Chapter IX: Front Matter (9)

Townshend, at Quebec, had succeeded to the command after Monckton was wounded, and he declined to renew the conflict with De Bougainville. The duel between Temple and Whately arose out of extraordinary circumstances. There were in the British Foreign Office letters from English and also from American officials in the transatlantic colony, which advised coercion on the part of our government as the proper course to be pursued for the successful administration of that colony. Benjamin Franklin was then in England, and hearing of these letters, had a strong desire to procure them, in order to publish them in America, to the confusion of the writers. The papers were the property of the British Government, from whom it is hardly too much to say that they must have been stolen. At all events, an agent of Franklin’s, named Hugh Williamson, is described as having got them for Franklin ‘by an ingenious device,’ which seems to be a very euphemistic phrase. The letters had been originally addressed to Whately, secretary to the Treasury, who, in 1773, was dead. The ingenious device by which they were abstracted was reported to have been made with the knowledge of Temple, who had been lieutenant-governor of New Hampshire. The excitement caused by their publication led to a duel between Temple and a brother of Whately, in whose hands the letters had never been, and poor Whately was dangerously wounded, to save the honour of the ex-lieutenant-governor. The publication of these letters was as unjustifiable as the ingenious device by which they were conveyed from their rightful owners. It caused as painful a sensation as any one of the many painful incidents in the Geneva Arbitration affair, namely, when--it being a point of honour that neither party should publish a statement of their case till a judgment had been pronounced--the case made out by the United States counsel was to be bought, before the tribunal was opened, as easily as if it had been a ‘last dying speech and confession!’

In literature Andrew Stewart’s promised ‘Letters to Lord Mansfield’ excited universal curiosity. In that work Stewart treated the chief justice as those Chinese executioners do their patients whose skin they politely and tenderly brush away with wire brushes till nothing is left of the victim but a skeleton. It was a luxury to Walpole to see a Scot dissect a Scot. ‘They know each other’s sore places better than we do.’ The work, however, was not published. Referring to Macpherson’s ‘Ossian,’ Walpole remarked, ‘The Scotch seem to be proving that they are really descended from the Irish.’ On the other hand, the ‘Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers’ was being relished by satirical minds, and men were attributing it to Anstey and Soame Jenyns, and to Temple, Luttrell, and Horace Walpole, and pronouncing it wittier than the ‘Dunciad,’ and did not know that it was Mason’s, and that it would not outlive Pope. Sir William Chambers found consolation in the fact that the satire, instead of damaging the volume it condemned, increased the sale of the book by full three hundred volumes. Walpole, of course, knew from the first that Mason was the author; he worked hard in promoting its circulation, and gloried in its success. ‘Whenever I was asked,’ he writes, ‘have you read “Sir John Dalrymple?” I replied, “Have _you_ read the ‘Heroic Epistle’?” The _Elephant_ and _Ass_ have become constellations, and ‘_He has stolen the Earl of Denbigh’s handkerchief_,’ is the proverb in fashion. It is something surprising to find, at a time when authors are supposed to have been ill paid, Dr. Hawkesworth receiving, for putting together the narrative of Mr. Banks’s voyage, one thousand pounds in advance from the traveller, and six thousand from the publishers, Strahan & Co. It really seems incredible, but this is stated to have been the fact.

Then, the drama of 1773! There was Home’s ‘Alonzo,’ which, said Walpole, ‘seems to be the story of David and Goliath, worse told than it would have been if Sternhold and Hopkins had put it to music!’ But the town really awoke to a new sensation when Goldsmith’s ‘She Stoops to Conquer’ was produced on the stage, beginning a course in which it runs as freshly now as ever. Yet the hyper-fine people of a hundred years ago thought it rather vulgar. This was as absurd as the then existing prejudice in France, that it was vulgar and altogether wrong for a nobleman to write a book, or rather, to publish one! There is nothing more curious than Walpole’s drawing-room criticism of this exquisite and natural comedy. He calls it ‘the lowest of all farces.’ He condemns the execution of the subject, rather than the ‘very vulgar’ subject itself. He could see in it neither moral nor edification. He allows that the situations are well managed, and make one laugh, in spite of the alleged grossness of the dialogue, the forced witticisms, and improbability of the whole plan and conduct. But, he adds, ‘what disgusts one most is, that though the characters are very low, and aim at low humour, not one of them says a sentence that is natural, or that marks any character at all. It is set up in opposition to sentimental comedy, and is as bad as the worst of them.’ Walpole’s supercilious censure reminds one of the company and of the dancing bear, alluded to in the scene over which Tony Lumpkin presides at the village alehouse. ‘I loves to hear the squire’ (Lumpkin) ‘sing,’ says one fellow, ‘bekase he never gives us anything that’s low!’ To which expression of good taste, an equally _nice_ fellow responds; ‘Oh, damn anything that’s low! I can’t bear it!’ Whereupon, the philosophical Mister Muggins very truly remarks: ‘The genteel thing is the genteel thing at any time, if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.’ The humour culminates in the rejoinder of the bear-ward: ‘I like the maxim of it, Master Muggins. What though I’m obligated to dance a bear? A man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my poison if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes--“Water parted,” or the minuet in “Ariadne”.’ All this is low, in one sense, but it is far more full of humour than of vulgarity. The comedy of nature killed the sentimental comedies, which, for the most part, were as good (or as bad) as sermons. They strutted or staggered with sentiments on stilts, and were duller than tables of uninteresting statistics.

Garrick, who would have nothing to do with Goldsmith’s comedy except giving it a prologue, was ‘in shadow’ this year. He improved ‘Hamlet,’ by leaving out the gravediggers; and he swamped the theatre with the ‘Portsmouth Review.’ He went so far as to rewrite ‘The Fair Quaker of Deal,’ to the tune of ‘Portsmouth and King George for ever!’ not to mention a preface, in which the Earl of Sandwich, by name, is preferred to Drake, Blake, and all the admirals that ever existed! If Walpole’s criticisms are not always just, they are occasionally admirable for terseness and correctness alike. London, in 1773, was in raptures with the singing of Cecilia Davies. Walpole quaintly said that he did not love the perfection of what anybody can do, and he wished ‘she had less top to her voice and more bottom.’ How good too is his sketch of a male singer, who ‘sprains his mouth with smiling on himself!’ But to return to Garrick, and an illustration of social manners a century ago, we must not omit to mention that, at a private party--at Beauclerk’s, Garrick played the ‘short-armed orator’ with Goldsmith! The latter sat in Garrick’s lap, concealing him, but with Garrick’s arms advanced under Goldsmith’s shoulders; the arms of the latter being held behind his back. Goldsmith then spoke a speech from ‘Cato,’ while Garrick’s shortened arms supplied the action. The effect, of course, was ridiculous enough to excite laughter, as the action was often in absurd diversity from the utterance.

In the present newspaper record of births a man’s wife is no longer called his ‘lady;’ a hundred years ago there was plentiful variety of epithet. ‘The Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, spouse to the Prince of that name, of a Princess,’ is one form. ‘Earl Tyrconnel’s lady of a child,’ is another. ‘Wife’ was seldom used. One birth is announced in the following words: ‘The Duchess of Chartres, at Paris, of a Prince who has the title of Duke of Valois.’ Duke of Valois? ay, and subsequently Duke of Chartres, Duke of Orléans, finally, Louis Philippe, King of the French!

The chronicle of the marriages of the year seems to have been loosely kept, unless indeed parties announced themselves by being married twice over. There is, for example, a double chronicling of the marriage of the following personages: ‘July 31st. The Right Hon. the Lady Amelia D’Arcy, daughter of the Earl of Holdernesse, to the Marquis of Carmarthen, son of his Grace the Duke of Leeds. Lady Amelia having thus married my Lord in July, we find, four months later, my Lord marrying Lady Amelia. ‘Nov. 29th. The Marquis of Carmarthen to Lady Amelia D’Arcy, daughter of the Earl of Holdernesse.’ This union, with its double chronology, was one of several which was followed by great scandal, and dissolved under circumstances of great disgrace. But the utmost scandal and disgrace attended the breaking up of the married life of Lord and Lady Carmarthen. This dismal domestic romance is told in contemporary pamphlets with a dramatic completeness of detail which is absolutely startling. Those who are fond of such details may consult these liberal authorities: we will only add that the above Lady Amelia D’Arcy, Marchioness of Carmarthen, became the wife of Captain Byron; the daughter of that marriage was Augusta, now better known to us as Mrs. Leigh. Captain Byron’s second wife was Miss Gordon, of Gight, and the son of that marriage was the poet Byron. How the names of the half-brother and half-sister have been cruelly conjoined, there is here no necessity of narrating. Let us turn to smaller people. Thus, we read of a curious way of endowing a bride, in the following marriage announcement: ‘April 13th. Rev. Mr. Morgan, Rector of Alphamstow, York, to Miss Tindall, daughter of Mr. Tindall, late rector, who resigned in favour of his son-in-law.’ In the same month, we meet with a better known couple--‘Mr. Sheridan, of the Temple, to the celebrated Miss Linley, of Bath.’

The deaths of the year included, of course, men of very opposite qualities. The man of finest quality who went the inevitable way was he whom some call the _good_, and some the _great_ Lord Lyttelton. When a man’s designation rests on two such distinctions, we may take it for granted that he was not a common-place man. And yet how little remains of him in the public memory. His literary works are fossils; but, like fossils, they are not without considerable value. Good as he was, there are not a few people who jumble together his and his son’s identity. The latter was unworthy of his sire. He was a disreputable person altogether.

Lord Chesterfield was another of the individuals of note whose glass ran out during this year. He was always protesting that he cared nothing for death. Such persistence of protest generally arises from a feeling contrary to that which is made the subject of protest. This lord (as we have said) jested to the very door of his tomb. That must have reminded his friends during those Tyburn days, how convicts on their way up Holborn Hill to the gallows used to veil their terror by cutting jokes with the crowd. It was the very Chesterfield of highwaymen, who, going up the Hill in the fatal cart, and observing the mob to be hastening onwards, cried out, ‘It’s no use your being in such a hurry; there’ll be no fun till I get there!’ This was the Chesterfield style, and its spirit also. But behind it all was the feeling and conviction of Marmontel’s philosopher, who having railed through a long holiday excursion, till he was thoroughly tired, was of opinion, as he tucked himself up in a featherbed at night, that life and luxury were, after all, rather pretty things.

Chesterfield was, nevertheless, much more of a man than his fellow peer who crossed the Stygian ferry in the same year, namely, the Duke of Kingston. The duke had been one of the handsomest men of his time, and, like a good many handsome men, was a considerable fool. He allowed himself, at all events, to be made the fool, and to become the slave, of the famous Miss Chudleigh--as audacious as she was beautiful. The lady, whom the law took it into its head to look upon as _not_ the duke’s duchess--that is, not his wife--was resigned to her great loss by the feeling of her great gain. She was familiar with her lord’s last will and testament, and went into hysterics to conceal her satisfaction. She saw his grace out of the world with infinite ceremony. To be sure, it was nothing else. The physicians whom she called together in consultation _consulted_, no doubt, and then whispered to their lady friends, while holding their delicate pulses, ‘Mere ceremony, upon my honour!’ The widow kept the display of grief up to the last. When she brought the ducal corpse up from Bath to London, she rested often by the way. If she could have carried out her caprices, she would have had as many crosses to mark the ducal stations of death as were erected to commemorate the passing of Queen Eleanor. As this could not be, the widow took to screaming at every turn of the road, and at night was carried into her inn kicking her heels and screaming at the top of her voice.

Among the other deaths of the year 1773, the following are noteworthy. At Vienna, of a broken heart, from the miseries of his country, the brave Prince Poniatowski, brother to the King of Poland, and a general in the Austrian service, in which he had been greatly distinguished during the last war. The partition of Poland was then only a year old, and the echoes of the assertions of the lying Czar, Emperor, and King, that they never intended to lay a finger on that ancient kingdom, had hardly died out of the hearing of the astounded world. England is always trusting the words of Czars and their Khiva protestations, always learning and never coming to the knowledge of the truth. A name less known than Poniatowski may be cited for the singularity attached to it. ‘Hale Hartson, Esq., the author of the “Countess of Salisbury” and other ingenious pieces--a young gentleman of fine parts, and who, though very young, had made the tour of Europe three times.’ An indication of what a fashionable quarter Soho, with its neighbourhood, was in 1773, is furnished by the following announcement: ‘Suddenly, at her house in Lisle Street, Leicester Fields, Lady Sophia Thomas, sister of the late Earl of Albemarle, and aunt of the present.’ Foreign ambassadors then dwelt in Lisle Street. Even dukes had their houses in the same district; and baronets lived and died in Red Lion Square and in Cornhill. Among those baronets an eccentric individual turned up now and then. In the obituary is the name of Sir Robert Price, of whom it is added that ‘he left his fortune to seven old bachelors in indigent circumstances.’ The death of one individual is very curtly recorded; all the virtues under heaven would have been assigned to her, had she not belonged to a vanquished party. In that case she would have been a high and mighty princess; as it was, we only read, ‘Lately, Lady Annabella Stuart, a relation of the late royal family, aged ninety-one years, at St.-Omer.’ A few of us are better acquainted with the poet, John Cunningham, whose decease is thus quaintly chronicled: ‘At Newcastle, the ingenious Mr. John Cunningham. A man little known, but that will be always much admired for his plaintive, tender, and natural pastoral poetry.’ Some of the departed personages seem to have held strange appointments. Thus we find Alexander, Earl of Galloway, described as ‘one of the lords of police;’ and Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells, who died in Hill Street when Mrs. Montague and her blue stockings were in their greatest brilliancy, is described as ‘joint Decypherer (with his son, Edward Willes, Esq.) to the king.’ We believe that the duty of decypherer consisted in reading letters that were opened, on suspicion, in their passage through the post-office. Occasionally a little page of family history is opened to us in a few words, as, for instance, in the account of Sir Robert Ladbroke, a rich City knight, whose name is attached to streets, roads, groves, and terraces in Notting Hill. After narrating his disposal of his wealth among his children and charities, the chronicler states that ‘To his son George, who sailed a short time since to the West Indies, he has bequeathed three guineas a week during life, to be paid only to his own receipt.’ One would like to know if this all but disinherited young fellow took heart of grace, and, after all, made his way creditably in the world. Such sons often succeed in life better than their brothers. Look around you _now_. See the sons born to inherit the colossal fortune which their father has built up. What brainless asses the most of them become! Had they been born to little instead of to over-much, their wits would perhaps have been equal to their wants, and they would have been as good men as their fathers.

It was a son of misfortune, who, on a July night of 1773, entered the _King’s Head_ at Enfield, weary, hungry, penniless, and wearing the garb of a clergyman. He was taken in, poor guest as he was, and in the hospitable inn he died within a few days. It was then discovered that he was the Rev. Samuel Bickley. In his pockets were found three manuscript sermons, and an extraordinary petition to the Archbishop of Canterbury, dated the previous February. The prayer of the petition was to this effect: ‘Your petitioner, therefore, most humbly prays, that if an audience from your Grace should be deemed too great a favour, you will at least grant him some relief, though it be only a temporary one, in our deplorable necessity and distress; and,’ said the petitioner with a simplicity or an impudence which may have accounted for his condition, ‘let your Grace’s charity cover the multitude of his sins.’ He then continues: ‘There never yet was anyone in England doomed to starve; but I am nearly, if not altogether so; denied to exercise the sacred functions wherein I was educated, driven from the doors of the rich laymen to the clergy for relief; by the clergy, denied; so that I may justly take up the speech of the Gospel Prodigal, and say: ‘How many hired servants of my father have bread enough and to spare, while I perish with hunger!’ Here was, possibly, an heir of great expectations, who, scholar as he was, had come to grief, while, only a little while before him, there died a fortunate impostor, as appears from this record: ‘Mr. Colvill, in Old Street, aged 83. He was much resorted to as a fortune-teller, by which he acquired upwards of 4,000_l._;’ at the same time, a man in London was quintupling that sum by the invention and sale of peppermint lozenges.

Let us look into the newspapers for January 1773, that our readers may compare the events of that month with January 1873, a hundred years later. We find the laureate Whitehead’s official New Year Ode sung at court to Boyce’s music, while king, queen, courtiers and guests yawned at the vocal dulness, and were glad when it was all over. We enter a church and listen to a clergyman preaching a sermon; on the following day we see the reverend gentleman drilling with other recruits belonging to a regiment of the Guards, into which he had enlisted. The vice of gambling was ruining hundreds in London, the suburbs of which were infested by highwaymen, who made a very pretty living of it--staking only their lives. We go to the fashionable noon-day walk in the Temple Gardens, and encounter an eccentric promenader who is thus described: ‘He wore an old black waistcoat which was quite threadbare, breeches of the same colour and complexion; a black stocking on one leg, a whitish one on the other; a little hat with a large gold button and loop, and a tail, or rather club, as thick as a lusty man’s arm, powdered almost an inch thick, and under the club a quantity of hair resembling a horse’s tail. In this dress he walked and mixed with the company there for a considerable time, and occasioned no little diversion.’ The style of head-decoration then patronised by the ladies was quite as nasty and offensive as that which was in vogue about ten years ago. It was ridiculed in the popular pantomime ‘Harlequin Sorcerer.’ Columbine was to be seen in her dressing-room attended by her lover, a macaroni, and a hairdresser. On her head was a very high tower of hair, to get at which was impossible for the _friseur_ till Harlequin’s wand caused a ladder to rise, on the top rung of which the _coiffeur_ was raised to the top surface of Columbine’s chignon; having dressed which they all set off for the Pantheon. While pantomime was thus triumphant at Covent Garden there was something like cavalry battles close to London; that is to say, engagements between mounted smugglers and troops of Scots Greys. The village Tooting in this month was a scene of a fight, in which both parties shot and cut down antagonists with as much alacrity as if they were foreign invaders, where blood, and a good deal of it, was lavishly spilt. Sussex was a favourite battle-field; a vast quantity of tea and brandy, and other contraband, was drunk in Middlesex and neighbouring counties where there was sympathy for smugglers, who set their lives on a venture and enabled people to purchase articles duty free.

At this time the union of Ireland with the other portions of the British kingdom was being actively agitated. The project was that each of the thirty-two Irish counties should send one representative to the British Parliament. Forty-eight Irish Peers were to be transferred to the English Upper House. One very remarkable feature in the supposed government project was, that Ireland should retain the shadow of a parliament, to be called ‘The Great Council of the Nation.’ The Great Council was to consist of members sent by the Irish boroughs, each borough to send one representative, ‘their power not to apply further than the interior policy of the kingdom.’ The courts of law were to remain undisturbed. It will be remembered that something like the above council is now asked for by those who advocate Home Rule; but as some of those advocates only wish to have the council as the means to a further end, the Irish professional patriot now, as ever, stands in the way to the real improvement and the permanent prosperity of that part of the kingdom.

In many other respects the incidents of to-day are like the echoes of the events a hundred years old. We find human nature much the same, but a trifle coarser in expression. The struggle to live, then as now, took the guise of the struggle of a beaten army, retreating over a narrow and dangerous bridge, where each thought only of himself, and the stronger trampled down the weaker or pushed him over into the raging flood. With all this, blessed charity was not altogether wanting. Then, as in the present day, charity appeared on the track of the struggle, and helped many a fainting heart to achieve a success, the idea of which they had given up in despair.

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