Chapter IV: Part 4

But if the fact that the King's writ failed to run in these parts was of disadvantage to the landlords in one respect, it was of no inconsiderable advantage to them in another; for it enabled them with a light heart to contract debts in Dublin and in the chief towns. They knew that the rascally process server, should he have the hardihood to make any attempt to present them with the usual summons, would do so at the risk of his life; and a knowledge of this fact made the “gentry” at once reckless and lawless. The consequence was that Ireland was regarded as no place for a man with any respect for his neighbours or for himself to live in. It became the country of the agent and the squireen.

It was to one of the worst parts of this country that John Gunning brought his wife and four children--the eldest was eight years and the youngest three months--and here he tried to support them off the “estate.” He might possibly have succeeded if his aspirations had been humble and his property unencumbered. It so happened, however, that his father had been the parent of sixteen children, and the estate was still charged with the maintenance of ten of these. Thus hampered, Mr. Gunning and the Honourable Bridget Gunning were compelled to adopt the mode of life of the other gentry who were too poor to live out of Ireland, and they allowed the education of their family to become a minor consideration to that of feeding them.

Mr. Gunning and his wife were undoubtedly the originals of the type of Irish lady and gentleman to be found in so many novels and plays of the latter part of the eighteenth and the first half of the nineteenth centuries. He was the original “heavy father” who, with the addition of a ridiculous nondescript brogue, was so effectively dealt with by numerous writers until Thackeray took him in hand; and Mrs. Gunning was the first of the tradition of Irish mothers with daughters to dispose of by the aid of grand manners and a great deal of contriving. True to this tradition, which originated with them, the lady was certainly the head of the household--a sorry household it must have been at Castle Coote--during the ten years that elapsed before the migration to England.

Mr. Gunning was a fine figure of a gentleman, a handsome, loquacious person with a great sense of his own dignity and an everlasting consciousness of the necessity to maintain it at something approximate to its proper level, and, like other persons of the same stamp, never particularly successful in the means employed to effect this object. It is doubtful if a loud conversational style, with repeated references to the brilliant past of his family and predictions as to the still more brilliant future that would have been achieved by its representative but for the outrageous fortune that flung him into the bogs of Roscommon, produced a more vivid impression upon his associates in Ireland than it would be likely to do among a more credulous community. In Ireland he resembled the young gentleman who went to educate the French, but was discouraged at the outset when he found that even the children in the streets spoke better French than he did. Mr. Gunning could teach the Irish squireens nothing in the way of boasting; and he soon found that they were capable of giving him some valuable instruction as to the acquiring of creditors and their subsequent evasion. Whatever their educational deficiencies may have been, it must be admitted that they had mastered these arts. Much as he despised his ancestral home, he found, after repeated visits to Dublin, that his heart was, after all, in Castle Coote, and that, for avoiding arrest for debt, there was no place like home.

The Honourable Mrs. Gunning must have become dreadfully tired of this florid person and of the constant worry incidental to the control of such a household as his must have been. Her life must have been spent contriving how the recurrent crises could be averted, and so long as she was content to remain in the seclusion of the Irish village her efforts were successful. We do not hear that the bailiffs ever got so far as the hall door of their ramshackle mansion; there was a bog very handy, and the holes which served as a rudimentary system of natural drainage were both deep and dark. The topography of the district was notoriously puzzling to the officers from the Dublin courts.

But with all her success in this direction one maybe pretty sure that her life must have been very burthensome to the Honourable Mrs. Gunning. She had social ambitions, as befitted a daughter of a noble house, and on this account she never allowed herself to sink to the level of the wives of the squireens around her, who were quite content with the rude jollity of an Irish household--with the “lashings and leavings” to eat, and with the use of tumblers instead of wineglasses at table. She was the daughter of a peer, and she never forgot this fact; and here it must be mentioned that, however culpably she may have neglected the education of her children in some respects, she took care that they avoided the provincial brogue of their Irish neighbours.

Perhaps it was because Walpole knew nothing of the tradition of the English settlers in Ireland that he referred in his letters to various correspondents to the appalling brogue of both the Gunning girls; or perhaps he, as usual, aimed only at making his correspondence more amusing by this device. But every one who knows something of the “settlements” is aware of the fact that the new-comers had such a contempt for the native way of pronouncing English that they were most strenuous in their efforts to hand down to their children the tradition of pronunciation which they brought into the country. They were not always so successful as they wished to be; but within our own times the aspiration after a pure “English accent” is so great that even in the National Schools the teachers, the larger number of whom bear Celtic names, have been most industrious both in getting rid of their native brogue and in compelling their pupils to do the same; and yet it is certain that people have been much more tolerant in this respect in Ireland during the past half-century than they were a hundred years earlier.

Of course, a scientific analysis of the pronunciation of the English language by, say, a native of the wilds of Yorkshire and by a native of the wilds of Connemara would reveal the fact that fewer corruptions of the speech are habitual to the latter than to the former, the “brogue” being far less corrupt than the “burr.” It was not enough for the settlers, however, that their children should speak English in Ireland more correctly than their forefathers did in England; they insisted on the maintenance of the English tradition of pronunciation, erroneous though it might be. So that the suggestion that the daughters of the Gunning family, who had never heard English spoken with the brogue of the native Irish until they were eight or nine years of age, spoke the tongue of the stage Irish peasant would seem quite ridiculous to any one who had given even the smallest amount of study to the conditions of speech prevailing in Ireland even in the present tolerant age, when employment is not denied to any one speaking with the broadest of brogues. Some years ago such an applicant would have had no chance of a “billet”--unless, in a literal sense, to hew, with the alternative of the drawing of water.

The truth, then, is that the Gunning girls had practically neither more nor less of that form of education to be acquired from the study of books or “lessons” than the average young woman of their own day who had been “neglected.” Between the years 1750 and 1800 there were in England hundreds of young ladies who were as highly educated as a junior-grade lady clerk in the Post Office Department is to-day; but there were also thousands who were as illiterate as the Gunnings without any one thinking that it mattered much one way or another.

And it really did not matter much that Maria Gunning spelt as vaguely as did Shakespere, or Shakspere, or Shakespeare, or Shakspear, or whatever he chose to write himself at the moment. Correctness of orthography is absolutely necessary for any young lady who wishes to be a success in the Postal Department, but Miss Gunning possessed some qualifications of infinitely greater importance in the estimation of the world. She was of good family and she was beautiful exceedingly. Moreover, she possessed the supreme grace of naturalness--the supreme grace and that which includes all other graces, which, like butterflies, hover over womankind, but seldom descend in a bevy upon any one of the race. She was as natural as a lily flower, and for the same reason. To be natural il came to her by Nature, and that was how she won the admiration of more people than the beauty of Helen of Troy brought to their death. She was not wise. But had she been wise she would never have left Ireland. She would have known that obscurity is the best friend that any young woman so beautiful as she was could have. She would have remained in Roscommon, and she would have been one of those women who are happy because they have no story. But, of course, had she been wise she would not have been natural, and so there her beauty goes by the board in a moment.

The Honourable Mrs. Gunning could not have been startled when the knowledge came to her that she was the mother of two girls of exceptional beauty. The same knowledge comes to every mother of two girls in the world, though this knowledge is sometimes withheld from the rest of the world; but even then the mother's faith is not shaken--except in regard to the eyesight of the rest of the world. Doubtless Mrs. Gunning thought much better of Ireland when she found that her judgment on the beauty of her daughters was shared by all the people who saw the girls. From the daily exclamation of wonder--the exaggerated expressions of appreciation uttered by a fervent peasantry--when the girls were seen in their own kitchen or on the roadside, the mother's ambition must have received a fresh stimulus. And given an ambitious mother, whose life has been one of contriving to do things that seem out of her power to accomplish, the achievement of her object is only a matter of time--provided that the father does not become an obstruction. Mrs. Gunning was not extravagant in her longings. Her Delectable Mountains were those which surround the City of Dublin. Her social ambitions did not extend beyond “The Castle.”

When the eldest of her three daughters was scarcely nineteen the aggregation of savings and credit--the latter predominant--seemed sufficient to justify the expedition. A house was taken in a fashionable street, close to the most splendid Mall in Europe, and furnished by some credulous tradesmen, and the social campaign was begun by a parade of the two girls and their mother. Alas! the young beauties attracted only too much attention. The inquiries as to their style and title were unfortunately not limited. In Dublin for generations the tradespeople have been accustomed to take an intelligent and quite intelligible interest in the aristocracy and beauty dwelling in their midst; and it took only a few days for the report to go round that the exquisite young ladies were the daughters of Mr. John Gunning, of Castle Coote.

This information meant much more to some of the least desirable of the inquirers than it did to the wealthy and well connected of the population; and among the least desirable of all were some tradesmen who for years had had decrees waiting to be executed against Mr. Gunning at a more convenient place for such services than Castle Coote. The result was that within a week the beauty of his daughters had made such a stir in Dublin that bailiffs were in the house and Mr. Gunning was out of it.

It is at this point in the history that the Troubadour unslings his lute, feeling the potentialities of Romance in the air; and, given the potentialities of Romance and the wandering minstrel, one may be sure that the atmosphere will resound with Romance. We are told on such high authority as is regarded quite satisfactory (by the Troubadour), that the weeping of the mother and the beautiful girls under the coarse stare of the bailiffs attracted the attention of a charming and sympathetic young actress who was taking the air in the street, and that, as might only be expected, she hastened to enter the house to offer consolation to those who were in trouble--this being unquestionably the mission which is most congenial to the spirit of the _soubrette_. On being at once informed of all by the communicative mother--the Troubadour is not such a fool as to lay down his lute to inquire if it was likely that a lady who possessed her full share of Irish pride would open her heart to a stranger and an actress--the young visitor showed her sympathy by laying herself open to prosecution and imprisonment through helping in a scheme to make away with all the valuables she could lay her hands on. But she went still further, and invited the young ladies to stay at her house so long as it suited them to do so.

We are told that this young actress was George Ann Bellamy, but the information comes from no better source than George Ann Bellamy herself, and the statements of this young person, made when she was no longer young or reputable, do not carry conviction to all hearers. Romance, however, like youth, will not be denied, though the accuracy of an actress may, and people have always been pleased to believe that Miss Bellamy and Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the much-harassed lessee of the Smock Alley Theatre in Dublin, were the means of obtaining for the Honourable Mrs. Gunning and her daughters the invitation to the ball at the Castle which resulted in the recognition of the girls' beauty by the great world of fashion. The suggestion that their aunt, Miss Bourke, or their uncle, Viscount Mayo, might have been quite as potent a factor in solving the problem of how the invitation to a ball given by the Viceroy to the people of Dublin came into the hands of the Miss Gunnings, may, however, be worth a moment's consideration.

At any rate, the success made by the girls upon this occasion was immediate. Before a day had passed all Dublin and Dublin Castle were talking of their beauty, and the splendid Mall was crowded with people anxious to catch a glimpse of the lovely pair when they took their walks abroad. Lady Caroline Petersham, the charming lady whose name figures frequently in Walpole's correspondence--it will be remembered that she was one of that delightful little supper party at Ranelagh which he describes--was in the entourage of the Viceroy, and quickly perceived the possibilities of social prestige accruing to the hostess who might be the means of introducing them to St. James's. There a new face meant a new sensation lasting sometimes well into a second month, and Lady Caroline had her ambitions as a hostess.

She was the Gunnings' best friend--assuming that social advancement is an act of friendship--and it may safely be assumed that she was mainly responsible for the extension of the area of the campaign entered on by Mrs. Gunning, and that it was her influence which obtained for them the passage to Chester in the Lord Lieutenant's yacht, and a bonus of £150 charged, as so many other jobs were, “upon the Irish Establishment.” The “Irish Establishment” was the convenient Treasury out of which money could be paid without the chance of unpleasant questions being asked in Parliament respecting such disbursements.

Of course, it is not to be believed that such success as the young girls encompassed in Dublin was reached without a word or two of detraction being heard in regard to their behaviour. Mrs. Delany, amiable as a moral gossip, or perhaps, a gossipy moralist, wrote to her sister respecting them: “All that you have heard of the Gunnings is true, except their having a fortune, but I am afraid they have a greater want than that, which is discretion.” No doubt Mrs. Delany had heard certain whispers of the girlish fun in which the elder of the sisters delighted; but there has never been the smallest suggestion that her want of discreetness ever approached an actual indiscretion. It may be assumed, without doing an injustice to either of the girls, that their standard of demeanour was not quite so elevated as that which the wife of Dean Delany was disposed to regard as essential to be reached by any young woman hoping to be thought well of by her pastors and masters. But the steelyard measure was never meant to be applied to a high-spirited young girl who has grown up among bogs and then finds herself the centre of the most distinguished circle in the land, every person in which is eagerly striving for the distinction of a word from her lips. Maria Gunning may not have had much discretion, but she had enough to serve her turn. She arrived in London with her sister, and no suggestion was ever made--even by Walpole--that their mother had not taken enough care of them.

In London they at once found their place in the centre of the most fashionable--the most notorious--set; but while we hear of the many indiscreet things that were done by certain of their associates, nothing worse is attributed to either of the girls than an Irish brogue or an Irish idiom--perhaps a word or two that sounded unmusical to fastidious ears. Walpole began by ridiculing them, and, as has already been noted, sneering at their birth; but when he found they were becoming the greatest social success that his long day had known, he thought it prudent to trim his sails and refer to them more reasonably: they were acquiring too many friends for it to be discreet for him to continue inventing gossip respecting them.

But what a triumph they achieved in town! Nothing had ever been known like it in England, nor has anything approaching to it been known during the century and a half that has elapsed since the beauty of these two girls captured London. The opening of Parliament by the King in State never attracted such crowds as thronged the Park when they walked in the Mall. Never before had the guards to turn out at the Palace to disperse the crowds who mobbed two young ladies who did not belong--except in a distant way--to a Royal House. Upon one occasion the young Lord Clermont and his friend were compelled to draw their swords to protect them from the exuberant attentions of the crowd. “'Tis a warm day,” wrote George Selwyn to Lord Carlisle, “and some one proposes a stroll to Betty's fruit shop; suddenly the cry is raised, 'The Gunnings are coming,' and we all tumble out to gaze and to criticise.”

“The famous beauties are more talked of than the change in the Ministry,” wrote Walpole. “They make more noise than any one of their predecessors since Helen of Troy; a crowd follows them wherever they walk, and at Vauxhall they were driven away.”

This mobbing must have caused the girls much delightful inconvenience, and one can see their mother acting the part--and overdoing it, after the manner of her kind--of the distracted parent whose daughters have just been restored to her arms. One can hear the grandiloquent thanks of the father to the eligible young man with titles whose bravery has protected his offspring--that would have been his word--from the violence of the mob. The parents must have been very trying to the young men in those days. But the mother showed herself to be rather more than a match for one young man who hoped to win great fame as a jocular fellow by playing a trick upon the family. Having heard of the simplicity and credulousness of the girls, this gentleman, with another of his kind, asked leave of Mrs. Gunning to bring to her house a certain duke who was one of the greatest _partis_ of the day. On her complying, he hired a common man, and, dressing him splendidly, conveyed him in a coach to the Gunnings' house and presented him to the family as the duke. But the man knew as little of the matter as did Walpole; he assumed that she was nothing more than the adventurous wife of an Irish squireen. He soon found out that he had made a mistake. Mrs. Gunning rang the bell, and ordered the footman to turn the visitors out of the house. But the family were soon consoled for this incident of the impostor duke by the arrival of a real one, to say nothing of another consolation prize in the form of an earl. In the meantime, however, their popularity-had been increasing rather than diminishing. As a matter of fact, although beauty may be reproached for being only skin deep, it is very tenacious of life. A reputation for beauty is perhaps the most enduring of all forms of notoriety. The renown that attaches to the man who has painted a great picture, or to one who has made a great scientific discovery, or to one who has been an eminent churchman or a distinguished statesman, is, in point of popularity and longevity, quite insignificant in comparison with that which is associated with the name of a very beautiful woman. The crowds still surrounded the Miss Gunnings, and the visit which they paid by command to King George II gave them a position in the world of fashion that was consolidated by the report of the charming _naivete_ of the reply made by Maria when the King inquired if they had seen all the sights of London and if there was any in particular which they would like to be shown. “Oh, I should dearly like to see a coronation!” the girl is said to have cried. And as that was just the sight for which the people of England were most eager, she was acclaimed as their mouthpiece.

So they progressed in the career that had been laid out for them. Duels were fought about them, and bets were made about them and their future. For nearly a year there was no topic of the first order save only the Progress of Beauty. The Duke had come boldly forward. He was a double duke--his titles were Hamilton and Brandon--and he had sounded such depths of depravity that he was possibly sincere in his desire to convince the world that his taste in one direction had not become depraved. Elizabeth Gunning may have accepted his service from a hope of being the means of reforming him. But even if she were not to succeed in doing so, her mother would have reminded her that her failure would not make her the less a duchess. It is open, however, for one to believe that this girl cared something for the man and was anxious to amend his life.

Then we hear of her being with him at Lord Chesterfield's ball given at the opening of his new mansion, her fancy dress being that of a Quakeress. Three days later the world in which they lived awoke to learn the astounding news that the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon had married Elizabeth Gunning the previous night.

Here was romance beyond a precedent; and Walpole romanced about it as usual. In his account of the nuptials he succeeds in making more misstatements than one would believe it possible even for such a worker in the art to encompass in half a dozen lines. “When her mother and sister were at Bedford House,” he wrote to Mann, “a sudden ardour, either of wine or love, seized upon him (the Duke); a parson was promptly sent for, but on arriving, refused to officiate without the important essentials of licence or ring. The Duke swore and talked of calling in the Archbishop. Finally the parson's scruples gave way, the licence was overlooked, and the lack of the traditional gold ring was supplied by the ring of a bed curtain!”

This is very amusing, but it is not history. It is a clumsy fiction, unworthy of the resources of the inventor. Sir Horace Mann must have felt that his friend had a poor opinion of his intelligence if he meant him to accept the assurance that the household of the Gunnings and the fingers of His Grace were incapable of yielding to the fastidious parson a better substitute for the traditional gold ring than the thing he introduced. The facts of the incident were quite romantic enough without the need for Walpole's embellishments. It was Valentine's Day, and what more likely than that the suggestion should be made by the ardent lover that so appropriate a date for a wedding would not come round for another year! To suggest difficulties--impossibility--would only be to spur him on to show that he was a true lover. However this may be, it has long ago been proved that the midnight marriage took place in due form at the Curzon Street Chapel in the presence of several witnesses.

And then Walpole went on to say that the wedding of Lord Coventry and the elder sister took place at the same time. It so happened, however, that a fortnight elapsed between the two ceremonies, and in the case of the second, the ceremony took place in the full light of day.

The subsequent history of the two ladies is not without a note of melancholy. The elder, pursued to the end by the malevolent slanders of the man with the leer of the satyr perpetually on his face, died of consumption after eight years of wedded life. The younger became a widow two years earlier, and after being wooed by the Duke of Bridgewater, whom she refused, sending him to his canal for consolation, married Colonel Campbell, who in 1770 became the Fifth Duke of Argyll. Six years later she was created a peeress in her own right, her title being Baroness Hamilton of Hameldon in Leicestershire. In 1778 she was appointed Mistress of the Robes. She attained to the additional distinction of making the good Queen jealous, so that Her Majesty upon one occasion overlooked her in favour of Lady Egremont. The Duchess at once resigned, and only with difficulty was persuaded to withdraw her resignation. She died in 1790.

THE FÊTE-CHAMPÊTRE

NO one knows to-day with whom the idea of having an English _fête-champêtre_ at The Oaks upon the occasion of the marriage of the young Lord Stanley to Lady Betty Hamilton originated. The secret was well kept; and it can be easily understood that in case of this innovation proving a fiasco, no one would show any particular desire to accept the responsibility of having started the idea. But turning out as it did, a great success, it might have been expected that many notable persons would lay claim to be regarded as its parents. A considerable number of distinguished people had something to do with it, and any one of them had certainly sufficient imagination, backed up by an acquaintance with some of the exquisite pieces of MM. Watteau and Fragonard, to suggest the possibility of perfecting such an enterprise even in an English June. It was the most diligent letter-writer of that age of letter-writing who had referred to the “summer setting in with its customary severity,” so that the trifling of the month of June with the assumption of the poets who have rhymed of its sunshine with rapture, was not an experience that was reserved for the century that followed. But in spite of this, the idea of a _fête-champêtre_, after the most approved French traditions, in an English demesne found favour in the eyes of Lord Stanley and his advisers, and the latter were determined that, whatever price might have to be paid for it, they would not run the chance of being blamed for carrying it out in a niggardly spirit.

The young Lord Stanley had as many advisers as any young nobleman with a large immediate allowance and prospects of a splendid inheritance may hope to secure. There was his _fiancée's_ mother, now the Duchess of Argyll, who was never disposed to frown down an undertaking that would place a member of one of her families in the forefront of the battle of the beauties for the most desirable _parti_ of the year.

The Duchess had both taste and imagination, so that people called her an Irishwoman, although she was born in England. Then there was Mr. George Selwyn, who said witty things occasionally and never missed a hanging. He was fully qualified to prompt a wealthy companion as to the best means to become notorious for a day. There was also young Mr. Conway, the gentleman who originated the diverting spectacle when Mrs. Baddeley and Mrs. Abington were escorted to the Pantheon. Any one of these, to say nothing of Lady Betty herself, who had some love for display, might have been inclined to trust an English June so far as to believe an _al fresco_ entertainment on a splendid scale quite possible.

On the whole, however, one is inclined to believe that it was Colonel Burgoyne who was responsible for the whole scheme at The Oaks. In addition to having become Lord Stanley's uncle by running away with his father's sister, he was a budding dramatist, and as such must have perceived his opportunity for exploiting himself at the expense of some one else--the dream of every budding dramatist. There is every likelihood that it was this highly accomplished and successful “gentleman-adventurer” who brought Lord Stanley up to the point of embarking upon his design for an entertainment such as had never been seen in England before--an entertainment that should include the production of a masque devised by Colonel Burgoyne and entitled _The Maid of The Oaks_. The fête came off, and it was pronounced the most brilliant success of the year 1774.

Lord Stanley was a very interesting young man; that is to say, he was a young man in whom no inconsiderable number of persons--mainly of the opposite sex--were greatly interested. Of this fact he seems to have been fully aware. A good many people--mainly of the opposite sex--felt very strongly on the subject of his marrying: it was quite time that he married, they said. His grandfather, the Earl of Derby, was eighty-four years of age, and it would be absurd to believe that he could live much longer. Lord Stanley being his heir, it was agreed that it was the young man's duty not to procrastinate in the matter of marriage. It is always understood that a patriarchal nobleman sings “_Nunc dimittis_” when he holds in his arms the second in direct succession to the title, and this happy consummation could, in the case of the aged Lord Derby, only be realised by the marriage of Lord Stanley.

He was small in stature, and extremely plain of countenance; still this did not prevent his name from being coupled with that of several notable--but not too notable--young women of his acquaintance. But as it was well known that he was greatly interested in the stage, it was thought that, perhaps, he might not be so complaisant as his best friends hoped to find him in regard to marrying. An ardent interest in the progress of the drama, especially in its lighter forms, has been known to turn a young man's attention from marriage, when it does not do what is far worse--turn his attention to it with too great zest. Before long, however, it became apparent that his lordship recognised in what direction his duty lay. There was a young lady connected with the Ducal House of Bedford--a niece of that old Duchess who played so conspicuous a part in the social and political history of the middle of the eighteenth century--and to her Lord Stanley became devoted. But just when every one assumed that the matter was settled, no one thinking it possible that the young lady would be mad enough to refuse such a _parti_, the news came that she had done so; and before people had done discussing how very eccentric were the Bedford connections, the announcement was made that Lord Stanley was to marry Lady Betty Hamilton, the beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother, the Duchess of Argyll.

There is in existence a letter written by the Duchess to Sir William Hamilton, in which she hints that Lord Stanley was an old suitor for the hand of her daughter. “Lady Betty might have taken the name of Stanley long ago if she had chose it,” she wrote, adding: “A very sincere attachment on his side has at last produced the same on hers.” This being so, it would perhaps be unsafe to assume that Lord Stanley proposed to Lady Betty out of pique at having been rejected by the other lady, though one might be disposed to take this view of the engagement.

The alternative view is that Lady Betty had been advised by her accomplished mother that if she played her cards well there was no reason why she should not so attract Lord Stanley as to lead him to be a suitor for her hand, and that the girl at last came to see that the idea was worth her consideration. Her portrait, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds in the year of her marriage, shows her to have been a graceful, girlish young creature; but her beauty could never have been comparable with that of her mother at the same age, or with that of her aunt, Lady Coventry, whom it is certain she closely resembled in character. Her mother, in her letter to Sir William Hamilton, apologises in a way for her liveliness, assuring him that such a disposition was not incompatible with serious thought upon occasions; and this gives us a hint that the reputation for vivacity which she always enjoyed was closely akin to that which made the life of Lady Coventry so very serious.

This was the young lady in whose honour the first English _fête champêtre_ was organised. To be more exact, or to get more into touch with the view of the Derby family, perhaps one should say that the _fête_ was set on foot in consideration of the honour the young lady was doing herself in becoming a member of the great house of Stanley. Different people look at a question of honour from different standpoints. Probably Colonel Burgoyne, although a member of the Derby family by marriage, left honour out of the question altogether, and only thought of his masque being produced at his nephew's expense.

And produced the masque was, and on a scale as expensive as the most ambitious author could desire. It was described, with comments, by all the great letter-writers of the time. Walpole has his leer and his sneer at its expense (literally). It was to cost no less than £5000, he said, and he ventured to suppose that in order to account for this enormous outlay Lord Stanley had bought up all the orange trees near London--no particular extravagance one would fancy--and that the hay-cocks would be of straw-coloured riband. George Selwyn thought it far from diverting. The Dowager Lady Gower affirmed that “all the world was there,” only she makes an exception of her relations the Bedfords--she called them “the Bloomsbury lot”--and said that the Duchess would not let any of them go because Her Grace thought that Lord Stanley should have taken his recent rejection by Her Grace's niece more to heart. Lady Betty's stepfather, the Duke of Argyll, said that the whole day was so long and fatiguing that only Lady Betty could have stood it all.

But did Lady Betty stand it all? It was rumoured in the best-informed circles that she had broken off the match the next day; and when one becomes acquainted with the programme of the day's doings one cannot but acknowledge that the rumour was plausible. She probably made an attempt in this direction; but on her fiancé's promising never to repeat the offence, withdrew her resolution.

The famous brothers Adam, whose genius was equally ready to build an Adelphi or to design a fanlight, had been commissioned to plan an entertainment on the most approved French models and to carry it out on the noblest scale, taking care, of course, that the central idea should be the masque of _The Maid of The Oaks_, and these large-minded artists accepted the order without demur. The pseudo-classical feeling entered, largely through the influence of the Adams, into every form of art at this period, though the famous brothers cannot be accused of originating the movement. Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his most charming ladies in the costume of Greeks, and Angelica Kauffmann depicted many of her early English episodes with the personages clad in togas which seemed greatly beyond their control. But for that matter every battle piece up to the date of Benjamin West's “Death of Wolfe” showed the combatants in classical armour; and Dr. Johnson was more than usually loud in his protests against the suggestion that a sculptor should put his statues of modern men into modern clothing.

But the Adams were wise enough to refrain from issuing any order as to the costume to be worn by the shepherds and shepherdesses who were to roam the mead at The Oaks, Epsom, upon the occasion of this _fête champêtre_; and they were also wise enough to distrust the constancy of an English June. The result was (1) a charming medley of costume, though the pseudo-pastoral peasants, farmers, gardeners, and shepherds were in the majority, and (2) the most interesting part of the entertainments took place indoors, the octagonal hall lending itself nobly--when improved by Messrs. Adam--to the show. The “transparencies” which constituted so important a part of the ordinary birthday celebrations of the time, took the form of painted windows, and, later, of a device showing two of the conventional torches of Hymen in full blaze, supporting a shield with the Oak of the Hamiltons' crest and the usual “gules.”

This design occupied the place of the “set piece” which winds up a modern display of fireworks and sets the band playing “God save the King.” It could not have been brought on until the morning sunlight was flooding the landscape outside; for supper was not served until half-past eleven, and the company had to witness the representation of an intolerably long masque--the second of the day--after supper, with a procession of Druids, fauns, cupids, and nymphs, all in suitable, but it is to be hoped not traditional, costume.

The entertainment began quite early in the afternoon, when there was a long procession of shepherds and shepherdesses through the lanes to where a pastoral play was produced and syllabub drunk under the trees. But this was only an _hors d'ouvre_; it was not Colonel Burgoyne's masterpiece. This was not produced in the open air. Only when further refreshments had been served and evening was closing in did the guests, who had been sauntering through the sylvan scenes, repair to the great hall, which they found superbly decorated and, in fact, remodelled, for colonnades after the type of those in the pictures of Claude had been built around the great ballroom, the shafts being festooned with roses, and the drapery of crimson satin with heavy gold fringes. There were not enough windows to make excuses for so much drapery, but this was no insuperable obstacle to the artful designers; they so disposed of the material as to make it appear that it was the legitimate hanging for six windows.

For the procession through the colonnades the young host changed his costume and his fiancée changed hers. He had appeared as Rubens and she as Rubens' wife, from the well-known picture. But now she was dressed as Iphigenia. They led the first minuet before supper, and it was thought that they looked very fine. No one who has seen the two pictures of the scene, for which Zucchi was commissioned, can question this judgment. Lady Betty's portrait in one of these panels makes her even more beautiful than she appears on Sir Joshua's canvas.

With a display of fireworks of a detonating and discomposing type--the explosion, it was said, affected the nerves of nearly all the guests--and the illumination of the “transparency” already alluded to, this memorable fête came to no premature conclusion. Every one was bored to death by so much festivity coming all at once. The idea of twelve hours of masques and minuets is enough to make one's blood run cold. Its realisation may have had this effect upon the heroine of the day, hence the rumour that she found she had had enough of the Derby family to last her for the rest of her life without marrying the young heir. Unfortunately, however, if this was the case, she failed to justify the accuracy of the report; and she was married to Lord Stanley on the 23rd of the same month.

The union of Maria Gunning with the Earl of Coventry was a miserable one, but this of her niece and Lord Stanley was infinitely worse. Lady Betty soon found out that she had made a mistake in marrying a man so incapable of appreciating her charm of manner as was Lord Stanley. The likelihood is that if she had married any other man she would have made the same discovery. The vivacity for which her mother apologised to Sir William Hamilton was, after her marriage, much more apparent than the thoughtfulness which the Duchess assured her correspondent was one of her daughter's traits. She showed herself to be appallingly vivacious upon more than one occasion. Just at that time there was a vivacious “set” in Lady Betty's world, and every member of it seemed striving for leadership. Few of the ladies knew exactly where the border line lay between vivacity and indiscretion. If Lady Betty was one of the better informed on this delicate question of delimitation, all that can be said is that she overstepped the line upon several occasions. It is not to be thought that her lightness ever bordered into actual vice, but it rarely fell short of being indiscreet.

She was always being talked about--always having curious escapades, none of them quite compromising, but all calculated to make the judicious grieve. But it is one thing to be subjected to the censure of the judicious and quite another to come before a judicial authority, and it is pretty certain that if Lady Derby--her husband succeeded to the title two years after his marriage--had incriminated herself, she would have been forced to defend a divorce suit.

It is, however, likewise certain that for some time she kept hovering like a butterfly about the portals of the Court, and a good deal of the bloom was blown off her wings by the breath of rumour. She had accepted the devotion of the Duke of Dorset, and, considering the number of eyes that were upon her and the devotion of His Grace, this was a very dangerous thing to do. They were constantly seen together and at all hours. This was in the second year of her marriage, but even in the first her desire to achieve notoriety by some means made itself apparent. But her escapade that was most talked about was really not worthy of the gossip of a Gower. She was at a ball at the house of Mrs. Onslow in St. James's Square, and her chair not arriving in good time to take her back to Grosvenor Square, it was suggested by Lord Lindsay and Mr. Storer that they should borrow Mrs. Onslow's chair and carry her between them to her home. She agreed to this gallant proposal, and off they set together. The young men bore her to her very door in spite of the fact that they had met her own chair soon after they had left Mrs. Onslow's porch.

There was surely not much of an escapade in this transaction. The truth was probably that the chair did not arrive owing to the condition of the bearers, and when the young gentlemen met it they refused to jeopardise the safety of the lady by transferring her from Mrs. Onslow's chair to her own.

Rumour, however, was only too anxious to put the worst construction upon every act of the merry Countess, and it was doubtless because of this, and of her own knowledge of her daughter's thoughtlessness, that the Duchess of Argyll appeared upon the scene and endeavoured by her presence and advice to avert the catastrophe that seemed imminent. The Duchess insisted on accompanying her to every entertainment, and succeeded in keeping a watchful eye on her, though the Duke, who was at Inveraray, and was doubtless tired of hearing of the vivacity of his stepdaughter, wrote rather peremptorily for Her Grace to return to Scotland. She did not obey the summons, the fact being that she was devoted to this daughter of hers, who must have daily reminded her of her own sister Maria, to whom she had been so deeply attached. *

* It was said that she had refused the offer of the Duke of
Bridgewater, because of his suggestion that she should break
off all intercourse with Lady Coventry.

Seeing, however, that she could not continue to look after this lively young matron, and being well aware of the fact that Lord Derby would never consent to live with her again, the Duchess could do no more than condone the separation which was inevitable. The deed was drawn up in 1779, five years after Lady Betty had been so inauspiciously bored by the _fête champêtre_.

In the meantime there was a good deal of talk about the Earl of Derby himself. A young nobleman who takes a lively, or even a grave, interest in the personnel of the theatre is occasionally made the subject of vulgar gossip. Lord Derby had a reputation as an amateur actor, and he seemed to think that it would be increased by association with professional actresses. It is doubtful if he was justified in his views on this delicate question. At any rate, rightly or wrongly, on his estrangement from his wife, but two years before the final separation, he showed a greater devotion than ever to dramatic performances and dramatic performers. His uncle by marriage, now General Burgoyne, had written a play that turned out an extraordinary success. This was _The Heiress_, and it had received extravagant praise in many influential quarters. It was while it was still being talked of in society that a company of distinguished amateurs undertook to produce it at Richmond House, in Whitehall Place. In order that the representation might be as perfect as possible, the Duchess of Richmond engaged the actress who had taken the chief part in the original production, to superintend the rehearsals of her amateurs. Miss Farren was a young person of considerable beauty, and more even than an actress's share of discretion. She was in George Colman's company at the Haymarket, and was rapidly taking the place of Mrs. Abington in the affections of playgoers. She was the daughter of a surgeon in a small way--he may have been one of the barber surgeons of the eighteenth century. Marrying an actress (also in a small way), he adopted the stage as a profession, and became a strolling actor-manager, whenever he got the chance, and died before his drinking habits had quite demoralised his family.

Mrs. Farren was a wise woman--wise enough to know that she was a bad actress, but that there were possibilities in her two daughters. It was after only a brief season of probation that Colman engaged one of the girls to do small parts, promoting her in an emergency to be a “principal.” Miss Farren proved herself capable of making the most of her opportunity, and the result was that within a year she was taking Mrs. Abington's parts in the best comedies.

Her mother was sensible enough to perceive that there was room in the best society for an actress of ability as well as respectability--up to that time the two qualities had seldom been found associated--and Mrs. Farren was right. No whisper had ever been heard against the young lady, and a judicious introduction or two brought her into many drawing-rooms of those leaders of society who were also respectable, and this was of advantage to her not only socially, but professionally. Horace Walpole was able to write of her: “In distinction of manner and refinement she excelled Mrs. Abington, who could never go beyond Lady Teazle, which is a second-rate character.” Again, in a letter to Lady Ossory, he ascribed the ability of Miss Farren to the fact that she was accustomed to mingle with the best society.

This theory of Walpole's has been frequently controverted since his day, and now no one will venture to assert that there is really anything in it, although it sounds plausible enough. Miss Farren had, however, ample opportunity of studying “the real thing” and of profiting by her study. She found herself on the most intimate footing with duchesses--not of the baser sort like her of Ancaster, or of the eccentric sort like her of Bedford, but of the most exalted. The Duchess of Richmond and the Duchess of Leinster were among her friends, and thus it was that her appearance at the rehearsals of _The Heiress_ of Whitehall Place was not wholly professional. Upon this occasion she met Lord Derby and also Charles James Fox, the latter having accepted the rather onerous duties of stage manager. Before any of the performers were letter perfect in their dialogue, Miss Farren had captured the hearts of both these men. Having some of the qualities necessary to success as a statesman, including caution and an instinct as to the right moment to retire from a contest that must end in some one being made a fool of, Mr. Fox soon withdrew from a position of rivalry with Lord Derby. It was rumoured by the malicious, who had at heart the maintenance of the good name of Miss Farren, that Mr. Fox had been dismissed by the lady with great indignation on his making a proposition to her that did not quite meet her views in regard to the ceremony of marriage. Miss Farren they asserted to be a paragon of virtue, and so she undoubtedly was. Her virtue was of the most ostentatious type. She would never admit a gentleman to an audience unless some witness of her virtue was present. She accepted the devotion of Lord Derby, but gave him to understand quite plainly that so long as his wife was alive she could only agree to be his _fiancée_. Truly a very dragon of virtue was Miss Farren!

The Earl, previous to his meeting the actress, had been a dutiful if not a very devoted husband. But as soon as he fell in love with this paragon of virtue he became careless, and made no attempt to restrain his wife in her thoughtless behaviour. He allowed her to go her own way, and he went his way. His way led him almost every evening to the green room at the Haymarket and Drury Lane, where Miss Farren was to be found. The estrangement between himself and his wife that resulted in the final separation was the result not of his infatuation for the actress, but of her virtuous acceptance of him as her moral lover. She took care never to compromise herself with him or any one else, but she did not mind taking the man away from his wife and home in order that she might be accredited with occupying an absolutely unique position in the annals of the English stage.