No one, it was generally allowed, had such a force of table-wit as Lord Chesterfield; but while the "Graces" were ever his theme, he indulged himself without distinction or consideration in numerous sallies. He was, therefore, at once sought and feared; liked but not loved; neither s.e.x nor relationship, nor rank, nor friendship, nor obligation, nor profession, could shield his victim from what Lord Hervey calls, "those pointed, glittering weapons, that seemed to shine only to a stander-by, but cut deep into those they touched."
He cherished "a voracious appet.i.te for abuse;" fell upon every one that came in his way, and thus treated each one of his companions at the expense of the other. To him Hervey, who had probably often smarted, applied the lines of Boileau--
"Mais c"est un pet.i.t fou qui se croit tout permis, Et qui pour un bon mot va perdre vingt amis."
Horace Walpole (a more lenient judge of Chesterfield"s merits) observes that "Chesterfield took no less pains to be the phoenix of fine gentlemen, than Tully did to qualify himself as an orator. Both succeeded: Tully immortalized his name; Chesterfield"s reign lasted a little longer than that of a fashionable beauty." It was, perhaps, because, as Dr. Johnson said, all Lord Chesterfield"s witty sayings were puns, that even his brilliant wit failed to please, although it amused, and surprised its hearers.
Notwithstanding the contemptuous description of Lord Chesterfield"s personal appearance by Lord Hervey, his portraits represent a handsome, though hard countenance, well-marked features, and his figure and air appear to have been elegant. With his commanding talents, his wonderful brilliancy and fluency of conversation, he would perhaps sometimes have been even tedious, had it not been for his invariable cheerfulness. He was always, as Lord Hervey says, "present" in his company. Amongst the few friends who really loved this thorough man of the world, was Lord Scarborough, yet no two characters were more opposite. Lord Scarborough had judgment, without wit: Chesterfield wit, and no judgment; Lord Scarborough had honesty and principle; Lord Chesterfield had neither.
Everybody liked the one, but did not care for his company. Everyone disliked the other, but wished for his company. The fact was, Scarborough was "splendid and absent." Chesterfield "cheerful and present:" wit, grace, attention to what is pa.s.sing, the surface, as it were, of a highly-cultured mind, produced a fascination with which all the honour and respectability in the Court of George II. could not compete.
In the earlier part of Chesterfield"s career, Pope, Bolingbroke, Hervey, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and, in fact, all that could add to the pleasures of the then early dinner-table, illumined Chesterfield House by their wit and gaiety. Yet in the midst of this exciting life, Lord Chesterfield found time to devote to the improvement of his natural son, Philip Stanhope, a great portion of his leisure. His celebrated Letters to that son did not, however, appear during the earl"s life; nor were they in any way the source of his popularity as a wit, which was due to his merits in that line alone.
The youth to whom these letters, so useful and yet so objectionable, were addressed, was intended for a diplomatist. He was the very reverse of his father: learned, sensible, and dry; but utterly wanting in the graces, and devoid of eloquence. As an orator, therefore, he failed; as a man of society, he must also have failed; and his death, in 1768, some years before that of his father, left that father desolate, and disappointed. Philip Stanhope had attained the rank of envoy to Dresden, where he expired.
During the five years in which Chesterfield dragged out a mournful life after this event, he made the painful discovery that his son had married without confiding that step to the father to whom he owed so much. This must have been almost as trying as the awkward, ungraceful deportment of him whom he mourned. The world now left Chesterfield ere he had left the world. He and his contemporary Lord Tyrawley were now old and infirm.
"The fact is," Chesterfield wittily said, "Tyrawley and I have been dead these two years, but we don"t choose to have it known."
"The Bath," he wrote to his friend Dayrolles, "did me more good than I thought anything could do me; but all that good does not amount to what builders call half-repairs, and only keeps up the shattered fabric a little longer than it would have stood without them; but take my word for it, it will stand but a very little while longer. I am now in my grand climacteric, and shall not complete it. Fontenelle"s last words at a hundred and three were, _Je souffre d"etre._ deaf and infirm as I am, I can with truth say the same thing at sixty-three. In my mind it is only the strength of our pa.s.sions, and the weakness of our reason, that makes us so fond of life; but when the former subside and give way to the latter, we grow weary of being, and willing to withdraw. I do not recommend this train of serious reflections to you, nor ought you to adopt them.... You have children to educate and provide for, you have all your senses, and can enjoy all the comforts both of domestic and social life. I am in every sense _isole_, and have wound up all my bottoms; I may now walk off quietly, without missing nor being missed."
The kindness of his nature, corrupted as it was by a life wholly worldly, and but little illumined in its course by religion, shone now in his care of his two grandsons, the offspring of his lost son, and of their mother, Eugenia Stanhope. To her he thus wrote:--
"The last time I had the pleasure of seeing you, I was so taken up in playing with the boys, that I forgot their more important affairs. How soon would you have them placed at school? When I know your pleasure as to that, I will send to Monsieur Perny, to prepare everything for their reception. In the mean time, I beg that you will equip them thoroughly with clothes, linen, &c., all good, but plain; and give me the amount, which I will pay; for I do not intend, from this time forwards, the two boys should cost you one shilling."
He lived, latterly, much at Blackheath, in the house which, being built on Crown land, has finally become the Ranger"s lodge; but which still sometimes goes by the name of Chesterfield House. Here he spent large sums, especially on pictures, and cultivated Cantelupe melons; and here, as he grew older, and became permanently afflicted with deafness, his chief companion was a useful friend, Solomon Dayrolles--one of those indebted hangers-on whom it was an almost invariable custom to find, at that period, in great houses--and perhaps too frequently in our own day.
Dayrolles, who was employed in the emba.s.sy under Lord Sandwich at the Hague, had always, to borrow Horace Walpole"s ill-natured expression, "been a led-captain to the Dukes of Richmond and Grafton, used to be sent to auctions for them, and to walk in the parks with their daughters, and once went dry-nurse in Holland with them. He has belonged, too, a good deal to my Lord Chesterfield, to whom I believe he owes this new honour, "that of being minister at the Hague," as he had before made him black-rod in Ireland, and gave the ingenious reason that he had a black face." But the great "dictator" in the empire of politeness was now in a slow but sure decline. Not long before his death he was visited by Monsieur Suard, a French gentleman, who was anxious to see "_l"homme le plus aimable, le plus poli et le plus spirituel des trois royaumes_," but who found him fearfully altered; morose from his deafness, yet still anxious to please. "It is very sad,"
he said, with his usual politeness, "to be deaf, when one would so much enjoy listening. I am not," he added, "so philosophic as my friend the President de Montesquieu, who says, "I know how to be blind, but I do not yet know how to be deaf."" "We shortened our visit," says M. Suard, "lest we should fatigue the earl." "I do not detain you," said Chesterfield, "for I must go and rehea.r.s.e my funeral." It was thus that he styled his daily drive through the streets of London.
Lord Chesterfield"s wonderful memory continued till his latest hour. As he lay, gasping in the last agonies of extreme debility, his friend, Mr.
Dayrolles, called in to see him half an hour before he expired. The politeness which had become part of his very nature did not desert the dying earl. He managed to say, in a low voice, to his valet, "Give Dayrolles a chair." This little trait greatly struck the famous Dr.
Warren, who was at the bedside of this brilliant and wonderful man. He died on the 24th of March, 1773, in the 79th year of his age.
The preamble to a codicil (Feb. 11, 1773) contains the following striking sentences, written when the intellect was impressed with the solemnity of that solemn change which comes alike to the unreflecting and to the heart stricken, holy believer:--
"I most humbly recommend my soul to the extensive mercy of that Eternal, Supreme, Intelligent Being who gave it me; most earnestly at the same time deprecating his justice. Satiated with the pompous follies of this life, of which I have had an uncommon share, I would have no posthumous ones displayed at my funeral, and therefore desire to be buried in the next burying-place to the place where I shall die, and limit the whole expense of my funeral to 100."
His body was interred, according to his wish, in the vault of the chapel in South Audley Street, but it was afterwards removed to the family burial-place in Shelford Church, Nottinghamshire.
In his will he left legacies to his servants.[26] "I consider them," he said, "as unfortunate friends; my equals by nature, and my inferiors only in the difference of our fortunes." There was something lofty in the mind that prompted that sentence.
His estates reverted to a distant kinsman, descended from a younger son of the first earl; and it is remarkable, on looking through the Peerage of Great Britain, to perceive how often this has been the case in a race remarkable for the absence of virtue. Interested marriages, vicious habits, perhaps account for the fact; but retributive justice, though it be presumptuous to trace its course, is everywhere.
He had so great a horror in his last days of gambling, that in bequeathing his possessions to his heir, as he expected, and G.o.dson, Philip Stanhope, he inserts this clause:--
"In case my said G.o.dson, Philip Stanhope, shall at any time hereinafter keep, or be concerned in keeping of, any race-horses, or pack of hounds, or reside one night at Newmarket, that infamous seminary of iniquity and ill-manners, during the course of the races there; or shall resort to the said races; or shall lose, in any one day, at any game or bet whatsoever, the sum of 500, then, in any the cases aforesaid, it is my express will that he, my said G.o.dson, shall forfeit and pay, out of my estate, the sum of 5,000 to and for the use of the Dean and Chapter of Westminster."
When we say that Lord Chesterfield was a man who had _no friend_, we sum up his character in those few words. Just after his death a small but distinguished party of men dined together at Topham Beauclerk"s. There was Sir Joshua Reynolds; Sir William Jones, the orientalist; Bennet Langton; Steevens; Boswell; Johnson. The conversation turned on Garrick, who, Johnson said, had friends, but no friend. Then Boswell asked, "what is a friend?" "One who comforts and supports you, while others do not."
"Friendship, you know, sir, is the cordial drop to make the nauseous draught of life go down." Then one of the company mentioned Lord Chesterfield as one who had no friend; and Boswell said: "Garrick was pure gold, but beat out to thin leaf, Lord Chesterfield was tinsel."
And, for once, Johnson did not contradict him. But not so do we judge Lord Chesterfield. He was a man who acted on false principles through life; and those principles gradually undermined everything that was n.o.ble and generous in character; just as those deep under-ground currents, noiseless in their course, work through fine-grained rock, and produce a chasm. Everything with Chesterfield was self: for self, and self alone, were agreeable qualities to be a.s.sumed; for self, was the country to be served, because that country protects and serves us: for self, were friends to be sought and cherished, as useful auxiliaries, or pleasant accessories: in the very core of the cankered heart, that advocated this corrupting doctrine of expediency, lay unbelief; that worm which never died in the hearts of so many ill.u.s.trious men of that period--the refrigerator of the feelings.
One only gentle and genuine sentiment possessed Lord Chesterfield, and that was his love for his son. Yet in this affection the worldly man might be seen in mournful colours. He did not seek to render his son good; his sole desire was to see him successful: every lesson that he taught him, in those matchless Letters which have carried down Chesterfield"s fame to us when his other productions have virtually expired, exposes a code of dissimulation which Philip Stanhope, in his marriage, turned upon the father to whom he owed so much care and advancement. These Letters are, in fact, a complete exposition of Lord Chesterfield"s character and views of life. No other man could have written them; no other man have conceived the notion of existence being one great effort to deceive, as well as to excel, and of society forming one gigantic lie. It is true they were addressed to one who was to enter the maze of a diplomatic career, and must be taken, on that account, with some reservation.
They have justly been condemned on the score of immorality; but we must remember that the age in which they were written was one of lax notions, especially among men of rank, who regarded all women accessible, either from indiscretion or inferiority of rank, as fair game, and acted accordingly. But whilst we agree with one of Johnson"s bitterest sentences as to the immorality of Chesterfield"s letters, we disagree with his styling his code of manners the manners of a dancing-master.
Chesterfield was in himself a perfect instance of what he calls _les manieres n.o.bles_; and this even Johnson allowed.
"Talking of Chesterfield," Johnson said, "his manner was exquisitely elegant, and he had more knowledge than I expected." Boswell: "Did you find, sir, his conversation to be of a superior sort?"--Johnson: "Sir, in the conversation which I had with him, I had the best right to superiority, for it was upon philology and literature."
It was well remarked how extraordinary a thing it was that a man who loved his son so entirely should do all he could to make him a rascal.
And Foote even contemplated bringing on the stage a father who had thus tutored his son; and intended to show the son an honest man in everything else, but practising his father"s maxims upon him, and cheating him.
"It should be so contrived," Johnson remarked, referring to Foote"s plan, "that the father should be the _only_ sufferer by the son"s villany, and thus there would be poetical justice." "Take out the immorality," he added, on another occasion, "and the book (Chesterfield"s Letters to his Son) should be put into the hands of every young gentleman."
We are inclined to differ, and to confess to a moral taint throughout the whole of the Letters; and even had the immorality been expunged, the false motives, the deep, invariable advocacy of principles of expediency, would have poisoned what otherwise might be of effectual benefit to the minor virtues of polite society.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 23: The Countess of Chesterfield here alluded to was the second wife of Philip, second Earl of Chesterfield. Philip Dormer, fourth Earl, was grandson of the second Earl by his third wife.]
[Footnote 24: In the "Annual Register," for 1774, p. 20, it is stated that as George I. had left Lady Walsingham a legacy which his successor did not think proper to deliver, the Earl of Chesterfield was determined to recover it by a suit in Chancery, had not his Majesty, on questioning the Lord Chancellor on the subject, and being answered that he could give no opinion extrajudicially, thought proper to fulfil the bequest.]
[Footnote 25: Lord Mahon, now Earl of Stanhope, if not the most eloquent, one of the most honest historians of our time.]
[Footnote 26: Two years" wages were left to the servants.]
THE ABBe SCARRON.
An Eastern Allegory.--Who comes Here?--A Mad Freak and its Consequences.--Making an Abbe of him.--The May-Fair of Paris.--Scarron"s Lament to Pellisson.--The Office of the Queen"s Patient.--"Give me a Simple Benefice."--Scarron"s Description of Himself.--Improvidence and Servility.--The Society at Scarron"s.--The Witty Conversation.--Francoise D"Aubigne"s Debut.--The Sad Story of La Belle Indienne.--Matrimonial Considerations.--"Scarron"s Wife will live for ever."--Pet.i.ts Soupers.--Scarron"s last Moments.--A Lesson for Gay and Grave.
There is an Indian or Chinese legend, I forget which, from which Mrs.
Sh.e.l.ley may have taken her hideous idea of Frankenstein. We are told in this allegory that, after fashioning some thousands of men after the most approved model, endowing them with all that is n.o.ble, generous, admirable, and loveable in man or woman, the eastern Prometheus grew weary in his work, stretched his hand for the beer-can, and draining it too deeply, lapsed presently into a state of what Germans call "other-man-ness."--There is a simpler Anglo-Saxon term for this condition, but I spare you. The eastern Prometheus went on seriously with his work, and still produced the same perfect models, faultless alike in brain and leg. But when it came to the delicate finish, when the last touches were to be made, his hand shook a little, and the more delicate members went awry. It was thus that instead of the power of seeing every colour properly, one man came out with a pair of optics which turned everything to green, and this verdancy probably transmitted itself to the intelligence. Another, to continue the allegory, whose tympanum had slipped a little under the unsteady fingers of the man-maker, heard everything in a wrong sense, and his life was miserable, because, if you sang his praises, he believed you were ridiculing him, and if you heaped abuse upon him, he thought you were telling lies of him.
But as Prometheus Orientalis grew more jovial, it seems to have come into his head to make mistakes on purpose. "I"ll have a friend to laugh with," quoth he; and when warned by an attendant Yaksha, or demon, that men who laughed one hour often wept the next, he swore a l.u.s.ty oath, struck his thumb heavily on a certain b.u.mp in the skull he was completing, and holding up his little doll, cried, "Here is one who will laugh at everything!"
I must now add what the legend neglects to tell. The model laugher succeeded well enough in his own reign, but he could not beget a large family. The laughers who never weep, the real clowns of life, who do not, when the curtain drops, retire, after an infinitesimal allowance of "cordial," to a half-starved, complaining family, with brats that cling round his parti-coloured stockings, and cry to him--not for jokes--but for bread, these laughers, I say, are few and far between. You should, therefore, be doubly grateful to me for introducing to you now one of the most famous of them; one who with all right and t.i.tle to be lugubrious, was the merriest man of his age.
On Shrove Tuesday, in the year 1638, the good city of Mans was in a state of great excitement: the carnival was at its height, and everybody had gone mad for one day before turning pious for the long, dull forty days of Lent. The market-place was filled with maskers in quaint costumes, each wilder and more extravagant than the last. Here were magicians with high peaked hats covered with cabalistic signs, here Eastern sultans of the medieval model, with very fierce looks and very large scimitars: here Amadis de Gaul with a wagging plume a yard high, here Pantagruel, here harlequins, here Huguenots ten times more lugubrious than the despised sectaries they mocked, here Caesar and Pompey in trunk hose and Roman helmets, and a ma.s.s of other notabilities who were great favourites in that day, appeared.
But who comes here? What is the meaning of these roars of laughter that greet the last mask who runs into the market-place? Why do all the women and children hurry together, calling up one another, and shouting with delight? What is this thing? Is it some new species of bird, thus covered with feathers and down? In a few minutes the little figure is surrounded by a crowd of boys and women, who begin to pluck him of his borrowed plumes, while he chatters to them like a magpie, whistles like a song-bird, croaks like a raven, or in his natural character showers a ma.s.s of funny nonsense on them, till their laughter makes their sides ache. The little wretch is literally covered with small feathers from head to foot, and even his face is not to be recognized. The women pluck him behind and before; he dances round and tries to evade their fingers.
This is impossible; he breaks away, runs down the market pursued by a shouting crowd, is again surrounded, and again subjected to a plucking process. The bird must be stripped; he must be discovered. Little by little his back is bared, and little by little is seen a black jerkin, black stockings, and, wonder upon wonder! the bands of a canon. Now they have cleared his face of its plumage, and a cry of disgust and shame hails the disclosure. Yes, this curious masker is no other than a reverend abbe, a young canon of the cathedral of Mans! "This is too much--it is scandalous--it is disgraceful. The church must be respected, the sacred order must not descend to such frivolities." The people, lately laughing, are now furious at the shameless abbe and not his liveliest wit can save him; they threaten and cry shame on him, and in terror of his life, he beats his way through the crowd, and takes to his heels. The mob follows, hooting and savage. The little man is nimble; those well-shaped legs--_qui ont si bien danse_--stand him in good stead. Down the streets, and out of the town go hare and hounds. The pursuers gain on him--a bridge, a stream filled with tall reeds, and delightfully miry, are all the hope of refuge he sees before him. He leaps gallantly from the bridge in among the oziers, and has the joy of listening to the disappointed curses of the mob, when reaching the stream, their quarry is nowhere to be seen. The reeds conceal him, and there he lingers till nightfall, when he can issue from his lurking-place, and escape from the town.
Such was the mad freak which deprived the Abbe Scarron of the use of his limbs for life. His health was already ruined when he indulged this caprice; the damp of the river brought on a violent attack, which closed with palsy, and the gay young abbe had to pay dearly for the pleasure of astonishing the citizens of Mans. The disguise was easily accounted for--he had smeared himself with honey, ripped open a feather-bed, and rolled himself in it.
This little incident gives a good idea of what Scarron was in his younger days--ready at any time for any wild caprice.