Chapter VIII (2)

A great many actors have been buried in this spot; among them, Eastcourt the famous mimic, Edwin, Macklin, and King. We shall speak of one or two of them presently, but it is desirable, especially in a work of this kind, to observe a chronological order. The mere observance itself conveys information. Among the variety of persons buried here may be mentioned, first:

Car, Earl of Somerset, in the old church. His burial in Covent Garden was, doubtless, owing to his connection with the family of Russell, his daughter having married William, afterwards Earl and Duke of Bedford, father of the famous patriot. It is said that his lady was bred up in such ignorance of the dishonour of her parents, that having met by accident with a book giving an account of it, she fainted away, and was found in that condition by her domestics. Her lover's family were very averse to the match, but wisely allowed it upon due trial, and had no reason to repent their generosity. To read the history of the foolish and unprincipled Countess of Somerset, who would suppose that her daughter was to give birth to the conscientious martyr for liberty? But the blood which folly makes wicked, a good education may render noble.

Butler in the church-yard. The popular notion that he was starved is unfounded; but he was very ill-treated by a court whom his wit materially served. It is said that Charles, once and away, gave him a hundred pounds. This is possible; but it is at least as possible that he gave him nothing, though he would willingly have done it, perhaps, had his debaucheries left him the means. Charles, in his way, was as poor as Butler, though not as honourably so, for it does not appear that the poet was unwilling to labour for his subsistence. There is a mystery, however, in Butler's private affairs. He once appears to have had some office in the family of the Countess of Kent. Perhaps he was not a very good man of business, though the learning exhibited in 'Hudibras' showed how he could work on a favourite subject. When men succeed to this extent in what nature evidently designs them for, great allowance is to be made for their disinclination to other tasks; and Butler had no children to render the neglect of his fortune criminal. The Duke of Buckingham, who once undertook to "do something for him," and had a meeting for the purpose at a coffee-house, saw a pander of his go by the window with a "brace of ladies," and going after him, we hear no more of his Grace. Luckily, to prevent him from starvation, Butler found a friend in the excellent Mr. Longueville of the Temple, a scholar and a real gentleman, who did not confine his generosity to an admiration of him in books. The poet is understood to have been indebted to him for support during the latter part of his life; and it was he who buried him in this church-yard. It is to Mr. Longueville that we are indebted for the publication of Butler's "Remains," which are quite worthy of the wit of "Hudibras," and deserve to be more generally known. Butler was the greatest wit that ever wrote in verse; perhaps the greatest that ever wrote at all, meaning by wit the union of remote ideas. He was undoubtedly the most learned. His political poem is out of date; and much of the humour that delighted the cavaliers must, of necessity, be lost to us; but passages of it will always be repeated; and it is difficult to hear his name mentioned, without quoting some of his rhymes. He was the first man that gave rhyme itself an air of wit. His couplets are not only witty themselves, but seem to add a new idea to their imagery in the very sounds at the end of them. His startling turns of thought are accompanied by as surprising a turn in the cadence, as if the echo itself could not help laughing. Thus his doctor's shop is

"---- stored with deletery medicines,
Which whosoever took is dead since:"

his sour religionists

"Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to:"

and again,

"Synods are mystical bear-gardens,
Where elders, deputies, church-wardens,
And other members of the court,
Manage the Babylonish sport;
For prolocutor, scribe, and bear-ward,
Do differ only in a mere word:
Both are but several synagogues
Of carnal men, and bears, and dogs:
Both antichristian assemblies
To mischief bent, as far's in them lies."

His most quoted rhyme, when

"---- Pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fist instead of a stick,

is, singularly enough, no rhyme at all; but the surprise of the echo, and the truth conveyed in it, affect us as if it were perfect. Here are one or two more of the wilful order, very ludicrous:--

"---- The captive knight
And pensive squire, both bruised in body
And conjured into safe custody.

---- in all the fabrick
You could not see one stone or a brick.

Who deals in destiny's dark counsels,
And sage opinions of the moon sells.

Those wholesale critics that in coffee-
Houses cry down all philosophy."

Mrs. Pilkington tells us that Swift took down a "Hudibras" one day, and ordered her to examine him in the book, when, to her great surprise, she found he remembered "every line, from beginning to end of it."[292] Mrs. Pilkington is a lady whose word is to be taken _cum multis granis_; nor is it very likely she should ever have heard the Dean repeat a whole volume through; but if Swift knew any author entire, Butler is likely to have been the man. Butler had the same politics, the same love of learning, the same wit, the same apparent contempt of mankind, the same charity underneath it, and the same impatient wish to see them wiser. His style of writing is evidently the origin of Swift's. If the reader is not yet acquainted with his 'Remains,' the following sample or two will give him a desire to be so:--

"The truest characters of ignorance
Are vanity, and pride, and arrogance;
As blind men use to bear their noses higher,
Than those who have their eyes and sight intire."

* * * * *

"There needs no other charm, nor conjuror,
To raise infernal spirits up, but fear;
That makes men pull their horns in like a snail,
That's both a prisoner to itself, and jail;
Draws more fantastic shapes than in the grains
Of knotted wood, in some men's crazy brains,
When all the cocks they think they see, and bulls,
Are only in the inside of their skulls."

Sir Peter Lely, the painter of the meretricious beauties of the court of Charles II.--Pope's couplet on him is well known:--

"Lely on animated canvass stole
The sleepy eye that spoke the melting soul."

The canvass is more sleepy than animated, and the ladies more like what they were in inclination than in features. However, there is a great likeness on that very account. They are all of a sisterhood;-- _qualem_ non _decet esse sororum_. A master of pictorial criticism has said of the collection of them at Windsor Castle, that "they look just like what they were, a set of kept-mistresses, painted, tawdry, showing off their theatrical or meretricious airs and graces, without one trace of real elegance or refinement, or one spark of sentiment to touch the heart. Lady Grammont is the handsomest of them; and though the most voluptuous in her attire and attitude, the most decent. The Duchess of Portsmouth (Cleveland), in her helmet and plumes, looks quite like a heroine of romance, or modern Amazon; but for an air of easy assurance, inviting admiration, and alarmed at nothing but being thought coy, commend us to my Lady ---- above, in the sky-blue drapery, thrown carelessly over her shoulders. As paintings, these celebrated portraits cannot rank very high. They have an affected ease, but a real hardness of manner and execution; and they have that contortion of attitude and setness of features, which we afterwards find carried to so disgusting and insipid an excess in Kneller's portraits. Sir Peter Lely was, however, a better painter than Sir Godfrey Kneller--that is the highest praise that can be accorded to him. He had more spirit, more originality, and was the livelier coxcomb of the two! Both these painters possessed considerable mechanical dexterity, but it is not of a refined kind. Neither of them could be ranked among great painters, yet they were thought by their contemporaries and themselves superior to every one. At the distance of a hundred years we see the thing plainly enough."[293] Sir Peter was a Westphalian, of a family named Vander Vaas. His father was an officer in the army, who, having been born in a perfumer's house which had a lily for its sign, got the name of Captain Du Lys, or Lely, and the cognomen was retained by his son. He aimed at magnificence in his style of living, probably in imitation of his predecessor at the English court, Vandyke; but there was a certain coarseness about him which showed the inferiority of his taste in that particular, as well as in the rest.

Wycherly in the Church. See Bow Street.

Southern, one of those dramatic writers who, without much genius, succeed in obtaining a considerable name, and justly, by dint of genuine feeling for common nature. He began in Dryden's time, who knew and respected his talents, was known and respected by Pope, and lived to enjoy a similar regard from Gray. "I remember," says Oldys, "this venerable old gentleman, when he lived in Covent Garden, and used to frequent the evening prayers in the church there. He was always neat and decently dressed, commonly in black, with his silver sword, and silver locks." Gray, in a letter to Walpole, dated Burnham, in Buckinghamshire, 1737, says, "We have old Mr. Southern at a gentleman's house, a little way off, who often comes to see us; he is now seventy-seven years old, and has almost wholly lost his memory; but is as agreeable an old man as can be; at least I persuade myself so when I look at him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko." Southern died about nine years after this period, aged about eighty-five. With all the respect he obtained, probably a great deal more by the decency and civility of his habits than by his genius, Southern, it appears, was not above making application to the nobility and others to buy tickets for his plays.

Joe Haines, the comedian. See Drury Lane.

Eastcourt, the comedian--or mimic, rather--for, like most players who devote themselves to mimicry, which is a kind of caricature portrait-painting, his comedy or general humour was inferior to it. He was, however, a man of wit as well as a mimic; and, in spite of a talent which seldom renders men favourites in private, was so much regarded, that, when the Beef-steak Club was set up (which a late author says must not be confounded with the Beef-steak Club held in Covent Garden Theatre and the Lyceum), Eastcourt was appointed _provveditore_ or _caterer_, and presented as a badge of distinction with a small gridiron of gold, which he wore about his neck fastened to a green ribbon. He is said at one time to have been a tavern-keeper, in which quality (unless it was in the other) Parnell speaks of him in the beginning of one of his poems:--

Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine
A noble meal bespoke us,
And for the guests that were to dine
Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.[294]

But his greatest honour is the following remarkable testimony borne to his merits by Sir Richard Steele, whose own fineness of nature was never more beautifully evinced in any part of his writings:--

"Poor Eastcourt! the last time I saw him we were plotting to
show the town his great capacity for acting in his full light,
by introducing him as dictating to a set of young players, in
what manner to speak this sentence and utter t'other passion.
He had so exquisite a discerning of what was defective in any
object before him, that in an instant he could shew you the
ridiculous side of what would pass for beautiful and just, even
to men of no ill judgment, before he had pointed at the
failure. He was no less skilful in the knowledge of beauty;
and, I dare say, there is no one who knew him well, but can
repeat more well-turned compliments, as well as smart repartees
of Mr. Eastcourt's, than of any other man in England. This was
easily to be observed in his inimitable faculty of telling a
story, in which he would throw in natural and unexpected
incidents to make his court to one part, and rally the other
part of the company. Then he would vary the usage he gave them,
according as he saw them bear kind or sharp language. He had
the knack to raise up a pensive temper and mortify an
impertinently gay one, as he saw them bear kind or sharp
language.

"It is an insolence natural to the wealthy, to affix, as much
as in them lies, the character of a man to his circumstances.
Thus it is ordinary with them to praise faintly the good
qualities of those below them, and say, it is very
extraordinary in such a man as he is, or the like, when they
are forced to acknowledge the value of him whose lowness
upbraids their exaltation. It is to this humour only that it is
to be ascribed, that a quick wit in conversation, a nice
judgment upon any emergency that could arise, and a most
blameless inoffensive behaviour, could not raise this man above
being received only upon the foot of contributing to mirth and
diversion. But he was as easy under that condition as a man of
so excellent talents was capable; and since they would have it
that to divert was his business, he did it with all the seeming
alacrity imaginable, though it stung him to the heart that it
was his business. Men of sense, who could taste his
excellencies, were well satisfied to let him lead the way in
conversation, and play after his own manner; but fools, who
provoked him to mimicry, found he had the indignation to let it
be at their expense who called for it; and he would show the
form of conceited heavy fellows as jests to the company at
their own request, in revenge for interrupting him from being a
companion, to put on the character of a jester.

"What was peculiarly excellent in this memorable companion was,
that in the accounts he gave of persons and sentiments, he did
not only hit the figure of their faces, and manner of their
gestures, but he would in his narration fall into their very
way of thinking, and this when he recounted passages wherein
men of the best wit were concerned, as well as such wherein
were represented men of the lowest rank of understanding. It is
certainly as great an instance of self-love to a weakness, to
be impatient of being mimicked, as any can be imagined. There
were none but the vain, the formal, the proud, or those who
were incapable of mending their faults, that dreaded him; to
others he was in the highest degree pleasing, and I do not know
any satisfaction of any indifferent kind I ever tasted so much
as having got over an impatience of seeing myself in the air he
could put me when I have displeased him. _It is indeed to his
exquisite talent this way, more than any philosophy I could
read on the subject, that my person is very little of my care;
and it is indifferent to me what is said of my shape, my air,
my manner, my speech, or my address. It is to poor Eastcourt I
chiefly owe that I am arrived at the happiness of thinking
nothing a diminution to me_, BUT WHAT ARGUES A DEPRAVITY OF MY
WILL.

"I have been present with him among men of the most delicate
taste a whole night, and have known him (for he saw it was
desired) keep the discourse to himself the most part of it, and
maintain his good humour with a countenance and in a language
so delightful, without offence to any person or thing upon
earth, still preserving the distance his circumstances obliged
him to; I say, I have seen him do all this in such a charming
manner, that I am sure none of those I hint at will read this
without giving him some sorrow for their abundant mirth, and
one gush of tears for so many bursts of laughter I wish it were
any honour to the pleasant creature's memory that my eyes are
too much suffused to let me go on."[295]

Closterman in the church-yard. He was an indifferent, but once popular artist, whom we mention on account of his painful domestic end. He had a mistress, whom he thought devoted to him. She robbed him of everything she could lay her hands on, money, plate, jewels, and moveables, and fled out of the kingdom. He pined away with an impaired understanding, and was soon brought to the grave. Closterman was once set in competition with Sir Godfrey Kneller. He painted the family of the Duke of Marlborough, and had so many disputes about the picture with the Duchess, that Marlborough said to him, "It has given me more trouble to reconcile my wife and you, than to fight a battle."

Arne, the celebrated musician, in the church-yard. See King Street.

Sir Robert Strange, the greatest engraver, perhaps, this country has seen; that is to say, supposing the merits of an engraver to be in proportion to his relish for and imitation of his originals. Other men may have drawn a finer mechanical line, but none have surpassed Strange in giving the proper diversity of surfaces, or equalled him in transferring to hard copper the roundness and delicacy of flesh. His engravings from Titian almost convey something of the colours of that great painter. Like all true masters, Strange took pains with whatever he did, and bestowed attention on every part of it; so much indeed, that his love for his art appears to have been an exhausting one, and he was anxious to keep the burin out of the hands of his children. He had seen a great deal of the world, and was a very amiable as well as intelligent man. When young he was a great Jacobite, and fought sword-in-hand for the Pretender; though it is said that a main cause of his ardour was the hope of attaining the hand of a fair friend, equally devoted to the cause. It is pleasant to add, that he did attain it, and that she made him a good wife. Sir Robert was a Scotchman of a good family; but his knighthood came from George the Third, a few years before the artist's death.

Macklin, the comedian, in the church-yard, at the age of one hundred and seven, and upwards. We have spoken of him before in his stage character. His long age in the midst of cities and theatres is very remarkable. It seems to have been owing to the inheritance of a robust constitution--the great cause of longevity next to temperance, perhaps the greatest, unless contradicted by the reverse. Most persons who have been long-lived have had long-lived progenitors; but somebody must begin. The foundation is always temperance. Macklin must have been very lucky in his physical advantages, for he did not keep any very strict rein over his temper; nor does he appear to have followed any regimen, till latterly, and then he consulted the immediate ease of his stomach, and not the quality of what he took. However, his habits, whatever they were, were most likely regular. "It had been his constant rule," says his biographer, "for a period of thirty years and upwards, to visit a public-house called the Antelope, in White Hart Yard, Covent Garden, where his usual beverage was a pint of beer called _stout_, which was made hot and sweetened with moist sugar, almost to a syrup. This, he said, balmed his stomach, and kept him from having any inward pains."[296] The same writer, in a report of a conversation he had with Mr. Macklin, has left us an affecting but not unpleasing picture of the decay of faculties, remarkable to the very last for their shrewdness and vivacity. It is the liveliest picture of old mortality we ever met with.

_Question._ "Well, Mr. Macklin, how do you do to-day?"

_Answer._ "Why, I hardly know, sir; I think I am a little
better than I was in the morning."

_Q._ "Why, sir, did you feel any pain in the morning?"

_A._ "Yes, sir, a good deal."

_Q._ "In what part?"

_A._ "Why, I feel a sort of a--a--a--" (shaking his head), "I
forget everything; I forget the word: I felt a kind of pain
here" (putting his hand upon his left breast),--"but it is gone
away, and I am better now."

_Q._ "How do you sleep, sir?"

_A._ "Not so well as I could wish; I am becoming more wakeful
than usual; I awoke last night two or three times: I got up
twice, walked about my room here, and then went to bed again."

_Q._ "Do you always get up when you awake, sir?"

_A._ "No, sir, not always; but I get up and walk about as soon
as I feel myself--there, now, it is all gone" (putting his hand
upon his forehead).

_Q._ "You get up, sir, I suppose, as soon as you feel yourself
uneasy in bed?"

_A._ "Yes, sir, when I begin to be troublesome to myself."

_Q._ "Do not you, sir, find it unpleasant to walk about here
alone, and to have nobody to converse with?"

_A._ "Not at all, sir, I get up when I am tired abed, and I
walk about till I am tired, and then I go to bed again; and so
forth."

_Q._ "But does it not afford you great pleasure when any person
comes to see you?"

_A._ "Why, not so much as one would expect, sir."

_Q._ "Are you not pleased when your friends come and converse
with you?"

_A._ "I am always very happy to see my friends, and I should be
very happy to hold a--a--a, see there now...."

_Q._ "A conversation you mean, sir?"

_A._ "Ay, a conversation. Alas! sir, you see the wretched state
of my memory--see there now, I could not recollect that common
word--but I cannot converse. I used to go to a house very near
this where my friends assemble ... it was a--a--a [a company]
no, that's not the word, a--a--club, I mean. I was the father
of it, but I could not hear all; and what I did hear, I did
not--a--a--under--under--understand; they were all very
attentive to me, but I could not be one of them. I always feel
an uneasiness, when I don't know what the people are talking
about. Indeed, I found, sir, that I was not fit to keep
company--so I stay away."

_Q._ "Have you been reading this morning, sir?"

_A._ "Yes, sir."

_Q._ "What book?"

_A._ "I forget:--here, look at it;"--handing the book.

_Q._ "I see, it is Milton's 'Paradise Lost.'"

[He then took the book out of my hand and said:--"I have only
read this much" (about four pages) "these two days--but what I
read yesterday, I have forgot to-day." He next read a few lines
of the beginning inimitably well, and laying down the book,
said] "I understand all that, but if I read any farther, I
forget that passage which I understood before."

_Q._ "But I perceive with satisfaction, sir, that your sight is
very good."

_A._ "Oh, sir, my sight, like everything else, begins to fail
too; about two days ago I felt--a--a--there now ... I have lost
it--a pain just above my left eye, and heard something give a
crack, and ever since, this eye (pointing to the left) has been
painful."

_Q._ "I think, sir, it would be advisable for you to refrain
from reading a little time."

_A._ "I believe you are in the right, sir."

_Q._ "I think you appear at present free from pain?"

_A._ "Yes, sir, I am pretty comfortable now: but I find
my--my--my strength is all gone. I feel myself going
gradually."

_Q._ "But you are not afraid to die?"

_A._ "Not in the least, sir--I never did any person any serious
mischief in my life:--even when I gambled, I never cheated:--I
know that a--a--a--see, now--death, I mean, must come, and I am
ready to give it up" (meaning the ghost).

_Q._ "I understand you were at Drury Lane theatre last night?"

_A._ "Yes, sir, I was there."

_Q._ "Yes, sir, the newspapers of this morning take notice of
it."

_A._ "Do they?"

_Y._ "Yes, sir;--the paragraph runs thus:--'Among the numerous
visitors at Drury Lane Theatre last night, we observed the Duke
of Queensbury and the veteran Macklin, whose ages together
amount to one hundred and ninety-six."

_Mr. Macklin._ "The Duke of who?"

_A._ "The Duke of Queensbury, sir."

_Mr. Macklin._ "I don't know that man. The Duke of Queensbury!
The Duke of Queensbury! Oh! ay, I remember him now very
well:--The Duke of Queensbury old! Why, sir, I might be his
father! ha! ha! ha!"

_Q._ "Well, sir, I understand that you went to the Haymarket
Theatre to see the 'Merchant of Venice?'"

_A._ "I did, sir."

_Q._ "What is your opinion of Mr. Palmer's Shylock?"

[This question was answered by a shake of the head. Being
desirous of hearing his opinion I asked him the second time.]

_Mr. Macklin._--"Why, sir, my opinion is, that Mr. Palmer
played the character of Shylock in _one style_. In this scene
there was a sameness, in that scene a sameness, and in every
scene a sameness: it was all same! same! same!--no variation.
He did not look the character, nor laugh the character, nor
speak the character of Shakspeare's Jew. In the trial scene,
where he comes to cut the pound of flesh, he was no Jew.
Indeed, sir, he did _not hit_ the _part_, nor the _part_ did
_not hit_ him."[297]

This conversation took place in September 1796: in July 1797 he died.

Dr. Walcot, better known by the name of Peter Pindar. He was a coarse and virulent satirist, and content to write so many common-places, that they will stifle his works with posterity, with the exception of a few pieces. His humour, however, was genuine of its kind. His caricatures are striking likenesses; and the innocent simplicity which he is fond of affecting makes a ludicrous contrast with his impudence. Dr. Walcot's largest poems are worth little, and his serious worth nothing. What we think likely to last in the collections, are his "Bozzy and Piozzi," his 'Royal visit to Whitbread's Brewhouse,' one or two more of that stamp, some of his "Odes to Academicians," and the immortal "Pilgrims and the Peas," the hero of which is assuredly hobbling to this day, and will never arrive. Dr. Walcot was a man of taste in the fine arts, and produced some landscapes, which we believe do credit to his pencil. We have never seen them. His critical good taste is not to be disputed, though the Academicians, at one time, would have given a great deal to find it wanting. He was latterly blind, but maintained his spirits to the last. He had a fine skull, which he was not displeased to be called upon to exhibit, taking his wig off, and saying "There," with a lusty voice; which formed a singular contrast with the pathos attached to the look of blind eyes.

Covent Garden market has always been the most agreeable in the metropolis, because it is devoted exclusively to fruit, flowers, and vegetables. A few crockery-ware shops make no exceptions to this "bloodless" character. The seasons here regularly present themselves in their most gifted looks,--with evergreens in winter, the fresh verdure of spring, all the hues of summer, and whole loads of desserts in autumn. The country girls who bring the things to market at early dawn are a sight themselves worthy of the apples and roses; the good-natured Irish women who attend to carry baskets for purchasers are not to be despised, with the half-humorous, half pathetic tone of their petitions to be employed; and the ladies who come to purchase, crown all. No walk in London, on a fine summer's day, is more agreeable than the passage through the flowers here at noon, when the roses and green leaves are newly watered, and blooming faces come to look at them in those cool and shady avenues, while the hot sun is basking in the streets. On these occasions we were very well satisfied with the market in its old state. The old sheds, and irregular avenues, when dry, assorted well with the presence of leaves and fruits. They had a careless picturesque look, as if a bit of an old suburban garden had survived from ancient times.

Nothing, however, but approbation can be bestowed on the convenient and elegant state into which the market has been raised by the magnificence of the noble proprietor, whose arms we are glad to see on the side next James Street. They are a real grace to the building and to the owner, for they are a stamp of liberality. In time we hope to see the roofs of the new market covered with shrubs and flowers, nodding over the balustrades, and fruits and red berries sparkling in the sun.[298] As an ornament, nothing is more beautiful in combination than the fluctuating grace of foliage and the stability of architecture. And, as a utility, the more air and sun the better. There is never too much sun in this country, and every occasion should be seized to take advantage of it.

The space between the church and the market is the scene of Hogarth's picture of the 'Frosty Morning.' Here in general take place the elections for Westminster. Sheridan has poured forth his good things in this spot, and Charles Fox won the hearts of multitudes. It would be an endless task to trace the recollections connected with the coffee-houses under the portico. Perhaps there is not a name of celebrity in the annals of wit or the stage, between the reigns of Charles II. and the present sovereign, which might not be found concerned in the clubs or other meetings which they have witnessed, particularly those of Garrick, Hogarth, and their contemporaries. _Sir Roger de Coverley_ has been there, a person more real to us than nine-tenths of them. When in town he lodged in Bow Street.

Opposite the Bedford Coffee-house a tragical scene took place, the particulars of which are interesting. The Earl of Sandwich, grandson of Charles II.'s Earl of Sandwich, and first Lord of the Admiralty during the North administration, had for his mistress a Miss Ray, whom he had rendered as accomplished as she was handsome. Some say that she was the daughter of a labourer at Elstree, others of a stay-maker in Covent Garden. Her father is said to have had a shop in that way of business in Holywell Street in the Strand. Miss Ray was apprenticed at an early age to a mantua-maker in Clerkenwell Close, with whom she served her time out and obtained a character that did her honour. A year or two after the expiration of this period she was taken notice of by Lord Sandwich, who gave her a liberal education; rendered her a proficient in his favourite arts of music and singing; and made her his mistress. He was old enough to be her father.

Lord Sandwich was in the habit of having plays and music at his house, particularly the latter. At Christmas the musical performance was an oratorio, for, "to speak seriously," says Mr. Cradock, "no man was more careful than Lord Sandwich not to trespass on public decorum." This gentleman, in his Memoirs, has furnished us with accounts which will give a livelier idea of the situation of Miss Ray in his Lordship's house than any formal abstract of them.

"Plays at Hinchinbrook had ceased before I had ever been in
company with Lord Sandwich, and oratorios for a week at
Christmas had been substituted. Miss Ray, who was the first
attraction, was instructed in music both by Mr. Bates and
Signor Giardini. Norris and Champness regularly attended the
meetings, and there were many excellent amateur performers; the
Duke of Manchester's military band assisted, and his Lordship
himself took the kettle-drums to animate the whole. 'Non nobis,
Domine,' was sung after dinner, and then catches and glees
succeeded; all was well conducted, for whatever his Lordship
undertook he generally accomplished, and seemed to have adopted
the emphatic advice of Longinus, 'always to excel.' Miss Ray,
in her situation, was a pattern of discretion; for when a lady
of rank, between one of the acts of the oratorio, advanced to
converse with her, she expressed her embarrassment; and Lord
Sandwich, turning privately to a friend, said, 'As you are well
acquainted with that lady, I wish you would give her a hint,
that there is a boundary line in my family I do not wish to see
exceeded; such a trespass might occasion the overthrow of all
our music meetings.'

"From what I have collected, Miss Ray was born in
Hertfordshire, in 1742, and that his lordship first saw her in
a shop in Tavistock Street where he was purchasing some
neckcloths. This was all that Mr. Bates seemed to have
ascertained, for both his lordship and the lady were equally
cautious of communicating anything on the subject. From that
time her education was particularly attended to, and she proved
worthy of all the pains that were taken with her. Her voice was
powerful and pleasing, and she has never been excelled in that
fine air of Jephtha, 'Brighter scenes I seek above;' nor was
she less admired when she executed an Italian bravura of the
most difficult description."[299]

Again:--"I did not know his lordship in early life; but this I
can attest, and call any contemporary to ratify who might have
been present, that we never heard an oath, or the least
profligate conversation at his lordship's table in our lives.
Miss Ray's behaviour was particularly circumspect. Dr. Green,
Bishop of Lincoln, always said, 'I never knew so cautious a man
as Lord Sandwich.' The Bishop came too soon once to an
oratorio; we went to receive him in the dining-room, but he
said, 'No; the drawing-room is full of company, and I will go
up and take tea there.' Lord Sandwich was embarrassed, as he
had previously objected to Lady Blake speaking to Miss Ray
between the acts; and as the Bishop would go up, a consequence
ensued just as I expected. Some severe verses were sent, which
Mr. Bates intercepted.

* * * * *

"The elegant Mrs. Hinchcliffe, lady of the Bishop, attended one
night with a party. She had never seen Miss Ray before, and she
feelingly remarked afterwards, 'I was really hurt to sit
directly opposite to her, and mark her discreet conduct, and
yet to find it improper to notice her. She was so assiduous to
please, was so very excellent, yet so unassuming, I was quite
charmed with her; yet a seeming cruelty to her took off the
pleasure of my evening.'"[300]

While Miss Ray was thus situated, his lordship, through the medium of a neighbour, Major Reynolds, became acquainted with a brother officer of the major's, a Captain Hackman, and invited him to his house. The Captain fell in love with Miss Ray, and Miss Ray is understood not to have been insensible to his passion. He was her junior by several years, though the disparity was nothing like the reverse one on the part of Lord Sandwich. Sir Herbert Croft, who wrote a history of their intimacy and correspondence, under the title of "Love and Madness," represents the attachment as mutual. According to his statement, Hackman urged her to marry him, and Miss Ray was desirous of doing so, but fearful of hurting the feelings of the man who had educated her, and who is represented as a sort of Old Robin Gray. In this sentiment, Hackman with all his passion is represented as partaking. Sir Herbert's book, though founded on fact, and probably containing more truth than can now be ascertained, is considered apocryphal; and Mr. Cradock, who is as cautious in his way as his noble acquaintance, doubts whether any man was really acquainted with the particulars. All that he could call to mind relative to either party was, that for three weeks after the Captain's introduction, till his military pursuits led him to Ireland, he was observed to bow to Miss Ray whenever she went out; and that Miss Ray, during the latter part of her time at the Admiralty, did not continue to speak of her situation as before. "She complained," he says, "of being greatly alarmed by ballads that had been sung, or cries that had been made, directly under the windows that looked into the park; and that such was the fury of the mob, that she did not think either herself or Lord Sandwich was safe whenever they went out; and I must own that I heard some strange insults offered; and that I with some of the servants once suddenly rushed out, but the offenders instantly ran away and escaped. One evening afterwards, when sitting with Miss Ray in the great room above stairs, she appeared to be much agitated, and at last said, 'she had a particular favour to ask of me; that, as her situation was very precarious, and no settlement had been made upon her, she wished I would hint something of the kind to Lord Sandwich.' I need not express my surprise, but I instantly assured her, 'that no one but herself could make such a proposal, as I knew Lord Sandwich never gave any one an opportunity of interfering with him on so delicate a subject.' She urged that her wish was merely to relieve Lord Sandwich as to great expense about her; for as her voice was then at the best, and Italian music was particularly her forte, she was given to understand she might succeed at the Opera-house, and as Mr. Giardini then led, and I was intimate with Mrs. Brooke and Mrs. Yates, she was certain of a most advantageous engagement. I then instantly conjectured who one of the advisers must have been; and afterwards found that three thousand pounds and a free benefit had been absolutely held out to her, though not by the two ladies who managed the stage department. Whether any proposals of marriage at that time or afterwards were made by Mr. Hackman, I know not."[301] Be this as it may, Hackman's passion was undoubted. He was originally an apprentice to a merchant at Gosport; was impatient of serving at the counter; entered the army at nineteen, but during his acquaintance with Miss Ray, exchanged the army for the church, "as a readier road to independence;" and was presented to the living of Wyverton in Norfolk.

Whatever was the nature of the intimacy between these unfortunate persons, a sudden stop appears to have been put to Hackman's final expectations, and he became desperate. By what we can gather from the accounts, Lord Sandwich, either to preserve her from her lover or herself, thought proper to put Miss Ray under the charge of a duenna. Hackman grew jealous either of him or of some other person; he was induced to believe that Miss Ray had no longer a regard for him, and he resolved to put himself to death. In this resolution a sudden impulse of frenzy included the unfortunate object of his passion.

On the evening of the fatal day, Miss Ray went with her female attendant to Covent Garden Theatre to see "Love in a Village." Mr. Cradock thinks she had declined to inform Hackman how she was engaged that evening. Hackman, who appears to have suspected her intentions, watched her, and saw the carriage pass by the Cannon Coffee-house (Cockspur Street, Charing Cross), in which he had posted himself. Singularly enough, Mr. Cradock happened to be in the same coffee-house, and says that he wondered to see the carriage go by without Lord Sandwich. This looks as if there was more in Hackman's suspicion than can now be shown. Hackman followed them.

"The ladies sat in a front box," says Mr. Cradock; "and three
gentlemen, all connected with the Admiralty, occasionally paid
their compliments to them; Mr. Hackman was sometimes in the
lobby, sometimes in an upper side box, and more than once at
the Bedford coffee-house to take brandy and water, but still
seemed unable to gain any information; and I can add, as a
slight circumstance, that in the afternoon I had myself been at
the coffee-house (Cockspur Street, Charing Cross), and,
observing the carriage pass by, had remarked to my friend that
I wondered at seeing the ladies on their way to the theatre
without Lord Sandwich; that I meant to have dined at the
Admiralty, but had been prevented; so that it appears now that
most of the circumstances must have been accidental. The
dreadful consummation, however, was, that at the door of the
theatre, directly opposite the Bedford coffee-house, Mr.
Hackman suddenly rushed out, and as a gentleman was handing
Miss Ray into the carriage, with a pistol he first destroyed
this most unfortunate victim, and, though not at the time, fell
a most dreadful sacrifice himself."[302]

"Miss Ray," says the Introduction to 'Love and Madness,' "was
coming out of Covent Garden Theatre in order to take her coach,
accompanied by two friends, a gentleman and a lady, between
whom she walked in the piazza. Mr. Hackman stepped up to her
without the smallest previous menace or address, put a pistol
to her head, and shot her instantly dead. He then fired another
at himself, which, however, did not prove equally effectual.
The ball grazed upon the upper part of the head, but did not
penetrate sufficiently to produce any fatal effect; he fell,
however, and so firmly was he bent on the entire completion of
the destruction he had meditated, that he was found beating his
head with the utmost violence with the butt-end of the pistol,
by Mr. Mahon, apothecary, of Covent Garden, who wrenched the
pistol from his hand. He was carried to the Shakspeare, where
his wound was dressed. In his pocket were found two letters;
the one a copy of a letter which he had written to Miss Ray,
and the other to Frederic Booth, Esq., Craven Street, Strand.
When he had so far recovered his faculties as to be capable of
speech, he inquired with great anxiety concerning Miss Ray; and
being told she was dead, he desired her poor remains might not
be exposed to the observation of the curious multitude. About
five o'clock in the morning, Sir John Fielding came to the
Shakspeare, and not finding his wounds of a dangerous nature,
ordered him to Tothill Fields Bridewell.

"The body of the unhappy lady was carried into the Shakspeare
Tavern for the inspection of the coroner."[303]

The whole of the circumstances connected with this catastrophe are painfully dramatic.

"The next morning," says Mr. Cradock, "I made several efforts
before I had resolution enough to see any one of the Admiralty;
at last old James, the black, overwhelmed with grief, came down
to me, and endeavoured to inform me, that when he had mentioned
what had occurred, Lord Sandwich hastily replied, 'You know
that I forbad you to plague me any more about those ballads:
let them sing or say whatever they please about me!' 'Indeed,
my lord,' I said, 'I am not speaking of any ballads; it is all
too true.' Others then came in, and all was a scene of the
utmost horror and distress. His lordship for a while stood, as
it were, petrified, till, suddenly seizing a candle, he ran
up-stairs and threw himself on the bed; and in an agony
exclaimed, 'Leave me for a while to myself--I could have borne
anything but this!' The attendants remained for a considerable
time at the top of the staircase, till his lordship rang the
bell and ordered that they should all go to bed. They assured
me that at that time they believed fewer particulars were known
at the Admiralty than over half the town besides; indeed all
was confusion and astonishment; and even now I am doubtful
whether Lord Sandwich was ever aware that there was any
connection between Mr. Hackman and Miss Ray. His lordship
continued for a day or two at the Admiralty, till, at the
earnest request of those about him, he at last retired for a
short time to a friend's house in the neighbourhood of
Richmond."[304]

Hackman was executed at Tyburn. He confessed at the bar that he had intended to kill himself, but he protested that but for a momentary frenzy he should not have destroyed her, "who was more dear to him than life." It appears, however, that he was furnished with two pistols; which told against him on that point.

"On Friday," says Boswell, "I had been present at the trial of
the unfortunate Mr. Hackman, who, in a fit of frantic jealous
love, had shot Miss Ray, the favourite of a nobleman. Johnson,
in whose company I dined to-day, with some other friends, was
much interested by my account of what passed, and particularly
with his prayer for mercy of heaven. He said in a solemn,
fervent tone, 'I hope he _shall_ find mercy.' In talking of
Hackman, Johnson argued as Judge Blackstone had done, that his
being furnished with two pistols was a proof that he meant to
shoot two persons. Mr. Beauclerk said, 'No; for that every wise
man who intended to shoot himself, took two pistols, that he
might be sure of doing it at once. Lord ----'s cook shot
himself with one pistol, and lived ten days in great agony. Mr.
----, who loved buttered muffins, but durst not eat them
because they disagreed with his stomach, resolved to shoot
himself, and then he ate three buttered muffins for breakfast
before shooting himself, knowing that he should not be troubled
with indigestion; _he_ had two charged pistols: one was found
lying charged upon the table by him, after he had shot himself
with the other.' 'Well (said Johnson with an air of triumph),
you see here one pistol was sufficient.' Beauclerk replied
smartly, 'Because it happened to kill him.'"[305]

It is impossible to settle this point. The general impression will be against Hackman; but, perhaps, the second pistol, though not designed for himself, might have been for Miss Ray. His victim was buried at Elstree, where she had been a lowly and happy child, running about with her blooming face, and little thinking what trouble it was to cost her.

In Mr. Cradock's book we hear again of Lord Sandwich on whom this story has thrown an interest. On his return from Richmond, Mr. Cradock went to see him, and was admitted into the study where the portrait of Miss Ray, an exact resemblance, still hung over the chimney-piece. "I fear," says Mr. Cradock, "I rather started on seeing it, which Lord Sandwich perceiving, he instantly endeavoured to speak of some unconnected subject; but he looked so ill, and I felt so much embarrassed, that as soon as I possibly could, I most respectfully took my leave."

"His lordship rarely dined out anywhere; but after a great
length of time he was persuaded by our open-hearted friend,
Lord Walsingham, to meet a select party at his house. All
passed off exceedingly well for a while, and his lordship
appeared more cheerful than could have been expected; but after
coffee, as Mr. and Mrs. Bates were present, something was
mentioned about music, and one of the company requested that
Mrs. Bates would favour them with, 'Shepherds, I have lost my
love.' This was, unfortunately, the very air that had been
introduced by Miss Ray at Hinchinbrook, and had been always
called for by Lord Sandwich. Mr. Bates immediately endeavoured
to prevent its being sung, and by his anxiety increased the
distress, but it was too late to pause. Lord Sandwich for a
while struggled to overcome his feelings, but they were so
apparent that at last he went up Mrs. Walsingham, and in a very
confused manner said, he hoped she would excuse his not staying
longer at that time; but that he had just recollected some
pressing business, which required his return to the Admiralty,
and bowing to all the company, rather hastily left the room.
Some other endeavours to amuse him afterwards did not prove
much more successful."[306]

His lordship afterwards lived in retirement, and died in 1792.

It does not appear that Lord Sandwich's disinclination to be amused arose from excessive sensibility. Mr. Cradock represents him in his political character as bearing "daily insults and misrepresentations as a stoic rather than an injured and feeling man," and he describes his calmness of mind in retirement, and his enjoyment of solitude. The same writer who calls him "a steady friend," speaks highly of his classical attainments, and his accomplishments as a modern linguist and an amateur, to which he added great caution (as the Bishop said), a love of "badgering," and an incompetency for the personal graces. When he played his part in the oratorios, it was on the kettle-drum. He related the following anecdote of himself.

"When I was in Paris, I had a dancing-master; the man was very
civil, and on taking leave of him, I offered him any service in
London. 'Then,' said the man, bowing, 'I should take it as a
particular favour, if your lordship would never tell any one of
whom you have learned to dance.'"

"Hurd once said to me," adds Mr. Cradock, "there is a line in
the Heroic Epistle that I do not at all comprehend the meaning
of; but you can, perhaps, acquaint me. It alludes to Lord
Sandwich, I suppose; but one word, _shambles_, I cannot guess
at,--

'See Jemmy Twitcher _shambles_--stop, stop, thief.'

'That, sir,' said I, 'alludes to his lordship's shambling
gait.'"[307]

Upon the whole we have no doubt that he was a cold and superficial person, and that Miss Ray would not have been sorry had Hackman succeeded in retaining her heart; for, as to Hackman, the great cause of his mischance, according to the passage in Boswell, appears to have been the violence of his temper,--the common secret of most of these outrageous love stories. He was not a bad-hearted man, merely selfish and passionate, otherwise he would have meditated no mischief against himself.

"He that beats or knocks out brains,
The devil's in him, if he feigns,"

says the poet. But he was weak, wilful, and, by his readiness to become a clergyman from a Captain, perhaps not very principled. The truest love is the truest benevolence; it acquires an infinite patience out of the very excess of its suffering, and is content to merge its egotism in the idea of the beloved object. He that does not know this, does not know what love is, whatever he may know of passion.

In Henrietta Street Mrs. Clive once resided. She was the favourite Nell of the stage in the "Devil to Pay," and similar characters; and, according to Garrick, there was something of the Devil to Pay in all her stage life. She might have been Macklin's sister for humour, judgment, and a sturdiness of purpose amounting to violence, not unmixed with generosity. The latter part of her life she spent in retirement at Strawberry Hill, where she was a neighbour and friend to Horace Walpole, whose effeminacy she helped to keep on the alert. It always seems to us, as if she had been the man of the two, and he the woman.

Henrietta Street was most probably named after the queen of Charles I., and James Street after her father-in-law. In both these streets lived the egregious almanack-maker, and quack doctor, the butt of the wits of his time. He died in Salisbury Street, Strand, which is the scene of his posthumous behaviour,--his pretending to be alive, when Bickerstaff had declared him dead. Partridge had foretold the death of the French king. Swift, under the name of Bickerstaff, foretold Partridge's, and, when the time came, insisted he was dead. Partridge gravely insisted that he was alive. The wits, the friends of Swift, maintained the contrary, wondering at the dead man's impudence and the whole affair was hawked about the streets, to the ludicrous distress of poor Partridge, who not only highly resented it, and repeatedly advertised his existence, but was fairly obliged to give up almanack-making. "He persisted, indeed, sturdily in his refusal to be buried till 1715: but he actually died as an almanack-maker in 1709, his almanack for that year being the last, and the only one he wrote after this odd misfortune befell him."[308]

The following are specimens of the way in which Partridge resisted his death and burial. In the almanack for 1709, he says,