Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

by Mary Robinson

  Happily we have now no adequate notion of the terrors of such an election; it was a scene of fun and malice, spirit and baseness, alternately. Englishmen seemed hardly men; whilst they one hour blustered, the next they took the bribe, and were civil. Fox went down to Westminster in a carriage with Colonel North, Lord North’s son, behind as a footman, and the well-known Colonel Hanger — one of the reprobate associates of George IV. (when prince regent), and long remembered on a white horse in the park, after being deserted by the prince and out of vogue — driving in the coat, hat, and wig of a coachman. When Queen Charlotte heard of this exploit of Colonel North’s she dismissed him from his office of comptroller of her household, saying she did not covet another man’s servant.

  As the month drew to a close, every hour became precious, and Fox gained at this critical juncture two new and potent allies. Dressed in garter-blue and buff, in compliment to Fox and his principles, forth came the young Duchess of Devonshire and her sister, now Lady Duncannon, and solicited votes for their candidate. The mob were gratified by the aspect of so much rank, so great beauty, cringing for their support. Never, it was said, had two “such lovely portraits appeared before on a canvas.”

  It required, indeed, no ordinary courage to undertake collecting votes, for a strong disposition to rioting now manifested itself. Nevertheless, being provided with lists of the outlying voters, these two young women drove to their dwellings. In their enterprise they had to face butchers, tailors, every craft, low or high, and to pass through the lowest, the dirtiest, and the most degraded parts of London. But Fox was a hundred votes below Wray, and his fair friends were indefatigable; they forgot their dignity, their womanhood, and “party” was their watchword. They were opposed by the Marchioness of Salisbury, whom the Tories brought forward. She was beautiful, but haughty; and her age, for she was thirty-four, whereas the Duchess of Devonshire was only twenty-six, deteriorated from the effect of her appearance.

  Forgetting her rank, which Lady Salisbury always remembered, and throwing all her powers of fascination into the scale, the young duchess alighted during one of her canvassing days at a butcher’s shop. The owner, in his apron and sleeves, stoutly refused his vote, except on one condition,— “Would her Grace give him a kiss?” The request was granted. This was one of the votes which swelled the number of two hundred and thirty-five above Sir Cecil Wray, and Fox stood second on the poll. Of course much stupid poetry was written on the occasion.

  “Condemn not, prudes, fair Devon’s plan,

  In giving Steel a kiss

  In such a cause, for such a man,

  She could not do amiss.”

  Even the Prince of Wales took an active interest in this memorable election; and George III. is said to have also interfered. Never was political rancour so high, nor conscience so low, as at that period. The hustings resembled the stand at Newmarket. “An even bet that he comes in second,” cried one; “five to four on this day’s poll,” screamed another. Amid all these shouts, gazed at by the lowest of all human beings, the low not only in rank but in feeling, the drunken, paid-for voters, stood the duchess and a band of fair titled friends supporting Fox, who was called the “Man of the People.”

  It was the 17th of May when Fox, over whose head a scrutiny hung on the part of Sir Cecil Wray, and who was not thought even then returned as member, was chaired. This procession took place as the poll closed. Fox was carried through the streets on a chair decorated with laurel, the ladies in blue and buff forming part of the cortege. Before him was displayed the prince’s plume: those three ostrich feathers, the sight of which might bring back to our minds the field of Cressy, where they were won, and henceforth worn for four successive centuries. A flag, on which was inscribed, “Sacred to Female Patriotism,” was waved by a horseman in the triumphant cavalcade. The carriages of the Duke of Devonshire and the Duke of Portland attracted even less attention than that of Fox, on the box of which were Colonel North and other friends, partisans of Lord North’s, who now mingled with their former opponents. As the procession turned into Pall Mall, it was observed that the gates of Carlton House were open; it passed in, therefore, and saluted, in veering round, the Prince of Wales, who, with a number of ladies and gentlemen, stood in the balustrade in front. Fox then addressed the crowd, and attempted to disperse them; but at night the mob broke out into acts of fury, illuminated and attacked those houses which were in sullen darkness.

  The next day the prince invited all the rank, beauty, and fashion of the coalition party to a fête on his lawn. It wad a bright day that 18th of May; and under the delicious shade of the trees the young and gay forgot, perhaps, in the enchantments of the scene, politics and elections. Lord North, dressed in blue and buff, — his new livery, — strutted about amid those who only fifteen months before had execrated and denounced him, until, by the coalition with Fox, he had made himself their idol. Every one, on this occasion, crowded around the minister, whose wit was as inexhaustible as his sang-froid, and whose conversation in its playfulness resembled that of our great premier of 1859. Blue and buff pervaded the garden. Colonel North (afterward Lord Guildford) and George Byng, hitherto bitter enemies, were seen, dressed alike, walking together familiarly. The prince was irresistibly fascinating, and nothing could be more splendid than the fête given by royalty overwhelmed by debt.

  As the party were thus enjoying themselves, by a strange coincidence, the famous cream-coloured horses of George III. were beheld proceeding in solemn state down St. James’s Park. His Majesty was going to Westminster to open Parliament. Nothing but a low wall separated Canton Gardens from the park, so that the king could not forbear seeing his former minister, his son, and the successful candidate disporting themselves in all the elation of success.

  In the evening Lower Grosvenor Street was blocked up with carriages, out of which gentlemen and ladies, all in blue and buff, descended to visit the famous Mrs. Crewe, whose husband, then member for Chester, was created, in 1806, Lord Crewe. This lady was as remarkable for her accomplishments and her worth as for her beauty; nevertheless, she permitted the admiration of Fox, who was in the rank of her admirers. The lines he wrote on her were not exaggerated. They began thus:

  “Where the loveliest expression to features is joined,

  By Nature’s most delicate pencil design’d;

  Where blushes unbidden, and smiles without art,

  Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the heart;

  Where in manners enchanting, no blemish we trace,

  But the soul keeps the promise we had from the face;

  Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove

  Defences unequal to shield us from love.”

  Nearly eight years after the famous election at Westminster, Mrs. Crewe was still in perfection, with a son of one and twenty, who looked like her brother. The form of her face was exquisitely lovely, her complexion radiant. “I know not,” Miss Burney writes, “any female in her first youth who could bear the comparison. She uglifies every one near her.”

  This charming partisan of Fox had been active in his cause; and her originality of character, her good humour, her recklessness of consequences, made her a capital canvasser.

  The same company that had assembled in the morning at Carlton House now crowded into Grosvenor Street. Blue and buff were the order of the evening, the Prince of Wales wearing those colours. After supper he gave a toast,— “True blue and Mrs. Crewe.” The room rang with applause. The hostess rose to return thanks. “True blue, and all of you,” was her toast. Nor did the festivities end here. Canton House some days afterward received all the great world, the “true blues” of London. The fête, which was of the most varied kind, and of the most magnificent description, began at noon, went on all night, and was not ended till the next day. Nothing could exceed its splendour. A costly banquet was prepared for the ladies, on whom his Royal Highness and the gentlemen waited whilst they were seated at table. Nothing could exceed the grace, the courtesy, the tact
of the prince on these occasions, when he forgot his two hundred thousand pounds of debt, and added to them. Louis XIV., said an eye-witness, could not have eclipsed him. This was probably the brightest era in the life of the Duchess of Devonshire. She was the lady paramount of the aristocratic Whig circles, in which rank and literature were blended with political characters. Slander soon coupled her name with that of Fox; and that name, though never wholly blighted, was sullied. Miss Burney, meeting her at Bath, some years afterward, describes her as no longer beautiful, but with manners exquisitely polite, and “with a gentle quiet” of demeanour. Yet there was an expression of melancholy. “I thought she looked oppressed within,” was Miss Burney’s remark. On another occasion she found her more lively, and consequently more lovely, vivacity being so much her characteristic that her style of beauty required it. “She was quite gay, easy, and charming; indeed, that last word might have been coined for her;” and Miss Burney soon perceived that it was the sweetness of her smile, her open, ingenuous countenance, that had won her the celebrity which had attended her career of fashion.

  But even then there was a canker in the duchess’s felicity. Lady Elizabeth Foster, the daughter of the Earl of Bristol, and a contrast to her in person, — large, dark, and handsome, — had attracted the duke, her husband, and the coldest of men had become, deeply enamoured of this woman, whom he eventually married. Gibbon said of Lady Elizabeth that she was the most alluring of women. Strange to say, a sort of friendship existed between the duchess and Lady Elizabeth, who was with her at Bath, when Miss Burney saw them together. Even then a cloud hung over — these two ladies of rank; and Mrs. Ord, Miss Gurney’s cautious friend, reproved her for making their acquaintance.

  Three children of rare promise were given to occupy the affections which were so little reciprocated by the duke. The elder of the three, Georgiana Dorothy, afterward married to the Earl of Carlisle, and the mother of the present Duchess of Sutherland, is described by Miss Gurney, at eight years of age, as having a fine, sweet, and handsome countenance, and with the form and figure of a girl of twelve. She, as well as her sister, was at that time under the care of Miss Trimmer, the daughter of Mrs. Trimmer, one of the most admirable writers for children that has ever delighted our infancy. Miss Trimmer is described as a “pleasing, not pretty” young lady, with great serenity of manner.

  Lady Henrietta Elizabeth, married to the Earl of Granville, so long ambassador at Paris, was, at six years of age, by “no means handsome, but had an open and pleasing countenance, and a Look of the most happy disposition;” a tribute borne out by the many virtues of that admirable lady in after life. The Marquis of Hartington, afterward Duke of Devonshire, then only fourteen months old (this was in 1791), had already a house, and a carriage to himself, almost in the style of royalty. He lived near his father, whilst the duchess was staying with her mother, Lady Spencer. To persons of domestic notions this seems a singular arrangement.

  This apparently happy family party had, however, some trials to obscure their supposed felicity. Scandal not only pointed at Lady Elizabeth Foster as possessing an undue influence over the duke, but attacked the duchess in the most sacred relations of her life. The little marquis was reputed to be illegitimate; the report assumed several shapes; of course rancorous political partisans pointed to the intimacy with Fox; others to the intimacy at Carlton House. Another story also obtained credit, and never died away. This was that at the time when the duchess was confined, Lady Elizabeth gave birth to a son, the duchess to a daughter, and that the children were changed; that the late duke entered into a contract with his uncle, the late Lord George Cavendish, never to marry, in order that his lordship’s children might have an undisputed succession at his Grace’s death.

  There was another source of disquiet to Lady Spencer and the duchess at this time, in the deep depression of Lady Duncannon. This lady, the mother of Lady Caroline Lamb, so conspicuous for her eccentricity in our own time, seems to have been affectionately beloved by her brother, the Lord Spencer, the grandfather of the present earl. “He made up to her,” says Miss Burney, “with every mark of pitying affection, she receiving him with the most expressive pleasure, though nearly silent.” This afflicted woman lived, nevertheless, to a great age, and survived her gay, spirited sister, the Duchess of Devonshire.

  Lady Spencer belonged to that class whom we now call evangelical; a class earnest in feeling, originating in a sincere desire to renovate the almost dead faith of the period; to set an example of piety and decorum; and also “to let their light shine before men.” Miss Burney describes her as too desirous of a reputation for charity and devotion. Nevertheless, Lady Spencer could not detach her daughter from the gay world.

  The duchess continued to take an active part in politics, and to mingle with the tumult of elections, faro, and party triumphs, Love, poetry, end the fine arts. Her son was born in the dawn of that Revolution in France which shook the foundations of all social life. At this very period a serious calamity befell their country in the first fit of insanity that attacked George III. Up to the very time when France was plunged into commotion, his Majesty, apparently in perfect health, had held his weekly levees at St. James’s until the last week of October, 1788. Early in November the first paroxysms of his disordered intellect occurred at the Queen’s Lodge, after dinner, her Majesty and the princesses being present. The gates of the Lodge were closed that night; no answers were given to persons making inquiries; and it was rumoured that his Majesty was dead.

  The state of the public mind may readily be conceived. The capital exhibited a scene of confusion and excitement only exceeded by that displayed four years afterward, when the decapitation of Louis XVI. was announced in London.

  A regency was proposed; and six physicians were called in to act in consultation. Doctor Warren was considered to hold the first place in this learned junto. Doctor Addington, the father of the late Lord Sidmouth, Sir Lucas Pepys, and Doctor Willis were amongst the rest. Warren was disposed to Whiggism, and thought the king’s recovery doubtful. Willis was a Tory, and pronounced it possible, and indeed probable. His dictum was believed at St. James’s and at Kew Palace; Warren was credited at Carlton House and Devonshire House. If the first was the oracle of White’s, the second was trusted at Brookes’s. The famous Duchess of Gordon, the partisan of Pitt and Dundas, supported Willis and his views, and was the whipper-in of the Tory party. The Duchess of Devonshire was the firm and powerful supporter of the prince, in his claims to the regency. The Tories were for the power not only over the royal household, but over the council, being vested in Queen Charlotte. A caricature was circulated representing the Lord Chancellor, Pitt, and Dundas, as the three “weird sisters” gazing at the full moon. Her orb was half enlightened, half eclipsed. The part in darkness contained the king’s profile; on the other side was a head, resplendent in light, graciously gazing at the weird sisters; that was the queen. In the February of the ensuing year, nevertheless, to the great joy of the nation, the king showed signs of amendment. One day, Mr. Greville, brother to the Earl of Warwick, was standing near the king’s bed, and relating to Doctor Willis that Lord North had made inquiries after the king’s health. “Has he?” said the king. “Where did he make them, at St. James’s, or here?” An answer being given, “Lord North,” said his Majesty, “is a good man, unlike the others. He is a good man.” The party at Carlton House, amongst whom the Duchess of Devonshire must ever be ranked, were disappointed at this timely recovery, whilst the honest-hearted middle and lower classes of England were unfeignedly rejoiced; but there was too much party rancour existing for any better spirit to arise and show itself. Even in society, the venom of party was suffered to intrude. Lord Mountnorris, being one evening at a ball given by the French ambassador, canvassed the whole room for a partner, but in vain. He begged Miss Vernon to interfere, and to procure him a partner for a country dance. She complied, and presented him to a very elegant young lady, with whom his lordship danced, and conversed some time. Soon after
ward a gentleman said to him, “Pray, my lord, do you know with whom you have been dancing?” “No,” he replied; “pray who is she?” “Coalitions,” said the gentleman, “will never end; why, it is Miss Fox, the niece of Charles, and sister of Lord Holland.” The noble lord was thunderstruck. Had Pitt seen him? If so, he was undone. He ran up to reproach Miss Vernon. “True,” was the reply; “she is the niece of Fox, but since she has twenty thousand pounds to her fortune, I thought I had not acted improperly in introducing you.”

  In the famous quarrel between Burke and Fox, the Duchess of Devonshire took the office of mediator. Burke thus attacked Fox in the House of Commons.

  “Mr. Fox,” he said, “has treated me with harshness and malignity. After harassing with his light troops in the skirmishes of ‘order,’ he has brought the heavy artillery of his own great abilities to bear on me. There have,” he added, “been many differences between Mr. Fox and myself, but there has been no loss of friendship between us. There is something in this cursed French constitution which envenoms everything.”