The Old Court Suburb, or Memorials of Kensington, Regal, Critical, and Anecdotical, Volume II

Hunt, Leigh




SCENE. The Queen's Gallery. The time, Nine in the Morning.



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.


What news, my dear Lord ?


Dat my Lord Hervey, as he was coming last night to tone, was rob and murdered by highwaymen, and tron in a ditch.


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 ?


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."


A little chocolate, my soul, if you give me leave; and a little sour cream, and some fruit ? [Exit MRS. PURCEL.


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.


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.


Are you not ashamed, Amalie, to laugh ?


I only laughed at the cart, mama.


Ah! that is a very fade plaisanterie [poor jest].


But if I may say it, mama, I am not very sorry.


Ah! fie donc! Eh bien! my Lord Lifford! My God, where is this chocolate, Purcel ?

Re-enter MRS. PURCEL, with the chocolate and fruit.


Well, I am sure Purcel, now, is very sorry for my Lord Hervey. Have you heard it ?


Yes, Madam; and I am always sorry when your Majesty loses anything that entertains you.


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.


I did not say I was not sorry for mama; but I am not sorry for him.


And why not ?


What, for that creature ?


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?"]


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.]


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.


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 ?]


I have hear it at St. James's, et tout le monde en parle [all the world is talking about it.]


Have you sent, Purcel, to Vickers, about my clothes ?


He is here, if your Majesty pleases to see the stuffs.


No, my angel, I must write now. Adieu, dieu, adieu, my Lord Lifford.

QUEEN and the two PRINCESSES alone.


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 ?]


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.]


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.]


Pour moi, je crois qu'il en a dit cent milles. [I do: thousands.]


Vous faites fort bien de dire que vous le croyez, pour vous excuser. [Ah, you say that to excuse yourself.]


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.]


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 ?"


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 !"


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.


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.


I am just as sorry as I believe he would have been for me.


How sorry is that, my good Lady Burlington ?


Not so sorry as not to admit of consolation.


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.


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.


I never thought enough about him to think whether he did or not; but I suppose we had all our share.


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.


Did you really love him? [Laughs, and mutters something in German to the QUEEN.]


I had a great deal of reason, for he was always very particularly civil and kind to me.


If he was very civil to you, it was being very particular to you, that's certain.


I beg your pardon; he was very well bred.


Where it was his interest, perhaps: he was very well bred to your Majesty, I dare say.


I am sure he loved the Queen.


That is, you are sure he said so, my good Lady Sundon; and so will all mamma's pages and gentlemen-ushers.


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,


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.


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.


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.


By God! my lord, I know nobody knows better than the Duke of Argyll.


All I know, father, is as your pupil; bnt I told you I was grown a country gentleman.


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.


I like a plum, Madam, mightily; it is a very pretty fruit.


The green-gage, I think, is very good.


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.


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.


Very dusty, Madam.

QUEEN [to the second COURT-LADY.]

Do you go soon into the country, Madam ?


Very soon, Madam.

QUEEN [to the third COURT-LADY.]

The town is very empty, I believe, Madam ?


Very empty, Madam.

QUEEN [to the fourth COURT-LADY.]

I hope all your family is very well, Madam ?


Very well, Madam.

QUEEN [to the fifth COURT-LADY.]

We have had the finest summer for walking in the world.


Very fine, Madam.


One cannot help wishing you joy, Madam, very time one sees you, of the good matches your daughters have made.


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.


Oh! fie, fie, my good Duchess! one cannot help laughing, you are so lively; but your expressions are very strong.


Come, come, my good Duchess, one is always glad to see you.


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.


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.


Mon dieu! My Lord Grantham, you are mad I


He is dere, all so live as he was; and he play de trick, to see as we should all say.


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.