce out of his mouth, when
three uncommonly large coaches, loaded with lackeys, as tall as Swiss,
with most gaudy liveries, all covered with lace, appeared in the
court, and disembarked the whole wedding company. Never was country
magnificence more naturally displayed: Rusty tinsel, tarnished lace,
striped silks, little eyes, and full swelling breasts, appeared on every
side.

If the first sight of the procession surprised the Chevalier de
Grammont, faithful Termes was no less astonished at the second. The
little that was to be seen of the bride’s face appeared not without
beauty; but no judgment could be formed of the remainder: Four dozen
of patches, at least, and ten ringlets of hair, on each side, most
completely concealed her from all human eyes; but it was the bridegroom
who most particularly attracted the Chevalier de Grammont’s attention.

He was as ridiculously dressed as the rest of the company, except a
coat of the greatest magnificence, and of the most exquisite taste. The
Chevalier de Grammont, walking up to him to examine his dress, began to
commend the embroidery of his coat. The bridegroom thought himself much
honoured by this examination, and told him he bought it for one hundred
and fifty louis, at the time he was paying his addresses to his wife.
“Then you did not get it made here?” said the Chevalier de Grammont.
“No,” replied the other; “I bought it of a London merchant, who had
ordered it for an English lord.” The Chevalier de Grammont, who now
began to perceive in what manner the adventure would end, asked him if
he should recollect the merchant if he saw him again? “Recollect him!”
 replied the other, “I surely ought; for I was obliged to sit up drinking
with him all night at Calais, as I was endeavouring to beat down the
price.” Termes had vanished out of sight as soon as ever this coat
appeared, though he little supposed that the cursed bridegroom would
have any conversation concerning it with his master.

The Chevalier’s thoughts were some time wavering between his inclination
to laugh, and a desire of hanging Master Termes; but the long habit
of suffering himself to be robbed by his domestics, together with the
vigilance of the criminal, whom his master could not reproach with
having slept in his service, inclined him to clemency; and yielding to
the importunities of the country gentleman, in order to confound his
faithful servant, he sat down to table, to make the thirty-seventh of
the company.

A short time after, he desired one of the waiters to call for a
gentleman whose name was Termes. He immediately appeared; and as soon
as the master of the feast saw him, he rose from table, and offering him
his hand; “Welcome, my friend,” said he; “you see that I have taken good
care of the coat which you sold me with so much reluctance, and that I
have kept it for a good purpose.”

Termes, having put on a face of brass, pretended not to know him, and
pushed him back with some degree of rudeness. “No, no!” said the other;
“since I was obliged to sit up with you the whole night, in order to
strike the bargain, you shall pledge me in the bride’s health.”
 The Chevalier de Grammont, who saw that Termes was disconcerted,
notwithstanding his impudence, said to him with a smile: “Come, come,
my good London merchant, sit down, as you are so civilly invited: we are
not so crowded at table but that there will be room enough for such an
honest gentleman as yourself.” At these words five-and-thirty of the
guests were in motion to receive this new visitor: the bride alone, out
of an idea of decorum, remained seated; and the audacious Termes, having
swallowed the first shame of this adventure, began to lay about him at
such a rate, as if it had been his intention to swallow all the wine
provided for the wedding, if his master had not risen from the table as
they were taking off four-and-twenty soups, to serve up as many other
dishes in their stead.

The company were not so unreasonable as to desire a man who was in such
haste to remain to the end of a wedding dinner; but they all got up when
he arose from table, and all that he could obtain from the bridegroom
was that the company should not attend him to the gate of the inn. As
for Termes, he wished they had not quitted him till the end of their
journey, so much did he dread being left alone with his master.

They had advanced some distance from Abbeville, and were proceeding on
in the most profound silence, when Termes, who expected an end to it
in a short time, was only solicitous in what manner it might happen,
whether his master would attack him with a torrent of invectives, and
certain epithets which were most justly his due, or whether, in an
insulting, ironical manner, he might make use of such commendations as
were most likely to confound him; but finding, instead of either, that
he remained in sullen silence, he thought it prudent rather to prevent
the speech the Chevalier was meditating than to suffer him to think
longer about it; and, accordingly, arming himself with all his
effrontery: “You seem to be very angry, Sir,” said he, “and I suppose
you think you have reason for being so; but the devil take me, if you
are not mistaken in reality.”

“How! traitor! in reality?” said the Chevalier de Grammont. “It is then
because I have not had thee well thrashed, as thou hast for a long
time merited.” “Look ye, Sir,” replied Termes, “you always run into a
passion, instead of listening to reason! Yes, Sir, I maintain that what
I did was for your benefit.” “And was not the quicksand likewise for
my service?” said the Chevalier de Grammont. “Have patience, if
you please,” pursued the other: “I know not how that simpleton of a
bridegroom happened to be at the custom-house when my portmanteau was
examined at Calais: but these silly cuckolds thrust in their noses
everywhere. As soon as ever he saw your coat, he fell in love with it.
I immediately perceived he was a fool; for he fell down upon his knees,
beseeching me to sell it him. Besides being greatly rumpled in the
portmanteau, it was all stained in front by the sweat of the horses. I
wonder how the devil he has managed to get it cleaned; but, faith, I am
the greatest scoundrel in the world, if you would ever have put it on.
In a word, it cost you one hundred and forty louis d’ors, and seeing he
offered me one hundred and fifty for it; ‘My master,’ said I, ‘has no
occasion for this tinselled bauble to distinguish him at the ball; and,
although he was pretty full of cash when I left him, how know I in what
situation he may be upon my return? there is no certainty at play.’ To
be brief, Sir, I got ten louis d’ors for it more than it cost you: this
you see is all clear profit: I will be accountable to you for it, and
you know that I am sufficiently substantial to make good such a sum.
Confess now, do you think you would have appeared to greater advantage
at the ball, if you had been dressed out in that damned coat, which
would have made you look just like the village bridegroom to whom we
sold it? and yet how you stormed at London when you thought it lost;
what fine stories you told the king about the quicksand; and how
churlish you looked, when you first began to suppose that this country
booby wore it at his wedding!”

What could the Chevalier reply to such uncommon impudence? If he
indulged his resentment, he must either have most severely bastinadoed
him, or he must have discarded him, as the easiest escape the rogue
could expect; but he had occasion for him during the remainder of his
journey; and, as soon as he was at Paris, he had occasion for him for
his return.

The Marechal de Grammont had no sooner notice of his arrival than he
went to him at the hotel; and, the first embraces being over on both
sides, “Chevalier,” said the Marechal, “how many days have you been in
coming from London hither? for God knows at what a rate you travel on
such occasions.” The Chevalier told him he had been three days upon the
road; and, to excuse himself for making no more haste, he related to
him his Abbeville adventure. “It is a very entertaining one,” said his
brother; “but what is yet more entertaining is, that it will be your
fault if you do not find your coat still at table; for the country
gentry are not accustomed to rise very soon from a wedding dinner.” And
then, in a very serious tone, told him, “he knew not who had advised him
to this unexpected return, which might probably ruin all his affairs;
but he had orders from the king to bid him go back again without
appearing at court. He told him afterwards that he was very much
astonished at his impatience, as, till this time, he had conducted
himself uncommonly well, and was sufficiently acquainted with the king’s
temper to know that the only way to merit his pardon was to wait until
it freely came from his clemency.”

The Chevalier, in justification of his conduct, produced Madame de Saint
Chaumont’s letter, and told the Marechal that he would very willingly
have spared her the trouble of writing him such kind of news, to
occasion him so useless a journey. “Still more indiscretion,” replied
his brother; “for pray how long has our sister being either secretary of
state or minister, that she should be employed by the king to make known
his majesty’s order? Do you wish to know the real state of the case?
Some time ago the king told Madame--[Henrietta]--how you had refused the
pension the King of England offered you.

   [“Henrietta, youngest daughter of Charles the First,--born at Exeter
   16th June, 1644, from whence she was removed to London in 1646, and,
   with her governess, Lady Dalkeith, soon afterwards conveyed to
   France. On the restoration, she came over to England with her
   mother, but returned to France in about six months, and was married
   to Philip, Duke of Orleans, only brother of Louis XIV. In May,
   1670, she came again to Dover, on a mission of a political nature,
   it is supposed, from the French king to her brother, in which she
   was successful. She died, soon after her return to France,
   suddenly, not without suspicion of having been poisoned by her
   husband. King James, in his Diary, says, ‘On the 22d of June, the
   news of the Duchess of Orleans’ death arrived. It was suspected
   that counter-poisons were given her; but when she was opened, in the
   presence of the English ambassador, the Earl of Ailesbury, an
   English physician and surgeon, there appeared no grounds of
   suspicion of any foul play. Yet Bucks tallied openly that she was
   poisoned; and was so violent as to propose to foreign ministers to
   make war on France.’--Macpherson’s Original Papers, vol i. At the
   end of Lord Arlington’s Letters are five very remarkable ones from a
   person of quality, who is said to have been actually on the spot,
   giving a particular relation of her death.]

“He appeared pleased with the manner in which Comminges had related to
him the circumstances attending it, and said he was pleased with you for
it: Madame interpreted this as an order for your recall; and Madame de
Saint Chaumont being very far from possessing that wonderful discretion
she imagines herself mistress of, she hastened to despatch to you this
consequential order in her own hand. To conclude, Madame said yesterday,
when the king was at dinner, that you would very soon be here; and the
king, as soon as dinner was over, commanded me to send you back as soon
as you arrived. Here you are; set off again immediately.”

This order might have appeared severe to the Chevalier de Grammont at
any other time; but, in the present state of his heart, he soon resolved
upon obeying. Nothing gave him uneasiness but the officious advice
which had obliged him to leave the English court; and being entirely
unconcerned that he was not allowed to see the French court before his
departure, he only desired the Marechal to obtain leave for him to stay
a few days to collect in some play debts which were owing him. This
request was granted, on condition that he should not remain in Paris.

He chose Vaugirard for his retreat: it was there that he had several
adventures which he so often related in so humorous and diverting a
manner, that it would be tedious to repeat them; there it was that he
administered the sacrament in so solemn a manner, that, as there did not
remain a sufficient number of Swiss at Versailles to guard the chapel,
Vardes was obliged to acquaint the king that they were all gone to the
Chevalier de Grammont, who was administering the sacrament at Vaugirard:
there likewise happened that wonderful adventure which threw the
first slur upon the reputation of the great Saucourt, when, having a
tete-a-tete with the gardener’s daughter, the horn, which was agreed
upon as the signal to prevent surprises, was sounded so often, that
the frequent alarms cooled the courage of the celebrated Saucourt, and
rendered useless the assignation that was procured for him with one of
the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood. It was, likewise, during his
stay at Vaugirard, that he paid a visit to Mademoiselle de l’Hopital at
Issy, to inquire into the truth of a report of an amour between her
and a man of the long robe; and it was there that, on his arriving
unexpectedly, the President de Maisons was forced to take refuge in a
closet, with so much precipitation, that half of his robe remained on
the outside when he shut the door; while the Chevalier de Grammont, who
observed it, made his visit excessively long, in order to keep the two
lovers upon the rack.

His business being settled, he set out for England on the wings of love.
Termes redoubled his vigilance upon the road. The post horses were
ready in an instant at every stage: the winds and tides favoured his
impatience; and he reached London with the highest satisfaction. The
court was both surprised and charmed at his sudden return. No person
condoled with him upon his late disappointment, which had occasioned
him to come back, as he testified no manner of uneasiness concerning it
himself: nor was Miss Hamilton in the least displeased at his readiness
in obeying the orders of the king his master.

Nothing new had happened in the English court during his short absence;
but it assumed a different aspect soon after his return: I mean with
respect to love and pleasure, which were the most serious concerns of
the court during the greatest part of this gay reign.

The Duke of Monmouth, natural son to Charles the Second, now made his
first appearance in his father’s court.

   [James Duke of Monmouth, was the son of Charles the II., by one Lucy
   Walters. He was born at Rotterdam, April 9, 1649, and bore the name
   of James Crofts until the restoration. His education was chiefly at
   Paris, under the eye of the queen-mother, and the government of
   Thomas Ross, Esq., who was afterwards secretary to Mr. Coventry
   during his embassy in Sweden. At the restoration, he was brought to
   England, and received with joy by his father, who heaped honours and
   riches upon him, which were not sufficient to satisfy his ambitious
   views. To exclude his uncle, the Duke of York, from the throne, he
   was continually intriguing with the opposers of government, and was
   frequently in disgrace with his sovereign. On the accession of
   James II. he made an ineffectual attempt to raise a rebellion, was
   taken prisoner, and beheaded on Tower-hill, 15th July, 1685. Mr.
   Macpherson has drawn his character in the following terms:
   “Monmouth, highly beloved by the populace, was a fit instrument to
   carry forward his (i.e. Shaftesbury’s) designs. To a gracefulness
   which prejudiced mankind in his favour as soon as seen, he joined an
   affability which gained their love. Constant in his friendships,
   and just to his word, by nature tender, and an utter enemy to
   severity and cruelty, active and vigorous in his constitution, he
   excelled in the manly exercises of the field. He was personally
   brave. He loved the pomp and the very dangers of war. But with
   these splendid qualities, he was vain to a degree of folly,
   versatile in his measures, weak in his understanding. He was
   ambitious without dignity, busy without consequence, attempting ever
   to be artful, but always a fool. Thus, taking the applause of the
   multitude for a certain mark of merit, he was the dupe of his own
   vanity, and owed all his misfortunes to that weakness.”--History of
   England, vol. i., chap. iii.]

His entrance upon the stage of the world was so brilliant, his ambition
had occasioned so many considerable events, and the particulars of his
tragical end are so recent, that it were needless to produce any other
traits to give a sketch of his character. By the whole tenor of his
life, he appeared to be rash in his undertakings, irresolute in the
execution, and dejected in his misfortunes, in which, at least, an
undaunted resolution ought to equal the greatness of the attempt.

His figure and the exterior graces of his person were such, that nature
perhaps never formed anything more complete: His face was extremely
handsome; and yet it was a manly face, neither inanimate nor effeminate;
each feature having its beauty and peculiar delicacy: He had a wonderful
genius for every sort of exercise, an engaging aspect, and an air of
grandeur: in a word, he possessed every personal advantage; but then he
was greatly deficient in mental accomplishments. He had no sentiments
but such as others inspired him with; and those who first insinuated
themselves into his friendship, took care to inspire him with none but
such as were pernicious. The astonishing beauty of his outward form
caused universal admiration: those who before were looked upon as
handsome were now entirely forgotten at court: and all the gay and
beautiful of the fair sex were at his devotion. He was particularly
beloved by the king; but the universal terror of husbands and lovers.
This, however, did not long continue; for nature not having endowed him
with qualifications to secure the possession of the heart, the fair sex
soon perceived the defect.

The Duchess of Cleveland was out of humour with the king, because
the children she had by his majesty were like so many little puppets,
compared to this new Adonis. She was the more particularly hurt, as she
might have boasted of being the queen of love, in comparison with the
duke’s mother.

The king, however, laughed at her reproaches, as, for some time, she had
certainly no right to make any; and, as this piece of jealousy appeared
to be more ill-founded than any she had formerly affected, no person
approved of her ridiculous resentment. Not succeeding in this, she
formed another scheme to give the king uneasiness: Instead of opposing
his extreme tenderness for his son, she pretended to adopt him, in her
affection, by a thousand commendations and caresses, which she was
daily and continually increasing. As these endearments were public, she
imagined they could not be suspected; but she was too well known for her
real design to be mistaken. The king was no longer jealous of her;
but, as the Duke of Monmouth was of an age not to be insensible to the
attractions of a woman possessing so many charms, he thought it proper
to withdraw him from this pretended mother-in-law, to preserve his
innocence, or at least his fame, uncontaminated: it was for this reason,
therefore, that the king married him so young. An heiress of five
thousand pounds a-year in Scotland, offered very a-propos: her person
was full of charms, and her mind possessed all those perfections in
which the handsome Monmouth was deficient.

   [This was Lady Anne Scott, daughter and sole heir of Francis, Earl
   of Buccleugh, only son and heir of Walter, Lord Scott, created Earl
   of Buccleugh in 1619. On their marriage the duke took the surname
   of Scott, and he and his lady were created Duke and Duchess of
   Buccleugh, Earl and Countess of Dalkeith, Baron and Baroness of
   Whitchester and Ashdale in Scotland, by letters patent, dated April
   20th, 1673. Also, two days after he was installed at Windsor, the
   king and queen, the Duke of York, and most of the court being
   present. The next day, being St. George’s day, his majesty
   solemnized it with a royal feast, and entertained the knights
   companions in St. George’s hall in the castle of Windsor. Though
   there were several children of this marriage, it does not appear to
   have been a happy one; the duke, without concealment attaching
   himself to Lady Harriet Wentworth, whom, with his dying breath, he
   declared he considered as his only wife in the sight of God. The
   duchess, in May, 1688, took to her second husband Charles, Lord
   Cornwallis. She died Feb. 6, 1731-32, in the 81st year of her age,
   and was buried at Dalkeith in Scotland. Our author is not more
   correct about figures than he avows himself to be in the arrangement
   of facts and dates: the duchess’s fortune was much greater than he
   has stated it to have been.]

New festivals and entertainments celebrated this marriage. The most
effectual method to pay court to the king, was to outshine the rest in
brilliancy and grandeur; and whilst these rejoicings brought forward
all manner of gallantry and magnificence, they either revived old, or
established new amours.

The fair Stewart, then in the meridian of her glory, attracted all eyes,
and commanded universal respect and admiration. The Duchess of Cleveland
endeavoured to eclipse her at this fate, by a load of jewels, and by all
the artificial ornaments of dress; but it was in vain: her face looked
rather thin and pale, from the commencement of a third or fourth
pregnancy, which the king was still pleased to place to his own
account; and, as for the rest, her person could in no respect stand in
competition with the grace and beauty of Miss Stewart.

It was during this last effort of her charms, that she would have been
queen of England, had the king been as free to give his hand as he
was to surrender his heart: for it was at this time that the Duke of
Richmond took it into his head either to marry her, or to die in the
attempt.

A few months after the celebration of the Duke of Monmouth’s nuptials,
Killegrew, having nothing better to do; fell in love with Lady
Shrewsbury; and, as Lady Shrewsbury, by a very extraordinary chance,
had no engagement at that time, their amour was soon established. No one
thought of interrupting an intimacy which did not concern any one; but
Killegrew thought proper to disturb it himself. Not that his happiness
fell short of his expectation, nor did possession put him out of love
with a situation so enviable; but he was amazed that he was not envied,
and offended that his good fortune raised him no rivals.

He possessed a great deal of wit, and still more eloquence, which most
particularly displayed itself when he was a little elevated with
the juice of the grape: he then indulged himself in giving luxurious
descriptions of Lady Shrewsbury’s most secret charms and beauties, which
above half the court were as well acquainted with as himself.

The Duke of Buckingham was one of those who could only judge from
outward appearances: and appearances, in his opinion, did not seem to
promise any thing so exquisite as the extravagant praises of Killegrew
would infer. As this indiscreet lover was a frequent guest at the Duke
of Buckingham’s table, he was continually employing his rhetoric on
this subject, and he had full opportunity for his harangues; for they
generally sat down to dinner at four o’clock, and only rose just in time
for the play in the evening.

The Duke of Buckingham, whose ears were continually deafened with
descriptions of Lady Shrewsbury’s merits, resolved at last to examine
into the truth of the matter himself. As soon as he had made the
experiment, he was satisfied; and, though he fancied that fame did not
exceed the truth, yet this intrigue began in such a manner, that it
was generally believed its duration would be short, considering, the
fickleness of both parties, and the vivacity with which they had engaged
in it: nevertheless, no amour in England ever continued so long.

The imprudent Killegrew, who could not be satisfied without rivals, was
obliged, in the end, to be satisfied without a mistress. This he bore
very impatiently; but so far was Lady Shrewsbury from hearkening to, or
affording any redress for the grievances at first complained of, that
she pretended even not to know him. His spirit could not brook such
treatment; and without ever considering that he was the author of
his own disgrace, he let loose all his abusive eloquence against her
ladyship: he attacked her with the most bitter invectives from head to
foot: he drew a frightful picture of her conduct; and turned all her
personal charms, which he used to extol, into defects. He was privately
warned of the inconveniences to which these declamations might subject
him, but despised the advice, and, persisting, he soon had reason to
repent it.

As he was returning one evening from the Duke of York’s apartments at
St. James’s, three passes with a sword were made at him through his
chair, one of which went entirely through his arm. Upon this, he was
sensible of the danger to which his intemperate tongue had exposed him,
over and above the loss of his mistress. The assassins made their escape
across the Park, not doubting but they had dispatched him.

Killegrew thought that all complaints would be useless; for what redress
from justice could he expect for an attempt of which his wounds were
his only evidence? And, besides, he was convinced that if he began
a prosecution founded upon appearances and conjectures, the parties
concerned would take the shortest and most effectual means to put a stop
to all inquiries upon the subject, and that their second attempt would
not prove ineffectual. Being desirous, therefore, of deserving mercy
from those who had endeavoured to assassinate him, he no longer
continued his satires, and said not a word of the adventure. The Duke of
Buckingham and Lady Shrewsbury remained for a long period both happy and
contented. Never before had her constancy been of so long a duration;
nor had he ever been so submissive and respectful a lover.

This continued until Lord Shrewsbury, who never before had shown the
least uneasiness at his lady’s misconduct, thought proper to resent
this: it was public enough, indeed, but less dishonourable to her than
any of her former intrigues. Poor Lord Shrewsbury, too polite a man to
make any reproaches to his wife, was resolved to have redress for his
injured honour: he accordingly challenged the Duke of Buckingham; and
the Duke of Buckingham, as a reparation for his honour, having killed
him upon the spot, remained a peaceable possessor of this famous Helen.
The public was at first shocked at the transaction; but the public grows
familiar with everything by habit, and by degrees both decency, and even
virtue itself, are rendered tame, and overcome. The queen was at the
head of those who exclaimed against so public and scandalous a crime,
and against the impunity of such a wicked act. As the Duchess of
Buckingham was a short fat body, like her majesty, who never had had any
children, and whom her husband had abandoned for another; this sort of
parallel in their situations interested the queen in her favour; but
it was all in vain: no person paid any attention to them; the
licentiousness of the age went on uncontrolled, though the queen
endeavoured to raise up the serious part of the nation, the politicians
and devotees, as enemies against it.

The fate of this princess was in many cases truly melancholy: The king,
indeed, paid her every outward attention; but that was all: She easily
perceived that the respect he entertained for her daily diminished, in
proportion as the credit of her rivals increased: She saw that the king
her husband was now totally indifferent about legitimate children, since
his all-charming mistresses bore him others. As all the happiness of her
life depended upon that blessing, and as she flattered herself that the
king would prove kinder to her if Heaven would vouchsafe to grant
her desires, she had recourse to all the celebrated secrets against
sterility: pious vows, nine days’ prayers, and offerings having been
tried in all manners, but all to no purpose, she was at last obliged to
return to natural means.

What would she have given on this occasion for the ring which Archbishop
Turpin wore on his finger, and which made Charlemagne run after him, in
the same manner as it had made him run after one of his concubines, from
whose finger Turpin had taken it after her death! But it is now many
years since the only talismans for creating love are the charms of
the person beloved, and foreign enchantments have been looked upon as
ineffectual. The queen’s physicians, men of great prudence, sagacity,
and wisdom, as they always are, having duly weighed and considered that
the cold waters of Tunbridge had not succeeded in the preceding year,
concluded that it would be advisable for her to try the warm baths at
Bristol--[Probably Bath, D.W.]--This journey was therefore fixed for
the next season; and in the confidence of its proving effectual, this
excursion would have afforded her much pleasure, if the most dangerous
of her rivals had not been one of the first that was appointed to attend
the court. The Duchess of Cleveland being then near her time, there was
no uneasiness on her account: the common rules of decency required a
little attention. The public, it is true, was not either more or less
acquainted with the circumstances of her situation; by the care which
she now took to conceal it; but her appearing at court in her present
condition would have been too great an insult to the queen. Miss
Stewart, more handsome than ever, was appointed for this excursion, and
began to make magnificent preparations. The poor queen durst say nothing
against it; but all hopes of success immediately forsook her. What could
the baths, or the feeble virtue of the waters, perform against charms
that entirely counteracted their effects, either through the grief
and uneasiness they occasioned her, or by their still more powerful
consequences?

The Chevalier de Grammont, to whom all pleasures were insipid without
the presence of Miss Hamilton, was yet unable to excuse himself from
attending the court: the king delighted too much in his sprightly
conversation to leave him behind; and however pleasing his company might
have been in the solitude occasioned by the absence of the court, Miss
Hamilton did not think it right to accept his offer of staying in town,
because she was obliged to remain there: she, however, granted him the
permission of writing her an account of any news that might occur upon
the journey. He failed not to make use of this permission, in such a
manner as one may imagine: and his own concerns took up so much space
in his letters, that there was very little room left for other subjects
during his stay at the baths. As absence from the object of his
affections rendered this place insupportable, he engaged in everything
that might dissipate his impatience, until the happy moment of return
arrived.

He had a great esteem for the elder of the Hamiltons; no less esteem,
and far more friendship for his brother, whom he made the confidant
of his passion and attachment for his sister. The Chevalier was also
acquainted with his first engagements with his cousin Wetenhall; but
being ignorant of the coldness that had interrupted a commerce so brisk
in its commencement, he was surprised at the eagerness he showed upon
all occasions to please Miss Stewart: his assiduity appeared to the
Chevalier de Grammont to exceed those civilities and attentions that
are usually paid for the purpose of making court to the favourites of
princes. He observed him more strictly, and soon perceived that he was
deeper in love with her than was consistent either with his fortune
or his repose. As soon as the remarks he made had confirmed him in
his suspicions, he resolved to use his endeavours to prevent the
consequences of an engagement pernicious in every respect: but he waited
for a proper opportunity of speaking to him upon the subject.

In the mean time, the court enjoyed every kind of diversion, in a place
where amusement is sought with avidity. The game of bowls, which in
France is the pastime of mechanics and servants only, is quite the
contrary in England, where it is the exercise of gentlemen, and requires
both art and address: it is only in use during the fair and dry part of
the season, and the places where it is practised are charming, delicious
walks, called bowling-greens, which are little square grass plots, where
the turf is almost as smooth and level as the cloth of a billiard-table.
As soon as the heat of the day is over, all the company assemble there:
they play deep; and spectators are at liberty to make what bets they
please.

The Chevalier de Grammont, long before initiated in the English games
and diversions, had been engaged in a horse-race, in which he was
indeed unsuccessful; but he had the satisfaction of being convinced by
experience, that an English horse can go twenty miles upon the high road
in less than an hour. He was more fortunate at cock-fighting; and in the
bets he made at the bowling-green, the party he betted upon never failed
to win.

Near all these places of diversion there is usually a sort of inn, or
house of entertainment, with a bower or arbour, in which are sold all
sorts of English liquors, such as cider, mead, bottled beer, and Spanish
wines. Here the rooks meet every evening to drink, smoke, and to try
their skill upon each other, or, in other words, to endeavour to trick
one another out of the winnings of the day. These rooks are, properly
speaking, what we call capons or piqueurs, in France; men who always
carry money about them, to enable them to lend to losing gamesters, for
which they receive a gratification, which is nothing for such as play
deep, as it is only two per cent., and the money to be repaid the next
day.

These gentlemen are so nice in their calculations, and so particularly
skilful in all manner of games, that no person would dare to enter the
lists with them, were they even assured that no unfairness would be
practised. Besides, they make a vow, to win four or five guineas a day,
and to be satisfied with that gain; a vow which they seldom or never
break.

It was in the midst of a company of these rooks, that Hamilton found the
Chevalier de Grammont, when he called in one evening to get a glass
of cider. They were playing at hazard; and as he who holds the dice is
supposed to have the advantage, the rooks did the Chevalier de Grammont
that honour out of compliment: he had the dice in his hand when Hamilton
came into the room. The rooks, secure of their odds, were betting
against him at a high rate, and he took all.

Hamilton could hardly believe his eyes, to see a man of his experience
and knowledge engaged in so unequal a contest; but it was to no purpose
that he informed him of his danger, both aloud in French, and in private
by signs; he still disregarded his warnings, and the dice, that bore
Caesar and his fortunes, performed a miracle in his favour. The rooks
were defeated for the first time, but not without bestowing upon him all
the encomiums and praises of being a very fair and honourable player,
which they never fail to lavish upon those whom they wish to engage
a second time; but all their commendations were lost, and their hopes
deceived: the Chevalier was satisfied with the first experiment.

Hamilton, when the king was at supper, related to him how he found the
Chevalier de Grammont rashly engaged with the rooks, and in what manner
he had been providentially preserved. “Indeed, Sir,” said the Chevalier
de Grammont, “the rooks were discomfited for once;” and thereupon
related the adventure to his majesty in his usual way, attracting the
attention of all the company, to a circumstance trifling in itself, but
rendered interesting by his humour.

After supper, Miss Stewart, in whose apartment there was play, called
Hamilton to her to tell the story. The Chevalier de Grammont, perceiving
that she attended to him with pleasure, was fully confirmed in the truth
of his first conjectures; and, having carried Hamilton home with him to
supper, they began to discourse freely together as usual, “George,” said
the Chevalier de Grammont, “are you in any want of money? I know you
love play: perhaps it may not be so favourable to you as it is to me. We
are at a great distance from London. Here are two hundred guineas:
take them, I beseech you; they will do to play with at Miss Stewart’s.”
 Hamilton, who little expected this conclusion, was rather disconcerted.
“How! at Miss Stewart’s!” “Yes, in her apartments. Friend George,”
 continued the Chevalier de Grammont, “I have not yet lost my eyes: you
are in love with her, and, if I am not mistaken, she is not offended at
it; but tell me how you could resolve to banish poor Wetenhall from your
heart, and suffer yourself to be infatuated with a girl, who perhaps
after all is not worth the other, and who besides, whatever favourable
dispositions she may have for you, will undoubtedly in the end prove
your ruin. Faith, your brother and you are two pretty fellows, in your
choice. What! can you find no other beauties in all the court to fall in
love with, except the king’s two mistresses! As for the elder brother,
I can pardon him he only took Lady Castlemaine after his master had done
with her, and after Lady Chesterfield had discarded him; but, as for
you, what the devil do you intend to do with a creature, on whom the
king seems every day to dote with increasing fondness? Is it because
that drunken sot Richmond has again come forward, and now declares
himself one of her professed admirers? You will soon see what he will
make by it: I have not forgotten what the king said to me upon the
subject. ‘Believe me, my dear friend, there is no playing tricks with
our masters; I mean, there is no ogling their mistresses.’ I myself
wanted to play the agreeable in France with a little coquette, whom
the king did not care about, and you know how dearly I paid for it. I
confess she gives you fair play, but do not trust to her. All the sex
feel an unspeakable satisfaction at having men in their train, whom they
care not for, and to use them as their slaves of state, merely to swell
their equipage. Would it not be a great deal better to pass a week or
ten days incognito at Peckham, with the philosopher Wetenhall’s wife,
than to have it inserted in the Dutch Gazette.--We hear from Bristol,
that such a one is banished the court on account of Miss Stewart, and
that he is going to make a campaign in Guinea on board the fleet that is
fitting out for the expedition, under the command of Prince Rupert.”

Hamilton, who was the more convinced of the truth of this discourse, the
more he considered it, after musing some time, appeared to wake from a
dream, and addressing himself with an air of gratitude to the Chevalier
de Grammont: “Of all the men in the world, my dear friend,” said he,
“you have the most agreeable wit, and at the same time the clearest
judgment with respect to your friends: what you have told me has opened
my eyes. I began to suffer myself to be seduced by the most ridiculous
illusion imaginable, and to be hurried away rather by frivolous
appearances than any real inclination: to you I owe the obligation of
having preserved me from destruction at the very brink of a precipice.
This is not the only kindness you have done me, your favours have been
innumerable; and, as a proof of my gratitude for this last, I will
follow your advice, and go into retirement at my cousin Wetenhall’s,
to eradicate from my recollection every trace of those chimeras which
lately possessed my brain; but so far from going thither incognito, I
will take you along with me, as soon as the court returns to London.
My sister shall likewise be of the party; for it is prudent to use
all precautions with a man who, with a great deal of merit, on such
occasions is not over scrupulous, if we may credit your philosopher.”
 “Do not pay any attention to that pedant,” replied the Chevalier de
Grammont: “but tell me what put it into your head to form a design upon
that inanimate statue, Miss Stewart?” “How the devil should I know?”
 said Hamilton: “you are acquainted with all her childish amusements. The
old Lord Carlingford was at her apartment one evening, showing her
how to hold a lighted wax candle in her mouth, and the grand secret
consisted in keeping the burning end there a long time without its being
extinguished. I have, thank God, a pretty large mouth, and, in order to
out-do her teacher, I took two candles into my mouth at the same time,
and walked three times round the room without their going out. Every
person present adjudged me the prize of this illustrious experiment,
and Killegrew maintained that nothing but a lanthorn could stand in
competition with me. Upon this she was like to die with laughing;
and thus was I admitted into the familiarity of her amusements. It is
impossible to deny her being one of the most charming creatures that
ever was: since the court has been in the country, I have had an hundred
opportunities of seeing her, which I had not before. You know that the
dishabille of the bath is a great convenience for those ladies, who,
strictly adhering to all the rules of decorum, are yet desirous to
display all their charms and attractions. Miss Stewart is so fully
acquainted with the advantages she possesses over all other women, that
it is hardly possible to praise any lady at court for a well-turned
arm, and a fine leg, but she is ever ready to dispute the point by
demonstration; and I really believe, that, with a little address,
it would not be difficult to induce her to strip naked, without ever
reflecting upon what she was doing. After all, a man must be very
insensible to remain unconcerned and unmoved on such happy occasions;
and, besides, the good opinion we entertain of ourselves is apt to make
us think a woman is smitten, as soon as she distinguishes us by habitual
familiarity, which most commonly signifies nothing. This is the truth of
the matter with respect to myself: my own presumption, her beauty, the
brilliant station that sets it off, and a thousand kind things she had
said to me, prevented me from making serious reflections; but then, as
some excuse for my folly, I must likewise tell you, that the facility
I found in making her the tenderest declarations by commending her, and
her telling me in confidence a thousand things which she ought not to
have entrusted me with, might have deceived or infatuated any other man
as well as myself.

“I presented her with one of the prettiest horses in England. You know
what peculiar grace and elegance distinguish her on horseback. The king,
who, of all the diversions of the chase, likes none but hawking, because
it is the most convenient for the ladies, went out the other day to take
this amusement, attended by all the beauties of his court. His majesty
having galloped after a falcon, and the whole bright squadron after him,
the rustling of Miss Stewart’s petticoats frightened her horse, which
was at full speed, endeavouring to come up with mine, that had been his
companion; so that I was the only witness of a disorder in her clothes,
which displayed a thousand new beauties to my view. I had the good
fortune to make such gallant and flattering exclamations upon
that charming disorder as to prevent her being concerned or out of
countenance upon it: on the contrary, this subject of my admiration has
been frequently since the subject of our conversation, and did not seem
to displease her.

“Old Lord Carlingford, and that mad fellow, Crofts (for I must now make
you my general confession), those insipid buffoons, were frequently
telling her some diverting stories, which passed pretty well with the
help of a few old threadbare jests, or some apish tricks in the recital,
which made her laugh heartily. As for myself, who know no stories, and
do not possess the talent of improving them by telling, if I did know
any, I was often greatly embarrassed when she desired me to tell her
one: ‘I do not know one, indeed,’ said I, one day, when she was teazing
me on the subject. ‘Invent one, then,’ said she. ‘That would be still
more difficult,’ replied I; ‘but if you will give me leave, madam, I
will relate to you a very extraordinary dream, which has, however, less
appearance of truth in it than dreams generally have.’ This excited her
curiosity, which would brook no denial. I therefore began to tell
her that the most beautiful creature in the world, whom I loved to
distraction, paid me a visit in my sleep. I then drew her own portrait,
with a rapturous description of all her beauties; adding, that this
goddess, who came to visit me with the most favourable intentions, did
not counteract them by any unreasonable cruelty. This was not sufficient
to satisfy Miss Stewart’s curiosity: I was obliged to relate every
particular circumstance of the kindness I experienced from this delicate
phantom; to which she was so very attentive, that she never once
appeared surprised or disconcerted at the luscious tale. On the
contrary, she made me repeat the description of the beauty, which I drew
as near as possible after her own person, and after such charms as I
imagined of beauties that were unknown to me.

“This is, in fact, the very thing that had almost deprived me of
my senses: she knew very well that she herself was the person I was
describing: we were alone, as you may imagine, when I told her this
story; and my eyes did their utmost to persuade her that it was herself
whom I drew. I perceived that she was not in the least offended at
knowing this; nor was her modesty in the least alarmed at the relation
of a fiction, which I might have concluded in a manner still less
discreet, if I had thought proper. This patient audience made me plunge
headlong into the ocean of flattering ideas that presented themselves
to my imagination. I then no longer thought of the king, nor how
passionately fond he was of her, nor of the dangers attendant upon such
an engagement: in short, I know not what the devil I was thinking of;
but I am very certain that, if you had not been thinking for me, I might
have found my ruin in the midst of these distracted visions.”

Not long after, the court returned to London; and from that time, some
malevolent star having gained the ascendant, every thing went cross in
the empire of Love: vexation, suspicions, or jealousies, first entered
the field, to set all hearts at variance; next, false reports, slander,
and disputes, completed the ruin of all.

The Duchess of Cleveland had been brought to bed while the court was at
Bristol; and never before had she recovered from her lying-in with such
a profusion of charms. This made her believe that she was in a proper
state to retrieve her ancient rights over the king’s heart, if she had
an opportunity of appearing before him with this increased splendour.
Her friends being of the same opinion, her equipage was prepared for
this expedition; but the very evening before the day she had fixed on to
set out, she saw young Churchill, and was at once seized with a disease,
which had more than once opposed her projects, and which she could never
completely get the better of.

   [Churchill--Afterwards the celebrated Duke of Marlborough. He was
   born midsummer-day, 1650, and died June 16, 1722. Bishop Burnet
   takes notice of the discovery of this intrigue. “The Duchess of
   Cleveland finding that she had lost the king, abandoned herself to
   great disorders; one of which, by the artifice of the Duke of
   Buckingham, was discovered by the king in person, the party
   concerned leaping out of the window.”--History of his own Times,
   vol. i. p. 370. This was in 1668. A very particular account of
   this intrigue is to be seen in the Atalantis of Mrs. Manley, vol.
   i., p. 30. The same writer, who had lived as companion to the
   Duchess of Cleveland, says, in the account of her own life, that she
   was an eye-witness when the duke, who had received thousands from
   the duchess, refused the common civility of lending her twenty
   guineas at basset.--The history of Rivella, 4th ed. 1725, p. 33.
   Lord Chesterfield’s character of this noblemen is too remarkable to
   be omitted.

   “Of all the men that ever I knew in my life, (and I knew him
   extremely well,) the late Duke of Marlborough possessed the graces
   in the highest degree, not to say engrossed them: and indeed he got
   the most by them! for I will venture, (contrary to the custom of
   profound historians, who always assign deep causes to great events,)
   to ascribe the better half of the Duke of Marlborough’s greatness
   and riches to those graces. He was eminently illiterate, wrote bad
   English, and spelled it still worse. He had no share of what is
   commonly called parts; that is, he had no brightness, nothing
   shining in his genius. He had, most undoubtedly, an excellent good
   plain understanding, with sound judgment. But these alone would
   probably have raised him but something higher than they found him,
   which was page to King James II.’s queen. There the graces
   protected and promoted him; for while he was an ensign of the
   guards, the Duchess of Cleveland, then favourite mistress to King
   Charles II., struck by those very graces, gave him five thousand
   pounds; with which he immediately bought an annuity for his life, of
   five hundred pounds a-year, of my grandfather, Halifax; which was
   the foundation of his subsequent fortune. His figure was beautiful;
   but his manner was irresistible by either man or woman. It was by
   this engaging, graceful manner, that he was enabled, during all his
   wars, to connect the various and jarring powers of the grand
   alliance, and to carry them on to the main object of the war,
   notwithstanding their private and separate views, jealousies, and
   wrong-headednesses. Whatever court he went to, (and he was often
   obliged to go himself to some restive and refractory ones,) he as
   constantly prevailed, and brought them into his measures. The
   pensionary Heinsius, a venerable old minister, grown grey in
   business, and who had governed the republic of the United Provinces
   for more than forty years, was absolutely governed by the Duke of
   Marlborough, as that republic feels to this day. He was always
   cool; and nobody ever observed the least variation in his
   countenance. He could refuse more gracefully than other people
   could grant; and those who went away from him the most dissatisfied,
   as to the substance of their business, were yet personally charmed
   with him, and, in some degree, comforted by his manner. With all
   his gracefulness, no man living was more conscious of his situation,
   or maintained his dignity better.”--Chest. Letters, letter 136.]

A man who, from an ensign in the guards, was raised to such a fortune,
must certainly possess an uncommon share of prudence, not to be
intoxicated with his happiness. Churchill boasted in all places of
the new favour he had received: the Duchess of Cleveland, who neither
recommended to him circumspection in his behaviour, nor in his
conversation, did not seem to be in the least concerned at his
indiscretion. Thus this intrigue was become a general topic in all
companies, when the court arrived in London, and occasioned an immense
number of speculations and reasonings: some said she had already
presented him with Jermyn’s pension, and Jacob Hall’s salary, because
the merits and qualifications of both were united in his person: others
maintained that he had too indolent an air, and too delicate a shape,
long to maintain himself in her favour; but all agreed that a man who
was the favourite of the king’s mistress, and brother to the duke’s
favourite, was in a fair way of preferment, and could not fail to make
his fortune. As a proof, the Duke of York soon after gave him a place in
his household: this was naturally to be expected; but the king, who
did not think that Lady Cleveland’s kindness to him was a sufficient
recommendation to his favour, thought proper to forbid him the court.

This good-natured king began now to be rather peevish: nor was it
altogether without reason: he disturbed no person in their amours, and
yet others had often the presumption to encroach upon his. Lord Dorset,
first lord of the bed-chamber, had lately debauched from his service
Nell Gwyn, the actress. Lady Cleveland, whom he now no longer regarded,
continued to disgrace him by repeated infidelities with unworthy rivals,
and almost ruined him by the immense sums she lavished on her gallants;
but that which most sensibly affected him, was the late coldness
and threats of Miss Stewart. He long since had offered her all the
settlements and all the titles she could desire, until he had an
opportunity more effectually to provide for her, which she had pretended
only to decline, for fear of the scandal they might occasion, on her
being raised to a rank which would attract the public notice; but since
the return of the court, she had given herself other airs: sometimes
she was for retiring from court, to appease the continual uneasiness her
presence gave the queen: at other times it was to avoid temptations, by
which she wished to insinuate that her innocence was still preserved:
in short, the king’s heart was continually distracted by alarms, or
oppressed by humour and caprice.

As he could not for his life imagine what Miss Stewart wished him to do,
or what she would be at, he thought upon reforming his establishment
of mistresses, to try whether jealousy was not the real occasion of her
uneasiness. It was for this reason that, after having solemnly declared
he would have nothing more to say to the Duchess of Cleveland, since her
intrigue with Churchill, he discarded, without any exception, all the
other mistresses which he had in various parts of the town. The Nell
Gwyns, the Misses Davis, and the joyous rain of singers and dancers in
his majesty’s theatre, were all dismissed. All these sacrifices were
ineffectual: Miss Stewart continued to torment, and almost to drive the
king to distraction; but his majesty soon after found out the real cause
of this coldness.

This discovery was owing to the officious Duchess of Cleveland, who,
ever since her disgrace, had railed most bitterly against Miss Stewart
as the cause of it, and against the king’s weakness, who, for an
inanimate idiot, had treated her with so much indignity. As some of her
grace’s creatures were still in the king’s confidence, by their means
she was informed of the king’s uneasiness, and that Miss Stewart’s
behaviour was the occasion of it--and as soon as she had found the
opportunity she had so long wished for, she went directly into the
king’s cabinet, through the apartment of one of his pages called
Chiffinch. This way was not new to her.

The king was just returned from visiting Miss Stewart, in a very ill
humour: the presence of the Duchess of Cleveland surprised him, and did
not in the least diminish it: she, perceiving this, accosted him in an
ironical tone, and with a smile of indignation. “I hope,” said she, “I
may be allowed to pay you my homage, although the angelic Stewart has
forbid you to see me at my own house. I will not make use of reproaches
and expostulations, which would disgrace myself: still less will I
endeavour to excuse frailties which nothing can justify, since your
constancy for me deprives me of all defence, considering I am the only
person you have honoured with your tenderness, who has made herself
unworthy of it by ill conduct. I come now, therefore, with no other
intent than to comfort and to condole with you upon the affliction and
grief into which the coldness, or new-fashioned chastity of the inhuman
Stewart have reduced your majesty.” These words were attended by a
fit of laughter, as unnatural and strained as it was insulting and
immoderate, which completed the king’s impatience: he had, indeed,
expected that some bitter jest would follow this preamble; but he
did not suppose she would have given herself such blustering airs,
considering the terms they were then upon; and, as he was preparing to
answer her: “be not offended,” said she, “that I take the liberty of
laughing at the gross manner in which you are imposed upon: I cannot
bear to see that such particular affectation should make you the jest of
your own court, and that you should be ridiculed with such impunity. I
know that the affected Stuart has sent you away, under pretence of some
indisposition, or perhaps some scruple of conscience; and I come to
acquaint you that the Duke of Richmond will soon be with her, if he is
not there already. I do not desire you to believe what I say, since it
might be suggested either through resentment or envy: only follow me to
her apartment, either that, no longer trusting calumny and malice, you
may honour her with a just preference, if I accuse her falsely; or, if
my information be true, you may no longer be the dupe of a pretended
prude, who makes you act so unbecoming and ridiculous a part.”

As she ended this speech, she took him by the hand, while he was yet
undecided, and pulled him away towards her rival’s apartments. Chiffinch
being in her interest, Miss Stewart could have no warning of the visit;
and Babiani, who owed all to the Duchess of Cleveland, and who served
her admirably well upon this occasion, came and told her that the Duke
of Richmond had just gone into Miss Stewart’s chamber. It was in the
middle of a little gallery, which, through a private door, led from the
king’s apartments to those of his mistresses. The Duchess of Cleveland
wished him good night, as he entered her rival’s chamber, and retired,
in order to wait the success of the adventure, of which Babiani, who
attended the king, was charged to come and give her an account.

It was near midnight: the king, in his way, met his mistress’s
chamber-maids, who respectfully opposed his entrance, and in a very low
voice, whispered his majesty that Miss Stewart had been very ill since
he left her: but that, being gone to bed, she was, God be thanked, in a
very fine sleep. “That I must see,” said the king, pushing her back, who
had posted herself in his way. He found Miss Stewart in bed, indeed, but
far from being asleep: the Duke of Richmond was seated at her pillow,
and in all probability was less inclined to sleep than herself. The
perplexity of the one party, and the rage of the other, were such as may
easily be imagined upon such a surprise. The king, who, of all men, was
one of the most mild and gentle, testified his resentment to the Duke
of Richmond in such terms as he had never before used. The duke was
speechless, and almost petrified: he saw his master and his king justly
irritated. The first transports which rage inspires on such occasions
are dangerous. Miss Stewart, window was very convenient for a sudden
revenge, the Thames flowing close beneath it: he cast his eyes upon it;
and, seeing those of the king more incensed and fired with indignation
than he thought his nature capable of, he made a profound bow, and
retired, without replying a single word to the vast torrent of threats
and menaces that were poured upon him.

Miss Stewart, having a little recovered from her first surprise, instead
of justifying herself, began to talk in the most extravagant manner, and
said everything that was most capable to inflame the king’s passion and
resentment; that, if she were not allowed to receive visits from a man
of the Duke of Richmond’s rank, who came with honourable intentions, she
was a slave in a free country; that she knew of no engagement that
could prevent her from disposing of her hand as she thought proper; but,
however, if this was not permitted her in his dominions, she did not
believe that there was any power on earth that could hinder her from
going over to France, and throwing herself into a convent, to enjoy
there that tranquillity which was denied her in his court. The king,
sometimes furious with anger, sometimes relenting at her tears, and
sometimes terrified at her menaces, was so greatly agitated, that he
knew not how to answer, either the nicety of a creature who wanted to
act the part of Lucretia under his own eye, or the assurance with which
she had the effrontery to reproach him. In this suspense, love had
almost entirely vanquished all his resentments, and had nearly induced
him to throw himself upon his knees, and entreat pardon for the injury
he had done her, when she desired him to retire, and leave her in
repose, at least for the remainder of that night, without offending
those who had either accompanied him, or conducted him to her
apartments, by a longer visit. This impertinent request provoked and
irritated him to the highest degree: he went out abruptly, vowing never
to see her more, and passed the most restless and uneasy night he had
ever experienced since his restoration.

The next day the Duke of Richmond received orders to quit the court, and
never more to appear before the king; but it seems he had not waited for
those orders, having set out early that morning for his country seat.

Miss Stewart, in order to obviate all injurious constructions that might
be put upon the adventure of the preceding night, went and threw herself
at the queen’s feet; where, acting the new part of an innocent
Magdalen, she entreated her majesty’s forgiveness for all the sorrow and
uneasiness she might have already occasioned her. She told her majesty
that a constant and sincere repentance had induced her to contrive all
possible means for retiring from court: that this reason had inclined
her to receive the Duke of Richmond’s addresses, who had courted her
a long time; but since this courtship had caused his disgrace, and had
likewise raised a vast noise and disturbance, which perhaps might be
turned to the prejudice of her reputation, she conjured her Majesty
to take her under her protection, and endeavour to obtain the king’s
permission for her to retire into a convent, to remove at once all those
vexations and troubles her presence had innocently occasioned at court.
All this was accompanied with a proper deluge of tears.

It is a very agreeable spectacle to see a rival prostrate at our feet,
entreating pardon, and at the same time justifying her conduct. The
queen’s heart not only relented, but she mingled her own tears with
those of Miss Stewart. After having raised her up, and most tenderly
embraced her, she promised her all manner of favour and protection,
either in her marriage, or in any other course she thought fit to
pursue, and parted from her with the firm resolution to exert all her
interest in her support; but, being a person of great judgment, the
reflections which she afterwards made, induced her to change her
opinion!

She knew that the king’s disposition was not capable of an obstinate
constancy. She therefore judged that absence would cure him, or that a
new engagement would by degrees entirely efface the remembrance of Miss
Stewart, and that, since she could not avoid having a rival, it was more
desirable she should be one who had given such eminent proofs of her
prudence and virtue. Besides, she flattered herself that the king would
ever think himself eternally obliged to her, for having opposed
the retreat and marriage of a girl, whom at that time he loved to
distraction. This fine reasoning determined her conduct. All her
industry was employed in persuading Miss Stewart to abandon her schemes;
and what is most extraordinary in this adventure, is, that, after having
prevailed upon her to think no more either of the Duke of Richmond, or
of a nunnery, she charged herself with the office of reconciling these
two lovers.

Indeed it would have been a thousand pities if her negotiation had
miscarried but she did not suffer this misfortune; for never were the
king’s addresses so eager and passionate as after this peace, nor ever
better received by the fair Stewart.

His majesty did not long enjoy the sweets of a reconciliation, which
brought him into the best good humour possible, as we shall see. All
Europe was in a profound peace, since the treaty of the Pyrenees: Spain
flattered herself she should be able to recruit, by means of the new
alliance she had contracted with the most formidable of her neighbours;
but despaired of being able to support the shattered remains of a
declining monarchy, when she considered the age and infirmities of
her prince, or the weakness of his successor: France, on the contrary,
governed by a king indefatigable in business, young, vigilant, and
ambitious of glory, wanted nothing but inclination to aggrandize
herself.

It was about this time, that the king of France, not willing to disturb
the tranquillity of Europe, was persuaded to alarm the coasts of Africa,
by an attempt, which, if it had even been crowned with success, would
have produced little good; but the king’s fortune, ever faithful to his
glory, has since made it appear, by the miscarriage of the expedition of
Gigeri, that such projects only as were planned by himself were worthy
of his attention.

   [Gigeri is about forty leagues from Algiers. Till the year 1664 the
   French had a factory there; but then attempting to build a fort on
   the sea-coast, to be a check upon the Arabs, they came down from the
   mountains, beat the French out of Gigeri, and demolished their fort.
   Sir Richard Fanshaw, in a letter to the deputy governor of Tangier,
   dated 2nd December, 1664, N.S., says, “We have certain intelligence
   that the French have lost Gigheria, with all they had there, and
   their fleet come back, with the loss of one considerable ship upon
   the rocks near Marseilles.”--Fanshaw’s Letters, vol. i. p. 347.]

A short time after, the king of England, having resolved also to explore
the African coasts, fitted out a squadron for an expedition to Guinea,
which was to be commanded by Prince Rupert. Those who, from their own
experience, had some knowledge of the country, related strange and
wonderful stories of the dangers attendant upon this expedition that
they would have to fight not only the inhabitants of Guinea, a hellish
people, whose arrows were poisoned, and who never gave their prisoners
better quarter than to devour them, but that they must likewise endure
heats that were insupportable, and rains that were intolerable, every
drop of which was changed into a serpent: that, if they penetrated
farther into the country, they would be assaulted by monsters a thousand
times more hideous and destructive than all the beasts mentioned in the
Revelations.

But all these reports were vain and ineffectual: for so far from
striking terror into those who were appointed to go upon this
expedition, it rather acted as an incentive to glory, upon those who
had no manner of business in it. Jermyn appeared among the foremost of
those; and, without reflecting that the pretence of his indisposition
had delayed the conclusion of his marriage with Miss Jennings, he
asked the duke’s permission, and the king’s consent to serve in it as a
volunteer.

Some time before this, the infatuation which had imposed upon the fair
Jennings in his favour had begun to subside. All that now inclined
her to this match were the advantages of a settlement. The careless
indolence of a lover, who faintly paid his addresses to her, as it were
from custom or habit, disgusted her; and the resolution he had taken,
without consulting her, appeared so ridiculous in him, and so injurious
to herself, that, from that moment, she resolved to think no more
of him. Her eyes being opened by degrees, she saw the fallacy of the
splendour, which had at first deceived her; and the renowned Jermyn was
received according to his real merit when he came to acquaint her with
his heroical project. There appeared so much indifference and ease in
the raillery with which she complimented him upon his voyage, that he
was entirely disconcerted, and so much the more so, as he had prepared
all the arguments he thought capable of consoling her, upon announcing
to her the fatal news of his departure. She told him, “that nothing
could be more glorious for him, who had triumphed over the liberty of so
many persons in Europe, than too and extend his conquests in other parts
of the world; and that she advised him to bring home with him all the
female captives he might make in Africa, in order to replace those
beauties whom his absence would bring to the grave.”

Jermyn was highly displeased that she should be capable of raillery in
the condition he supposed her reduced to; but he soon perceived she was
in earnest: she told him, that she considered this farewell visit as
his last, and desired him not to think of making her any more before his
departure.

Thus far everything went well on her side: Jermyn was not only
confounded at having received his discharge in so cavalier a manner;
but this very demonstration of her indifference had revived, and even
redoubled, all the love and affection he had formerly felt for her.
Thus she had both the pleasure of despising him, and of seeing him more
entangled in the chains of love than he had ever been before. This
was not sufficient: she wished still farther, and very unadvisedly, to
strain her resentment.

Ovid’s Epistles,--[This is the translation of Ovid’s Epistles
published by Mr. Dryden. The second edition of it was printed in
1681.]--translated into English verse by the greatest wits at court,
having lately been published, she wrote a letter from a shepherdess in
despair, addressed to the perfidious Jermyn. She took the epistle
of Ariadne to Theseus for her model. The beginning of this letter
contained, word for word, the complaints and reproaches of that injured
fair to the cruel man by whom she had been abandoned. All this was
properly adapted to the present times and circumstances. It was her
design to have closed this piece with a description of the toils,
perils, and monsters, that awaited him in Guinea, for which he quitted
a tender mistress, who was plunged into the abyss of misery, and was
overwhelmed with grief and despair; but not having had time to finish
it, nor to get that which she had written transcribed, in order to send
it to him under a feigned name, she inconsiderately put this fragment,
written in her own hand, into her pocket, and, still more giddily,
dropped it in the middle of the court. Those who took it up, knowing her
writing, made several copies of it, which were circulated all over the
town; but her former conduct had so well established the reputation
of her virtue, that no person entertained the smallest doubt but the
circumstances were exactly as we have related them. Some time after, the
Guinea expedition was laid aside for reasons that are universally known,
and Miss Jenning’s subsequent proceedings fully justified her letter;
for, notwithstanding all the efforts and attentions Jermyn practised to
regain her affections, she would never more hear of him.

But he was not the only man who experienced the whimsical fatality, that
seemed to delight in disuniting hearts, in order to engage them soon
after to different objects. One would have imagined that the God of
Love, actuated by some new caprice, had placed his empire under the
dominion of Hymen, and had, at the same time, blind-folded that God, in
order to cross-match most of the lovers whom we have been speaking of’

The fair Stewart married the Duke of Richmond; the invincible Jermyn, a
silly country girl; Lord Rochester, a melancholy heiress; the sprightly
Temple, the serious Lyttleton; Talbot, without knowing why or wherefore,
took to wife the languishing Boynton; George Hamilton, under more
favourable auspices, married the lovely Jennings; and the Chevalier de
Grammont, as the reward of a constancy he had never before known, and
which he never afterwards practised, found Hymen and Love united in his
favour, and was at last blessed with the possession of Miss Hamilton.

   [After the deaths of Miss Boynton and of George Hamilton, Talbot
   married Miss Jennings, and became afterwards Duke of Tyrconnel.]

   [“The famous Count Grammont was thought to be the original of The
   Forced Marriage. This nobleman, during his stay at the court of
   England, had made love to Miss Hamilton, but was coming away for
   France without bringing matters to a proper conclusion. The young
   lady’s brothers pursued him, and came up with him near Dover, in
   order to exchange some pistol-shot with him: They called out, ‘Count
   Grammont, have you forgot nothing at London?’ ‘Excuse me,’ answered
   the Count, guessing their errand, ‘I forgot to marry your sister; so
   lead on, and let us finish that affair.’ By the pleasantry of the
   answer, this was the same Grammont who commanded at the siege of a
   place, the governor of which capitulated after a short defence, and
   obtained an easy capitulation. The governor then said to Monsieur
   Grammont, I’ll tell you a secret--that the reason of my capitulation
   was, because I was in want of powder.’ Monsieur replied, ‘And
   secret for secret--the reason of my granting you such an easy
   capitulation was, because I was in want of ball.”--Biog. Gallica,
   vol. i., p. 202.

   Count Grammont and his lady left England in 1669. King Charles in a
   letter to his sister, the Duchess of Orleans, dated 24th October, in
   that year, says, “I writt to you yesterday, by the Compte de
   Grammont, but I beleeve this letter will come sooner to your handes;
   for he goes by the way of Diep, with his wife and family; and now
   that I have named her, I cannot chuse but againe desire you to be
   kinde to her; for, besides the merrit her family has on both sides,
   she is as good a creature as ever lived. I beleeve she will passe
   for a handsome woman in France, though she has not yett, since her
   lying-inn, recovered that good shape she had before, and I am
   affraide never will.”--Dalxymple’s Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 26.

   “The Count de Grammont fell dangerously ill in the year 1696; of
   which the king (Louis XIV.) being informed, and knowing, besides,
   that he was inclined to libertinism, he was pleased to send the
   Marquis of Dangeau to see how he did, and to advise him to think of
   God. Hereupon Count de Grammont, turning towards his wife, who had
   ever been a very devout lady, told her, Countess, if you don’t look
   to it, Dangeau will juggle you out of my conversion. Madame de
   l’Enclos having afterwards written to M. de St Evremond that Count
   de Grammont was recovered, and turned devout,--I have learned,
   answered he to her, with a great deal of pleasure, that Count de
   Grammont has recovered his former health, and acquired a new
   devotion. Hitherto I have been contented with being a plain honest
   man; but I must do something more; and I only wait for your example
   to become a devotee. You live in a country where people have
   wonderful advantages of saving their souls, there vice is almost as
   opposite to the mode as to virtue; sinning passes for ill-breeding,
   and shocks decency and good manners, as much as religion, Formerly
   it was enough to be wicked; now one must be a scoundrel withal, to
   be damned in France. They who have not regard enough for another
   life, are led to salvation by the consideration and duties of this.”
    --“But there is enough upon a subject in which the conversion of the
   Count de Grammont has engaged me: I believe it to be sincere and
   honest. It well becomes a man who is not young, to forget he has
   been so.”--Life of St. Evremond, by Des Marzeaux, p. 136; and St.
   Evremond’s Works, vol. ii. p. 431.]




   PG EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:

   All day poring over his books, and went to bed soon
   Ambition to pass for a wit, only established her tiresome
   An affectation of purity of manners
   As all fools are who have good memories
   Better memory for injuries than for benefits
   Better to know nothing at all, than to know too much
   Better to partake with another than to have nothing at all
   Busy without consequence
   By a strange perversion of language, styled, all men of honour
   Despising everything which was not like themselves
   Devote himself to his studies, than to the duties of matrimony
   Duke would see things if he could
   Embellish the truth, in order to enhance the wonder
   Entreating pardon, and at the same time justifying her conduct
   Envy each other those indulgences which themselves refuse
   Every thing that is necessary is honourable in politics
   Four dozen of patches, at least, and ten ringlets of hair
   Good attendants, but understood cheating still better
   Great earnestness passed for business
   Grew so fat and plump that it was a blessing to see her
   Hardly possible for a woman to have less wit, or more beauty
   He had no sentiments but such as others inspired him with
   He talked eternally, without saying anything
   He as little feared the Marquis as he loved him
   His mistress given him by his priests for penance
   How I must hate you, if I did not love you to distraction
   Impenetrable stupidity (passed) for secrecy
   Impertinent compliments
   Life, in his opinion, was too short to read all sorts of books
   Long habit of suffering himself to be robbed by his domestics
   Maxim of all jealous husbands
   Never felt the pressure of indigence
   Not disagreeable, but he had a serious contemplative air
   Not that he wanted capacity, but he was too self-sufficient
   Obstinate against all other advices
   Offended that his good fortune raised him no rivals
   One amour is creditable to a lady
   Possessed but little raillery, and still less patience
   Public is not so easily deceived as some people imagine
   Public grows familiar with everything by habit
   Reasons of state assume great privileges
   Resolved to renounce the church for the salvation of my soul
   She just said what she ought, and no more
   So weak as to transform your slave into your tyrant
   Terrible piece of furniture for the country (educated girl)
   The shortest follies are the best
   There are men of real merit, or pretenders to it
   They can by no means bear the inconstancy of their mistresses
   Those who open a book merely to find fault
   Very willing to accept, but was tardy in making returns
   Wealth was necessary for the conveniencies of a long life
   What jealousy fears, and what it always deserves
   What a glory would it be to have a Cato for a husband
   Would have been criminal even in chastity to spare (her husband)





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