Produced by David Widger





         MEMOIRS OF COUNT GRAMMONT, VOLUME 6.

             By Anthony Hamilton

        EDITED, WITH NOTES, BY SIR WALTER SCOTT




               CHAPTER TENTH.

        OTHER LOVE INTRIGUES AT THE ENGLISH COURT.


The conversation before related was agreeable only to Miss Hobart; for if
Miss Temple was entertained with its commencement, she was so much the
more irritated by its conclusion this indignation was succeeded by the
curiosity of knowing the reason why, if Sidney had a real esteem for her,
she should not be allowed to pay some attention to him.

As soon as they retired from the closet, Miss Sarah came out of the bath,
where during all this conversation, she had been almost perished with
cold, without daring to complain. This little gipsy had, it seems,
obtained leave of Miss Hobart's woman to bathe herself unknown to her
mistress; and having, I know not how, found means to fill one of the
baths with cold water, Miss Sarah had just got into it, when they were
both alarmed with the arrival of the other two. A glass partition
enclosed the room where the baths were, and Indian silk curtains, which
drew on the inside, screened those that were bathing. Miss Hobart's
chamber-maid had only just time to draw these curtains, that the girl
might not be seen to lock the partition door, and to take away the key,
before her mistress and Miss Temple came in.

These two sat down on a couch placed along the partition, and Miss Sarah,
notwithstanding her alarms, had distinctly heard, and perfectly retained
the whole conversation. As the little girl was at all this trouble to
make herself clean, only on Lord Rochester's account, as soon as ever she
could make her escape she regained her garret; where Rochester, having
repaired thither at the appointed hour, was fully informed of all that
had passed in the bathing room. He was astonished at the audacious
temerity of Hobart, in daring to put such a trick upon him; but, though
he rightly judged that love and jealousy were the real motives, he would
not excuse her. Little Sarah desired to know whether he had a real
affection for Miss Temple, as Miss Hobart said she supposed that was the
case. "Can you doubt it," replied he, "since that oracle of sincerity
has affirmed it? But then you know that I am not now capable of
profiting by my perfidy, were I even to gain Miss Temple's compliance,
since my debauches and the street-walkers have brought me to order."

This answer made Miss Sarah very easy, for she concluded that the first
article was not true, since she knew from experience that the latter was
false. Lord Rochester was resolved that very evening to attend the
duchess's court, to see what reception he would meet with after the fine
portrait Miss Hobart had been so kind as to draw of him. Miss Temple
did not fail to be there likewise, with the intention of looking on him
with the most contemptuous disdain possible, though she had taken care to
dress herself as well as she could. As she supposed that the lampoon
Miss Hobart had sung to her was in everybody's possession, she was under
great embarrassment lest all those whom she met should think her such a
monster as Lord Rochester had described her. In the mean time, Miss
Hobart, who had not much confidence in her promises never more to speak
to him, narrowly watched her. Miss Temple never in her life appeared so
handsome every person complimented her upon it; but she received all the
civilities with such an air, that every one thought she was mad; for when
they commended her shape, her fresh complexion, and the brilliancy of her
eyes: "Pshaw," said she, "it is very well known that I am but a monster,
and formed in no respect like other women: all is not gold that glisters;
and though I may receive some compliments in public, it signifies
nothing." All Miss Hobart's endeavours to stop her tongue were
ineffectual; and continuing to rail at herself ironically, the whole
court was puzzled to comprehend her meaning.

When Lord Rochester came in, she first blushed, then turned pale, made a
motion to go towards him, drew back again, pulled her gloves one after
the other up to the elbow; and after having three times violently flirted
her fan, she waited until he paid his compliments to her as usual, and as
soon as he began to bow, the fair one immediately turned her back upon
him. Rochester only smiled, and being resolved that her resentment
should be still more remarked, he turned round and posting himself face
to face: "Madam," said he, "nothing can be so glorious as to look so
charming as you do, after such a fatiguing day: to support a ride of
three long hours, and Miss Hobart afterwards, without being tired,
shows indeed a very strong constitution."

Miss Temple had naturally a tender look, but she was transported with
such a violent passion at his having the audacity to speak to her, that
her eyes appeared like two fireballs when she turned them upon him.
Hobart pinched her arm, as she perceived that this look was likely to be
followed by a torrent of reproaches and invectives.

Lord Rochester did not wait for them, and delaying until another
opportunity the acknowledgments he owed Miss Hobart, he quietly retired.
The latter, who could not imagine that he knew anything of their
conversation at the bath, was, however, much alarmed at what he had said;
but Miss Temple, almost choked with the reproaches with which she thought
herself able to confound him and which she had not time to give vent
to, vowed to ease her mind of them upon the first opportunity,
notwithstanding the promise she had made; but never more to speak
to him afterwards.

Lord Rochester had a faithful spy near these nymphs: this was Miss Sarah,
who, by his advice, and with her aunt's consent, was reconciled with Miss
Hobart, the more effectually to betray her: he was informed by this spy,
that Miss Hobart's maid, being suspected of having listened to them in
the closet, had been turned away; that she had taken another, whom in all
probability, she would not keep long, because, in the first place, she
was ugly, and, in the second, she eat the sweetmeats that were prepared
for Miss Temple. Although this intelligence was not very material, Sarah
was nevertheless praised for her punctuality and attention; and a few
days afterwards she brought him news of real importance.

Rochester was by her informed, that Miss Hobart and her new favourite
designed, about nine o'clock in the evening to walk in the Mall, in the
Park; that they were to change clothes with each other, to put on scarfs,
and wear black-masks: she added, that Miss Hobart had strongly opposed
this project, but that she was obliged to give way at last, Miss Temple
having resolved to indulge her fancy.

Upon the strength of this intelligence, Rochester concerted his measures:
he went to Killegrew, complained to him of the trick which Miss Hobart
had played him, and desired his assistance in order to be revenged: this
was readily granted, and having acquainted him with the measures he
intended to pursue, and given him the part he was to act in this
adventure, they went to the Mall.

Presently after appeared our two nymphs in masquerade: their shapes were
not very different, and their faces, which were very unlike each other,
were concealed with their masks. The company was but thin in the Park;
and as soon as Miss Temple perceived them at a distance, she quickened
her pace in order to join them, with the design, under her disguise,
severely to reprimand the perfidious Rochester; when Miss Hobart stopping
her: "Where are you running to?" said she; "have you a mind to engage in
conversation with these two devils, to be exposed to all the insolence
and impertinence for which they are so notorious?" These remonstrances
were entirely useless: Miss Temple was resolved to try the experiment:
and all that could be obtained from her, was, not to answer any of the
questions Rochester might ask her.

They were accosted just as they had done speaking: Rochester fixed upon
Hobart, pretending to take her for the other; at which she was overjoyed;
but Miss Temple was extremely sorry she fell to Killegrew's share, with
whom she had nothing to do: he perceived her uneasiness, and, pretending
to know her by her clothes: "Ah! Miss Hobart," said he, "be so kind as
look this way if you please: I know not by what chance you both came
hither, but I am sure it is very apropos for you, since I have something
to say to you, as your friend and humble servant."

This beginning raising her curiosity, Miss Temple appeared more inclined
to attend him; and Killegrew perceiving that the other couple had
insensibly proceeded some distance from them: "In the name of God," said
he: "what do you mean by railing so against Lord Rochester, whom you know
to be one of the most honourable men at court, and whom you nevertheless
described as the greatest villain, to the person whom of all others he
esteems and respects the most? What do you think would become of you, if
he knew that you made Miss Temple believe she is the person alluded to in
a certain song, which you know as well as myself was made upon the clumsy
Miss Price, above a year before the fair Temple was heard of? Be not
surprised that I know so much of the matter; but pay a little attention,
I pray you, to what I am now going to tell you out of pure friendship:
your passion and inclinations for Miss Temple are known to every one but
herself; for whatever methods you used to impose upon her innocence, the
world does her the justice to believe that she would treat you as Lady
Falmouth did, if the poor girl knew the wicked designs you had upon her:
I caution you, therefore, against making any farther advances, to a
person, too modest to listen to them: I advise you likewise to take back
your maid again, in order to silence her scandalous tongue; for she says
everywhere, that she is with child, that you are the occasion of her
being in that condition, and accuses you of behaving towards her with the
blackest ingratitude, upon trifling suspicions only: you know very well,
these are no stories of my own invention; but that you may not entertain
any manner of doubt, that I had all this from her own mouth, she has told
me your conversation in the bathing-room, the characters you there drew
of the principal men at court, your artful malice in applying so
improperly a scandalous song to one of the loveliest women in all
England; and in what manner the innocent girl fell into the snare you had
laid for her, in order to do justice to her charms. But that which might
be of the most fatal consequences to you in that long conversation, is
the revealing certain secrets, which, in all probability, the duchess did
not entrust you with, to be imparted to the maids of honour: reflect upon
this, and neglect not to make some reparation to Sir Lyttleton, for the
ridicule with which you were pleased to load him. I know not whether he
had his information from your femme-de-chambre, but I am very certain
that he has sworn he will be revenged, and he is a man that keeps his
word; for after all, that you may not be deceived by his look, like that
of a Stoic, and his gravity, like that of a judge, I must acquaint you,
that he is the most passionate man living. Indeed, these invectives are
of the blackest and most horrible nature: he says it is most infamous,
that a wretch like yourself should find no other employment than to
blacken the characters of gentlemen, to gratify your jealousy; that if
you do not desist from such conduct for the future, he will immediately
complain of you; and that if her royal highness will not do him justice,
he is determined to do himself justice, and to run you through the body
with his own sword, though you were even in the arms of Miss Temple; and
that it is most scandalous that all the maids of honour should get into
your hands before they can look around them.

"These things, madam, I thought it my duty to acquaint you with: you are
better able to judge than myself, whether what I have now advanced be
true, and I leave it to your own discretion to make what use you think
proper of my advice; but were I in your situation, I would endeavour to
reconcile Lord Rochester and Miss Temple. Once more I recommend to you
to take care that your endeavours to mislead her innocency, in order to
blast his honour, may not come to his knowledge; and do not estrange from
her a man who tenderly loves her, and whose probity is so great, that he
would not even suffer his eyes to wander towards her, if his intention
was not to make her his wife."

Miss Temple observed her promise most faithfully during this discourse:
she did not even utter a single syllable, being seized with such
astonishment and confusion, that she quite lost the use of her tongue.

Miss Hobart and Lord Rochester came up to her, while she was still in
amazement at the wonderful discoveries she had made; things in
themselves, in her opinion, almost incredible, but to the truth of which
she could not refuse her assent, upon examining the evidences and
circumstances on which they were founded. Never was confusion equal to
that with which her whole frame was seized by the foregoing recital.

Rochester and Killegrew took leave of them before she recovered from her
surprise; but as soon as she had regained the free use of her senses, she
hastened back to St. James, without answering a single question that the
other put to her; and having locked herself up in her chamber, the fast
thing she did, was immediately to strip off Miss Hobart's clothes, lest
she should be contaminated by them; for after what she had been told
concerning her, she looked upon her as a monster, dreadful to the
innocence of the fair sex, of whatever sex she might be: she blushed at
the familiarities she had been drawn into with a creature, whose maid was
with child, though she never had been in any other service but hers: she
therefore returned her all her clothes, ordered her servant to bring back
all her own, and resolved never more to have any connection with her.
Miss Hobart, on the other hand, who supposed Killegrew had mistaken Miss
Temple for herself, could not comprehend what could induce her to give
herself such surprising airs, since that conversation; but being desirous
to come to an explanation, she ordered Miss Temple's maid to remain in
her apartments, and went to call upon Miss Temple herself, instead of
sending back her clothes; and being desirous to give her some proof of
friendship before they entered upon expostulations, she slipt softly into
her chamber, when she was in the very act of changing her linen, and
embraced her. Miss Temple finding herself in her arms before she had
taken notice of her, everything that Killegrew had mentioned, appeared
to her imagination: she fancied that she saw in her looks the eagerness
of a satyr, or, if possible, of some monster still more odious; and
disengaging herself with the highest indignation from her arms, she began
to shriek and cry in the most terrible manner, calling both heaven and
earth to her assistance.

The first whom her cries raised were the governess and her niece. It was
near twelve o'clock at night: Miss Temple in her shift, almost frightened
to death, was pushing back with horror Miss Hobart, who approached her
with no other intent than to know the occasion of those transports. As
soon as the governess saw this scene, she began to lecture Miss Hobart
with all the eloquence of a real duenna: she demanded of her, whether she
thought it was for her that her royal highness kept the maids of honour?
whether she was not ashamed to come at such an unseasonable time of night
into their very apartments to commit such violences? and swore that she
would, the very next day, complain to the duchess. All this confirmed
Miss Temple in her mistaken notions: and Hobart was obliged to go away at
last, without being able to convince or bring to reason creatures, whom
she believed to be either distracted or mad. The next day Miss Sarah did
not fail to relate this adventure to her lover, telling him how Miss
Temple's cries had alarmed the maids of honour's apartment, and how
herself and her aunt, running to her assistance, had almost surprised
Miss Hobart in the very act.

Two days after, the whole adventure, with the addition of several
embellishments, was made public: the governess swore to the truth of it,
and related in every company what a narrow escape Miss Temple had
experienced, and that Miss Sarah, her niece, had preserved her honour,
because, by Lord Rochester's excellent advice, she had forbidden her
all manner of connection with so dangerous a person. Miss Temple was
afterwards informed, that the song that had so greatly provoked her,
alluded to Miss Price only: this was confirmed to her by every person,
with additional execrations against Miss Hobart, for such a scandalous
imposition. Such great coldness after so much familiarity, made many
believe, that this adventure was not altogether a fiction.

This had been sufficient to have disgraced Miss Hobart at court, and to
have totally ruined her reputation in London, had she not been, upon the
present, as well as upon a former occasion, supported by the duchess:
her royal highness pretended to treat the whole story as romantic and
visionary, or as solely arising from private pique: she chid Miss Temple,
for her impertinent credulity: turned away the governess and her niece,
for the lies with which she pretended they supported the imposture; and
did many improper things in order to re-establish Miss Hobart's honour,
which, however, she failed in accomplishing. She had her reasons for not
entirely abandoning her, as will appear in the sequel.

Miss Temple, who continually reproached herself with injustice, with
respect to Lord Rochester, and who, upon the faith of Killegrew's word,
thought him the most Honourable man in England, was only solicitous to
find out some opportunity of easing her mind, by making him some
reparation for the rigour with which she had treated him: these
favourable dispositions, in the hands of a man of his character, might
have led to consequences of which she was not aware; but heaven did not
allow him an opportunity of profiting by them.

Ever since he had first appeared at court he seldom failed being banished
from it, at least once in the year; for whenever a word presented itself
to his pen, or to his tongue, he immediately committed it to paper, or
produced it in conversation, without any manner of regard to the
consequences the ministers, the mistresses, and even the king himself,
were frequently the subjects of his sarcasms; and had not the prince,
whom he thus treated, been possessed of one of the most forgiving and
gentle tempers, his first disgrace had certainly been his last.

Just at the time that Miss Temple was desirous of seeing him, in order to
apologize for the uneasiness which the infamous calumnies and black
aspersions of Miss Hobart had occasioned both of them, he was forbid the
court for the third time: he departed without having seen Miss Temple,
carried the disgraced governess down with him to his country seat, and
exerted all his endeavours to cultivate in her niece some dispositions
which she had for the stage; but though she did not make the same
improvement in this line, as she had by his other instructions, after he
had entertained both the niece and the aunt for some months in the
country, he got her entered in the king's company of comedians the next
winter; and the public was obliged to him for the prettiest, but at the
same time, the worst actress in the kingdom.

   [Though no name is given to this lady, there are circumstances
   enough mentioned to fix on the celebrated Mrs. Barry, as the person
   intended by the author. Mrs. Barry was introduced to the stage by
   Lord Rochester, with whom she had an intrigue, the fruit of which
   was a daughter, who lived to the age of thirteen years, and is often
   mentioned in his collection of love-letters, printed in his works,
   which were written to Mrs. Barry. On her first theatrical attempts,
   so little hopes were entertained of her, that she was, as Cibber
   declares, discharged the company at the end of the first year, among
   others that were thought to be a useless expense to it. She was
   well born; being daughter of Robert Barry, Esq., barrister at law; a
   gentleman of an ancient family and good estate, who hurt his fortune
   by his attachment to Charles I.; for whom he raised a regiment at
   his own expense. Tony Aston, in his Supplement to Cibber's Apology,
   says, she was woman to lady Shelton of Norfolk, who might have
   belonged to the court. Curl, however, says, she was early taken
   under the patronage of Lady Davenant. Both these accounts may be
   true. The time of her appearance on the stage was probably not much
   earlier that 1671; in which year she performed in Tom Essence, and
   was, it may be conjectured, about the age of nineteen. Curl
   mentions the great pains taken by Lord Rochester in instructing her;
   which were repaid by the rapid progress she daily made in her
   profession. She at last eclipsed all her competitors, and in the
   part of Monimia established her reputation. From her performance in
   this character, in that of Belvidera, and of Isabella, in the Fatal
   Marriage, Downes says she acquired the name of the famous Mrs.
   Barry, both at court and in the city. "Mrs. Barry," says Dryden, in
   his Preface to Cleomenes, "always excellent, has in this tragedy
   excelled herself, and gained a reputation beyond any woman I have
   ever seen on the theatre." "In characters of greatness," says
   Cibber, "Mrs. Barry had a presence of elevated dignity; her mien
   and motion superb, and gracefully majestic; her voice full, clear,
   and strong; so that no violence of passion could be too much for
   her; and when distress or tenderness possessed her, she subsided
   into the most affecting melody and softness. In the art of exciting
   pity, she had a power beyond all the actresses I have yet seen, or
   what your imagination can conceive. In scenes of anger, defiance,
   or resentment, while she was impetuous and terrible, she poured out
   the sentiment with an enchanting harmony; and it was this particular
   excellence for which Dryden made her the above-recited compliment,
   upon her acting Cassandra in his Cleomenes. She was the first
   person whose merit was distinguished by the indulgence of having an
   annual benefit play, which was granted to her alone in King James's
   time, and which did not become common to others till the division of
   this company, after the death of King William and Queen Mary."]

About this time Talbot returned from Ireland: he soon felt the absence of
Miss Hamilton, who was then in the country with a relation, whom we shall
mention hereafter. A remnant of his former tenderness still subsisted in
his heart, notwithstanding his absence, and the promises he had given the
Chevalier de Grammont at parting: he now therefore endeavoured to banish
her entirely from his thoughts, by fixing his desires upon some other
object; but he saw no one in the queen's new court whom he thought worthy
of his attention: Miss Boynton, however, thought him worthy of hers.
Her, person was slender and delicate, to which a good complexion and
large motionless eyes gave at a distance an appearance of beauty, that
vanished upon nearer inspection: she affected to lisp, to languish, and
to have two or three fainting-fits a day. The first time that Talbot
cast his eyes upon her she was seized with one of these fits: he was told
that she swooned away upon his account: he believed it, was eager to
afford her assistance; and ever after that accident showed her some
kindness, more with the intention of saving her life, than to express any
affection he felt for her. This seeming tenderness was well received,
and at first she was visibly affected by it. Talbot was one of the
tallest men in England, and in all appearance one of the most robust; yet
she showed sufficiently that she was willing to expose the delicacy of
her constitution, to whatever might happen, in order to become his wife;
which event perhaps might then have taken place, as it did afterwards,
had not the charms of the fair Jennings at that time, proved an obstacle
to her wishes.

I know not how it came to pass that he had not yet seen her; though he
had heard her much praised, and her prudence, wit, and vivacity equally
commended; he believed all this upon the faith of common report. He
thought it very singular that discretion and sprightliness should be so
intimately united in a person so young, more particularly in the midst of
a court where love and gallantry were so much in fashion; but he found
her personal accomplishments greatly to exceed whatever fame had reported
of them.

As it was not long before he perceived he was in love, neither was it
long before he made a declaration of it: as his passion was likely enough
to be real, Miss Jennings thought she might believe him, without exposing
herself to the imputation of vanity. Talbot was possessed of a fine and
brilliant exterior, his manners were noble and majestic: besides this, he
was particularly distinguished by the favour and friendship of the duke;
but his most essential merit, with her, was his forty thousand pounds
a-year, landed property, besides his employments. All these qualities
came within the rules and maxims she had resolved to follow with respect
to lovers: thus, though he had not the satisfaction to obtain from her an
entire declaration of her sentiments, he had at least the pleasure of
being better received than those who had paid their addresses to her
before him.

No person attempted to interrupt his happiness; and Miss Jennings,
perceiving that the duchess approved of Talbot's pretensions; and after
having well weighed the matter, and consulted her own inclinations, found
that her reason was more favourable to him than her heart, and that the
most she could do for his satisfaction was to marry him without
reluctance.

Talbot, too fortunate in a preference which no man had before
experienced, did not examine whether it was to her heart or to her head
that he was indebted for it, and his thoughts were solely occupied in
hastening the accomplishment of his wishes: one would have sworn that the
happy minute was at hand; but love would no longer be love, if he did not
delight in obstructing, or in overturning the happiness of those who live
under his dominion.

Talbot, who found nothing reprehensible either in the person, in the
conversation, or in the reputation of Miss Jennings, was however rather
concerned at a now acquaintance she had lately formed; and having taken
upon him to give her some cautions upon this subject, she was much
displeased at his conduct.

Miss Price, formerly maid of honour, that had been set aside, as we have
before mentioned, upon her leaving the duchess's service, had recourse to
Lady Castlemaine's protection: she had a very entertaining wit: her
complaisance was adapted to all humours, and her own humour was possessed
of a fund of gaiety and sprightliness which diffused universal mirth and
merriment wherever she came. Her acquaintance with Miss Jennings was
prior to Talbot's.

As she was thoroughly acquainted with all the intrigues of the court, she
related them without any manner of reserve to Miss Jennings, and her own
with the same frankness as the others: Miss Jennings was extremely well
pleased with her stories; for though she was determined to make no
experiment in love, but upon honourable terms, she however was desirous
of knowing from her recitals, all the different intrigues that were
carrying on: thus, as she was never wearied with her conversation, she
was overjoyed whenever she could see her.

Talbot, who remarked the extreme relish she had for Miss Price's company,
thought that the reputation such a woman had in the world might prove
injurious to his mistress, more especially from the particular intimacy
there seemed to exist between them: whereupon, in the tone of a guardian
rather than a lover, he took upon him to chide her for the disreputable
company she kept. Miss Jennings was haughty beyond conception, when once
she took it into her head; and as she liked Miss Price's conversation
much better than Talbot's, she took the liberty of desiring him "to
attend to his own affairs, and that if he only came from Ireland to read
lectures about her conduct, he might take the trouble to go back as soon
as he pleased." He was offended at a sally which he thought ill-timed,
considering the situation of affairs between them; and went out of her
presence more abruptly than became the respect due from a man greatly in
love. He for some time appeared offended; but perceiving that he gained
nothing by such conduct, he grew weary of acting that part, and assumed
that of an humble lover, in which he was equally unsuccessful; neither
his repentance nor submissions could produce any effect upon her, and the
mutinous little gipsy was still in her pouts when Jermyn returned to
court.

It was above a year since he had triumphed over the weakness of Lady
Castlemaine, and above two since the king had been weary of his triumphs:
his uncle, being vile of the first who perceived the king's disgust,
obliged him to absent himself from court, at the very time that orders
were going to be issued for that purpose; for though the king's
affections for Lady Castlemaine were now greatly diminished, yet he did
not think it consistent with his dignity that a mistress, whom he had
honoured with public distinction, and who still received a considerable
support from him, should appear chained to the car of the most ridiculous
conqueror that ever existed. His majesty had frequently expostulated
with the countess upon this subject: but his expostulations were never
attended to; it was in one of these differences that he, advising her
rather to bestow her favours upon Jacob Hall, the rope-dancer, who was
able to return them, than lavish away her money upon Jermyn to no
purpose, since it would be more honourable for her to pass for the
mistress of the first, than for the very humble servant of the other, she
was not proof against his raillery. The impetuosity of her temper broke
forth like lightning: she told him "that it very ill became him to throw
out such reproaches against one, who, of all the women in England,
deserved them the least; that he had never ceased quarrelling thus
unjustly with her, ever since he had betrayed his own mean low
inclinations; that to gratify such a depraved taste as his, he wanted
only such silly things as Stewart, Wells, and that pitiful strolling
actress,--[Probably Nell Gwyn.]--whom he had lately introduced into their
society." Floods of tears from rage, generally attended these storms;
after which, resuming the part of Medea, the scene closed with menaces of
tearing her children in pieces, and setting his palace on fire. What
course could he pursue with such an outrageous fury, who, beautiful as
she was, resembled Medea less than her dragons, when she was thus
enraged!

The indulgent monarch loved peace; and as he seldom contended for it on
these occasions without paying something to obtain it, he was obliged to
be at great expense, in order to reconcile this last rupture: as they
could not agree of themselves, and both parties equally complained, the
Chevalier de Grammont was chosen, by mutual consent, mediator of the
treaty. The grievances and pretensions on each side were communicated to
him, and what is very extraordinary, he managed so as to please them
both. Here follow the articles of peace, which they agreed to:

"That Lady Castlemaine should for ever abandon Jermyn; that as a proof of
her sincerity, and the reality of his disgrace, she should consent to his
being sent, for some time, into the country; that she should not rail any
more against Miss Wells, nor storm any more against Miss Stewart; and
this without any restraint on the king's behaviour towards her that in
consideration of these condescensions, his majesty should immediately
give her the title of duchess, with all the honours and privileges
thereunto belonging, and an addition to her pension, in order to enable
her to support the dignity."

   [The title of Duchess of Cleveland was conferred on her 3rd August,
   22 Charles II., 1670.]

As soon as this peace was proclaimed, the political critics, who, in all
nations, never fail to censure all state proceedings, pretended that the
mediator of this treaty, being every day at play with Lady Castlemaine,
and never losing, had, for his own sake, insisted a little too strongly
upon this last article.

Some days after, she was created Duchess of Cleveland, and little Jermyn
repaired to his country-seat: however, it was in his power to have
returned in a fortnight; for the Chevalier de Grammont, having procured
the king's permission, carried it to the Earl of St. Alban's: this
revived the good old man; but it was to little purpose he transmitted it
to his nephew; for whether he wished to make the London beauties deplore
and lament his absence, or whether he wished them to declaim against the
injustice of the age, or rail against the tyranny of the prince, he
continued above half a year in the country, setting up for a little
philosopher, under the eyes of the sportsmen in the neighbourhood, who
regarded him as an extraordinary instance of the caprice of fortune. He
thought the part he acted so glorious, that he would have continued there
much longer had he not heard of Miss Jennings: he did not, however, pay
much attention to what his friends wrote to him concerning her charms,
being persuaded he had seen equally as great in others: what was related
to him of her pride and resistance, appeared to him of far greater
consequence; and to subdue the last, he even looked upon as an action
worthy of his prowess; and quitting his retreat for this purpose, he
arrived in London at the time that Talbot, who was really in love, had
quarrelled, in his opinion, so unjustly with Miss Jennings.

She had heard Jermyn spoken of as a hero in affairs of love and
gallantry. Miss Price, in the recital of those of the Duchess of
Cleveland, had often mentioned him, without in any respect diminishing
the insignificancy with which fame insinuated he had conducted himself in
those amorous encounters: she nevertheless had the greatest curiosity to
see a man, whose entire person, she thought, must be a moving trophy, and
monument of the favours and freedoms of the fair sex.

Thus Jermyn arrived at the right time to satisfy her curiosity by his
presence; and though his brilliancy appeared a little tarnished by his
residence in the country; though his head was larger, and his legs more
slender than usual, yet the giddy girl thought she had never seen any man
so perfect; and yielding to her destiny, she fell in love with him, a
thousand times more unaccountably than all the others had done before
her. Everybody remarked this change of conduct in her with surprise; for
they expected something more from the delicacy of a person who, till this
time, had behaved with so much propriety in all her actions.

Jermyn was not in the least surprised at this conquest, though not a
little proud of it; for his heart had very soon as great a share in it as
his vanity. Talbot, who saw with amazement the rapidity of this triumph,
and the disgrace of his own defeat, was ready to die with jealousy and
spite; yet he thought it would be more to his credit to die than to vent
those passions unprofitably; and shielding himself under a feigned
indifference, he kept at a distance to view how far such an extravagant
prepossession would proceed.

In the mean time Jermyn quietly enjoyed the happiness of seeing the
inclinations of the prettiest and most extraordinary creature in England
declared in his favour. The duchess, who had taken her under her
protection ever since she had declined placing herself under that of the
duke, sounded Jermyn's intentions towards her, and was satisfied with the
assurances she received from a man, whose probity infinitely exceeded his
merit in love: he therefore let all the court see that he was willing to
marry her, though, at the same time, he did not appear particularly
desirous of hastening the consummation. Every person now complimented
Miss Jennings upon having reduced to this situation the terror of
husbands, and the plague of lovers: the court was in full expectation of
this miracle, and Miss Jennings of a near approaching happy settlement:
but in this world one must have fortune in one's favour, before one can
calculate with certainty upon happiness.

The king did not use to let Lord Rochester remain so long in exile: he
grew weary of it, and being displeased that he was forgotten, he posted
up to London to wait till it might be his majesty's pleasure to recall
him.

He first took up his habitation in the city, among the capital tradesmen
and rich merchants, where politeness indeed is not so much cultivated as
at court; but where pleasure, luxury, and abundance reign with less
confusion, and more sincerity. His first design was only to be initiated
into the mysteries of those fortunate and happy inhabitants: that is to
say, by changing his name and dress, to gain admittance to their feasts
and entertainments; and, as occasion offered, to those of their loving
spouses; as he was able to adapt himself to all capacities and humours,
he soon deeply insinuated himself into the esteem of the substantial
wealthy aldermen, and into he affections of their more delicate,
magnificent, and tender ladies: he made one in all their feasts, and at
all their assemblies; and, whilst in the company of the husbands, he
declaimed against the faults and mistakes of government, he joined their
wives in railing against the profligacy of the court ladies, and in
inveighing against the king's mistresses: he agreed with them, that the
industrious poor were to pay for these cursed extravagances; that the
city beauties were not inferior to those of the other end of the town,
and yet a sober husband in this quarter of the town was satisfied with
one wife; after which, to out-do their murmurings, he said, that he
wondered Whitehall was not yet consumed by fire from heaven, since such
rakes as Rochester, Killegrew, and Sidney were suffered there, who had
the impudence to assert that all married men in the city were cuckolds,
and all their wives painted. This conduct endeared him so much to the
cits, and made him so welcome at their clubs, that at last he grew sick
of their cramming and endless invitations.

But, instead of approaching nearer the court, he retreated into one of
the most obscure corners of the city: where, again changing both his name
and his dress, in order to act a new part, he caused bills to be
dispersed, giving notice of "The recent arrival of a famous German
doctor, who, by long application and experience, had found out wonderful
secrets, and infallible remedies."

   [Bishop Burnet confirms this account.--"Being under an unlucky
   accident, which obliged him to keep out of the way, he disguised
   himself so, that his nearest friends could not have known him, and
   set up in Tower Street for an Italian mountebank, where he practised
   physic for some weeks, not without success. In his latter years he
   read books of history more. He took pleasure to disguise himself as
   a porter, or as a beggar; sometimes to follow some mean amours,
   which, for the variety of them, he affected. At other times, merely
   for diversion, he would go about in odd shapes; in which he acted
   his part so naturally, that even those who were in the secret, and
   saw him in these shapes, could perceive nothing by which he might be
   discovered."--Burnet's Life of Rochester, ed. 1774, p. 14.]

His secrets consisted in knowing what was past, and foretelling what was
to come, by the assistance of astrology: and the virtue of his remedies
principally consisted in giving present relief to unfortunate young women
in all manner of diseases, and all kinds of accidents incident to the
fair sex, either from too unbounded charity to their neighbours, or too
great indulgence to themselves.

His first practice being confined to his neighbourhood, was not very
considerable; but his reputation soon extending to the other end of the
town, there presently flocked to him the women attending on the court,
next, the chamber-maids of ladies of quality, who, upon the wonders they
related concerning the German doctor, were soon followed by some of their
mistresses.

Among all the compositions of a ludicrous and satirical kind, there never
existed any that could be compared to those of Lord Rochester, either for
humour, fire, or wit; but, of all his works, the most ingenious and
entertaining is that which contains a detail of the intrigues and
adventures in which he was engaged while he professed medicine and
astrology in the suburbs of London.

The fair Jennings was very near getting a place in this collection; but
the adventure that prevented her from it, did not, however, conceal from
the public her intention of paying a visit to the German doctor.

The first chamber-maids that consulted him were only those of the maids
of honour; who had numberless questions to ask, and not a few doubts to
be resolved, both upon their own and their mistresses' accounts.
Notwithstanding their disguise, he recognised some of them, particularly
Miss Temple's and Miss Price's maids, and her whom Miss Hobart had lately
discarded: these creatures all returned either filled with wonder and
amazement, or petrified with terror and fear. Miss Temple's chamber-maid
deposed that he assured her she would have the small-pox, and her
mistress the great, within two months at farthest, if her aforesaid
mistress did not guard against a man in woman's clothes. Miss Price's
woman affirmed that, without knowing her, and only looking in her hand,
he told her at first sight that, according to the course of the stars, he
perceived that she was in the service of some good-natured lady, who had
no other fault than loving wine and men. In short, every one of them,
struck with some particular circumstance relating to their own private
affairs, had either alarmed or diverted their mistresses with the
account, not failing, according to custom, to embellish the truth, in
order to enhance the wonder.

Miss Price, relating these circumstances one day to her new friend, the
devil immediately tempted her to go in person, and see what sort of a
creature this new magician was. This enterprise was certainly very rash;
but nothing was too rash for Miss Jennings, who was of opinion that a
woman might despise appearances, provided she was in reality virtuous.
Miss Price was all compliance, and thus having fixed upon this glorious
resolution, they only thought of the proper means of putting it into
execution.

It was very difficult for Miss Jennings to disguise herself, on account
of her excessive fair and bright complexion, and of something particular
in her air and manner: however, after having well considered the matter
the best disguise they could think of was to dress themselves like orange
girls.

   [These frolics appear to have been not unfrequent with persons of
   high rank at this period. In a letter from Mr. Henshaw to Sir
   Robert Paston, afterwards Earl of Yarmouth, dated October 13, 1670,
   we have the following account: "Last week, there being a faire
   neare Audley-end, the queen, the Dutchess of Richmond, and the
   Dutchess of Buckingham, had a frolick to disguise themselves like
   country lasses, to red petticoats, wastcotes, &c., and so goe see
   the faire. Sir Barnard Gascoign, on a cart jade, rode before the
   queen; another stranger before the Dutchess of Buckingham; and Mr.
   Roper before Richmond. They had all so overdone it in their
   disguise, and looked so much more like antiques than country volk,
   that, as soon as they came to the faire, the people began to goe
   after them; but the queen going to a booth, to buy a pair of yellow
   stockings for her sweet hart, and Sir Bernard asking for a pair of
   gloves sticht with blew, for his sweet hart, they were soon, by
   their gebrish, found to be strangers, which drew a bigger flock
   about them. One amongst them had seen the queen at dinner, knew
   her, and was proud of her knowledge. This soon brought all the
   faire into a crowd to stare at the queen. Being thus discovered,
   they, as soon as they could, got to their horses; but as many of the
   faire as had horses got up, with their wives, children, sweet harts,
   or neighbours, behind them, to get as much gape as they could, till
   they brought them to the court gate. Thus, by ill conduct, was a
   merry frolick turned into a penance."--I've's Select Papers, p. 39.

   Bishop Burnet says, "at this time, (1668) the court fell into much
   extravagance in masquerading: both the king and queen, all the
   court, went about masked, and came into houses unknown, and danced
   there, with a great deal of wild frolic. In all this people were so
   disguised, that, without being in the secret, none could distinguish
   them. They were carried about in hackney chairs. Once the queen's
   chairmen, not knowing who she was, went from her. So she was alone,
   and was much disturbed, and came to Whitehall in a hackney coach;
   some say in a cart."--Burnet's History, vol. i., p. 368.]

This was no sooner resolved upon, but it was put in execution they
attired themselves alike, and, taking each a basket of oranges under
their arms, they embarked in a hackney coach, and committed themselves to
fortune, without any other escort than their own caprice and
indiscretion.

The duchess was gone to the play with her sister: Miss Jennings had
excused herself under pretence of indisposition she was overjoyed at the
happy commencement of their adventure; for they had disguised themselves,
had crossed the Park, and taken their hackney coach at Whitehall gate,
without the least accident. They mutually congratulated each other upon
it, and Miss Price, taking a beginning so prosperous as a good omen of
their success, asked her companion what they were to do at the
fortune-teller's, and what they should propose to him.

Miss Jennings told her that, for her part, curiosity was her principal
inducement for going thither; that, however, she was resolved to ask him,
without naming any person, why a man, who was in love with a handsome
young lady, was not urgent to marry her, since this was in his power to
do, and by so doing he would have an opportunity of gratifying his
desires. Miss Price told her, smiling, that, without going to the
astrologer, nothing was more easy than to explain the enigma, as she
herself had almost given her a solution of it in the narrative of the
Duchess of Cleveland's adventures.

Having by this time nearly arrived at the playhouse, Miss Price, after a
moment's reflection, said, that since fortune favoured them, a fair
opportunity was now offered to signalize their courage, which was to go
and sell oranges in the very playhouse, in the sight of the duchess and
the whole court. The proposal being worthy of the sentiments of the one,
and of the vivacity of the other, they immediately alighted, paid off
their hack, and, running through the midst of an immense number of
coaches, with great difficulty they reached the playhouse door. Sidney,
more handsome than the beautiful Adonis, and dressed more gay than usual,
alighted just then from his coach: Miss Price went boldly up to him, as
he was adjusting his curls; but he was too much occupied with his own
dear self to attend to anything else, and so passed on without deigning
to give her an answer. Killegrew came next, and the fair Jennings,
partly encouraged by the other's pertness, advanced towards him, and
offered him her basket, whilst Price, more used to the language, desired
him to buy her fine oranges. "Not now," said he, looking at them with
attention; "but if thou wilt to-morrow morning bring this young girl to
my lodgings, I will make it worth all the oranges in London to thee" and
while he thus spoke to the one he chucked the other under the chin,
examining her bosom. These familiarities making little Jennings forget
the part she was acting, after having pushed him away with all the
violence she was able, she told him with indignation that it was very
insolent to dare--"Ha! ha!" said he, "here's a rarity indeed! a young
w----, who, the better to sell her goods, sets up for virtue, and
pretends innocence!"

Price immediately perceived that nothing could be gained by continuing
any longer in so dangerous a place; and, taking her companion under the
arm, she dragged her away, while she was still in emotion at the insult
that had been offered to her.

Miss Jennings, resolving to sell no more oranges on these terms, was
tempted to return, without accomplishing the other adventure; but Price
having represented to her the disgrace of such cowardly behaviour, more
particularly after having before manifested so much resolution, she
consented to go and pay the astrologer a short visit, so as they might be
enabled to regain the palace before the play was ended.

They had one of the doctor's bills for a direction, but there was no
occasion for it; for the driver of the coach they had taken told them he
knew very well the place they wanted, for he had already carried above an
hundred persons to the German doctor's: they were within half a street of
his house, when fortune thought proper to play them a trick.

Brounker had dined by chance with a merchant in that part of the city,
and just as he was going away they ordered their coach to stop, as
ill-luck would have it, just opposite to him. Two orange girls in a
hackney coach, one of whom appeared to have a very pretty face,
immediately drew his attention; besides, he had a natural curiosity for
such objects.

   [Gentleman of the chamber to the Duke of York, and brother to Lord
   Viscount Brounker, president of the royal society. Lord Clarendon
   imputes to him the cause of the great sea-fight, in 1665, not being
   so well improved as it might have been, and adds, "nor did the duke
   come to hear of it till some years after, when Mr. Brounker's ill
   course of life, and his abominable nature, had rendered him so
   odious, that it was taken notice of in parliament, and, upon
   examination, found to be true, as is here related; upon which he was
   expelled the house of commons, whereof he was a; member, as an
   infamous person, though his friend Coventry adhered to him, and used
   many indirect acts to have protected him, and afterwards procured
   him to have more countenance from the king than most men thought he
   deserved; being a person, throughout his whole life, never notorious
   for anything but the highest degree of impudence, and stooping to
   the most infamous offices, and playing very well at chess, which
   preferred him more than the most virtuous qualities could have
   done."--Continuation of Clarendon's Life, p. 270.]

Of all the men at court, he had the least regard for the fair sex, and
the least attention to their reputation: he was not young, nor was his
person agreeable; however, with a great deal of wit he had a violent
passion for women. He did himself justice respecting his own merit; and,
being persuaded that he could only succeed with those who were desirous
of having his money, he was at open war with all the rest. He had a
little country-house four or five miles from London always well stocked
with girls: in other respects he was a very honest man, and the best
chess-player in England.

Price, alarmed at being thus closely examined by the most dangerous enemy
they could encounter, turned her head the other way, bid her companion do
the same, and told the coachman to drive on. Brounker followed them
unperceived on foot; and the coach having stopped twenty or thirty yards
farther up the street, they alighted. He was just behind them, and
formed the same judgment of them which a man much more charitable to the
sex must unavoidably have done, concluding that Miss Jennings was a young
courtesan upon the look-out, and that Miss Price was the mother-abbess.
He was, however, surprised to see them have much better shoes and
stockings than women of that rank generally wear, and that the little
orange girl, in getting out of a very high coach, showed one of the
handsomest legs he had ever seen: but as all this was no obstruction to
his designs, he resolved to purchase her at any rate, in order to place
her in his seraglio.

He came up to them, as they were giving their baskets in guard to the
coachman, with orders to wait for them exactly in that place. Brounker
immediately pushed in between them: as soon as they saw him, they gave
themselves up for lost; but he, without taking the least notice of their
surprise, took Price aside with one hand, and his purse with the other,
and began immediately to enter upon business, but was astonished to
perceive that she turned away her face, without either answering or
looking at him: As this conduct appeared to him unnatural, he stared her
full in the face, notwithstanding all her endeavours to prevent him: he
did the same to the other: and immediately recognised them, but
determined to conceal his discovery.

The old fox possessed a wonderful command of temper on such occasions,
and having teazed them a little longer to remove all suspicions he
quitted them, telling Price; "That she was a great fool to refuse his
offers, and that her girl would not, perhaps, get so much in a year, as
she might with him in one day; that the times were greatly changed, since
the queen's and the duchess's maids of honour forestalled the market, and
were to be had cheaper than the town ladies." Upon this he went back to
his coach, whilst they blessed themselves, returning heaven their most
hearty thanks for having escaped this danger without being discovered.

Brounker, on the other hand, would not have taken a thousand guineas for
this rencounter: he blessed the Lord that he had not alarmed them to such
a degree as to frustrate their intention; for he made no doubt but Miss
Price had managed some intrigue for Miss Jennings: he therefore
immediately concluded, that at present it would be improper to make known
his discovery, which would have answered no other end but to have
overwhelmed them with confusion.

Upon this account, although Jermyn was one of his best friends, he felt a
secret joy in not having prevented his being made a cuckold, before his
marriage; and the apprehension he was in of preserving him from that
accident, was his sole reason for quitting them with the precautions
aforementioned.

Whilst they were under these alarms, their coachman was engaged in a
squabble with some blackguard boys, who had gathered round his coach in
order to steal the oranges: from words they came to blows: the two nymphs
saw the commencement of the fray as they were returning to the coach,
after having abandoned the design of going to the fortuneteller's. Their
coachman being a man of spirit, it was with great difficulty they could
persuade him to leave their oranges to the mob, that they might get off
without any further disturbance: having thus regained their hack, after a
thousand frights, and after having received an abundant share of the most
low and infamous abuse applied to them during the fracas, they at length
reached St. James's, vowing never more to go after fortune-tellers,
through so many dangers, terrors, and alarms, as they had lately
undergone.

Brounker, who, from the indifferent opinion he entertained of the fair
sex, would have staked his life that Miss Jennings did not return from
this expedition in the same condition she went, kept his thoughts,
however, a profound secret; since it would have afforded him the highest
satisfaction to have seen the all-fortunate Jermyn marry a little
street-walker, who pretended to pass for a pattern of chastity, that he
might, the day after his marriage, congratulate him upon his virtuous
spouse; but heaven was not disposed to afford him that satisfaction, as
will appear in the sequel of these memoirs.

Miss Hamilton was in the country, as we before mentioned, at a
relation's: the Chevalier de Grammont bore this short absence of hers
with great uneasiness, since she would not allow him permission to visit
her there, upon any pretence whatever; but play, which was favourable to
him, was no small relief to his extreme impatience.

Miss Hamilton, however, at last returned. Mrs. Wetenhall (for that was
the name of her relation) would by all means wait upon her to London, in
appearance out of politeness; for ceremony, carried beyond all bearing,
is the grand characteristic of country gentry: yet this mark of civility
was only a pretence, to obtain a peevish husband's consent to his wife's
journey to town. Perhaps he would have done himself the honour of
conducting Miss Hamilton up to London, had he not been employed in
writing some remarks upon the ecclesiastical history, a work in which he
had long been engaged: the ladies were more civil than to interrupt him
in his undertaking, and besides, it would entirely have disconcerted all
Mrs. Wetenhall's schemes.

This lady was what may be properly called a beauty, entirely English,
made up of lilies and roses, of snow and milk, as to colour; and of wax,
with respect to the arms, hands, neck, and feet, but all this without
either animation or air; her face was uncommonly pretty; but there was no
variety, no change of countenance in it: one would have thought she took
it in the morning out of a case, in order to put it up again at night,
without using it in the smallest degree in the daytime. What can I say
of her! nature had formed her a baby from her infancy, and a baby
remained till death the fair Mrs. Wetenhall. Her husband had been
destined for the church; but his elder brother dying just at the time he
had gone through his studies of divinity, instead of taking orders, he
came to England, and took to wife Miss Bedingfield, the lady of whom we
are now speaking.

His person was not disagreeable, but he had a serious contemplative air,
very apt to occasion disgust: as for the rest, she might boast of having
one of the greatest theologists in the kingdom for her husband: he was
all day poring over his books, and went to bed soon, in order to rise
early; so that his wife found him snoring when she came to bed, and when
he arose he left her there sound asleep: his conversation at table would
have been very brisk, if Mrs. Wetenhall had been as great a proficient
in divinity, or as great a lover of controversy, as he was; but being
neither learned in the former, nor desirous of the latter, silence
reigned at their table, as absolutely as at a refectory.

She had often expressed a great desire to see London; but though they
were only distant a very short day's journey from it, she had never been
able to satisfy her curiosity: it was not therefore without reason, that
she grew weary of the life she was forced to lead at Peckham. The
melancholy retired situation of the place was to her insupportable; and
as she had the folly, incident to many other women, of believing
sterility to be a kind of reproach, she was very much hurt to see that
she might fall under that suspicion; for she was persuaded, that although
heaven had denied her children, she nevertheless had all the necessary
requisites on her part, if it had been the will of the Lord. This had
occasioned her to make some reflections, and then to reason upon those
reflections; as for instance, that since her husband chose rather to
devote himself to his studies, than to the duties of matrimony, to turn
over musty old books, rather than attend to the attractions of beauty,
and to gratify his own pleasures, rather than those of his wife, it might
be permitted her to relieve some necessitous lover, in neighbourly
charity, provided she could do it conscientiously, and to direct her
inclinations in so just a, manner, that the evil spirit should have no
concern in it. Mr. Wetenhall, a zealous partisan for the doctrine of the
casuists, would not perhaps have approved of these decisions; but he was
not consulted.

The greatest misfortune was, that neither solitary Peckham nor its
sterile neighbourhood, presented any expedients, either for the execution
of the afore-mentioned design, or for the relief of poor Mrs. Wetenhall:
she was visibly pining away, when, through fear of dying either with
solitude or of want, she had recourse to Miss Hamilton's commiseration.

Their first acquaintance was formed at Paris, whither Mr. Wetenhall had
taken his wife half a year after they were married, on a journey thither
to buy books: Miss Hamilton, who from that very time greatly pitied her,
consented to pass some time in the country with her, in hopes by that
visit to deliver her, for a short time at least, out of her captivity;
which project succeeded according to her wish.

The Chevalier de Grammont, being informed of the day on which they were
to arrive, borne on the wings of love and impatience, had engaged George
Hamilton to go with him, and meet them some miles out of London. The
equipage he had prepared for the purpose, corresponded with his usual
magnificence; and on such an occasion, we may reasonably suppose he had
not neglected his person: however, with all his impatience, he checked
the ardour of the coachman, through fear of accidents, rightly judging
that upon a road prudence is preferable to eagerness. The ladies at
length appeared, and Miss Hamilton, being in his eyes, ten or twelve
times more handsome than before her departure from London, he would have
purchased with his life so kind a reception as she gave her brother.

Mrs. Wetenhall had her share of the praises, which at this interview
were liberally bestowed upon her beauty, for which her beauty was very
thankful to those who did it so much honour; and as Hamilton regarded
her with a tender attention, she regarded Hamilton as a man very well
qualified for putting in execution the little projects she had concerted
with her conscience.

As soon as she was in London, her head was almost turned, through an
excess of contentment and felicity: everything appeared like enchantment
to her in this superb city; more particularly, as in Paris she had never
seen anything farther than the Rue Saint Jacques, and a few booksellers'
shops. Miss Hamilton entertained her at her own house, and she was
presented, admired, and well received at both courts.

The Chevalier de Grammont, whose gallantry and magnificence were
inexhaustible, taking occasion, from this fair stranger's arrival, to
exhibit his grandeur, nothing was to be seen but balls, concerts, plays,
excursions by land and by water, splendid collations and sumptuous
entertainments: Mrs. Wetenhall was transported with pleasures, of which
the greatest part were entirely new to her; she was greatly delighted
with all, except now and then at a play, when tragedy was acted, which
she confessed she thought rather wearisome: she agreed, however, that the
show was very interesting, when there were many people killed upon the
stage, but thought the players were very fine handsome fellows, who were
much better alive than dead.

Hamilton, upon the whole, was pretty well treated by her, if a man in
love, who is never satisfied until the completion of his wishes, could
confine himself within the bounds of moderation and reason: he used all
his endeavours to determine her to put in execution the projects she had
formed at Peckham: Mrs. Wetenhall, on the other hand, was much pleased
with him. This is the Hamilton who served in the French army with
distinction; he was both agreeable and handsome. All imaginable
opportunities conspired to favour the establishment of an intimacy, whose
commencement had been so brisk, that in all probability it would not
languish for a conclusion; but the more he pressed her to it, the more
her resolution began to fail, and regard for some scruples, which she had
not well weighed, kept her in suspense: there was reason to believe that
a little perseverance would have removed these obstacles; yet this at the
present time was not attempted. Hamilton, not able to conceive what
could prevent her from completing his happiness, since in his opinion the
first and greatest difficulties of an amour were already overcome, with
respect to the public, resolved to abandon her to her irresolutions,
instead of endeavouring to conquer them by a more vigorous attack. It
was not consistent with reason, to desist from an enterprise, where so
many prospects of success presented themselves, for such inconsiderable
obstacles; but he suffered himself to be intoxicated with chimeras and
visions, which unseasonably cooled the vigour of his pursuit, and led him
astray in another unprofitable undertaking.

   [I apprehend he is the same George Hamilton already described, who
   married Miss Jennings, and not the author of this work, as Lord
   Orford supposes. In a letter from Arlington to Sir William
   Godolphin, dated September 7, 1671, it is said, "the Conde de Molina
   complains to us of certain levies Sir George Hamilton hath made in
   Ireland. The king hath always told him he had no express license
   for it; and I have told the Conde he must not find it strange that a
   gentleman who had been bred the king's page abroad, and losing his
   employment at home, for being a Roman Catholic, should have some
   more than ordinary connivance towards the making his fortune abroad
   by the countenance of his friends and relations in Ireland: and yet
   take the matter in the worst sense he could give, it would not
   amount to the breach of any article betwixt the king my master and
   the court of Spain."--Arlington's letters, vol. ii., p. 332. In
   a letter from the same nobleman to Lord Sandwich, written about
   October, 1667, we find the cause of Sir George Hamilton's entering
   into the French service "Concerning the reformadoes of, the guards
   of horse, his majesty thought fit, the other day, to have them
   dismissed, according to his promise, made to the parliament at the
   last session. Mr. Hamilton had a secret overture made him, that he,
   with those men, should be welcome into the French service; his
   majesty, at their dismissal, having declared they should have leave
   to go abroad whither they pleased. They accepted of Mr. Hamilton's
   offer to carry them into France. "Arlington's Letters," vol. i., p.
   185. Lodge, in his Peerage of Ireland, says, Sir George Hamilton
   died in 1667, which, from the first extract above, appears to be
   erroneous. He has evidently confounded the father and son; the
   former of whom was the person who died in 1667.]

I know not whether poor Wetenhall took the blame upon herself; but it is
certain, she was extremely mortified upon it. Soon after being obliged
to return to her cabbages and turkeys at Peckham, she had almost gone
distracted: that residence appeared a thousand times more dreadful to
her, since she had been initiated into the amusements of London; but as
the queen was to set out within a month for Tunbridge Wells, she was
obliged to yield to necessity, and return to the philosopher, Wetenhall,
with the consolation of having engaged Miss Hamilton to come and live at
her house, which was within ten or twelve miles of Tunbridge, as long as
the court remained there.

Miss Hamilton promised not to abandon her in her retirement, and further
engaged to bring the Chevalier de Grammont along with her, whose humour
and conversation extremely delighted her. The Chevalier de Grammont, who
on all occasions started agreeable raillery, engaged on his part to bring
George Hamilton, which words overwhelmed her with blushes. The court set
out soon after to pass about two months in the place of all Europe the
most rural and simple, and yet, at the same time, the most entertaining
and agreeable. Tunbridge is the same distance from London, that
Fontainebleau is from Paris, and is, at the season, the general
rendezvous of all the gay and handsome of both sexes. The company,
though always numerous, is always select: since those who repair thither
for diversion, ever exceed the number of those who go thither for health.
Everything there breathes mirth and pleasure: constraint is banished,
familiarity is established upon the first acquaintance, and joy and
pleasure are the sole sovereigns of the place.

The company are accommodated with lodgings in little, clean, and
convenient habitations, that lie straggling and separated from each
other, a mile and a half all round the Wells, where the company meet in
the morning: this place consists of a long walk, shaded by spreading
trees, under which they walk while they are drinking the waters: on one
side of this walk is a long row of shops, plentifully stocked with all
manner of toys, lace, gloves, stockings, and where there is raffling, as
at Paris, in the Foire de Saint Germain: on the other side of the walk is
the market; and, as it is the custom here for every person to buy their
own provisions, care is taken that nothing offensive appears on the
stalls. Here young, fair, fresh-coloured country girls, with clean
linen, small straw hats, and neat shoes and stockings, sell game,
vegetables, flowers and fruit: here one may live as one pleases: here is,
likewise, deep play, and no want of amorous intrigues. As soon as the
evening comes, every one quits his little palace to assemble at the
bowling-green, where, in the open air, those who choose, dance upon a
turf more soft and smooth than the finest carpet in the world,

Lord Muskerry had, within two or three short miles of Tunbridge, a very
handsome seat called Summer-hill: Miss Hamilton, after having spent eight
or ten days at Peckham, could not excuse herself from passing the
remainder of the season at his house; and, having obtained leave of Mr.
Wetenhall, that his lady should accompany her, they left the melancholy
residence of Peckham, and its tiresome master, and fixed their little
court at Summer-hill.

They went every day to court, or the court came to them. The queen
even surpassed her usual attentions in inventing and supporting
entertainments: she endeavoured to increase the natural ease and freedom
of Tunbridge, by dispensing with, rather than requiring, those ceremonies
that were due to her presence; and, confining in the bottom of her heart
that grief and uneasiness she could not overcome, she saw Miss Stewart
triumphantly possess the affections of the king without manifesting the
least uneasiness.

Never did love see his empire in a more flourishing condition than on
this spot: those who were smitten before they came to it, felt a mighty
augmentation of their flame; and those who seemed the least susceptible
of love, laid aside their natural ferocity, to act in a new character.
For the truth of the latter, we shall only relate the change which soon
appeared in the conduct of Prince Rupert.

   [Lord Orford's contrast to this character of Prince Rupert is too
   just to be here omitted. "Born with the taste of an uncle whom his
   sword was not fortunate in defending, Prince Rupert was fond of
   those sciences which soften and adorn a hero's private hours, and
   knew how to mix them with his minutes of amusement, without
   dedicating his life to their pursuit, like us, who, wanting capacity
   for momentous views, make serious study of what is only the
   transitory occupation of a genius. Had the court of the first
   Charles been peaceful, how agreeably had the prince's congenial
   propensity flattered and confirmed the inclination of his uncle!
   How the muse of arts would have repaid the patronage of the monarch,
   when, for his first artist, she would have presented him with his
   nephew! How different a figure did the same prince make in a reign
   of dissimilar complexion! The philosophic warrior, who could relax
   himself into the ornament of a refined court, was thought a savage
   mechanic, when courtiers were only voluptuous wits. Let me
   transcribe a picture of Prince Rupert, drawn by a man who was far
   from having the least portion of wit in that age, who was superior
   to its indelicacy, and who yet was so overborne by its prejudices,
   that he had the complaisance to ridicule virtue, merit, talents.
   --But Prince Rupert, alas! was an awkward lover!" Lord Orford here
   inserts the character in the text, and then adds, "What pity that
   we, who wish to transmit this prince's resemblance to posterity on a
   fairer canvas, have none of these inimitable colours to efface the
   harsher likeness! We can but oppose facts to wit, truth to satire.
  --How unequal the pencils! yet what these lines cannot do they may
   suggest: they may induce the reader to reflect, that if the prince
   was defective in the transient varnish of a court, he at least was
   adorned by the arts with that polish which alone can make a court
   attract the attention of subsequent ages."--Catalogue of Engravers,
   p 135, 8vo ed.]

He was brave and courageous, even to rashness; but cross-grained and
incorrigibly obstinate: his genius was fertile in mathematical
experiments, and he possessed some knowledge of chemistry: he was polite
even to excess, unseasonably; but haughty, and even brutal, when he ought
to have been gentle and courteous: he was tall, and his manners were
ungracious: he had a dry hard-favoured visage, and a stern look, even
when he wished to please; but, when he was out of humour, he was the true
picture of reproof.

The queen had sent for the players, either that there might be no
intermission in the diversions of the place, or, perhaps, to retort upon
Miss Stewart, by the presence of Nell Gwyn, part of the uneasiness she
felt from hers. Prince Rupert found charms in the person of another
player called Hughes, who brought down and greatly subdued his natural
fierceness.

   [Mrs. Hughes was one of the actresses belonging to the king's
   company, and one of the earliest female performers. According to
   Downs, she commenced her theatrical career after the opening of
   Drury lane theatre, in 1663. She appears to have been the first
   female representative of Desdemona. By Prince Rupert she had a
   daughter, named Ruperta, married to Lieutenant-general Howe, who
   survived her husband many years, dying at Somerset house, about the
   year 1740.]

From this time, adieu alembics, crucibles, furnaces, and all the black
furniture of the forges: a complete farewell to all mathematical
instruments and chemical speculations: sweet powder and essences were now
the only ingredients that occupied any share of his attention. The
impertinent gipsy chose to be attacked in form; and proudly refusing
money, that, in the end she might sell her favours at a dearer rate, she
caused the poor prince to act a part so unnatural, that he no longer
appeared like the same person. The king was greatly pleased with this
event, for which great rejoicings were made at Tunbridge; but nobody was
bold enough to make it the subject of satire, though the same constraint
was not observed with other ridiculous personages.

There was dancing every day at the queen's apartments, because the
physicians recommended it, and no person thought it amiss: for even those
who cared least for it, chose that exercise to digest the waters rather
than walking. Lord Muskerry thought himself secure against his lady's
rage for dancing; for, although he was ashamed of it, the princess of
Babylon was, by the grace of God, six or seven months advanced in
pregnancy; and, to complete her misfortune, the child had fallen all
on one side, so that even Euclid would have been puzzled to say what
her figure was. The disconsolate lady, seeing Miss Hamilton and Mrs.
Wetenhall set out every morning, sometimes on horseback and sometimes in
a coach, but ever attended by a gallant troop to conduct them to court,
and to convey them back, she fancied a thousand times more delights at
Tunbridge than in reality there were, and she did not cease in her
imagination, to dance over at Summer-hill all the country dances which
she thought had been danced at Tunbridge. She could no longer support
the racking torments which disturbed her mind, when relenting heaven,
out of pity to her pains and sufferings, caused Lord Muskerry to repair
to London, and kept him there two whole days: as soon as ever he had
turned his back, the Babylonian princess declared her resolution to make
a trip to court.

She had a domestic chaplain who did not want sense, and Lord Muskerry,
for fear of accidents, had recommended her to the wholesome counsels and
good prayers of this prudent divine; but in vain were all his preachings
and exhortations to stay at home; in vain did he set before her eyes her
husband's commands, and the dangers to which she would expose herself in
her present condition; he likewise added that her pregnancy, being a
particular blessing from heaven, she ought therefore to be so much the
more careful for its preservation, since it cost her husband, perhaps,
more trouble than she was aware of, to obtain it. These remonstrances
were altogether ineffectual: Miss Hamilton and her cousin Wetenhall,
having the complaisance to confirm her in her resolution, they assisted
in dressing her the next morning, and set out along with her all their
skill and dexterity were requisite to reduce her shape into some kind of
symmetry; but, having at last pinned a small cushion under her petticoat
on the right side, to counteract the untoward appearance the little
infant occasioned by throwing itself on the left, they almost split their
sides with laughter, assuring her at the same time that she looked
perfectly charming.

As soon as she appeared, it was generally believed that she had dressed
herself in a farthingale, in order to make her court to the queen; but
every person was pleased at her arrival: those who were unacquainted with
the circumstances assured her in earnest that she was pregnant with
twins; and the queen, who envied her condition, notwithstanding the
ridiculous appearance she then made, being made acquainted with the
motive of her journey, was determined to gratify her inclinations.

As soon as the hour for country dances arrived, her cousin Hamilton was
appointed her partner: she made some faint excuses at first on account of
the inconvenient situation she was then in: but soon suffered them to be
overcome, in order, as she said, to show her duty to the queen; and never
did a woman in this world enjoy such complete satisfaction.

We have already observed, that the greatest prosperity is liable to the
greatest change: Lady Muskerry, trussed up as she was, seemed to feel no
manner of uneasiness from the motion in dancing; on the contrary, being
only apprehensive of the presence of her husband, which would have
destroyed all her happiness, she danced with uncommon briskness, lest her
ill stars should bring him back before she had fully satisfied herself
with it. In the midst, therefore, of her capering in this indiscreet
manner, her cushion came loose, without her perceiving it, and fell to
the ground in the very middle of the first round. The Duke of
Buckingham, who watched her, took it up instantly, wrapped it up in his
coat, and, mimicking the cries of a new-born infant, he went about
inquiring for a nurse for the young Muskerry among the maids of honour.

This buffoonery, joined to the strange figure of the poor lady, had
almost thrown Miss Stewart into hysterics; for the princess of Babylon,
after this accident, was quite flat on one side, and immoderately
protuberant on the other. All those who had before suppressed their
inclinations to laugh, now gave themselves free scope, when they saw that
Miss Stewart was ready to split her sides. The poor lady was greatly
disconcerted: every person was officious to console her; but the queen,
who inwardly laughed more heartily than any, pretended to disapprove of
their taking such liberties.

Whilst Miss Hamilton and Mrs. Wetenhall endeavoured to refit Lady
Muskerry in another room, the Duke of Buckingham told the king that,
if the physicians would permit a little exercise immediately after a
delivery, the best way to recover Lady Muskerry was to renew the dance
as soon as ever her infant was replaced; this advice was approved, and
accordingly put in execution. The queen proposed, as soon as she
appeared, a second round of country-dances; and Lady Muskerry accepting
the offer, the remedy had its desired effect, and entirely removed every
remembrance of her late mishap.

Whilst these things were passing at the king's court, that of the Duke of
York took a journey on the other side of London; the pretence of this
journey was to visit the county whose name he bore; but love was the real
motive. The duchess, since her elevation, had conducted herself with
such prudence and circumspection, as could not be sufficiently admired:
such were her manners, and such the general estimation in which she was
held, that she appeared to have found out the secret of pleasing every
one; a secret yet more rare than the grandeur to which she had been
raised: but, after having gained universal esteem, she was desirous of
being more particularly beloved; or, more properly speaking, malicious
Cupid assaulted her heart, in spite of the discretion, prudence, and
reason, with which she had fortified it.

In vain had she said to herself a hundred times, that if the duke had
been so kind as to do her justice by falling in love with her, he had
done her too much honour by making her his wife; that with respect to his
inconstant disposition, which estranged him from her, she ought to bear
it with patience, until it pleased heaven to produce a change in his
conduct; that the frailties on his part, which might to her appear
injurious, would never justify in her the least deviation from her duty;
and, as resentment was still less allowable, she ought to endeavour to
regain him by a conduct entirely opposite to his own. In vain was it, as
we have said before, that she had long resisted Love and his emissaries
by the help of these maxims: how solid soever reason, and however
obstinate wisdom and virtue may be, there are yet certain attacks which
tire by their length, and, in the end, subdue both reason and virtue
itself.

The Duchess of York was one of the highest feeders in England: as this
was an unforbidden pleasure she indulged herself in it, as an
indemnification for other self-denials. It was really an edifying sight
to see her at table. The duke, on the contrary, being incessantly in the
hurry of new fancies, exhausted himself by his inconstancy, and was
gradually wasting away; whilst the poor princess, gratifying her good
appetite, grew so fat and plump that it was a blessing to see her.
It is not easy to determine how long things would have continued in this
situation, if Love, who was resolved to have satisfaction for her late
conduct, so opposite to the former, had not employed artifice as well as
force, to disturb her repose.

He at first let loose upon her resentment and jealousy two mortal enemies
to all tranquillity and happiness. A tall creature, pale-faced, and
nothing but skin and bone, named Churchill, whom she had taken for a maid
of honour, became the object of her jealousy, because she was then the
object of the duke's affection. The court was not able to comprehend
how, after having been in love with Lady Chesterfield, Miss Hamilton, and
Miss Jennings, he could have any inclination for such a creature; but
they soon perceived that something more than unaccountable variety had a
great share in effecting this conquest.

   [Miss Arabella Churchill, daughter of Sir Winston Churchill of
   Wotton Basset, in the county of Wilts, and sister to the celebrated
   John, Duke of Marlborough. She was born 1648.]

The duchess beheld with indignation a choice which seemed to debase her
own merit in a much greater degree than any of the former; at the very
instant that indignation and jealousy began to provoke her spleen,
perfidious Cupid threw in the way of her passions and resentments the
amiable, handsome Sidney; and, whilst he kept her eyes fixed upon his
personal perfections, diverted her attention from perceiving the
deficiency of his mental accomplishments: she was wounded before she was
aware of her danger; but the good opinion Sidney had of his own merit did
not suffer him long to be ignorant of such a glorious conquest; and, in
order more effectually to secure it, his eyes rashly answered everything
which those of her royal highness had the kindness to tell him, whilst
his personal accomplishments were carefully heightened by all the
advantages of dress and show.

The duchess, foreseeing the consequences of such an engagement, strongly
combated the inclination that hurried her away; but Miss Hobart, siding
with that inclination, argued the matter with her scruples, and, in the
end, really vanquished them. This girl had insinuated herself into her
royal highness's confidence by a fund of news with which she was provided
the whole year round: the court and the city supplied her; nor was it
very material to her whether her stories were true or false, her chief
care being that they should prove agreeable to her mistress: she knew,
likewise, how to gratify her palate, and constantly provided a variety of
those dishes and liquors which she liked best. These qualifications had
rendered her necessary; but, desirous of being still more so, and having
perceived both the airs that Sidney gave himself, and what was passing in
the heart of her mistress, the cunning Hobart took the liberty of telling
her royal highness that this unfortunate youth was pining away solely on
her account; that it was a thousand pities a man of his figure should
lose the respect for her which was most certainly her due, merely because
she had reduced him to such a state that he could no longer preserve it;
that he was gradually dying away on her account, in the sight of the
whole court; that his situation would soon be generally remarked, except
she made use of the proper means to prevent it; that, in her opinion, her
royal highness ought to pity the miserable situation into which her
charms had reduced him, and to endeavour to alleviate his pain in some
way or other. The duchess asked her what she meant by "endeavouring to
alleviate his pain in some way or other." "I mean, madam," answered Miss
Hobart, "that, if either his person be disagreeable, or his passion
troublesome, you will give him his discharge; or, if you choose to retain
him in your service, as all the princesses in the world would do in your
place, you will permit me to give him directions from you for his future
conduct, mixed with a few grains of hope, to prevent his entirely losing
his senses, until you find a proper occasion yourself to acquaint him
with your wishes." "What!" said the duchess, "would you advise me,
Hobart--you, who really love me--to engage in an affair of this nature,
at the expense of my honour, and the hazard of a thousand inconveniences!
If such frailties are sometimes excusable, they certainly are not so in
the high station in which I am placed; and it would be an ill-requital on
my part for his goodness who raised me to the rank I now fill to----"
"All this is very fine," interrupted Miss Hobart: "but is it not very
well known that he only married you because he was importuned so to do?
Since that I refer to yourself whether he has ever restrained his
inclination a single moment, giving you the most convincing proofs of
the change that has taken place in his heart, by a thousand provoking
infidelities? Is it still your intention to persevere in a state of
indolence and humility, whilst the duke, after having received the
favours, or suffered the repulses, of all the coquettes in England, pays
his addresses to the maids of honour, one after the other, and at present
places his whole ambition and desires in the conquest of that ugly
skeleton, Churchill? What! Madam, must then your prime of life be spent
in a sort of widowhood in deploring your misfortunes, without ever being
permitted to make use of any remedy that may offer? A woman must be
endowed with insuperable patience, or with an inexhaustible degree of
resignation, to bear this. Can a husband, who disregards you both night
and day, really suppose, because his wife eats and drinks heartily, as,
God be thanked, your royal highness does, that she wants nothing else
than to sleep well too? Faith, such conduct is too bad: I therefore once
more repeat that there is not a princess in the universe who would refuse
the homage of a man like Sidney, when a husband pays his addresses
elsewhere."

These reasons were certainly not morally good; but had they been still
worse the duchess would have yielded to them, so much did her heart act
in concert with Miss Hobart, to overthrow her discretion and prudence.

This intrigue began at the very time that Miss Hobart advised Miss Temple
not to give any encouragement to the addresses of the handsome Sidney.
As for him, no sooner was he informed by the confidant Hobart that
the goddess accepted his adoration than he immediately began to be
particularly reserved and circumspect in his behaviour, in order to
divert the attention of the public; but the public is not so easily
deceived as some people imagine.

As there were too many spies, too many inquisitive people and critics, in
a numerous court, residing in the midst of a populous city, the duchess
to avoid exposing the inclinations of her heart to the scrutiny of so
many inquisitors, engaged the Duke of York to undertake the journey
before mentioned, whilst the queen and her court were at Tunbridge.

This conduct was prudent; and, if agreeable to her, was far from
displeasing to any of her court, except Miss Jennings: Jermyn was not of
the party; and, in her opinion, every party was insipid in which he was
not one of the company. He had engaged himself in an enterprise above
his strength, in laying a wager which the Chevalier de Grammont had laid
before, and lost. He betted five hundred guineas that he would ride
twenty miles in one hour upon the same horse, in the high road. The day
he had fixed upon for this race was the very same in which Miss Jennings
went to the fortune-teller's.

Jermyn was more fortunate than her in this undertaking he came off
victorious; but as his courage had far exceeded the strength of his
constitution in this exertion to win the wager, he got a violent fever
into the bargain, which brought him very low. Miss Jennings inquired
after his health; but that was all she dared to do. In modern romances,
a princess need only pay a visit to some hero, abandoned by his
physicians, a perfect cure would be wrought in three days; but since Miss
Jennings had not been the cause of Jermyn's fever, she was not certain of
relieving him from it, although she had been sure that a charitable visit
would not have been censured in a malicious court. Without therefore
paying any attention to the uneasiness she might feel upon the occasion,
the court set out without him: she had, however, the gratification to
testify her ill-humour throughout the whole journey, by appearing
displeased with everything which seemed to afford satisfaction to
all the rest of the company.

Talbot made one of the company; and flattering himself that the absence
of a dangerous rival might produce some change in his favour, he was
attentive to all the actions, motions, and even gestures, of his former
mistress. There was certainly enough fully to employ his attention: it
was contrary to her disposition to remain long in a serious humour. Her
natural vivacity hurried her away, from being seemingly lost in thought,
into sallies of wit, which afforded him hopes that she would soon forget
Jermyn, and remember that his own passion was the first she had
encouraged. However, he kept his distance, notwithstanding his love and
his hopes, being of opinion that it ill became an injured lover to betray
either the least weakness, or the smallest return of affection, for an
ungrateful mistress, who had deserted him.

Miss Jennings was so far from thinking of his resentments, that she
did not even recollect he had ever paid his addresses to her; and her
thoughts being wholly occupied upon the poor sick man, she conducted
herself towards Talbot as if they never had had anything to say to each
other. It was to him that she most usually gave her hand, either in
getting into or out of the coach; she conversed more readily with him
than any other person, and, without intending it, did everything to make
the court believe she was cured of her passion for Jermyn in favour of
her former lover.

Of this he seemed likewise convinced, as well as the rest; and thinking
it now proper to act another part, in order to let her know that his
sentiments with respect to her were still the same, he had resolved to
address her in the most tender and affectionate manner upon this subject.
Fortune seemed to have favoured him, and to have smoothed the way for
this intended harangue: he was alone with her in her chamber; and, what
was still better, she was rallying him concerning Miss Boynton; saying,
"that they were undoubtedly much obliged to him for attending them on
their journey, whilst poor Miss Boynton had fainting fits at Tunbridge,
at least twice every day, for love of him." Upon this discourse, Talbot
thought it right to begin the recital of his sufferings and fidelity,
when Miss Temple, with a paper in her hand, entered the room. This was a
letter in verse, which Lord Rochester had written some time before, upon
the intrigues of the two courts; wherein, upon the subject of Miss
Jennings, he said: "that Talbot had struck terror among the people of
God, by his gigantic stature; but that Jermyn, like a little David, had
vanquished the great Goliath." Jennings, delighted with this allusion,
read it over two or three times, thought it more entertaining than
Talbot's conversation, at first heartily laughed at it, but soon after,
with a tender air, "Poor little David!" said she, with a deep sigh, and
turning her head on one side during this short reverie, she shed a few
tears, which assuredly did not flow for the defeat of the giant. This
stung Talbot to the quick; and, seeing himself so ridiculously deceived
in his hopes, he went abruptly out of the room, vowing never to think any
more of a giddy girl, whose conduct was regulated neither by sense nor
reason; but he did not keep his resolution.

The other votaries of love, who were numerous in this court, were more
successful, the journey being undertaken solely on that account. There
were continual balls and entertainments upon the road; hunting, and all
other diversions, wherever the court halted in its progress. The tender
lovers flattered themselves with the thought of being able to crown their
happiness as they proceeded in their journey; and the beauties who
governed their destiny did not forbid them to hope. Sidney paid his
court with wonderful assiduity: the duchess made the duke take notice of
his late perfect devotion to his service: his royal highness observed it,
and agreed that he ought to be remembered upon the first opportunity,
which happened soon after.

Montagu, as before mentioned, was master of the horse to the duchess:
he was possessed of a great deal of wit, had much penetration, and loved
mischief. How could she bear such a man near her person, in the present
situation of her heart? This greatly embarrassed her; but Montagu's
elder brother having, very a-propos, got himself killed where he had no
business, the duke obtained for Montagu the post of master of the horse
to the queen, which the deceased enjoyed; and the handsome Sidney was
appointed to succeed him in the same employment to the duchess. All this
happened according to her wish; and the duke was highly pleased that he
had found means to promote these two gentlemen at once, without being at
the least expense.

Miss Hobart greatly applauded these promotions: she had frequent and long
conversations with Sidney, which, being remarked, some did her the honour
to believe it was upon her own account; and the compliments that were
made her upon the occasion she most willingly received. The duke, who
believed it at first, observed to the duchess the unaccountable taste of
certain persons, and how the handsomest young fellow in England was
infatuated with such a frightful creature.

The duchess confessed that taste was very arbitrary; the truth whereof he
himself seemed to be convinced of, since he had fixed upon the beauteous
Helen for his mistress. I know not whether this raillery caused him to
reflect for what reasons he had made his choice; but it is certain he
began to cool in his affections for Miss Churchill; and perhaps he would
entirely have abandoned this pursuit, had not an accident taken place,
which raised in him an entirely new inclination for her.

The court having halted for a few days in a fine open country, the
duchess was desirous of seeing a greyhound course. This diversion is
practised in England upon large downs, where the turf, eaten by the
sheep, is particularly green, and wonderfully even. She was in her
coach, and all the ladies on horseback, every one of them being attended
by her squire; it therefore was but reasonable that the mistress should
likewise have her squire. He accordingly was at the side of her coach,
and seemed to compensate for his deficiencies in conversation, by the
uncommon beauty of his mien and figure.

The duke attended Miss Churchill, not for the sake of besieging her with
soft flattering tales of love, but, on the contrary, to chide her for
sitting so ill on horseback: She was one of the most indolent creatures
in the world; and although the maids of honour are generally the worst
mounted of the whole court, yet, in order to distinguish her, on account
of the favour she enjoyed, they had given her a very pretty, though
rather a high-spirited horse; a distinction she would very willingly
have excused them.

The embarrassment and fear she was under had added to her natural
paleness. In this situation, her countenance had almost completed the
duke's disgust, when her horse, desirous of keeping pace with the others,
set off in a gallop, notwithstanding her greatest efforts to prevent it;
and her endeavours to hold him in, firing his mettle, he at length set
off at full speed, as if he was running a race against the duke's horse.

Miss Churchill lost her seat, screamed out, and fell from her horse.
A fall in so quick a pace must have been violent; and yet it proved
favourable to her in every respect; for, without receiving any hurt, she
gave the lie to all the unfavourable suppositions that had been formed of
her person, in judging from her face. The duke alighted, in order to
help her: she was so greatly stunned, that her thoughts were otherwise
employed than about decency on the present occasion; and those who first
crowded around her found her rather in a negligent posture: they could
hardly believe that limbs of such exquisite beauty could belong to Miss
Churchill's face. After this accident, it was remarked that the duke's
tenderness and affection for her increased every day; and, towards the
end of the winter, it appeared that she had not tyrannized over his
passion, nor made him languish with impatience.

The two courts returned to London much about the same time, equally
satisfied with their respective excursions; though the queen was
disappointed in the hopes she had entertained of the good effects
of the Tunbridge waters.

It was about this time that the Chevalier de Grammont received a letter
from the Marchioness de Saint-Chaumont, his sister, acquainting him, that
he might return when he thought proper, the king having given him leave.
He would have received this news with joy at any other time, whatever had
been the charms of the English court; but, in the present situation of
his heart, he could not resolve to quit it.

He had returned from Tunbridge a thousand times deeper in love than
ever; for, during this agreeable excursion, he had every day seen Miss
Hamilton, either in the marshes of melancholy Peckham, or in the
delicious walks of cheerful Summerhill, or in the daily diversions and
entertainments of the queen's court; and whether he saw her on horseback,
heard her conversation, or observed her in the dance, still he was
persuaded that Heaven had never formed an object in every respect more
worthy of the love, and more deserving of the affection, of a man of
sense and delicacy. How then was it possible for him to bear the
thoughts of leaving her? This appeared to him absolutely impracticable;
however, as he was desirous of making a merit with her, of the
determination he had made to neglect his fortune, rather than to be
separated from her charms, he showed her his sister's letter: but this
confidence had not the success he expected.

Miss Hamilton, in the first place, congratulated him upon his recall:
She returned him many thanks for the sacrifice he intended to make her;
but as this testimony of affection greatly exceeded the bounds of mere
gallantry, however sensibly she might feel this mark of his tenderness,
she was, however, determined not to abuse it. In vain did he protest
that he would rather meet death than part from her irresistible charms;
and her irresistible charms protested that he should never see them more,
unless he departed immediately. Thus was he forced to obey. However,
he was allowed to flatter himself, that these positive orders, how harsh
soever they might appear, did not flow from indifference; that she would
always be more pleased with his return than with his departure, for which
she was now so urgent; and having generously given him assurances that,
so far as depended upon herself, he would find, upon his return, no
variation in her sentiments during his absence, he took leave of his
friends, thinking of nothing but his return, at the very time he was
making preparations for his departure.




ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

All day poring over his books, and went to bed soon
Devote himself to his studies, than to the duties of matrimony
Embellish the truth, in order to enhance the wonder
Grew so fat and plump that it was a blessing to see her
Not disagreeable, but he had a serious contemplative air
Public is not so easily deceived as some people imagine