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| ACT I.
SCENE. The Queen's Gallery. The time,
Nine in the Morning.
Enter the QUEEN, PRINCESS EMILY, PRINCESS CAROLINE, followed by LORD LIFFORD and MRS. PURCEL.
QUEEN.
Mon Dieu, quelle chaleur! En verite on
etouffe. [My God, what a heat! It's positively stifling.] Pray open a little those
windows.
LORD LIFFORD.
Hasa your Majesty heara de news ?This English lord, who cannot speak English properly, was a naturalized Frenchman.
QUEEN.
What news, my dear Lord ?
LORD LIFFORD.
Dat my Lord Hervey, as he was
coming last night to tone, was rob and
murdered by highwaymen, and tron in a
ditch.
PRINCESS CAROLINE.
Eh ! grand Dieu ! [Great God !]
QUEEN [striking her hand upon her knee].
Comment, est il veritablement mort?
[Do you mean to tell us he's actually dead ?]
Purcel, my angel, shall I not have a little
breakfast ?
MRS. PURCEL.
What would your Majesty please to
have ? Here is an involuntary line of verse, anticipating one
identically the same in the burletta of "Tom Thumb."
QUEEN.
A little chocolate, my soul, if you give me
leave; and a little sour cream, and some
fruit ?
[Exit MRS. PURCEL.
QUEEN [to LORD LIFFORD].
Eh ! bien, my Lord Lifford, dites nous un
peu comment cela est arrive. [Well, my Lord
Lifford, pray let us understand a little how
this occurred.] I cannot imagine what he
had to do, to be putting his nose there.
Seulement pour un sot voyage avec ce petit
mousse-eh bien? [All for the pleasure
of taking a foolish trip with his little powder-
monkey, eh?] One of Lord Hervey's boys, who was going to sea as
a midshipman.
LORD LIFFORD.
Madame, on scait quelque chose de cela
de Monsieur Maran, qui d'abord qu'il a vu
les voleurs, s'est enfui et venu { grand galoppe
a Londres. [The news comes from Monsieur
Maran, madam, who, as soon as he saw the
thieves, galloped off as fast as he could to
London.] And after dat a waggoner take
up the body, and put it in his cart.
QUEEN [to PRINCESS EMILY.]
Are you not ashamed, Amalie, to laugh ?
PRINCESS EMILY.
I only laughed at the cart, mama.
QUEEN.
Ah! that is a very fade plaisanterie [poor
jest].
PRINCESS EMILY.
But if I may say it, mama, I am not very
sorry.
QUEEN.
Ah! fie donc! Eh bien! my Lord Lifford! My God, where is this chocolate, Purcel ?
Re-enter MRS. PURCEL, with the chocolate
and fruit.
QUEEN [to MRS. PURCEL.]
Well, I am sure Purcel, now, is very sorry
for my Lord Hervey. Have you heard it ?
MRS. PURCEL.
Yes, Madam; and I am always sorry
when your Majesty loses anything that entertains you.
QUEEN.
Look you there, now, Amalie; I swear,
now, Purcel is a thousand times better as
you. It would appear, from this passage, that the Queen's
English occasionally presented a remarkable contrast to
that which she spoke ingeneral.
PRINCESS EMILY.
I did not say I was not sorry for mama;
but I am not sorry for him.
QUEEN.
And why not ?
PRINCESS EMILY.
What, for that creature ?
PRINCESS CAROLINE.
I cannot imagine why one should not be
sorry for him. I think it very dure [unfeeling] not to be sorry for him. I own he
used to laugh mal-apropos sometimes, but he
was mightily mended; and for people that
were civil to him, he was always ready to do
anything to oblige them; and, for my part,
I am sorry I assure. [Is this a foreign slip,
for "am sure?"]
PRINCESS EMILY.
Mama, Caroline is duchtich ; Disingenuous ? double-meaning ? I have applied to
Garman scholars respecting the meaning of this word,
which is not familiar to them.for my part,
I cannot parottre [seem to feel what I don't.]
QUEEN.
Ah ! ah! You can paroitre and be duchtich
very well sometimes; but this is no paroitre; and I think you are very great brute.
I swear, now, he was very good, poor my
Lord Hervey; and with people's lives that
is no jest. My dear Purcel, this is the
nastiest fruit I have ever tasted; is there
none of the Duke of Newcastle's ? or that
old fool Johnstone's ? Il etoit bienjoli quelquefois [He was very pleasant, sometimes]
my Lord Hervey; was he not, Lifford ?
LORD LIFFORD [taking snuff].
Ees, ended he was ver pretty company,
sometimes.
PRINCESS EMILY shrugs her shoulders,
and laughs again.
QUEEN [to PRINCESS EMILY.]
If you did not think him company, I am
sorry for your taste [to PRINCESS CAROLINE].
My God, Caroline, you will twist off the
thumbs of your gloves. Mais, my Lord
Lifford, qui vous a conte tout ca des voleurs,
du ditch et des wagoners? [But Lord
Lifford, who told you all about the thieves,
and the ditch, and the waggoners ?]
LORD LIFFORD.
I have hear it at St. James's, et tout le monde
en parle [all the world is talking about it.]
QUEEN [to MRS. PURCEL.]
Have you sent, Purcel, to Vickers, about
my clothes ?
MRS. PURCEL.
He is here, if your Majesty pleases to see
the stuffs.
QUEEN.
No, my angel, I must write now. Adieu,
dieu, adieu, my Lord Lifford.
QUEEN and the two PRINCESSES alone.
QUEEN.
Mais, (liable, Amalie! pourquoi est-ce
que vous voulez faire croire a tout le
monde que vous 6tes dure comme cette
table ? [Strikes the table with her hand.]
[Why the deuce, Emily, must you be so fond
of making people believe that your heart is
as hard as this table ?]
PRINCESS EMILY.
En verite, mama, je n'ai jamais fait
semblant de l'aimer pendant qu'il etait en
vie, et je ne scais pas pourquoi done
je devrois faire semblant de le pleurer a cette
heure qu'il est mort. [To say the truth,
mamma, I never pretended to love him
while he was living, and I don't see why I
am to make a show of weeping for him, now
that he is dead.]
QUEEN.
Ah! psha; n'y a-t-il point de difference
entre pleurer les gens, et rire de leur malheur ?
Outre cela vous aviez grandissime tort, meme
quand il etoit en vie; car il s'est comporte
envers vous avec beaucoup de respect; et
jamais je crois a-t-il dit le moindre impertinence sur votre sujet. [Nonsense. Is there
no difference between weeping for people, and
laughing at their misfortunes ? Besides, you
did him great wrong while he was with us;
for he always conducted himself personally
towards you with a great deal of respect, and I
don't believe he ever uttered a syllable about
you in a different spirit.]
PRINCESS EMILY.
Pour moi, je crois qu'il en a dit cent milles.
[I do: thousands.]
QUEEN.
Vous faites fort bien de dire que vous le
croyez, pour vous excuser. [Ah, you say that
to excuse yourself.]
PRINCESS CAROLINE.
Pour moi, je ne le crois pas: je ne dis pas
que la Emilie n'a pas raison de le croire; parce
qu'il y a mille gens qui pensent faire leur cour,
en disant qu'ils l'ont entendu parler impertinement; mais je n'ais jamais entendu de ces
choses dans son stile, et je connais son stile;
et, outre cela, il m'a paru s'etre fait une regle
de ne le point faire. [I don't believe he did
anything of the sort. I don't say that Emily
may have no reasons for thinking otherwise;
for there are heaps of people who tell stories
of that kind by way of making court. But I
never met with any such stories that bore
the mark of his style; and I know his style.
Besides, he always appeared to me to act
upon a positive system of the reverse.]
QUEEN.
Eh bien ! adieu, mes cheres enfans; il est
tard. Dites un peu, en passant, que la Mailbone soit prete. [Well, good bye, my
dear children: it's getting late. Just hasten
Mailbone as you go.] Exeunt.
The duplicity within duplicity of this
passage respecting Princess Emily is remarkable. Its object is to pay respectful court
to the Princess, and at the same time, to
put her in the wrong and himself in the
right with third parties, without leaving her
any fault to find with the tone of his
vindication.
Now compare what he here says of her,
with the following passage in his Memoirs,
which was written in the same year as the
drama.
"The Queen used to speak to Lord
Hervey on this subject with as little reserve
when the Princess Caroline was present
as when alone; but never before the
Princess Emily, who had managed her affairs
so well, as to have lost entirely the confidence of her mother, without having obtained the friendship of her brother. By
trying to make her court by turns to both,
she had by turns betrayed both, and at
last lost both.
" Princess Emily had much the least sense,
except her brother, of the family, but had
for two years much the prettiest person.
She was lively, false, and a great liar;
did many ill offices to people, and no good
ones; and, for want of prudence, said as
many shocking things to their faces, as for
want of good-nature or truth she said disagreeable ones behind their backs. She
had as many enemies as acquaintances, for
nobody knew her without disliking her.
"Lord Hervey was very ill with her:
she had first used him ill, to flatter her
brother, which of course had made him
not use her very well; and the preference
on every occasion he gave her sister, the
Princess Caroline, completed their mutual
dislike."
Take also the following incident, though it
occurred at St. James's, and not at Kensington.
"One night whilst the Queen was ill, as he
(the King) was sitting in his night-gown and
night-cap in a great chair, with his legs upon
a stool, and nobody in the room with him
but the Princess Emily, who lay upon a
couch, and Lord Hervey, who sat by the
fire, he talked in this strain of his own
courage in the storm and his illness, till
the Princess Emily, as Lord Hervey thought,
fell fast asleep, whilst Lord Hervey, as tired
as he was of the present conversation and
this last week's watching, was left alone to
act civil auditor and adroit courtier, to
applaud what he heard, and every now and
then to ask such proper questions as led the
King into giving some more particular
detail of his own magnanimity. The King,
turning towards Princess Emily, and seeing
her eyes shut, cried,
"'Poor good child ! her duty, affection,
and attendance on her mother have quite
exhausted her spirits.'
"And soon after he went into the Queen's
room.
"'As soon as his back was turned, Princess Emily started up, and said,
'" Is he gone ? How tiresome he is !'
"Lord Hervey, who had no mind to
trust her Royal Highness with his singing
her father's praises in duetto with her, replied only,
"'I thought your Royal Highness had
been asleep.'
"'No, said the Princess Emily; 'L
only shut my eyes that I might not join in
the ennuyant conversation, and wish I could
have shut my ears too. In the first place,
I am sick to death of hearing of his great
courage every day of my life; in the next
place, one thinks now of Mama, and not
of him. Who cares for his old storm ?
I believe, too, it is a great lie, and that
he was as much afraid as I should have been,
for all what he says now; and as to his
not being afraid when he was ill, I know
that is a lie, for I saw him, and I heard
all his sighs and his groans, when he was
in no more danger than I am at this moment. He was talking, too, for ever of
dying, and that he was sure he should not
recover.
" All this, considering the kind things
which she had heard the King say the minute
before, when he imagined her asleep, Lord
Hervey thought a pretty extraordinary
return for her to make for that paternal
goodness, or would have thought it so in
anybody but her; and looked upon this
openness to him, whom she did not love, yet
less to be accounted for, unless he could
have imagined it was to draw him in to
echo her, and then to relate what he
had said, as if he had said it unaccompanied.
"Whilst she was going on with the
panegyric on the King which I have related,
the King returned; upon which she began
to rub her eyes as if she had at that instant
raised her head from her pillows, and
said:
" 'I have really slept very heartily. How
long has papa been out of the room ?"
| ACT II.
Scene.-The QUEEN'S dressing-room.
The QUEEN is discovered at her toilet,
cleaning her teeth; MRS. PURCEL dressing her Majesty's head, the PRINCESSES,
LADY PEMBROKE, and LADY BURLINGTON,
LADIES OF THE BEDCHAMBER, and LADY
SUNDON, WOMAN OF THE BEDCHAMBER
standing round. Morning prayers saying
in the next room.
First PARSON [behind the scenes.]
"From pride, vain glory, and hypocrisy,
from envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness-"
Second PARSON.
' Good Lord deliver us !"
QUEEN.
I pray, my good Lady Sundon, shut a
little that door; those creatures pray so loud,
one cannot hear oneself speak [LADY SUNDON goes to shut the door.] So, so; not
quite so much; leave it enough open for
those parsons to think we may hear, and
enough shut that we may not hear quite so
much."
The Queen's indifference to religious offices
of this kind, and to clergymen in general as
men of a profession, did not extend to those
among them whom she thought sincere, and
whose abilities she admired. On the contrary, she took a conspicuous interest in
the conversation of such men as Sherlock
and Hoadly, though she is accused of
having had a malicious satisfaction in
setting them disputing, and witnessing their
conclusions. One of her reverend courtiers,
whom her Mistress of the Robes, the
above-mentioned Lady Sundon, persuaded
her to make a bishop, absolutely put his
conscience into the hands of that serving-
woman, congratulating himself, or bemoaning
himself, on its dictates, according as they found
grace or otherwise in her eyes. See the letter
of the abject man, a Dr. Clarke (not the Dr.
Clarke) in the dull history of the dull woman,
not long ago published in two volumes.
Scene continued.
QUEEN [addressing LADY BURLINGTON.]
What do you say, Lady Burlington, to
poor Lord Hervey's death ? I am sure you
are very sorry.
LADY PEMBROKE [sighing and lifting up
her eyes.]
I swear it is a terrible thing.
LADY BURLINGTON.
I am just as sorry as I believe he would
have been for me.
QUEEN.
How sorry is that, my good Lady Burlington ?
LADY BURLINGTON.
Not so sorry as not to admit of consolation.
QUEEN.
I am sure you have not forgiven him his
jokes upon Chiswick. I used to scold him
for that too, for Chiswick is the prettiest
thing I ever saw in my life. But I must
say, poor my Lord Hervey, he was very
pretty too.
LADY BURLINGTON [colouring and taking
snuff.]
I can't think your Majesty does Chiswick any great honour by the comparison.
[Lady Burlington, a daughter of Savile,
the celebrated Marquis of Halifax, was wife
to Pope's Earl of Burlington, the builder of
Chiswick. Her Ladyship continues speaking.]
He was very well for once, like a party
to Vauxhall, where the glare and the bustle
entertain one for a little while; but one was
always tired of one as well as t'other in half-
an-hour.
QUEEN.
Oh! oh! I beg your pardon. I wish all
the Vauxhalls were like him, I assure you-
I would divert myself exceedingly with Vauxhall; and for your half-hour, I am your
humble servant. He has entertained me,
poor my Lord Hervey, many and many
half-hours, I can promise you; but I am
sure you thought we laughed at you a little
sometimes, as well as Chiswick. Come,
own the truth.
LADY BURLINGTON.
I never thought enough about him to
think whether he did or not; but I suppose
we had all our share.
LADY SUNDON.
I must say, I never in my life heard my
Lord Hervey make or give into a joke
upon people that he professed living at all
well with.
[Let the reader bear in mind, that he was
all the while writing these " Memoirs," in
which he cuts up the said people all round
him. Lady Sundon continues.]
He would say a lively thing sometimes, to
be sure, upon people he was indifferent to,
and very bitter ones upon people he was not
indifferent to; and I believe we are all glad
enough to do that, when we have a fair opportunity.
The only difference amongst us
is, who does it best and worst.
PRINCESS EMIIY [to LADY SUNDON.]
Did you really love him? [Laughs, and
mutters something in German to the
QUEEN.]
LADY SUNDON.
I had a great deal of reason, for he was
always very particularly civil and kind to
me.
LADY BURLINGTON.
If he was very civil to you, it was being
very particular to you, that's certain.
QUEEN.
I beg your pardon; he was very well
bred.
LADY BURLINGTON.
Where it was his interest, perhaps: he
was very well bred to your Majesty, I dare
say.
LADY SUNDON.
I am sure he loved the Queen.
PRINCESS EMILY.
That is, you are sure he said so, my good
Lady Sundon; and so will all mamma's
pages and gentlemen-ushers.
LADY SUNDON.
But he said it in a way that I think I
could see whether he felt what he said, or
not. He has often said, that the Queen had
a thousand good, and agreeable, and amiable
qualities, that one should like in a private
person; and that he could not conceive why
those qualities were not to be loved because
they were in a Queen-and one felt the
justness of that way of thinking; and I
assure your Royal Highness, I think the
Queen will have a very great loss of him;
for, besides the use he was of in Parliament,
which I do not pretend to be a judge of, he
was certainly a constant amusement to the
Queen in private, and gave up his whole
time to amuse her;Being husband, all the while, of the charming Mary
Lepell. and I must say, I do
not think it is everybody [if they would give
their whole time to it] is capable of amusing
the Queen,
QUEEN.
Oh! upon my word, he amused me exceedingly. I pray, give me the basin to
wash. [LADY PEMBROKE kneels, and gives
the basin.]
Here follows a mutilated passage, the
omissions in which will be accounted for
presently.
The next scene but one presents us with
a dialogue between the Queen and Sir
Robert Walpole, in which Her Majesty is
held forth to the coming generations of Englishmen as an enemy to their liberties; and
then comes an exposure of the absurdities
and vulgarities of courtiers in general, by
this the coarsest of their brethren, and one of
the most servile. We quote only a part of
it.
| ACT III.
Scene changes to the Great Drawing-Room.
All the Courtiers ranged in a circle.
Enter the QUEEN, led by LORD GRANTHAM, followed by the PRINCESSES and all
her train. QUEEN curtsies slightly; drawing-room bows and curtsies very low.
QUEEN [to the DUKE of ARGYLL.]
Where have you been, my lord? One
has not had the pleasure to see you a great
while; and one always misses you.
DUKE OF ARGYLL.
I have been in Oxfordshire, Madam; and
so long, that I was asking my father here,
Lord Selkirk, how to behave. I know nobody that knows the way of a court so
well, nor that has known them so long.
LORD SELKIRK.
By God! my lord, I know nobody knows
better than the Duke of Argyll.
DUKE OF ARGYLL.
All I know, father, is as your pupil;
bnt I told you I was grown a country
gentleman.
LORD SELKIRK.
You often tell me things I do not
believe.
QUEEN [laughing.]
Ha! ha! ha! You are always so good
together, and my Lord Selkirk is so lively.
[turning to LORD PRESIDENT.] I think, my
lord, you are a little of a country gentleman too; you love Chiswick mightily;
you have very good fruit there, and are
very curious in it; you have very good
plums.
LORD PRESIDENT.
I like a plum, Madam, mightily; it is a
very pretty fruit.
QUEEN.
The green-gage, I think, is very good.
LORD PRESIDENT.
There are three of that sort, Madam:
there is the true green-gage, and there
is the Drap-d'or that has yellow spots, and
there is the Reine Claude that has red
spots.
QUEEN.
Ah ! ah! One sees you are very curious,
and that you understand these things perfectly well; upon my word, I did not know
you was so deep in these things. You know
the plum, as Solomon did the plants, from
the cedar to the hyssop.
QUEEN [to the first COURT-LADY.]
I believe you found it very dusty.
First COURT-LADY.
Very dusty, Madam.
QUEEN [to the second COURT-LADY.]
Do you go soon into the country,
Madam ?
Second COURT-LADY.
Very soon, Madam.
QUEEN [to the third COURT-LADY.]
The town is very empty, I believe,
Madam ?
Third COURT-LADY.
Very empty, Madam.
QUEEN [to the fourth COURT-LADY.]
I hope all your family is very well,
Madam ?
Fourth COURT-LADY.
Very well, Madam.
QUEEN [to the fifth COURT-LADY.]
We have had the finest summer for walking in the world.
Fifth COURT-LADY.
Very fine, Madam.
QUEEN [to the DUCHESS OF HAMILTON.!
One cannot help wishing you joy, Madam,
very time one sees you, of the good matches
your daughters have made.
DUCHESS OF HAMILTON.
Considering how they behaved, I wonder
indeed they had any matches at all; but for
any other women of quality, one should
think it no great catch for one to be married
to a fool, and t'other to a beggar.
QUEEN.
Oh! fie, fie, my good Duchess! one
cannot help laughing, you are so lively; but
your expressions are very strong.
QUEEN [to the DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.]
Come, come, my good Duchess, one is
always glad to see you.
DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.
Your majesty is always very kind to an
old woman and a poor widow, that you are
so good to let torment you about her children; and, Madam, I must beg your Majesty [whispers to the QUEEN.]
Enter LORD GRANTHAM, in a hurry.
LORD GRANTHAM.
Ah! dere is my Lord Hervey in your
Majesty's gallery; he is in de frock and de
bob, or he should have come in." Lord Grantham was another naturalized Frenchman.
QUEEN.
Mon dieu! My Lord Grantham, you are
mad I
LORD GRANTHAM.
He is dere, all so live as he was; and he
play de trick, to see as we should all say.
QUEEN.
Then he is mad.-Allons voir qu'est ce
que c'est que tout ceci. [Let's go and see
what it's all about.] [Exeunt omnes.
In the course of this drama, the editor of
"Memoirs" has been obliged to omit
some passages, as being too indecent for
modern eyes.
So much for the equivocal part that
Queen Caroline is made to perform, even in
a piece intended to please her. What would
she have thought of the uncommunicated
scenes at Court, in the rest of the
"Memoirs," where, in spite of the good
things still said of her, and of the biographer's professed devotedness to her
memory, her vanities are exposed, her secretest confidences betrayed, the spirit of
her self-sacrifices to her husband converted
into artifice and ambition, and the personal
infirmities, which she preferred death to
mentioning, disclosed, ridiculed, and made
offensive ? There were also things to be told
of her, according to this friend, which
" could not be heightened," and which were
"scarcely to be credited." So, he tells
them!
We allude to those more than tolerations
of her husband's infidelity, which Sir Robert
Walpole countenanced, which are said to
have been lauded to her Majesty's face by an
Archbishop (Blackburne), and for which she
had found warrant, perhaps, not only in
other courts, but in a remarkable chapter of
the "Essays" of Montaigne. The particulars we must not here repeat; but nobody
will doubt that their disclosure was to the last
degree base in a man, who must have
tolerated the toleration with, at least, the
most courtly silence; probably, with implied admiration; and who waited for the
death of his benefactress to betray it to the
world.
To complete these portentous instances of
ingratitude, we subjoin the passages respecting the Queen's alleged love of domination,
preceded by an account of the Lord Lifford
above mentioned, and his lordship's wife,
equally disparaging to the writer's " gracious
master," and "most beloved mistress."
The whole is a manifest caricature; and, we
doubt not, full of falsehoods.
Enter MILORD and LADY LIFFORD, to
have their portraits painted by their friend
and fellow-servant, LORD HERVEY.
" These two people, born in France, having
more religion (says his Lordship,) than sense,
(let the reader note that, and think of him
in attendance at the chapel royal), left their
native country on a crime of being Protestants; and being of great quality, and not in
great circumstances, had, during four reigns
subsisted on the scanty charity of the English
court. They were constantly-every night in
the country, and three nights of the week in
town--alone with the King and Queen for
an hour or two before they went to bed,
during which time the King walked about
and talked to the brother of armies, or to the
sister of genealogies, whilst the Queen knitted
and yawned, till from yawning she came to
nodding, and from nodding to snoring.
"These two miserable court-drudges were
in more constant waiting than any of the
pages of the back-stairs, were very simple,
and very quiet, did nobody any hurt, nor
anybody but his Majesty any pleasure, who
paid them so ill for all their assiduity and
slavery, that they were not only not in
affluence, but laboured under the disagreeable
burdens of small debts (which a thousand
pounds would have paid), and had not an
allowance from the Court that enabled them
to appear there even in the common decency
of clean clothes. The King, nevertheless,
was always saying how well he loved them,
and calling them the best people in the world.
But, though he never forgot their goodness,
he never remembered their poverty; and, by
giving them so much of his time, which
nobody but him would have given them, and
so little of his money, which everybody but
him in his situation would have afforded
them, he gave one just as good an opinion of
his understanding by what he bestowed, as
he did of his generosity by what he withheld.
The Queen, whose most glaring merit was
not that of giving, was certainly, with regard
to this poor woman, as blameable as the
King. For the playthings of princes, let
them be ever so trifling, ought always to be
gilt, those who contribute to their pleasures
having a right to their bounty.
" To most people, however, it was a matter
of wonder how the King and Queen could
have such persons constantly with them.
The truth of the case was, that the King had
no taste for better company, and the Queen,
though she had a better taste, was forced to
mortify her own to please his. Her predominant passion was pride, and the darling
pleasure of her soul was power; but she was
forced to gratify the one and gain the other,
as some people do health, by a strict and
painful regime, which few besides herself
could have had the courage to support, or
resolution to adhere to. She was at least
seven or eight hours tete-a-tete with the King
every day, during which time she was generally saying what she did not think, assenting
to what she did not believe, and praising
what she did not approve; for they were-
seldom of the same opinion, and he too fond
of his own for her ever at first to dare to
controvert it, (" consilii quamvis egregii quod
ipse non afferret, inimicus.") "An enemy to
any counsel, however excellent, which he
himself had not suggested."- Tacitus.
She used to give him her opinion as jugglers
do a card, by changing it imperceptibly, and
making him believe he held the same with
that he first pitched upon. But that which
made these tete-a-tetes seem heaviest, was
that as he neither liked reading or being read
to (unless it was to sleep), she was forced,
like the spider, to spin out of her bowels all
the conversation with which the fly was taken.
However, to all this she submitted for the
sake of power, and for the reputation of
having it; for the vanity of being thought
to possess what she desired, was equal to the
pleasure of the possession itself. But, either
for the appearance or the reality, she knew it
was absolutely necessary to have interest in
her husband, as she was sensible that interest
was the measure by which people would
always judge of her power. Her every
thought, word, and act, therefore, tended and
was calculated to preserve her influence there.
To him she sacrificed her time; for him she
mortified her inclination; she looked, spake,
and breathed but for him, like a weathercock to every capricious blast of his uncertain temper, and governed him (if such influence so gained can bear the name of
government) by being as great a slave to him
thus ruled as any other wife could be to a
man who ruled her. For all the tedious
hours she spent, then, in watching him whilst
he slept, or the heavier task of entertaining
him whilst he was awake, her single consolation was in reflecting she had power, and
that people in coffee-houses and ruelles were
saying she governed the country, without
knowing how dear the government of it
cost her."Vol. I. p. 292
Such are the opinions respecting his
benefactress which Lord Hervey wishes
us to think he secretly held, all the while
he was looking her in the face, and expressing his love, and gratitude, and adoration !!!
Lord Hervey, amidst all his talk about
others, forgot one thing about himself
which, in spite of himself, he nevertheless
disclosed also; namely, that as a servile and
fawning courtier, he was a liar by habit;
and, as all gossips tend to be liars by inclination, in consequence of the pepper and
be-devilment which calumny gives to discourse, Hervey was probably a liar of the
grossest, because most malignant, description.
Readers, therefore, are warranted in believing
just as much of him, or as little as they
please. He has exonerated Pope from the
charge of calumniating him; and in
Pope's satire he accordingly remains,
pinned down for ever, as the most
monstrous and venomous thing in the
shape of a butterfly, which ever infested a
court.
To all the poison of Hervey's libels on his
benefactress, we would oppose, as their crowning
antidote, the following simple notice of
her, written after her death, by the Countess
of Hertford, subsequently Duchess of Somerset; Thomson's Countess, the friend of
him and Shenstone; formerly one of the
ladies of Caroline's bedchamber. It is to be
found in her Correspondence with another
intelligent and amiable woman, the
Countess of Pomfret, and implies the latter's
joint testimony to the truth of the
record.
"I have had the pleasure," says Lady
Hertford, "of seeing at Rysbach's a bust of
our ever-regretted mistress, so like her (except a little too much height in the nose),
that I could not look upon it without feeling
a return of that tender concern which we
each experienced this time twelvemonths,
with as much truth as any that were in her
service, though possibly with more silence. Hervey was probably one of the howlers.
The recollection was so strongly on my spirits
all Sunday and Monday, that I was downright ill; and had, in imagination, much
conversation with you on the subject. During
both those days, I was almost persuaded that
you and I were again placed on each side the
fire, in the little waiting-room at St. James's,
where we sat that fatal Sunday night which
robbed the world of one whose loss there is
every day greater cause to lament, and on
whom I can never think without a sigh."
This is evidently a testimony from the
heart. Its warmth, unabated by the lapse of
a twelvemonth; the pressure of the recollection on the writer's mind for two days
together, till she became "downright ill;"
her taking Lady Pomfret's equal sympathy
for granted; and even that little piece of
homely painting-the sitting on the two
sides of the fire-place,-all show the truth
and depth of the sorrow professed, and are
worth a million of the representations of a
malignant courtier, who confesses that he lied
whenever it suited him, and who had probably found, in some corner of the confidential letters of poor Caroline, in possession
of " a friend," a mention of himself, such as
her habitual good-nature, and her wish to
think the best of those about her, had too
often spared him. One little caustic drop on
the vanity of such a man, however unwillingly dropped, would have sufficed to bring
forth all his venom.
We shall conclude these references to Lord
Hervey's Memoirs, with a passage, not insignificant in itself, but which becomes doubly
curious from the secret feelings which this
court historian must have entertained, both
while he was writing it, and while he was
talking it.
He was one day in conversation with the
King and Queen, when he told them that
"he knew three people that were writing the
history of his Majesty's reign, who could
possibly know nothing of the palace and
his Majesty's closet; and yet would, he
doubted not, pretend to make their whole
history one continued dissection of both.
"You mean," said the King, " Lords
Bolingbroke, Chesterfield, and Carteret."
" I do," replied Lord Hervey.
"They will all three," said the King,
"have as much truth in them as the Mille et
Une Nuits-(the Arabian Nights.) Not
but I shall like to read Bolingbroke's, who,
of all those rascals and knaves that have
been lying against me these ten years, has
certainly the best parts and the most
knowledge. He is a scoundrel; but he is a
scoundrel of a higher class than Chesterfield.
Chesterfield is a little tea-table scoundrel,
that tells little womanish lies to make
quarrels in families; and tries to make women
lose their reputations, and make their
husbands beat them,Strange intimation of manners at that time! Footmen
were beaten, according to what we read in comedies;
but we never before met with an intimation of the beating
of gentlewomen. without any object but
to give himself airs; as if anybody could
believe a woman could like a dwarf-baboon."
The Queen said all these three histories
would be three heaps of lies, but lies of very
different kinds. She said "Bolingbroke's
would be great lies; Chesterfield's little lies;
and Cartaret's lies of both sorts."
Doubtless both King and Queen suspected
that their chattering and scribbling Vice-
Chamberlain would himself write the Secret
History; and they flattered themselves, that
as he flattered them so strongly to their
faces, he would be equally respectful to their
memories.
We have seen the result. None of the
other three histories ever made their appearance; and Hervey, perhaps, only mentioned
them in order to take a treacherous pleasure
in contemplating the faces and the feelings
of his victims.
With Caroline's power to hold court-days
at Kensington, her connexion with the place
ceases; for she did not die there. George
the Second, ever regretting the loss of her,
did; though it was not of sorrow for the
loss, for he survived her upwards of twenty
years. He died even of a broken heart;
though, like many a man who has so done,
he does not appear to have been suffering under any particular affliction. Many
men die of broken hearts, who have no
afflictions; and many die of affliction,
whose hearts have remained physically untouched.
On the morning of the 25th October,
1760, a fall was heard in the royal apartments, soon after breakfast. It was the
King. He had cut his face against a
bureau, in the act of falling, and was dead
of disease of the heart, at the age of
seventy-eight.
On examination of the body, the right
ventricle of the heart was found burst. He
was, otherwise, in good health; and, owing
to a combination of lucky circumstances, he
was one of the most prosperous monarchs
that ever sat on the British throne. But
prosperity, perhaps, had aggravated the self-
will in which it is the misfortune of most
princes to be too much indulged; contradictoin becomes unbearable to them; the heart
is rendered diseased by agitation at every little
annoyance; and a small trouble may give
it the mortal blow. The peril is not
confined to kings, or even to common
understandings. John Hunter, the celebrated surgeon, died of a paroxysm of this
disease, merely because he was opposed by
some professional brethren in his recommendation of a man whom he patronized.
George the Second, after all, had had his
way, for the most part, so pleasantly to
himself, that he lived to be near eighty.
Men of more patient callings, therefore,
may look to live still longer, diseases of
heart notwithstanding, especially if they
have the wisdom to abide by the recommendation of a great man (painter and poet
combined) who lived to be older than George,
and who advises us, when we cannot do what
we will, to will what we can do.
"Chi non puo quel che vuol, quel che puo voglia."
Leonardo da Vinci.
Never, perhaps, was a line of verse written
that was at once fuller of matter, stronger,
better put, or, altogether, more complete, than
that. It is worth inscribing on the most
precious rings, and wearing as a talisman for
life.
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