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 1IBRARY 
 
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 MR. F. TROLLOPE'S NEW NOVEL. 
 
 (Second Edition.) 
 In 2 Vols. 
 
 A WOMAN'S E B K R , 
 
 1 e Few writers of fiction have made such steady progress in their 
 vocation as Mr. Trollope, and this, his latest novel will largely in- 
 crease his reputation, and help to place his name in the highest rank 
 among the best of our modern novel writers." — Brighton Examiner. 
 
 " One of the very best novels of the day."— Daily Post. 
 
 "This novel will be considered a decided success." — Observer. 
 
 " Smoothly written, and is easy and agreeable reading."— Morn- 
 ing Advertiser. 
 
 "In a 'Woman's Error' there is much thoughtful writing, and 
 though not as exciting a novel as Mr. Trollope's ' Broken Fetters,' 
 it displays more real genius. It will be read with pleasure, and place 
 Mr. F. Trollope's name amongst the very best of modern novelists." — 
 Messenger. 
 
 ' • Ladies will read this book, and nine-tenths of them at least will 
 like it."— Manchester Guardian. 
 
 '* This novel has reached a second edition, and we can fully indorse 
 the high praise given Mr, Trollope in the principal London papers. 
 It is a pure moral novel, and the story, which is extremely interest- 
 ing, is well told, and we defy the most ardent novel reader to discover 
 the mystery of the tale, so well is the secret kept, until he or she 
 reaches the final chapter. The descriptions of the scenery are as 
 graphic and picturesque as those of Sir Walter Scott." — Scar- 
 borough Mercury.
 
 — Railways, postages— in a word, all the numerous facilities of the 
 age— have almost * annihilated distance, and, as a natural result, 
 caused an individual trade between country customers and London 
 establishments. Those who do not visit town, so as to select and 
 purchase directly, send for patterns from which they can give their 
 orders. But as all apparent advantages on the one hand have more 
 or less their corresponding drawbacks, so this system is not without 
 its bane. Pushing tradesmen make a market by offering goods at 
 lower rates than they can possibly be sold at to realise a fair profit. 
 The bait traps the unreflective, and the result is that the receipts en 
 masse are not equal to the tempting samples. There is no new inven- 
 tion in this ; it has been practised in wholesale merchandise and by 
 candidates for contracts, as the proverb hath it, since there were hills 
 and valleys. But we grieve to add it is sometimes resorted to by 
 those whom one would credit for more integrity. Ladies, therefore, 
 need exercise caution, and place confidence only in houses of old- 
 established fame, for rapidly-made businesses are not generally reli- 
 able. And to what does this assertion amount more than to the fact 
 that nothing great can be effected not only without labour but with- 
 out time, and that Rome was not built, as the old saying s.iys, in a 
 day? Messrs. Jay, of Regent-street, whose name is well known 
 amongst the few on the list of bond fide establishments in the metro- 
 polis, are about to ado[:t a plan (which will be registered) for assist- 
 ing country ladies in choosing for themselves London fashions B 
 fabrics. And their customers may rest assured that they will tl us be 
 enabled to obtain goods of every quality, both low ami high prioed, 
 at the most reasonable terms- that is, the terms of small profits for 
 quick returns — :md that they may firmly rely upon the thoroughly 
 corresponding character of samples and supplies.— From the Court 
 Journal, April 27, 18G7.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 D "6ltf DV 13W 
 
 Let the day perish in which I was born." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 ^Tonboit: 
 T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 
 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUABE. 
 
 1869. 
 
 [all eights resebved.]
 
 
 8£3 
 V.I 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 A gentleman to whom the manuscript of the 
 following work was shown, said, u The writer of 
 it methinks must have felt as if he were God at 
 the Day of Judgment, summoning before him 
 the great ones of the earth, and making them 
 confess their crimes." 
 
 And in truth, the remark, though some may 
 cavil at it, does not seem to be without a certain 
 essence of truth. No such book has, probably, 
 ever come before the public. Here and there, 
 in out-of-the- way places, we may find sketches 
 u^ of this or that illustrious person ; but in no 
 work that the writer knows of are they all 
 grouped as here, and shown in their true colours. 

 
 11* PREFACE. 
 
 He who reads this Autobiography will have a 
 more complete knowledge of the first half of the 
 eighteenth century, and of the rogues who played 
 the chief characters in its drama, than could he 
 gained by anyone who had not studied the -his- 
 tory of the period with unremitting attention for 
 many years, and out of a library of books. 
 Its accuracy is somewhat marvellous. It were 
 to be wished that a less severe tone had been 
 adopted by a son towards his parents. But they 
 were, in fact, parental only in name. Mr. 
 Montagu owed nothing to either father or 
 mother, but his birth — if that can be considered 
 a boon. The avarice of the first, and the pro- 
 fligacy and heartlessness of the last, bore fruit 
 in his heart — Dead Sea apples. He passed 
 through great ordeals of misery, while his 
 father rolled in wealth, and would give him 
 hardly anything — in k fact he gave him nothing 
 until the world had soured and hardened 
 every human feeling in his heart. " Have 
 you heard," says Horace Walpole, to George 
 Montagu, "what immense wealth old Wortley
 
 .PREFACE. .111. 
 
 has left ? — One million, three hundred and fifty- 
 thousand pounds. It is all to centre in Lady 
 Bute and her family" (February 9th, 1761). A 
 few months after his mother, on her death-bed, 
 bequeathed to her only son one guinea, thus 
 needlessly exhibiting her hatred, even while she 
 was hastening, as it were, into the presence 
 of the Great Judge. 
 
 Mr. Montagu was a misanthropist — he could 
 not have been otherwise. He has stripped the 
 mask from many of the villains whom we are 
 accustomed to regard as great, noble, wise, or 
 learned. In this he appears to have followed the 
 example of Fielding — whose History of Jonathan 
 Wild the Great, seems to have been dictated by 
 the same motive. 
 
 There is so much humbug and affectation in 
 the world that, when a rascal is exposed, weak 
 people hold up their hands and exclaim, " Dear 
 me, this is dreadful ! " They do so, especially 
 if the rogues be people of rank. Mr. Montagu 
 evidently disregarded such persons. Juvenal 
 and Persius had no such squeamishness ; and
 
 IV. PREFACE. 
 
 though our great satirists, Dryden and Pope, 
 have exposed their villains under fictitious names, 
 they have taken good care that posterity should 
 have no doubt whom they intended to hold up 
 to odium. Mr. Montagu is equally outspoken. 
 Like Swift and Byron, he tears the mask from 
 humbug. 
 
 The political corruption of the time can only 
 be compared to that which flourished in Rome 
 in the days when Jugurtha said that " all things 
 were to be got for money there." Every man, 
 as Walpole boasted, had his price. Alas ! had 
 not every woman too ? 
 
 Private morality can hardly be said to have 
 existed. The example of the Court, and the 
 nobility poisoned the whole kingdom. A more 
 false and dishonest crew than its literary men 
 it is hard to imagine. The bench was filled with 
 very odious fellows. The Church was in ruins. 
 All ecclesiastical promotion flowed only through 
 the Prime Minister and Queen Caroline; and 
 history has rendered hateful the characters of 
 both. How could piety or virtue hope for any-
 
 PREFACE, V. 
 
 thing like sympathy from either? We pride 
 ourselves on being better now, and I hope we 
 are. Yet, upwards of a hundred years ago, 
 Bubb Dodington spoke of " the low and venal 
 wretches of Bridge water ;" and at the present 
 moment we have Royal Commissioners ferreting 
 out in that borough, and in one or two others, 
 the same species of infamy which made it 
 notorious in the days of Pelham. 
 
 The whole period was rank and rotten in 
 the extreme. Atheism and profligacy prevailed 
 everywhere. Two men arose and stemmed the 
 tide — Wesley and Whitfield. The writer of this 
 is no unqualified admirer of either ; but they 
 did great good, and they helped to save the 
 country from universal pollution. They awakened 
 a spirit which smote Infidelity and chastened 
 public morals. Had we gone on unchecked, 
 we should have deserved the purification of fire 
 which >Sodoni and Gomorrah experienced. 
 
 In the pages which follow, Vice is shown by 
 Mr. Montagu in her naked, hideous form. So 
 exhibited, she is always detestable. I am cer-
 
 VK ^PREFACE. 
 
 tain that more real instruction to the soul may 
 be gained by a study of these pages than by the 
 perusal of any fifty works, whose avowed object 
 is to teach morals, philosophy, or religion. 
 
 Y.
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 And every daughter that possesseth an inheritance in any 
 tribe of the children of Israel shall be wife unto one of the 
 family of the tribe of her father. ... ... . . ... 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Bat he that is married careth for the things that are of the 
 world, how he may please his wife ; she that is married, careth 
 for the things of the world, how she may please her husband. 26 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 The men of the city, even the men of Sodom, compassed the 
 house round, both old and young, all the people from every 
 quarter. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 51 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Nebuchadnezzar the king made an image of gold, he set it up 
 in the plain of Dura, in the province of Babylon. . . . And 
 whoso falleth not down and worshippeth shall the same hour be 
 3a3t into the midst of a fiery furnace. ... ... ... 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I decked thee also with ornaments, and I put bracelets upon 
 tny hands, and a chain on thy neck. And I put a jewel on thy 
 farehead, and earrings in thine ears, and a beautiful crown upon 
 thy head. * * But thou didst trust in thine own beauty, and 
 playedst the harlot because of thy renown. ... ... ... 95 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A generation that are pure in their own eyes, and yet are not 
 
 washed from their filthiness. ... ... .*. ... 113 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Now the Serpent was more subtle than any beast of the fields 
 which the Lord God had made . . . and the Serpent said 
 unto the Woman- „ 133
 
 CHAPTEE Vm. 
 
 Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron ; Thou shalt dash 
 them in pieces like a potter's vessel . ... ... ... 151 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that 
 humbleth himself shall be exalted. ... ... ... ... 180 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 There were two men in one city, the one rich and the other 
 poor. The rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds; but 
 the poor man had nothing save one little ewe lamb, w hich he had 
 brought and nourished up ; and it grew up together w ith him and 
 with his children ; it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his 
 own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was to him as a daugh ter. 
 And there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to 
 take of his own flock, and of his own herd, to dress for the way- 
 faring man that was come unto him, but took the poor man's 
 lamb and dressed it for the man that was come to him. ... 211 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 And David said unto him, To whom belongest thou , and whence 
 art thou come ? And he said, I am a young man of Egypt. 235 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 My Lord is wise according to the wisdom of an Angel of God, 
 to know all things that are in the earth. ... ... ... 262 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 And I saw the Beast and the Kings of the Earth, and their 
 armies gathered together to make war— and the Beast was 
 taken, and the remnant were slain with the sword. ... ... 291
 
 EDWAED WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 And every daughter that posses3eth an Inheritance in any 
 tribe of the children of Israel shall be wife unto one of the family 
 of the tribe of her father. 
 
 My mother was a wit. She wrote poetry, com- 
 posed epigrams, penned the liveliest letters, and 
 scribbled off the bitterest ballads on all her 
 friends and acquaintances. Her tongue was 
 always tipped with gall and bitterness ; her pen 
 was finely pointed with venom. Scandal was her 
 great delight, her eye flashed with glee at a 
 double meaning ; a loose anecdote of one of her 
 lady loves lifted her into Paradise for the day. 
 Happily for her, the enchanting freedom of her 
 vol. t. b
 
 2 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 female friends was such, that she was seldom 
 without the ambrosial essence which made her 
 blest. She kept a diary, in which she noted 
 down, in the broadest terms, every little slip, or 
 sally, or frail foible which her dearly beloved of 
 (he masculine, feminine, or neuter gender — and 
 these last constitute a great proportion of what 
 is called " the best society" — committed, or were 
 said to have committed, and when the story was 
 not in itself particularly piquant, she spiced 
 and seasoned it in her own fashion, so as to 
 render it hot, agreeable or stimulating to the 
 depraved taste of those in whom her heart 
 sought comfortable fellowship. Her heart did 
 I say ? Alas ! she had no heart. What female 
 wit ever had ? There was, it is true, a globular 
 piece of flesh somewhere between the right and 
 i eft lung, and this performed the merely animal 
 functions of that noble organ, but resembled its 
 prototype only as an automaton might resemble 
 .t man. It was a saddening thing to look upon 
 so fair an outside, and reflect how base and black 
 was all within. The asp lurking under roses, the 
 gilded chalice filled with poison, the whited sepul-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 3 
 
 chre covering rottenness — these are hackneyed 
 images, or I would have likened her to one and 
 all. Yet what more appropriate picture of false 
 man or heartless woman than this last ? How 
 fine and smooth and shining is that marble 
 exterior; the carving beautiful, the devices 
 exquisite, the lines and curves breathing grace, 
 elegance, and perfection ; the inscription eloquent 
 of the angel that lies beneath. We lift up the 
 lid. Pah ! an ounce, no, a ton of civet to sweeten 
 the poisoned atmosphere. And what are these I 
 see creeping, crawling, writhing, horrible in 
 ghastly life, in and out the eyes, over the moul- 
 dering cheeks, through the tangled clotted hair, 
 that once glittered like Apollo's golden tresses. 
 Let us replace the cover, nor scan too closely that 
 view of hell which is beheld, when human hearts 
 or sepulchres are opened. If the Gods see all 
 hearts as I have seen some, why then I doubt if 
 they can be happy. I would not be a God on any 
 such condition. 
 
 Lady Mary was a duke's daughter, and I have 
 the superlative felicity of high descent. The 
 blood that rolls in my veins is of the noblest 
 
 b 2
 
 4 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 quintessence. It is made of the rarest 
 claret, the finest venison, the richest turtle, the 
 most delicious punch, and the most fragrant 
 grapes and pine apples. These, I think, may be 
 said to constitute the heavenly ichor of our 
 patricians, and of this divine food our bodies I 
 suppose are made. Where our souls come from is 
 quite a different affair. Some, I suppose, from 
 heaven; the great est number from hell. We know 
 our fathers and mothers don't make them, nor find 
 them, nor transmit them, nor do anything beyond 
 giving them — poor wandering outcasts from the 
 spheres — a corporeal vehicle for their develop- 
 ment on this beautiful earth. They form the 
 glasses, but the liquid nectar that fills them 
 comes from another quarter. And this vehicle, 
 or to continue the image, this pure piece of 
 crystal which my right honourable body is, was 
 made, I am glad to say, of the precious and 
 splendid materials I have enumerated. I have 
 compared it with the rough clay of which the 
 sons of common people, our dogs, slaves, or 
 peasants are made, and I am ashamed to confess 
 it, 1 have discovered no perceptible difference ;
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 5 
 
 nay, in many things I can perceive that my own 
 sparkling person is inferior to that of the vilest 
 clods, whom I suppose out of excessive good 
 nature, or refined sarcasm, we call our fellow- 
 creatures. I am not so strong as the hamal of 
 Stamboul, I am not so tall, or straight, or finely 
 shaped as the Mamlouk of Egypt. I am very 
 much inferior to the mountain dwellers of the 
 Pyrenees. I have wrestled with an Italian 
 bandit, and found myself a baby in his grasp. 
 Nevertheless, who out of Bedlam or the pulpit, 
 would dare to liken these dense, dull pieces of 
 earthenware, made and fashioned by polite Provi- 
 dence only for our basest uses, with such clear 
 and white and exquisite porcelain as myself? 
 The parsons, indeed, say we are all equal, and all 
 the same, God wot ! How the sly rogues must 
 laugh in their lawn sleeves ! How the arch 
 prelates must enjoy the fine irony ! And how 
 the devil would laugh— if he could get into one 
 of our consecrated churches — if he could but 
 pass the holy seraph-guarded threshold — to hear 
 the pious congregation, looking as demure as 
 cats, cry " Amen," when every man and woman
 
 6 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 there know that it was all a lie, and a make- 
 believe, and sham ; and that my lord in purple, 
 and my lady in €ne linen, no more considered 
 their tailor or mantua maker to be of the same 
 species as themselves, than the humble-minded 
 tailor did the boy who ran his errands for a 
 penny, and who received his kick with the same 
 Christian chastened humility, that even his lordly 
 grace shewed when the sovereign cuffed him out 
 of the closet. But the devil can't get in, and so 
 don't laugh, poor fellow, and the godly continue 
 in their heavenlv course, and listen to the Sabbath 
 fable, and think it's all very fine, and grand, and 
 so forth, and go and do otherwise. And so the 
 world wags, and will wag on, until Antichrist 
 comes, and finds us all perfect to his hand. 
 
 I remember my grandfather well. He was a 
 tall man, full of state and grandeur, so courtly, 
 so benevolent in seeming ; harder than granite in 
 his inner essence. He trod the earth as if it 
 were highly honoured by his foot ; he locked i [ 
 at the heaven to see whether the sun, the moon, 
 and planets did not regard him with admiration. 
 If he commanded the first, I do not know that it
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 7 
 
 ever stood still; if he gave his orders to the 
 second, I don't believe that they made obeisance 
 t o him. If they did, we doubtless should have 
 heard so. I suppose his modesty sealed his lips, 
 and he let them go their own course. With his 
 star on his left breast, just over the place where 
 his heart was supposed to be, and in his ducal 
 dress of velvet and gold and ermine, did he not 
 look the impersonation of all that was heroic ? 
 He certainly did. That sparkling star was a 
 symbol of the sparkling, shining, glorious 
 heaven-descended spirit enshrined within that 
 patrician heart, beaming with every virtue, and 
 quite eclipsing — if it could be seen — the 
 radiant lustre of the jewels with which the 
 star was studded. diamond ! pale thy 
 fires, and dazzling emerald veil thine in- 
 effectual rivalry. What brings thee here to 
 emulate the transcendent and pellucid spirit that 
 is in this man ? But unluckily the spirit could 
 not be seen. It was too fine a spirit to show 
 itself to vile corporeal eyes ; it was so like 
 divinity in its brightness, that mere ordinary 
 mortals would be stricken blind or dead, like
 
 8 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 Paul or Semele, if they did but behold it iu its 
 celestial effulgence. The prime minister of the 
 day therefore, who was alone conscious of its 
 rare excellence, determined that some appropriate 
 badge, some small faint type of that which was 
 invisible, should be' shown to the unconscious 
 vulgar world, to win their worship of the Beauti- 
 ful. He gave him the blue ribband of the 
 garter. 
 
 His grace, the Duke of Kingston, was generou> 
 to a fault. His bosom overflowed with gratitude. 
 Could there be a better proof of his virtue ? He 
 was determined not to be outdone by the first 
 lord. He at once placed at his disposal some 
 half dozen boroughs and their independent mem- 
 bers, then very much wanted in a House of 
 Commons more piggish than the minister thought 
 right. He went farther. He gave him up his 
 very soul. From that day he became the most 
 obedient servant of the cabinet. The opposition 
 was base enough to call him a pliant tool and 
 sycophant. He voted black white, and white 
 black. He defended all that ministers did, and 
 vilified all that the out-of-place purists solemnly
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 9 
 
 declared they ought to have done. He was loud 
 in their praise even when I fear he knew that 
 they were villains ; he was chivalrous enough to 
 take upon himself a portion of their most 
 criminal responsibilities. He did not scruple at 
 falsehood, if falsehood was necessary. He would 
 not speak an untruth for a diadem ; no, the 
 aristocracy never speak lies ; they only think and 
 act them ; they don't commit themselves ; but his 
 whole public life became thenceforth a living 
 lie. 
 
 The Mussulmans say that when we are dead, 
 and waiting to be damned, our vices assume some 
 hideous form, and present themselves before the 
 astonished ghost, with some such words as these, 
 " while you lived, you rode me, now it is my 
 turn and I will ride you," whereupon the horrid 
 beast ascends the back of the defunct, and rides 
 him everlastingly through the plains of hell. If 
 this be true, and I hope it is, we shall see some 
 queer creatures in the infernal regions. I expect 
 to find my grandfather there with some misshapen 
 gigantic fox, or colossal rat, seated on his ducal 
 back, spurring him through perdition, and glaring 
 
 b 5
 
 10 EDWAED WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 on him with vulpine eyes of fraud, cruelty, 
 cunning, and duplicity. And both will probably 
 lacquey after the Minister, whose monstrous rider 
 I shall rejoice to see. I hope he will show him 
 no more mercy than the old Man of the Moun- 
 tain showed Sindbad in the Eastern tale. 
 
 My mother was — let me see, how old ? — two- 
 and-twenty when my grandfather summoned her 
 one fiue morning into his awful presence. A 
 grand match had been proposed ; it was sanctioned 
 by the minister, it was approved by the king. It 
 would unite two powerful families whose political 
 interests conjoined would make the opposition 
 tremble, and flaming patriots see the folly of 
 their ways. Fifteen worthy and incorruptible 
 boroughs would be at the immediate command of 
 the distinguished statesman who then happily 
 guided the destinies of England, and led in his 
 leash the two noble and high-minded peers who 
 were to blend their blood in holy matrimony. 
 The lady who was to cement this sacred triple 
 alliance was nothing in their consideration ; a 
 majority in the commons on a beer bill was the 
 main and moving engine. Secure this, and
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 1 I 
 
 England was saved. Lose it, and the destinies 
 of uncounted millions, including the ministry, 
 were for ever destroyed. Any single woman, a 
 score, a thousand, a myriad weighed against 
 this was of course lighter than a feather or a 
 flake of snow. 
 
 The bridegroom was sixty-five, but he was a 
 nobleman of immense wealth, ancient pedigree, 
 and blue blood, azure enough for the most fasti- 
 dious Spaniard. He was rotten with every dis- 
 order that unbridled indulgence in the court of 
 King Charles the Second of sacred memory, and 
 his congregated vestals was sure to entail upon 
 the happy votary of morning, noon, and midnight 
 pleasure ; but he had high breeding, was per- 
 fectly well-dressed, and owned two castles, fifty 
 footmen, not including his members of parlia- 
 ment, who were out of livery. He had seduced 
 in his vigorous days — alas ! they were now gone 
 for ever — several scores of women, and cast them 
 on the streets, with their and his offspring, with 
 a philosophy worthy of the Spartans, or that 
 venerable sage, Mr. John James Rousseau; but 
 his plate was superb, his cooks first rate, his
 
 12 EDWARD WOETLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 snuff-boxes in fine taste, and his smile when the 
 paint was fresh looked sweet and courtly. He was 
 too knowing to believe in God, or virtue, or 
 truth, or honour, or decency, or anything that 
 uplifts mankind above the ape tribe ; but he was 
 far too well bred to enunciate his metaphysics in 
 public, or to quarrel with anyone for an absurd 
 antediluvian belief in old wives' tales, or super- 
 stitious fables. Among his private friends — the 
 cream of the cream, the flower and glory of the 
 peerage — he sometimes unbent, and even con- 
 descended to give a reason for the unbelief that 
 was in him. He had seen too many bishops, he 
 said, to believe in God ; too many patriots to 
 believe in honesty, and too many court virgins to 
 believe in chastity ; so he lived on, mocking all 
 three, and flourished, and was fawned upon by all 
 who loved good feeding more than heaven, and 
 did not care what lies they told, so that the 
 paunch was filled and the gullet tickled with 
 gr atuitous dainties. He moved, I need not say, 
 in the most exalted circles of rank and fashion; 
 he blazed in the highest spheres of light — the 
 observed of all observers, the adored of all matrons
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 13 
 
 who had fair daughters to dispose of in the slave 
 market of Pall Mall, or Grosveuor Square. The 
 minister always smiled on him, as Satan might on 
 one of his imps — the courtiers, pages, and other 
 honourable and noble lick-plates about the palace, 
 half prostrated themselves in the dust as he ap- 
 peared, for such were the commands which Gold 
 Stick issued. The maids of honour — every one 
 of whom had been dishonoured — quarrelled 
 about him, and almost pulled caps when no 
 superior spirit was nigh. There was scarcely a 
 lady in the land who would not have felt herself 
 dignified by his friendship, and would not have 
 jumped out of her chemise at an offer of his 
 white and jewelled hand, though it must be 
 owned it trembled more than was agreeable, and 
 was a hand that had performed many dirty opera- 
 tions. He was, in truth, a very noble person, and 
 when I read an account of him the other day in 
 the Rev. Mr. Jacob's Peerage, I was rather dis- 
 gusted with Providence for permitting so rare a 
 specimen of mankind to die at all. He should 
 have been immortal ; he should at all events have 
 lived for a thousand years or two, to shew poor
 
 14 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 erring, low-bred, shop-keeping human nature to 
 what great heights it may ascend — to what 
 splendid summits of virtue poor fallen man 
 under circumstances like his may be raised. But 
 peace to his name ! His memory will at all 
 events survive in Jacob's perfumed and dis- 
 interested page. I hope that reverend clergyman 
 will be favoured as he deserves. Such eulogies 
 ought not to pass without reward. It will be a 
 pity if the good man be left merely to the agree- 
 able sensations of his own heart, and the reflec- 
 tions of a mind conscious of its truthfulness. 
 The family I know have several fat livings. 
 Heaven grant that he may get one or all. The 
 brothers of their mistresses they can provide for 
 in the Treasury. But if they should do otherwise, 
 why then I hope he will erase the epicedium 
 from his next edition, and leave posterity in 
 ignorance of such a bright particular meteor. 
 
 This noble lord was filled with the glorious 
 ambition of progeniting me. Of all the fair 
 maidens who moved in the glorious galaxy of St. 
 James's, the fairest in his eyes was Lady Mary 
 Pierrepoint, eldest daughter of his grace, the
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 15 
 
 Duke of Kingston, afterwards my esteemed 
 mother, the Cassiopeia of Arlington Street, and 
 the toast of the kit-cats. He came in a coach 
 and six ; he saw but did not conquer. It was the 
 lady who won the victory, but it was a triumph 
 for which she did not labour. She had no objec- 
 tion to see lovers in scores, or even in hundreds, 
 harnessed to her chariot wheels, and dying for a 
 smile, a glance, or a word of recognition, but then 
 they must be at all events men. The Marquis, it 
 must be owned, was now scarcely one. He had 
 some trifling defects; trifling in the eyes of wisdom 
 I mean, but great in the estimation of a young 
 lady, who I fear knew more than was quite cor- 
 rect. He rather tottered, his breath stank, his 
 teeth were out, he had lost the sight of one eye, 
 and the other was gummy ; he often drivelled, 
 and became a disgusting object. But his grace, 
 the Duke of Kingston, saw only his rent roll, 
 and the First Lord of the Treasury considered 
 only his boroughs. My Lady Mary cared for 
 neither just at that time ; she had another man in 
 her eye. Scandal and Mr. Pope declare that she 
 had two to whom she even wrote love letters.
 
 16 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 Yet she did not disregard wealth and fame with 
 a fine indifference. That species of madness 
 flourished only in the days of fig-leaf petticoats 
 and Paradise apples. She was too sensibly 
 brought up for any such atheistical heresy. The 
 family maxims on this point had been of the most 
 orthodox kind. She knew exactly what these 
 meant ; she had thoroughly calculated their real 
 value ; what they were worth and what they would 
 bring. No lady in the land better estimated the 
 solid contentment of heart and satisfaction with 
 Providence and its decrees that springs from 
 thirty thousand a year, and the possession of a 
 little parliamentary empire, with which one can 
 do as one likes. But she thought if a man was 
 tacked to them, it would be on the whole a better 
 bargain than if she got them with a monkey, or 
 an old corpse, whose very touch to a sensitive 
 woman, and this she was then, was like pollution. 
 Well — I think she was right. 
 
 Let me go back to that first morning, when my 
 mother was summoned by her papa. I was 
 obliged to digress, but I suppose I shall digress 
 often. I mean to write, not according to rules of
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 17 
 
 art, but in accordance with the humour of the 
 moment, and I shall follow my own whim in pre- 
 ference to that of Aristotle, or any other dead or 
 living critic. Learned reader if thou like it not 
 say so, and abandon my book forthwith, but re- 
 vile me not in the least, for truly I have had 
 enough abuse in my time, and I am now rhinoceros- 
 hided against opinion. Once, I was a sensitive 
 plant, but, God bless me, that time is gone, and I 
 fear it never will come back. If thou goest with 
 me thou shalt find me not a bad fellow, but I fear 
 rather a sharp-tongued one, for I have been so 
 kicked and buffeted about from my very cradle, 
 that all the wine within me has changed into 
 vinegar, and I am no longer what I once was. 
 My father detested me as his heir ; my mother 
 neglected and hated me almost before I was out of 
 petticoats ; — since then what have I not endured? 
 Erasmus used to call his life an u Iliad of mis- 
 fortunes ;" mine, dear reader, has been little 
 better, and though I have had some fair glimpses 
 of sunshine, my sky has been on the whole 
 chequered by cloud, and mist and tempest; and 
 now towards its close, I heartily wish it were
 
 18 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 over, and that the curtain were descended on 
 the wretched farce. Well it soon will be, and 
 then — 
 
 But let me proceed to Arlington Street, where 
 my most noble grandpa is now waiting for his 
 charming daughter. Methinks I see him seated 
 as if in royal fashion. The sofa is of flowered 
 satin, and his gold-embroidered velvet coat-tails 
 look regal and flowing, and terribly sublime on 
 the brilliant coverlet. lie is perriwirrged and 
 perfumed like Louis le Grand, and is quite 
 enough to frighten any ordinary young lady d 
 posed to rebel, into the most thorough sense of 
 propriety and submission. Kneeling to him, my 
 mother received his blessing. What a comedy for 
 gods and men must this have been. She is 
 motioned into a low chair which has been already 
 placed opposite to where he sits, at the other side 
 of the broad, finely sculptured chimney piece, 
 over which frowned a grim family portrait, awful 
 enough to scare even ghosts away. I am told 
 she trembled as if half surmising the object for 
 which she was summoned, but if she did she had 
 spirit enough to conceal it, and she masked her
 
 EDWABD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 19 
 
 face like the oldest politician of the court. She 
 had a will of her owd also, and was fond of show- 
 ing it when it was expedient. Indeed all her 
 friends were remarkably self-willed young ladies, 
 and despised papa and mamma with the most 
 well bred air. But as they knew that papa and 
 mamma had legacies to leave, they did not mind 
 telling them so in public, only they made up for 
 it by ridiculing them in private. On these 
 maxims my lady rested, and they did not desert 
 her now. She subsequently became bolder and 
 more defiant, and when she had learned virtue from 
 Pope and Congreve, modesty from Moll Skerrett, 
 and Doll Townsend, and piety from Hoadley and 
 Lord Hervey, she did not cast clown her eyes half 
 so quakerlike, as she now did in the illustrious 
 presence of Evelyn the fifth Marquis of Dorchester, 
 and Duke of Kingston. 
 
 ei Molly," says my g randfather, "it is quite time 
 that you should exhibit to the world, as the head 
 of your own establishment, all the wit, and beauty, 
 and accomplishments which I am happy to say 
 you possess in a far greater degree than any other 
 young lady that I have the honour of knowing."
 
 20 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " Your grace says very true," says my mother, 
 with a curtsey, and a shy smile of self-approving 
 love. 
 
 " Lady and the Duchess of ," pur- 
 sued my lord, " were neither of them so old as 
 you when they married, and I believe they are 
 the envy of all the fashionable world." 
 
 " Then the fashionable world," says my 
 mother, '■ must have a larger superabundance of 
 envy than I thought it had, if it can throw any 
 away upon such a miserable pair as that." 
 
 « Why ?" says my grandfather, looking quite 
 innocent, and as if unconscious of the coming 
 answer, though I think he guessed it. 
 
 "Why?" rejoined my lady; "because Lord 
 
 A has lost one nose, and will never get 
 
 another, and the Duke of is quite old enough 
 
 to be his wife's grandfather, and, what is worse 
 still, is mean enough to be her duenna." 
 
 " But, my dear Molly," says the duke. " wives 
 
 don't marry for noses, but estates, and Lord 'n 
 
 property is one of the very finest in England." 
 
 " Ah," says my mother, " I don't find fault 
 with the estate, but with the live stock that
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 21 
 
 goes with it. If one could keep the estate and 
 bury the stock, it would be pleasant enough." 
 
 The reader will judge from this that Lady 
 Mary Pierrepoint was anything but a novice. 
 Indeed she could not well be, for she had already 
 had the benefit of some lessons from Bishop 
 Burnett, who translated Epictetus for her, and 
 then persuaded her she had done it herself. The 
 Duke of Kingston thought it would be as well to 
 come to the point 
 
 " Molly, my love," said he, " whatever mis- 
 taken notions you may entertain on these 
 matters — and I can scarcely blame you, for you 
 are very young — it will be as well to conceal 
 them, at all events, just at present, for you are 
 going to be married." 
 
 My mother started from her seat, as if she 
 had been stung. This was an announcement she 
 scarcely expected to hear. She knew her father's 
 energy, but had not reckoned on its close advent. 
 In an instant she composed herself; but there 
 was a fiery agent at work within, of which my 
 lord duke did not then dream. She was like the
 
 '22 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 river Nile, calm, and still, and stately ; yon see 
 
 it flowing grandly before you, in solemn silence 
 
 and unruffled — the abode of peace and innocence. 
 
 But there is a horrid alligator at the bottom of 
 
 this majestic stream that will swallow you up, if 
 
 you come near enough to molest, or even to look 
 
 at him. Beware of him, 0, wayfarer ! Even now 
 
 his eye is upon you, and he waits for your 
 
 approach ; there is death in this impassive deep. 
 
 Advance no further, or you are undone. 
 
 "And who, my lord," inquired she, " is the 
 
 distinguished stranger of whom I am to be made 
 
 the happy bewildered spouse ?" 
 
 » 
 "Lord " says my grandfather, "Lord 
 
 , who loves you to madness." 
 
 M I wonder your lordship has not disentombed 
 Henry VIII. , and ordered me to marry him," re- 
 replied my mother. ** He would certainly be as 
 agreeable to me as that loathsome old vampire, 
 of whose madness indeed I never doubted." 
 
 " I would have done so, if I could," answered 
 the duke; "but it could not well be managed. 
 However, as I cannot make you Queen of England ,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 23 
 
 I have done the next best thing to it ; for Lord 
 
 is certainly one of the most, if not the 
 
 most powerful man in the country." 
 
 " I am surprised to hear that," answered my 
 mother. " I should have thought the blow of a 
 lady's fan would have prostrated the wretched 
 pigmy." 
 
 il A blow from your fan might," rejoined the 
 duke gallantly. And then as if meditating, he 
 said, half to himself, " he can't live a year, and 
 then what may she not command ? What rank 
 too high for her to reach ?" 
 
 " I trust your lordship will give me sometime 
 before I give you a final answer to this unex- 
 pected promotion — I mean, proposition," says 
 my mother with a feign ed calmness. 
 
 " Oh ! certainly," ans wered the duke, " any 
 time you require ; only as you are to be married 
 on Monday next, you need not prolong your 
 meditation beyond that period." 
 
 " Monday next!" almost screamed my mother, 
 " and this is Thursday. Is your lordship really 
 serious ?" 
 
 " I am so serious," answered my lord, " that
 
 24 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the marriage settlements are all drawn — they are 
 very different from that vagabond Montagu's 
 notions — and only wait to be signed. Velours 
 has already got orders to make up your wardrobe. 
 It has cost me upwards of four hundred pounds. 
 Your bridal jewels will be the finest in the king- 
 dom, so you will have no trouble. My lord makes 
 an absolute settlement on yourself of ten thousand 
 a year, and if you present him with an heir, as if 
 you are well advised you no doubt will, he 
 increases it to fifteen thousand pounds per 
 annum." 
 
 " An heir ! " cried my mother ; " why, he is 
 sixty-five." 
 
 "Pooh," says my lord duke, "you can get the 
 old fool an heir." 
 
 And rising very gracefully, he bowed my 
 mother out of the room, with the dignified 
 courtesy of any king but an English one. 
 
 My lord duke now ordered his coach, and 
 proceeded to dinner in Cavendish Square with the 
 noble lord, his intended son-in-law. The two 
 passed a very delightful evening at the princely 
 town mansion of the latter, though I blush to
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 25 
 
 say both got rather fuddled with frequent toasts. 
 The bridegroom's health, the bride's happiness, 
 
 an heir to the house of , the glorious golden 
 
 days of Charles Stuart and his Saturnalian friends, 
 &c, &c, constituted the staple of their conversa- 
 tion, and lent ambrosial sweetness to the Cham- 
 pagne, the Burgundy, and claret. My lord duke 
 was put to bed by his two servants at one o'clock 
 in the morning ; in an hour or two afterwards my 
 mother eloped, and was married to Edward 
 Wortley Montagu, Esquire, second son of the 
 Honourable Mr. Sidney Montagu, whose pre- 
 cious name I have now the pleasure to bear. 
 
 Thus my mother, for a whim, lost fifteen 
 thousand pounds per annum — how nobly and 
 splendidly that paradise income sounds— and I 
 
 the satisfaction of being Lord , with two 
 
 castles, a palace in London, fifty footmen, and a 
 dozen grinning lackeys, with M.P. tacked to 
 their names. Such is Fate ! However I do 
 believe I should have been happier and honester 
 as a chimney sweep. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 26 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " But he that is married careth for the things that are of the 
 world, how he may please his wife ; she that is married, careth 
 for the things of the world, how she may please her husband." 
 
 Edward Wortley Montagu, Esq., Member of 
 Parliament, Ambassador Extraordinary to the 
 Sublime Porte, and I know and care not what 
 else, was of a descent fully equal in heavenly 
 grandeur to that of my most patrician grandfather 
 on the maternal side, His Grace the Duke of 
 Kingston. The Montagus, by the most un- 
 doubted evidence of Heralds and Kings-at- 
 Arms, traced back their pedigree to Drogo de 
 Montagu (in Latin, De Monte Acuto), of the 
 county of Somerset, whose arms were azure, a
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 27 
 
 gryphon segreiant or ; though they afterwards 
 quartered three fusils conjoined in fess, and an 
 eagle displayed, emerald beaked and membered. 
 After intermarrying with the daughters, or re- 
 puted daughters of kings, princes, earls, and 
 grandees — I will not aver that grooms or foot- 
 men never intervened to poison the pure foun - 
 tains of our blood — one of them became a duke 
 (oh, rare ! ), and another, my immediate ancestor, 
 an earl, for having faithfully betrayed the navy , 
 with which the Commonwealth entrusted him, 
 into the hands of His Serene Majesty, King 
 Charles Stuart, then sojourning in Holland, and 
 anxiously awaiting those golden pieces sent from 
 England, which when they did arrive, gave such 
 sovereign contentment to himself, his lords and 
 ladies of degree. He was subsequently shot, or 
 drowned, or stifled, in the sea fight at Southwold 
 Bay, fought May 28, 1672, His Eoyal Highness 
 the Duke of York having had the pleasure on that 
 occasion of treating him with the most indecen t 
 scorn and contempt — a mark of royal favour 
 which so preyed upon his sensitive heart, that it 
 
 is supposed he threw away his noble existence 
 
 o 2
 
 28 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 in disgust, or rage, or sorrow. He certainly de- 
 served better from one for whose family he had 
 risked, and lost all — that is, all that honourable 
 men value ; but sic erat in fatis, and I suppose it 
 was right. 
 
 The Pound heads and Republicans called him 
 a traitor, and were base enough to exult in his 
 reward, but this did not disturb his respected 
 shade. 
 
 His second son, Sidney Montagu, was my 
 father's father. He was a large, rough-looking 
 man, as if he had some butcher's blood in him, 
 with a huge flapped hat, a coarse, sensual face, 
 a thick slobbering lip, a heavy cunning eye, and 
 a tongue that perpetually rapped forth oaths, 
 blasphemy, or ribald filth, the three brilliant 
 graces which he had acquired in the court of his 
 royal master, whom in our pure thanksgiving to 
 God, we truly designate " our then most gra- 
 cious Sovereign Lord, thy servant, King Charles 
 the Second." 
 
 He married a great heiress, the greatest, per- 
 haps, in England at that time, for whom he pro- 
 mised the most fervent love, and by the will of
 
 EDWARD WORTLEf MONTAGU. 29 
 
 her father, Sir Francis Wortley, assumed her 
 name in addition to his own. Thus he became 
 Sidney Wortley Montagu, Esquire, of Wharn- 
 cliffe Lodge, in the county of York, and of as 
 many town houses as he could well like. This 
 was a grand prize for him, but I fear it fared 
 but sadly with the other party to this civil con- 
 tract. 
 
 Like most young women who marry rakes, or 
 hell fire spirits, she had the worst of the bargain. 
 The partnership was unprofitable in the extreme. 
 I^he was treated like a dog, or a king's consort, 
 for the few short years she lived under his wing,, 
 was eventually separated from her lord, and never 
 ceased regretting or cursing her fatal jump into 
 the Etna of holy matrimony. She had better, 
 indeed, have gone into Tartarus at once. But 
 thus it always is, and thus may it always be, 
 with such accursed nuptials. Nemesis avenges 
 them if no other person does. 
 
 My father Edward, blessings- on him ! was the 
 second and only surviving son of this cat and dog 
 couple — the reformed rake, who was dissolute to 
 the last, the happy bride who was for ever miser-
 
 30 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 able. His own marriage in due time was quite 
 as comfortable and auspicious as bis father's. 
 
 The way in which this last named nuptial was 
 brought to pass was thus. My father had a 
 sister, Mrs. Anne Montagu, whom he very much 
 regarded, for she bore a strong personal likeness 
 to himself, and as he loved the original very 
 much, he could scarcely help being partial to that 
 which was its copy. Besides, she flattered him ; 
 and worthless people are very partial to this 
 species of luxury. 
 
 Mrs. Anne had got acquainted with my mother 
 in some way that I have now forgotten. They 
 presented a curious contrast; almost as different 
 as Harlequin and Pantaloon. Sallust says tli 
 to think the same and wish the same constitute 
 the basis of firm friendship. This may be tr; 
 in politics — though, in politics, I don't belies 
 friendship exists, albeit, hatred does ; but it 
 certainly not true in ordinary life ; for there v 
 see that persons whose characters strikingly 
 differ, are most often knit together by V 
 strongest bonds that love, or money, or omnipc 
 tent and all pervading self-interest can fabricate.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 31 
 
 Had Sallust been a mere scribbling puppy like 
 l'apin, Tindal, or Defoe, I should not have ex- 
 pected better from him. These poor creatures 
 dwell in garrets, engrimed in their dirty holes, 
 like rats or spiders, and scrawl by the yard mea- 
 sure, copying from books because they have 
 nothing else to copy from, though each one 
 thinks himself a Tacitus at least. They 
 enunciate state maxims about which they 
 know and can know nothing from practical 
 experience, and discourse of polity and law and 
 government, the designs of kings and the con- 
 versation of councillors, when their sole subjects 
 are the cats and rats, or the meaner vermin still 
 to which they give support. But Sallust was of 
 a different order. He himself had ruled and 
 pillaged. He had been rake, blackguard and 
 spendthrift, the tria juncta in uno which all 
 modern history has shown can alone make perfect 
 statesmen and diplomatists. He had gone 
 through e^ery shifting phase of the most refined 
 rascality. Walpole, Wharton, Marlborough, or 
 St. John, were not more wicked. How, therefore, 
 he could have penned this folly has always
 
 32 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 puzzled me. I rather fancy that he propounded 
 the maxim, not as one that is generally true, but 
 true only as it related to that fine faction of 
 patrician scoundrels of which Cataline was the 
 head and Caesar the envenomed tail, and which 
 so unfortunately for the first, and luckily for the 
 last, was nipped in the bud by Cicero, who was 
 himself a meaner and shabbier varlet than any 
 one of those whom he so unceremoniously 
 strangled. 
 
 My Lady Mary had at an early age begun to 
 cultivate her talent for letter writing ; that means 
 she embellished all she heard with a purple tint 
 ( f fable, and penned it down to her corres- 
 pondents as veritable truth. This is what all 
 (pistolizers do, as the scandalized world no doul 
 will one day find out if Horry Walpcle's gilt 
 edged budgets of lies are printed by some son of 
 Curll, for their edification. Every alternate 
 sentence of that prince of cockle shells will pre 
 to be either absolutely false, or horribly distorted 
 from the fact, yet so nicely dovetailed into that 
 which is really true, that only the wisest willnot 
 be deceived, and the general readers of the next
 
 EDWARD WOIiTLEY MONTAGU. 83 
 
 age will form the most erroneous notions of the 
 leaders of this ; unless indeed some literary mad- 
 man shall arise, and devote the whole of a frenzied 
 life to find out that remnant of truth which will 
 then be almost irrecoverable, and which if re- 
 covered will not be worth the paper on which it 
 is writ. 
 
 She had run through Madam de Noyer's 
 memoirs, and told her correspondents how insipid 
 they were, because they did not detail intrigues. 
 She had seen Nicolini as a naked savage strang- 
 ling a lion, on which she wrote to her friends 
 rather curiously than chastely. She romped with 
 Nelly Willoughby, and entered into nice particu- 
 lars of a tumble which Miss Hoyden got from 
 the top of a wall, and when a fire happened at a 
 neighbour's house she was witty on the flight en 
 chemise of the frightened inmates. She poked 
 into the New Atlantis, and knew all the secrets 
 of that demure riddle as well as old Mother 
 Manley herself, and when she got or wrote any 
 loose lampoons she communicated them freely to 
 her lady friends and correspondents. In a word 
 she was a most delightful living edition of Count 
 
 c 5
 
 34 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 Grammont, only that I think she was not half so 
 guarded in her speech as that modest chronicler 
 of the loves of St. James's. Among her cherished 
 confidants was Mrs. Anne Wortley. Like all 
 dull phlegmatic people, she was greatly pleased 
 with the lively anecdotes, the touches of scandal, 
 the vivid narrative, the neat jests and flippant 
 double meanings, the graceful epigram in prose, 
 which my mother flung from her with a careless 
 inimitable art, that had all the fresh bloom of 
 nature upon it. Of the truth or falsehood con- 
 veyed she never cared to enquire, but like all 
 such human frogs, was pleased with what for the 
 time enlivened her cold blood, and reduced others 
 to her own stagnant level. She showed these 
 light lampoons to her brother, who shared in her 
 enjoyment, and began by degrees to feel a sort of 
 frog-like attraction to the fair letter-writer. From 
 this originated their first acquaintance, and Mrs. 
 Anne was a decorous go-between, who fetched 
 and carried messages, and nobody suspected the 
 virgin prude to be as skilful in intrigue as the 
 most finished abigail of the theatre. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Wortley was staid, grave, and I
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 35 
 
 fear stupid ; long-nosed, and lantern-jawed, like 
 all our breed ; my lady Mary was arch, lively, 
 bounding like Camilla in the iEneid, the embodi- 
 ment of sprightliness and vivacity. Mrs. Ance 
 had grave eyes, a solid chin, and a triangular 
 face ; such people never laugh. Lady Mary had 
 an oval face, and until she lost it, the prettiest 
 little cock-up of a nose that can be conceived. 
 Her lips and mouth seemed made for joyousness, 
 her eyes were bright and piercing, and full of 
 flashing lustre. Mrs. Anne in figure was like 
 the moving sentry-box of leaves which covers 
 Jack-o'-the- Green on May day ; she walked like 
 an elephant. Lady Mary was graceful in form as 
 one of Diana's nymphs — in form I say, for in 
 nothing else could she resemble a follower of the 
 huntress queen. Yet, this pair were really 
 attached to each other, as I suppose a goose and 
 a canary-bird might be. 
 
 Mr. Montagu and Lady Mary Pierrepoint acci- 
 dentally met in Mrs. Wortley's room one after- 
 noon — he sick of Addison's conceit, she panting 
 to enchain a man. The rich heir was at once 
 fascinated by the fair lady. She limed him with
 
 36 EDWARD WORTLEY MOISTAGU. 
 
 a glance, and the bird could not escape. In vain 
 he summoned into memory all the grave lessons 
 of caution which he had received from the right 
 honourable Joseph, himself a hen-pecked hus- 
 band and hater of the sex ; they were counter- 
 balanced by lively Dick Steele's gay pictures of 
 wedded bliss. In vain he brought before him all 
 that Swift had vomited about those fair deities of 
 dirt, who then constituted the fashionable world, 
 and shone like firework stars around its galaxy ; 
 the glittering outside of this new Calypso served 
 but as a foil to what he for the moment regarded 
 as the raving folly of a woman-scorning parson 
 with a dirty cassock and a muddy face. They 
 talked of love, money, politics, the court, and 
 finally of Quintus Curtius. The lady declared 
 she had never read him. This was true, and was 
 a clever mode of announcing her knowledge of 
 Latin. The lover was astonished to find a woman 
 who could even read ; in those Saturnian times 
 only a few could spell. A few days elapsed and 
 she received a superb edition of that affected 
 writer, with these lines — for which the impas- 
 sioned lover paid some Grub-street Tasso half-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 37 
 
 a-crown — neatly written on the leaf that faced the 
 title page — 
 
 1 ' Beauty like this had vanquished Persia shown 
 The Macedon had laid his empire down, 
 And polished Greece obeyed a barbarous throne. 
 Had wit so bright adorned a Grecian dame 
 The am'rous yOuth had lost his thirst for fame , 
 Nor distant India sought through Syria's plain ; 
 But to the Muses stream with her had run 
 And thought her lover more than Ammon's son." 
 
 The affectation and silliness of these love verses 
 was a fit and proper prelude to the whole comedy 
 in which this noble pair subsequently played the 
 hero and heroine. A correspondence began in 
 falsehood could scarcelv terminate in love. An 
 
 m 
 
 oyster, indeed, was as capable of that ethereal 
 passion as my father ; my mother could no more 
 be inspired by it than the pearl which is that 
 oyster's prize and canker. The acquaintance, 
 however, ripened into dunghill heat. Mr. Mon- 
 tagu was dry as tinder, and my Lady Mary as hot 
 a ad fiery as ducal blood longing to burst forth 
 upon the gabbling town in a gorgeous equipage 
 could make her. As mushrooms grow up in a 
 night, so did the all-powerful desire of cohesion 
 within the beating hearts of this enamoured pair.
 
 38 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 The lady longed for liberty, a town house, and a 
 coach and six; the gentleman to own as one 
 of his appendages, a slave in the shape of a 
 woman who had knowledge, wit, and talent, and 
 could write a whole page without violating gram- 
 mar and orthography. So scarce a bird was then 
 an ornithological curiosity — and we know what 
 an Englishman will give for a rarity. They 
 met, they glanced, they talked, and corres- 
 ponded ; each knew as if instinctively that real 
 love had nothing to do with their commerce, yet 
 they were attracted to each other as the amber 
 a ad the thread, though every eye could see how 
 widely the two differed. Mr. Montagu, however, 
 with all his love, was no fool ; he was as keen as 
 a fox to all that affected his own interest. He 
 was not so bewitched by the lady as to be blind 
 to certain imperfections which disclosed them- 
 selves day by day; bat he was one who hated to 
 have a desire which he could not gratify. It is, 
 indeed, a great hardship for a fine gentleman 
 with unlimited wealth not to be able to do what 
 he likes ; it is one of the bores of existence which 
 Providence ought to amend — Mr. Montagu
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 30 
 
 thought so. He coolly contemplated his con- 
 dition, his mistress, and his heart; he surveyed 
 them as an anatomist the body which he is about 
 to dissect. He was not perfectly satisfied with 
 either, and he scarcely knew what to do. The 
 lady was desirable, but settlements were stupid, 
 and restraint rather disagreeable. But, then — 
 he wanted a son to inherit his enormous wealth ; 
 if it was to go anywhere, it were best to one of 
 his own begetting ; he wanted a wife to rule his 
 house and servants, who cost him a good deal of 
 trouble, and to give him also a little personal 
 distinction ; he could scarcely get one better 
 suited for these worthy objects than the Lady 
 Mary ; he wanted something to fill a void in his 
 heart which sometimes made itself felt, notwith- 
 standing Addison's parsonical prate, and he sup- 
 posed a wife would do so. He was doomed to 
 • iisappointment in all these three wishes. His 
 sun was exiled from his house, and was forbidden 
 to be the recipient of his treasures ; he obtained 
 a wife whom he separated from in a brief time, 
 and kept at a most respectful distance all his life, 
 who disgraced herself and the name she bore, and
 
 40 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 never gave him but one day's pleasure ; he was 
 deprived of all solid happiness through life, he 
 lived despised, and died detested. His wealth 
 wont to the child of a villanous Scotsman who 
 scorned him, and who was himself the scorn of 
 mankind. 
 
 A sort of coy flirtation went on for two or three 
 years between this accomplished pair. At the 
 end of that time, Mrs. Wortley, the sister, died, 
 and the lady began to write love letters to the 
 brother. These epistles I have seen. They 
 breathe in every line the insincerity of the writer ; 
 the affectation of one who desires to be thought 
 that which she is not. She lavishes praise on 
 herself, with a profusion that exhibits the most 
 eager desire to persuade her correspondent that 
 she is all that can make him happiest of mortals. 
 As Midas changed everything into gold on which 
 he laid his finger, so she has but to point atten- 
 tion to any one of her numerous qualifications, 
 and it straight stands forth splendent and beau- 
 tiful. Other women are vain, light, frivolous, 
 deceitful ; they love equipages and grandeur ; 
 they are rebellious — shameful things — against
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 41 
 
 their husband's humours ; she is the perfect and 
 infallible female destined to make his life one 
 path of roses. Nobody was ever so disinterested 
 as she is. She is all heart, feeling, purity, and 
 truth. Her notions are modest to a nicety. She 
 extravagant ! Heaven forefend the thought ! 
 She can be content with love in the smallest 
 cottage. She a lover of fine clothes and gilt 
 coaches ! Oh ! blasphemous ! she is above al] 
 such nonsense. Apartments, table, pin-money, 
 jewels, a train of grinning slaves in plush are 
 things that never enter into her head. There is 
 only one man of sense on earth. Him she loves, 
 venerates, adores. Who can he be ? The receiver 
 of the letter may, perhaps, faintly guess — but she 
 will never name him — no, she will perish, sooner 
 than divulge her passion. Does he find fault with 
 her ? Alas ! he is deceived. He has entirely 
 mistaken her character. She is a ready-made 
 angel. But if she has any imperfections there is 
 one man who can mould her to his way of think- 
 ing, until she shall outshine the Seraphim. What 
 a mocking imp he must have been who sat and 
 guided her pen as she wrote down all this ! But
 
 43 EDWARD WOIiTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 was our ardent lover deceived by it ? I scarcely 
 think so. He had an immense fund of common 
 sense, or rather that dullness which the world 
 calls by that title ; the society of wits in which 
 he moved, and from whose light he derived a kind 
 of borrowed lustre, had opened his eyes to all 
 that was around him, and he was not to be taken 
 in. The simplicity of Arcadia was scarcely then 
 prevalent among the shepherds and shepherdesses 
 of Saint James's, though in theory at least it w 
 much admired. My father was an odd compound 
 — such only as our English soil produces. For 
 there are no people so eccentric as we are, with all 
 our boasted solidity. The maddest things that 
 have been done have been perpetrated by English- 
 men. Need I mention Ror r, or Peter- 
 borough, or Wharton, in proof of what I say ? 
 Need I go over the scandalous chronicles of our 
 insanity in love and war and gambling an ) 
 domestic polity? This odd jumble of characters 
 it was which made Mr. Montagu love and scorn 
 Lady Mary almost in the same instant, and loathe 
 himself for not bem£ able to emerge from her 
 fetters. He laboured hard to do so, but he failed
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 43 
 
 The fact is, she made up her mind to fascinate 
 him, and she succeeded. He was not Ulysses 
 enough to escape her spells, though he sailed 
 before her with all the caution of the Prince of 
 Ithaca. The Siren, however, prevailed over the 
 wise man, and he was shipwrecked and drowned. 
 Unhappy Sampson ! Wicked and ensnaring 
 Dalilah ! 
 
 There were two things which Mr. Edward 
 Wortley Montagu loved with a devotion that 
 never slept. The first was his own dear self ; 
 the second was his own darling money. These 
 two idols formed to him the whole universe. 
 The sun might shine, and the seasons might 
 re volve, and the heavens might speak in tones of 
 thunder, and flash in rays of lightning the wonders 
 of the Supreme One, but all such objects wt 
 trivial and contemptible in the eyes and ears and 
 thoughts of this distinguished man, as contrasted 
 with the two main splendours of the earth, him 
 self and his money, his money and himself. Ee 
 had once told Addison, who wrote him a kind of 
 half begging letter, complaining of the loss of 
 his place and of his estate, that he himself u had
 
 44 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 once lived for six months on fifty pounds as 
 pleasantly as ever he did in his life, and could 
 have lived for less than half that sum, entertain- 
 ing himself with the speech of Ofellusin the second 
 satire of the second book ;" — an observation which 
 coming from a man who could command the 
 greatest wealth of any commoner then living, 
 lets a whole flood of light in upon his true nature, 
 and was as cool a mode of politely refusing by 
 anticipation, that which he supposed his friend 
 needed, as even Chestsrfield himself would have 
 applauded. 
 
 This intense love of money in so young a 
 man became in time so absorbing that it 
 swallowed up all minor passions, and the richest 
 personage in England became the most greedy, 
 covetous and mean ; guarding his gold as if it 
 were his heart's blood, and hating to think that 
 anyone should ever possess that which he valued 
 above all earthly, or even heavenly, things. But 
 why name heavenly, when it was a word expressing 
 an idea that he knew not ? Yet these two intense 
 passions became for a period subordinate to a 
 third, and that was a longing desire for Lady
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 45 
 
 Mary, which possessed him night and day, and 
 which, although he wrestled stoutly against it, 
 conquered him in the end. But his liking was 
 shortlived. Even in the moment of possession 
 she sickened and disgusted him. The temporary 
 appetite disappeared for ever like a dream, and 
 his true nature re-asserted dominion. 
 
 Pope, who was I think the dirtiest little dwarf 
 of a varlet that ever hopped upon the earth, has 
 drawn a portrait of Mr. Montagu and his wife, 
 as they became developed in after years, when 
 the ruling passion of both was in the ascendant, 
 when even the pretence of liking would have 
 sounded too absurd for either to make it, and all 
 their bliss was placed in cursing me, and in- 
 wardly loathing each other as a pair of fiends. 
 
 '* Avidien or his wife, no matter which 
 For him you'll call a dog and her— 
 Sell their presented partridges and fruits 
 And humbly live on rabbits and on roots. 
 One half pint bottle serves them both to dine, 
 And is at once their vinegar and wine, 
 But on some lucky day — as when they found 
 A lost bank bill, or heard their son was drowned — 
 At such a feast old vinegar to spare 
 Is what two souls so generous cannot bear ; 
 Oil though it stunk, they drop by drop impart 
 But sowse the cabbage with a bounteous heart,"
 
 46 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 This giant avarice when my father courted my 
 mother was not yet fully grown. It was only in 
 its cradle, but it was even then a youthful 
 Hercules, Accordingly when the languishing 
 lover waited on the Duke of Kingston to solicit 
 the fair hand of Lady Mary, that illustrious peer 
 put one or two inconvenient questions to our 
 Leander which disgusted all the Cupid in his 
 heart. He was his father's sole surviving son ; 
 the immense property of the unhappy heiress of 
 the Wortleys, who had given herself and her 
 dominions up to the debauched old ogre with the 
 flapped hat, was so strictly settled on the issue 
 male, that by no possibility could the aforesaid 
 ogre, though very much inclined, dispose of any 
 portion of it as he wished. 
 
 My lord Marquis — he was not made a duke till 
 three or four years afterwards — accordingly began 
 to stipulate that if the snowy hand — he did not 
 mention the icy heart — of his beloved daughter 
 Miry, who would be a treasure to a prince, was 
 m ide over to the eager suitor, all the property of 
 the Wortleys and Montagus combined should be 
 settled on the heir male of the happy union. This
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 47 
 
 was the stern condition alone on which this loving 
 parent would consent to be separated from a 
 beloved child, the idol of his heart and home. 
 Bat this condition by no means suited Mr. 
 Edward Wortley Montagu. It seemed hard 
 enough to him; he forgot at the moment the 
 splendid prize he was soliciting. To part with 
 his dearly beloved treasure, even in thought, was 
 torture greater than any that the Inquisition had 
 devised. Could it be recompensed by the posses- 
 sion of a few score pounds of human flesh and 
 blood, even though both were highly noble. The 
 matter was doubtful ; he rather thought it an un- 
 fair proposal. He could not endure to dwell on 
 the fancy that his gold, the lord god of his 
 whole nature, should ever pass out of his grasp, 
 even on parchment, much less could he bear the 
 sight of one, who though already not in being (I 
 mean my worthy self), would probably arise at 
 some future day, Exoriare aliquis ultor ex ossibus 
 nostris, and long for his death, as ardently as he 
 now longed for the dissolution of the cruel old 
 cannibal who had made his wife's existence a 
 living hell upon earth, and who hated his son
 
 48 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 and heir expectant with all the virulence of a 
 Montagu. 
 
 The lover offered any reasonable amount of 
 settlement upon the lady herself, for whom he had 
 a sort of epicure's liking, or a museum maker's 
 desire, but positively refused to endow his future 
 offspring with a penny. 
 
 A fiery scene occurred. That the noble grand- 
 child of a Pierrepoint should be left to the caprice 
 of a Montagu, was not to be listened to. The 
 very suggestion was an insult, a degradation, a 
 blow, and the father and future son-in-law parted 
 with the most hearty hatred of each other, which 
 like most hatreds, went with them unextinguished 
 to the grave and worms. 
 
 Now came my lord's turn. He had long con- 
 sidered Lady Mary as a bore and spy upon his 
 actions. He shunned her eye and feared her 
 tongue, and dreaded her letter writing. She was 
 too big to be a toy; she was too clever to be 
 eluded by a fine gentleman who even still fol- 
 lowed his gallantries; she was, worst of all, too 
 old to be agreeable to the presence of a man 
 who was as yet in his prime, and had no particu-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 49 
 
 Jar fancy for parading himself as some score of 
 years more ancient than he looked, as the parent 
 of grown up children must ever, it is to be re- 
 gretted, be forced to appear. He had, besides, 
 another spouse in view for himself, whom, in- 
 deed, he soon wedded — Lady Belle Bentinck, the 
 youngest daughter of King William's Earl of 
 Portland. The minister, too, urged him to make 
 a profitable investment by means of his daughter ; 
 and offended pride and awakened hatred stimu- 
 lated him on to snatch this golden apple from the 
 enraptured Mr. Montagu. 
 
 He lost no time, therefore, in patching up a 
 contract with that illustrious peer of whom I 
 have already made honourable mention, and as 
 he never anticipated opposition, his rage at the 
 disappointment of his hopes when my mother 
 eloped may be more easily imagined than des- 
 cribed. 
 
 Which of the parties gained on the whole by 
 the proceeding would be a curious enquiry. I 
 rather think it was my grandfather, for he got 
 the dukedom. 
 
 The disappointed peer did not complain much ; 
 
 VOL. I. d
 
 50 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 indeed his rottenness soon came to his relief, and 
 carried him off, to the great joy of his heir. 
 
 Mr. Montagu succeeded in his wish — a wife 
 without a settlement — but soon got sick of his 
 toy, and panted in vain for single blessedness. 
 The devil gave him wealth, but would not make 
 him a widower — a very uncivil thing to do ; but 
 such things will happen.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 51 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 H The men of the city, even the men of Sodom, compassed the 
 house round, both old and young, all the people from every 
 quarter." 
 
 The 12th of August, 1712, was a day memorable 
 for many things, not the least of which was my 
 mother's marriage. She came to her husband, a s 
 she said herself, with only ci a night-gown and a 
 petticoat," and she was probably agreeable enough 
 for a few moments in these habiliments, but I 
 never could discover that his passion survived th e 
 first four-and- twenty hours of their union. 
 
 In a month or two he sent her to a remote par t 
 of the country, while he himself wandered about 
 to various places, now saying that he was elec- 
 
 d 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 tioneering, now engaged in visiting friends, who 
 were to interfere between the two rival and angry 
 fathers-in-law, now amusing himself in London, 
 where he received his letters at Jacob Tonson's, 
 opposite Catherine Street, in the Strand, now ad- 
 vertising for mortgages and young spendthrift 
 heirs, who paid exhorbitant interest for ready 
 money. Never did any man more suddenly get 
 cured than he did. But what discovery had he 
 made that so suddenly sickened him of his fair 
 bride? What damning fact transpired that put 
 his love to flight in the hymeneal hour? Had 
 my lady — ? But no ; these things can be only 
 matter of guess. Nor is it for me to search too 
 deeply into this abstruse enquiry. Certain it is 
 that he would have given a large sum to be free 
 iio-ain. He left her, and with ill concealed scorn, 
 ohe, meanwhile, boxed up somewhere in the 
 country, far remote from civilization, and the 
 squares in which she had so longed to glitter, sent 
 him every day the most bitter complaints of head- 
 ache, spleen, and want of sleep. But he treated 
 all such nonseuse with contempt, or with that 
 iiue stoicism which Addison, who consoled him-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 53 
 
 self over a bottle for his own domestic mishaps 
 with Lady Warwick, had taught him, and which 
 he now for the first time felt that he could practise. 
 He did not condescend to write even a single line, 
 nor send one consoling message, though her 
 peevishness increased, her melancholy augmented, 
 and her letters grew more frequent. I was born, 
 but even this made no change. The result, as 
 might have been expected, was this — Lady Mary 
 hated her husband, and cared very little what she 
 did out of malice or revenge. 
 
 My father's cousin, Charles Montagu, having 
 some time before this been made Earl of Halifax, 
 Knight of the Garter — that sure badge of virtue 
 and nobleness — and first Lord of the Treasury, 
 our family star was at its zenith, and my father 
 was made one of the Lords Commissioners. On 
 the Earl's death and Walpole's succession, the 
 embassy to Constantinople was given to Mr. 
 Montagu, as a special token of courtly approba- 
 tion, or, as some said, a courtly mode of banish- 
 ment. I don't know why he selected it, if indeed 
 it was bis own choice at all. A gentleman less
 
 54 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 imbued with orientalism never lived. But like 
 his mad marriage, it was probably one of his ec- 
 centric crotchets, and he resolved to indulge it. 
 The jewelled East perhaps had charms for his 
 golden thirst. Could he have left his wife be- 
 hind I have no doubt he would ; why he did not 
 I can scarcely tell. I suppose there were reasons 
 — there always are. I wish he had, though I 
 suppose that as accidents will arise in the best 
 regulated families, and with the best conducted 
 footmen, the same mishap which befel her after- 
 w ards in the royal seraglio would have happened 
 had she been left alone in England. 
 
 We packed up our baggage and departed. This 
 was in 1716, when I was not three years old. Of 
 our adventures on the road and during our stay 
 in Stamboul, I can of course personally know 
 nothing, nor do I indeed know very much more 
 than all the readers of Lady Mary's letters. 
 Whatever will bear publication appears there; all 
 that will not bear it is penned, I suppose, in 
 another book, and will be read out in thunders on 
 the last day — if such a horrid event should ever
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 55 
 
 happen. It will be rather a startling investiga- 
 tion into the high-bred secrets of high-bred 
 sinners. 
 
 My lady corresponded during the whole period 
 with Walpole's mistress, Poll Skerret ; — received 
 the most disgraceful love letters from Mr. Pope, 
 who was a prostitute of another kind, though 
 just as odious — laughed at the images of Jesus 
 Christ in the chapels, and particularly at the 
 full-bottomed wigs in which they were arrayed ; 
 sneered at the ugly Austrian dames in paint and 
 whalebone petticoats ; had an offer made to her 
 of his heart and person during her stay in Vienna 
 by a young Count Somebody, which she protested 
 she refused, poor Mr. Wortley having been con- 
 sulted by neither in this little arrangement, and 
 finally visited the seraglio of the Sultan, where a 
 trifling matter occurred which gave the crowning 
 blow to all her nuptial happiness. I believe she 
 and Mr. Wortley Montagu never cohabited to- 
 gether after that. 
 
 The Ambassador was recalled in 1717, but out 
 of sullenness or fear of scandal and the tongue of 
 the wits, his dear friends, or some other eccentric
 
 56 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 EDglish crotchet, he did not come back until 1718, 
 when he probably thought my lady's folly had 
 been forgotten in the five hundred similar ones 
 that had happened in the interval. They were 
 immediately surrounded by a gang of flatterers, 
 knaves, authors, and fine ladies — corpses covered 
 with pearls — who then constituted the finest orna- 
 ment of fashionable society. Among these choice 
 and faithful friends, two in particular distin- 
 guished themselves — Pope and Congreve, the 
 former labouring with all his might to seducer 
 mother by his artful tongue, as he had previously 
 laid the basis for it by his flattering pen ; and the 
 latter aiding him to corrupt her mind still more 
 than it previously had been by her association 
 with bishops, courtiers, and courtesans. 
 
 "What fine people there were in those da; 
 and how my heart swells as I think of them and 
 their byegone splendours. Pruvidence, I suppof 
 had scarcely ever before collected a g num- 
 
 ber of worthless villains, harridans, and scoundrels, 
 without hangingor transporting mo) 
 fourths of them. The best deserved to be broken 
 on the wheel. Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, and
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 57 
 
 Normanby, commonly called John of Bucks, was 
 at their head ; an atheist, full of the notions of 
 Hobbes ; a libertine, stuffed with the principles 
 of Rochester ; a cheat in everything where money 
 was concerned. Prior, vain, sensual, sordid in 
 his intrigues, cohabiting with a scullion, on 
 whom he lavished his money and his poetry, may 
 be said to have brought up the tail. Congreve, 
 with eyes full of pride and lasciviousness, con- 
 ceited, worthless, and selfish ; utterly profligate 
 in his private life, and so great a braggart, that 
 scarcely anything he said could be credited ; 
 Addison, a crawling sycophant, full of envy and 
 spleen ; frantic when a friend prospered ; happy 
 only when misfortune lighted on his associates; a 
 hypocrite who would take you by the hand, and 
 if he heard you utter a sentiment which in his 
 heart he knew to be erroneous, would labour to 
 confirm you in it with all his zeal, rejoicing in your 
 inexperience, as Satan might exult over the fall 
 of a young novice. Pope, who was all malice, 
 hatred, and uncharitableness ; false as a Jesuit ; 
 fickle as a fool ; mercenary as a waiting woman ; 
 and with a prurient fancy, which, had his body 
 
 d 5
 
 58 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 permitted it, would have led him into excesses as 
 gross as any that Chartres was accused of. The 
 Duke of Wharton, now in the full glory of his 
 profligacy, at the head of his club called 
 "Schemers," who openly avowed that the ruin of 
 women constituted the sole tie that bound them 
 together, and who for that reason alone were 
 sought after, caressed, and hunted by all the silly 
 simpletons in town. Garth, whose entire dis- 
 course was dissolute as his manners were profli- 
 gate, and who laughed at all religion as a sham ; 
 Kneller, gross and vain, and venom -tempered ,• 
 Cooper, afterwards Lord Chancellor, who had two 
 living wives ; a minister of the law, and a keeper 
 of the king's conscience, who set the statutes 
 against bigamy at defiance, and was only liable 
 to death for felony on the prosecution of any one 
 who could bring home the well known charge. 
 Townsend, the brother-in-law of Walpole, and 
 his brazen countess — immortalised to infamy by 
 my cousin Fielding, as Lady Bellaston in Tom 
 Jones — with Sunderland the knave, and Craggs, 
 the stock jobber, who died just in time to escape 
 the universal infamy which fell upon all connected
 
 EDWARD WORT LEY MONTAGU. 59 
 
 with the South Sea swindle. But why go through 
 this Newgate Calendar, or enumerate the twelve 
 tribes of villain statesmen and loathsome rakes, 
 with Iscariot Walpole for their Alpha and Omega, 
 with whom my lady was brought perpetually into 
 contact ? Whv follow her to the Prince's, where 
 she sought to ingratiate herself with the heir 
 apparent; and when that failed, why pursue her to 
 the court, where she herself became half domesti- 
 cated with Schulenberg and Kilmansegg, and 
 Platen, horrible queans, who would not have been 
 endured in any decent company, but for the pro- 
 tection of the hideous old sovereign ? A more 
 detestable academy for a young wife to enter 
 cannot be imagined. It set the final seal on my 
 mother's principles, and ruined her ; and what 
 before might have been accidental was now con- 
 firmed vice. 
 
 I have drawn a pleasing picture of aristocratic 
 life in England sixty years ago. The colours are 
 sombre, the tints are dark, it must be owned. 
 But I write with the pencil of historic truth. I 
 have shewn the inside of these men whom 
 biographers, essayists, and historians will doubt-
 
 60 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 less paint with shining colours, bringing 
 out all their prominent virtues with fine 
 gold, and covering the gorgeous canvass with 
 glaze and varnish, and many a parting touch of 
 purest light. I shall be called a misanthropist. 
 Well ! I do hate mankind, but it is mankind con- 
 stituted of rogues and rascals. I shall be de- 
 nouncedasa satirist. There is no reproach in 
 the title. Far more disgraceful, it seems to me, 
 to be like Burnet, the panegyrist of vice and cor- 
 rupt power, than the dread anatomist of its 
 horrors. I have nothing to gain by speaking 
 thus plainly ; I have everything to lose, for men 
 conspire against all who tell them disagreeable 
 truths. And what can be more galling to the 
 good — for I suppose there are some hidden in the 
 un known regions — than to have their dreams dis- 
 pelled, their belief in virtue disolved in thin air? 
 This was the last sigh of Brutus — his last and 
 bitterest, no doubt. I suppose he once believed 
 in virtue ; I would do so too if I had ever seen 
 her. For my whole life I have been reading and 
 hearing of her, but like Echo, the shy nymph 
 has never revealed herself before me, but wan-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 61 
 
 dered farther away the more I sought her in her 
 choice retreats. 
 
 The truth is, civilised society seems to me like 
 a picture of Hell in little. Virtue is extinct 
 Falsehood and Heartlessness are the universal 
 rulers. There is not a man or woman that I meet 
 who is not masked. As in the great carnival, 
 every one assumes a character which is not his 
 own, so it is in towns and cities. The young 
 are caught by externals; they think the dress 
 and outside represent the inner man; but they 
 wake from their delusion at some period, and find 
 that all is theatrical — that nobody is what he ap- 
 pears to be ; that men are base under the 
 most honourable trappings, and women are vile 
 under the most snowy veils. Hence I have ever 
 shunned the sinning crowd — myself perhaps as 
 bad as they — but still I longed to separate from 
 them. I have sought repose in the East and 
 West ; in the mountains, and the wilderness. I 
 have not found them, and I never shall ; but if I 
 am to move amidst the vicious, give me at least 
 the vices of the desert, which are open, brave, 
 and daring vices, and not like the sneaking crimes
 
 62 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 of polished men. England, at the period of 
 which I now write, was the ape of France, and 
 as almost every crime which Juvenal enumerates, 
 or Suetonius describes, or man imagines, was 
 practised with open impunity by the Gauls; so 
 it came to pass that in our own country also 
 — ever its servile imitator — it was thought un- 
 fashionable to be decent, and good breeding to be 
 impious. Why, oh ! why, thou sacred Heaven, is 
 human nature so depraved as to be perpetually 
 plotting evil for others? Here was a young 
 woman, who might even yet have been virtuous, 
 and certainly was fascinating, flung into a whirl- 
 pool from which it was almost impossible to 
 escape, while those— her superiors in years or 
 judgment — who might have lent her a helping 
 hand out of it, only sought to thrust her deeper 
 downwards into the abyss. What a base heart must 
 he possess, who for a paltry momentary gratifica- 
 tion, corrupts a human soul into an instrument 
 fitting his purposes, and coolly meditates the 
 overthrow of an immortal essence, simply for the 
 indulgence of a brief and transitory fancy. Yet 
 is not this the picture daily shown before man-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 63 
 
 kind ? !? end a young virgin out alone, and for 
 one who will have pity on her years five hundred 
 will allure her to her ruin. Entrust your son 
 with a bag of gold, and for one who will counsel 
 prudence, he will meet five hundred who will 
 tempt him into profligacy. Go thyself into the 
 highways and byways, and for one who will ex- 
 hibit friendship, kindliness, or fidelity, thou shalt 
 be surrounded by five hundred who will betray, 
 deceive, and destroy ; and all this apparently for 
 the slightest gain— most certainly for no reward 
 in anyway equal to the diabolical zeal with which 
 they execute their work. Yet to resist and over- 
 come such is the great battle of life, and grand 
 indeed is the wreath of victory for him who con- 
 quers. Man ! the days of chivalry are not 
 departed ; the race of knight errants is not ex- 
 tinct. Thou art thyself in every moment of thy 
 career, the knight of the bleeding heart, and 
 canst travel nowhere without meeting monsters 
 or damsels in distress. Out with thy good sword, 
 and with shield over thy breast charge upon thine 
 enemy. He appears before thee, an enchanter in 
 disguise, with fair words, and sweet smiles, and
 
 64 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 hermit garb, but is it not thus we know that all 
 the arch-magicians sought to compass the ruin of 
 the brave and gallant ? Instead of woods and 
 forests, he now betakes himself to squares and 
 drawiner-rooms ; instead of brazen castles he har- 
 bours in courts and senates, and in the golden 
 mart. Think not that he is less wily or dan- 
 gerous than when he came as in the olden time. 
 I tell thee he is a hundredfold more dreadful than 
 in the days gone bye, for instead of the bold and 
 daring front which he then assumed, or of the 
 fiery dragon on which he then rode, he now has 
 gathered deeper cunning from his years, and 
 clothes himself in the most peaceful garb, and 
 the most bewitching smiles; nay, he bears a 
 lamb about with him in his journeys, as an em- 
 blem of the truth and innocence that is in his 
 heart.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 65 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Nebuchadnezzar the king made an image of gold, he set it up 
 in the plain of Dura, in the province of Babylon. . . . And 
 whoso falleth not down and worshippeth shall the same hour be 
 cast into the midst of a fiery furnace." 
 
 I suppose I need not describe our grand house in 
 Cavendish Square ; we had a drawing room and 
 a library and a billiard room ; a public dining 
 room and a private dining room, and a picture 
 gallery, and a red saloon, and a breakfast room, 
 and a blue chamber, and I know not how many 
 writing closets and ante rooms, and other fine 
 places, all of which, however, looked grim and 
 desolate, and dirty enough — vast Saharas in the 
 heart of London. Wherever you glanced there 
 were family portraits, hard faced men in peri-
 
 C6 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 wigs, and brazen eyed men in helmets and shin- 
 ing breastplates, and some in ruffs and scarves 
 and doublets, and horrid monsters in china, and 
 blue jars like those that hid the band of robbers 
 in Ali-Baba, and huge fireplaces in which a fire 
 was never lighted, and great sconces in which 
 candles were never lit, and vast mirrors in which 
 a smiling, happy countenance was never seen. 
 Mould and mustiness and solitude combined to 
 make the home a horror. For this mansion was 
 in truth the chosen abode of Misery intheaugi 
 person of my honoured father, and if I were 
 writing an allegorical poem like Ovid — but I bate 
 that affected fop — I might describe it with raaDy 
 poetical particulars, which as I am neither a Naso 
 nor a Spenser, are thus for ever lost to the world. 
 The servants were wretched scarec; as tall 
 
 and thin as the poor apothecary in Foineo su 
 Juliet ; the blinds were usually undrawn, so tl 
 a dim, cavernous twilight pervaded the whole 
 house; there waR not even the song of a bird, 
 the friendly footstep of a dog, or the comfortable 
 mew of a cat heard in this great sile byrinth ; 
 for our ex- Lord of the Treasury was too prudent
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 67 
 
 to invest money, or to squander it in such idle, 
 vain accessories as these. I only wonder that he 
 did not scrape the gold off the frames, and sell 
 all the Indian monkeys for whatever they would 
 fetch, for I know he hated to look at their dis- 
 torted features. I suppose he would have done 
 so if he dared, but my lady, though as musical 
 as any nightingale of Parnassus, had a tongue — 
 and when she did speak, she could make its music 
 ring like the baying of a pack in full cry. Yet 
 why should she not? Were not female tongues 
 formed for this purpose? 
 
 How well I can remember the feeling with 
 which I used to steal about the great staircases, 
 in the wretched twilight, half afraid of the ugly, 
 black, begrimed male savages on canvass, who 
 glowered like ogres of the olden time out of the 
 dusky corners — Calibans and demons to my 
 young imagination. Sometimes I stopped and 
 contemplated the female portraits, as if I could 
 receive from them that sweet music of sympathy 
 for which my heart so ardently longed. I have 
 gone up to them when 1 was unobserved and 
 kissed their cold red lips, and wondered why they
 
 68 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 did not open their arms to me, and why their eyes 
 were still and lifeless, when mine flashed with 
 tears, and my heart leaped within me for a kin- 
 dred heart. But there they were, as impassive 
 as death itself. Then I would retreat into a 
 corner and cry like a fool, and wonder were all 
 other boys as unhappy and lonely and un cared for 
 as myself, and were all other fathers and mothers 
 such stocks and stones as mine appeared to be. 
 There was not a single creature in the whole 
 house with one human sympr/ for whom I 
 cared, or who cared for me, except indeed a black 
 named Jupiter, who often comforted me when he 
 saw me weeping, and in his own wild way made 
 me weep more still, for I knew that he pitied me, 
 and this caused my tears to flow forth afresh. 
 During my whole boyhood, or at least as much 
 of it as I passed in this catacomb, I never remem- 
 ber to have heard an honest, hearty burst of 
 laughter, or one merry song from the lips of our 
 domestics. A cold chain of depression seemed to 
 be thrown over the spirits of all ; they went 
 through their work like automata. rpetual 
 
 silence reigned. My father, glum, gloomy, taci-
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 69 
 
 turn as a marble statue, chilled everyone into 
 torpidity ; my mother did not dare to let her 
 natural spirits flow forth, but curbed them until 
 she visited abroad, when they ran loose, and I 
 fear, turbid. And every night we had prayers — 
 but here I must stop. The recollection of this 
 dreary farce, for such it was, makes me perfectly 
 sick at heart. 
 
 What wretched things our breakfasts were! 
 My father sat with a pile of papers beside him, 
 over which he was busily engaged. There were 
 mortgages, leases, bills, and bonds, and promis- 
 sory notes, and all sorts of securities for money, 
 wherein he held imprisoned the souls of debtors ; 
 noble lords, and mighty commoners. These he 
 contemplated with his pale eyes and yellow smile, 
 as God might contemplate a Paradise filled with 
 beautiful, happy spirits. They were his all ; his 
 world, his belief, his faith, his life, his religion. 
 The stout oak boxes in which they were secured 
 by double and treble locks were duly opened ; 
 the rich securities for gold that increased itself 
 twenty-fold as every year revolved, were drawn 
 forth and contemplated with an ever new feeling
 
 70 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 of delight ; gorgeous visions of money, money, 
 money, arose in the mind of the covetous man ; 
 and he seemed like Jupiter seated on Olympus, 
 and revelling in the consciousness of strength and 
 power. Lady Mary sat opposite and served him 
 with his chocolate, herself as silent as her lord, 
 dreaming, I suppose, of new conquests, or new 
 lampoons ; how to lure this man of fashion into 
 a declaration ; how to crush this rival dame 
 into the hell of the damned. Between them was 
 the writer of this, scarcely daring to lift up his 
 eyes. To intrude upon this awful silence would 
 be like the crime of him of old, who broke in 
 upon the Sacred Mysteries, and was torn in 
 pieces for his pains. The bleeding features of 
 Medusa had not a more freezing effect than my 
 father's presence; if, like Midas, all that he 
 touched was changed into gold, like the head of 
 the Gorgon, all that he looked at was petrified 
 into cold stone. Yet all this exquisite rapture 
 about his money and its quick increase was not 
 without certain drawbacks. Truly did the wise 
 Saxon of old say, no joy without alloy — a senti - 
 ruent for which I can scarcely suppose that he
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 71 
 
 travelled to Pagan Rome to steal it, though the 
 sage Lucretius delivers it to us in other and more 
 poetical language, when he says that " even out 
 of the midst of pleasure's fountain, something 
 bitter will arise." This, you, my dear sir, have 
 probably yourself experienced, and why should not 
 our Saxon ancestors? Nor do I suppose that 
 there lives a single man at this moment whose 
 own heart has not taught it to him as a sad truth. 
 I know, indeed that Miss Jones felt it, when she 
 gave herself, sweet pretty cherub, and sixty 
 thousand pounds to Saltash of the household 
 troops, and found in a little time that the fasci- 
 nating young Phoebus, who had appeared to her 
 dazzled imagination something only just beneath 
 an angel of heaven, was a heavy, stupid, sottish, 
 self-loving fool, who cared for nothing on earth 
 but stuffing his own paunch and perfuming his 
 own hair, and curling his big whiskers, and 
 making love to all the silly nursery maids he 
 met. And I know also that Lord John Apollo, 
 who flew into the country, disgusted with Mayfair 
 Leauty, and sought in a sequestered hamlet in 
 Shropshire for youth, innocence, and virgin purity,
 
 72 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 and found it as he thought, under a very plain 
 cottage roof, was rather amazed in a few months 
 to discover that his sweet Amanda, who had 
 appeared the most fairy-like, amiable, and artless 
 of all rustic nymphs, was as cold, vain, selfish, 
 tricky, and false hearted as the finest fashionable 
 siren on the town. No wonder, then, that the 
 Honourable Edward Wortley Montagu was not 
 exempt from trials, and felt, like Alexander the 
 Great, that he was but a mortal man, after all. 
 
 And he had them. Such trials ! — alas ! that 
 it should be said of the owner of thirty thousand 
 pounds per annum. If rich, miserly men had 
 only money to receive, what a splendid sphere 
 this earth would be for them. But, ah me ! in 
 this world we not only get, but we have to give 
 money. This is the bitter pill — the poison in 
 our golden cup. Could you and I, my dear 
 Croesus, go on from year to year, cramming and 
 gorging our leathern purses or our pocket books 
 with notes, notes, silvery, crisp notes, still and 
 ever fresh from the Bank of England, I am 
 afraid we should never want to die, and we should 
 be very much disinclined to make way at all for
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 73 
 
 our successors ; nay, we should consider them the 
 most unreasonable, usurping scoundrels un- 
 hanged. But unfortunately, as fast as money 
 flows in, it flows out also. We have house rent 
 and taxes, and a confounded wine merchant, and 
 a rascally tailor, and an unconscionable boot- 
 maker, and half a million other knaves and 
 rogues, who are perpetually drawing upon our 
 golden fountains, till they dry much faster than 
 they fill. And though our case is melancholy in 
 the extreme, still more to be pitied are those un- 
 happy wretches who have wives and children, for 
 though it certainly is a hard condition enough 
 that we should be compelled to pay our own bills, 
 can anything be a greater bore than to have to 
 pay for our big Tom at Eton or Oxford, whom it 
 takes the best part of a thousand to feed and 
 clothe, and who is not half so useful to us as our 
 horse, or our pretty, sweet, smiling Bessy and 
 Fanny, who look upon their very respectable 
 parent as nothing but a milch cow, sent by kind 
 Heaven into the world for the sole purpose of 
 giving the pretty creatures an unlimited supply 
 of bonnets, gloves, silk stockings, corsets, jewelry, 
 
 VOL, I, E
 
 74 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 and fine dresses ? These I say are indeed melan- 
 choly considerations, and I am afraid they press 
 more heavily on the rich than the very poor, 
 which is a manifest injustice on the part of 
 Providence. 
 
 My father's life journey, therefore, was by no 
 means amid roses — there were several nasty 
 thorns in his path, which bored him immensely. 
 Had he been single he would have been all 
 right. He could have passed all his days with 
 Addison or Congreve, at Wills' or Button's; and 
 all his nights with Steele at the theatre, for which 
 he could have got a free admission. But he was 
 not single; he had a wife, unhappy man ! with a 
 thousand grasping wants, passions, feelings, 
 emotions, pleasures, that must be gratified, or if 
 they were not, why then, the world must come to 
 an end, and where would lie be? For my lady 
 never forgot that she was a duke's daughter, and 
 though that was to some extent a feather in his 
 cap, yet did it entail further and greater expenses 
 than if she had been the child of a simple com- 
 moner, a poor unknown devil, whom the Rev. 
 Mr. Jacob would despise. As a bachelor, a
 
 EDWARD WORTLBY MONTAGU. 75 
 
 pleasant suite of chambers would have suited him 
 admirably; a slight flirtation with one of (Dibber' s 
 actresses, that would not have cost very much, 
 would have sufficed when he was melancholy — 
 but as a husband and father, an equipage, ser- 
 vants, an imposing mansion, and all the other 
 expensive appendages of his position were abso- 
 lutely needed, and sorely did they all grate 
 against his philosophy. However, as he had 
 committed the egregious folly of marriage, and 
 as he was bothered with these abominable conse- 
 quences incident to it, he resolved to make the 
 best of his position, and to pinch, starve, screw, 
 and save in every conceivable way, so that he 
 might make the greatest appearance with the 
 least possible expense. And it was this pinching, 
 starving, screwing, and saving which made the 
 rich man's life as wretched as a toad's in a hole 
 — nay probably more so, for I believe the toad 
 is content, but Mr. Edward Wortley Montagu, 
 senior, was not content. He had great moments 
 of joy indeed, and those were when he received 
 money, which he got in bundles and bundles ; 
 but to make up for these Elysian moments, there 
 
 E 2
 
 76 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 were others of great unhappiness, and these were 
 when he had to disburse small portions of these 
 very bundles in the payment of his just debts. 
 
 " Madam," he would say, " here is another 
 milliner's bill — am I never to have done with 
 paying for your cursed folly and extravagance ? 
 The last was— let me see — not two months ago, 
 a ad I had then to pay one hundred and twenty- 
 nine pounds, three shillings, and fourpence. 
 Here is one to-day, in which I find seventeen 
 pounds charged for a ball dress, and six pounds 
 ten for one of those silly turbans that make you 
 look, so damned hideous. Then I paid Flash, 
 the Jew crayon painter, fourteen pounds for a 
 very ugly likeness of yourself, drawn, I think, 
 when you had the jaundice ; and Flimsy, the 
 toyman, sixty- seven pounds for some frippery, 
 which I suppose you think sets you off like a 
 sovereign queen. Then, Madam, you have a 
 dentist — though I don't know what for, as he 
 cannot preserve your teeth, and a doctor, and an 
 apothecary, and a nurse, and a shoemaker, and a 
 hosier, and a doxy of a seamstress who never 
 seems to have done with mending and making, 

 
 EBWABD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 77 
 
 and a plumasier — though what you want with the 
 peacock's feathers, except to cover over your 
 jackdaw appearance, I know not — and a glover ; 
 fifteen pounds four in one quarter of a year for 
 gloves — and a perfumer (I don't think cosmetics 
 become you), and a couple of lazy trollops, who 
 call themselves your maids ; and then you have a 
 stock-broker, and a corn cutter, and the devil 
 knows what besides, so that I am fairly pillaged 
 by the train of robbers that you feed. You 
 Bhould remember that when you came to me with 
 only your smock, you never hinted that I was to 
 pay so dearly for the pleasure of giving you my 
 name." 
 
 And Lady Mary would remain silent. She 
 feared no one in the world but one man, and this 
 was my father. He had thoroughly broken in 
 and cowed her. She was tamer than a cat before 
 him. 
 
 Then he would resume in the old strain — 
 
 " Here is Timms writes up from Twickenham 
 
 that one of the cows is dead ; that is a loss of 
 
 twenty pounds. What shall I do ? I shall be 
 
 beggared at this rate among you. And there is
 
 78 EDWAED WOKTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 a new roof wanted to the stable, and one of the 
 doors has come away from the piggery, and the 
 scoundrels still continue poaching, and one of my 
 best dogs was poisoned last week. But you have 
 no sympathy for all this — you have no more feel- 
 ing than a sow. You think only of your damned 
 balls and beaux. I thought you were too old for 
 such nonsense. You remind me of the proverb, 
 madam, i Many a fool have I seen, but an old 
 fool like this never.' And what the deuce good 
 is Lord Hervey to you ? And the Duke of 
 Wharton — why, he makes you his public laugh- 
 ing stock. * Old Moll,' he says, ' thinks I care 
 for her; damme, I should as soon think of car- 
 ing for old Noll.' And then he drinks damna- 
 tion to the Protector, and says, i The king sh 
 have his own again.' Do you know, madam, 
 that T have not had a tailor's bill myself for the 
 last three years, while you are dressed up every 
 week in new finery ? And I could restock my 
 farm for half the money that you spend iu 
 Japanese ogres and four-footed demons in porce- 
 lain. I shall be beggared by you in the end, I 
 know. Then there is this young scoundrel, a true
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 79 
 
 imp of your own breeding. (This, gentle reader, 
 referred to me ; but you mustn't believe I was 
 either imp or scoundrel, though my honoured 
 father said so.) I find he is perpetually flinging 
 stones and breaking windows. I have had to pay 
 five glazier's bills for him in the last three weeks ; 
 this shows your careful training of him. But I 
 suppose he will come to the gallows. He has 
 ridden two ponies to death; he knocked down a 
 pedlar, and spoilt his box of goods, for which I 
 had to pay three and tenpence damages ; he has 
 ran up a bill at the baker's for sweet cakes, which 
 will soon bring him under the clutches of one of 
 your blood-sucking apothecaries, and there will 
 be a long account sent in. How the devil, 
 madam, can any fortune stand up against this ? 
 Only that you save three hundred a year out of 
 the five hundred which the chancellor allows you 
 for keeping your lunatic sister, I don't know 
 where we should be. You look as if you thought 
 my bonds and speculations produced thousands. 
 Well; they certainly do ; but then they ought to 
 produce tens of thousands, and I don't see what 
 benefit I gain, if, while I make money with one
 
 80 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 hand, you and this imp lavish it away with 
 another. Henceforward, madam, it is my com- 
 mand that you spend only a hundred a year on 
 Lady Mar, and save all the rest ; indeed, I don't 
 see why you cannot support her well for a guinea 
 a week, for as she lives in the garret here, there 
 is no house rent or servant's wages, and surely 
 that is enough to clothe a mad woman." 
 
 Then the house steward would be called, and 
 addressed as follows : — 
 
 " Wilkins, I fear you are a regular rogue. I 
 have been overhauling some bills, and I find I am 
 cheated right and left. There is coals thirty-five 
 pounds fourteen shillings and sevenpence. Why, 
 the house must be as hot as hell with all these 
 fires. What do you mean, sir, by letting the 
 servants go on in this way ? Do you suppose I 
 am made of money? I certainly should be so to 
 satisfy such gross extravagance. Then I find a 
 butcher's bill, one hundred and fifteen pounds, 
 two shillings and sixpence halfpenny. How is 
 this? Where, when, why, how was all this meat 
 eaten? It is enough to feed a regiment. I sup- 
 pose all the vagabonds in the neighbourhood dine
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 81 
 
 at my expense. And how much of this goes into 
 your own pocket as per centage ? You're a rogue, 
 sir, and you look like a damned extravagant one. 
 Have I not told you over and over again that I 
 will not allow the servants to cram and stuff at 
 this rate? Why they live on venison, I suppose 
 — venison and claret ; nothing else will satisfy 
 their nasty bellies. There is a beer bill, forty- 
 seven pounds nine shillings. Good God! is all 
 this gone in beer ? Why the servants must be 
 always drunk ; and you, sir, look as if you were 
 drunk at this moment. No wonder I am pillaged 
 in this way, when the person who ought to over- 
 look these villains is himself guxzling from morn 
 ing till night. Do you know what the chandler's 
 bill comes to? — seventy-eight pounds thirteen 
 shillings and elevenpence farthing. Soap and 
 candles. Why I would contract to supply a whole 
 barrack with both for that sum. Leave the room , 
 sir, and go at once to every one of these ruffians 
 and deduct five-and-twenty per cent, from their 
 bills and pay them, and bring me back the re- 
 ceipts. 
 
 " And now, madam," turning to Lady Mary, 
 
 E 5
 
 82 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " what are you going to do for the day ? Intent on 
 gadding, I suppose? Gad where you like, but 
 don't lay out money. I will stand any of your 
 follies, madam, but by G — I will not stand this. 
 You know your father will not give us a penny ; 
 he spends it on his mistress. It is your duty, 
 then, as you came to me penniless, to make up for 
 it in thrift. But I may as well preach to a deaf 
 man as talk to you of saving. Have you con- 
 sidered what I said about your sister ? She can 
 live splendidly on a guinea a week. Let her 
 have a mutton chop or two now and then ; fish 
 is cheap and wholesome; she can occasionally 
 have a pudding. Let her drink be water, for this 
 cools the brain. Any fermented liquor will only 
 kill her. Now, madam, can you not supply her 
 well with these articles for five or six shillings a 
 week ? Her clothes, I suppose, will be ten pounds 
 a year ; her washing about as much. What 
 more can she want? Oh! a servant. Well, 
 have we not a horde of lazy servants ? What 
 can she require a servant for ? Her apothecary's 
 bill ought not to be more than a guinea or two ; 
 indeed, she will not want any dru; all if you
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 83 
 
 feed her on plain, wholesome food. Thus, 
 madam, you might save four hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year, which you could have for your own 
 pleasures — I mean your own pin money, without 
 making these everlasting demands on me, which 
 I am resolved I will no longer satisfy. Then 
 why don't you win from Wharton ? That is the 
 least you may do to repay yourself for his laugh- 
 ter. I am sure your skill at cards is deep 
 enough ; and the fool is spending all his money 
 on worse foibles than these. What good is he to 
 you unless you win his gold ?" 
 
 These, the reader will say, were wretched 
 scenes. Indeed they were; yet they were of 
 daily occurrence. The lessons of thrift perpetually 
 dinned into Lady Mary's ears by a husband who 
 almost denied himself the common necessaries of 
 life, produced their effect, and she at length be- 
 came as miserly and grasping as her tutor. She 
 hated to part with a sixpence. She would hoard 
 and hoard small sums, and though constantly 
 dunned for debts which she ought to have dis- 
 charged long ago, she could not induce her hand 
 to open her purse strings, but put off the wretched
 
 84 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 creditor until he was tired of asking, and often 
 gave up the debt in despair or disgust, or forget- 
 fulness, if it were a small sum. And this, I be- 
 lieve, is a trick with many fine people ; for trades- 
 men in a large way of business cannot constantly 
 be examining their books for small balances over 
 due ; or if they can it is not worth their while 
 to send half a dozen times as many miles for 
 these wretched items. Thus they are eventually 
 forgotten or abandoned, and the miser finds him- 
 self at the year's end some four or five pounds 
 richer, whereat he hugs himself with joy, and 
 resolves to cheat twenty other tradesmen in the 
 same way for the next twelve months out of small 
 sums. And so it goes on, and at the end of 
 twenty or thirty years he has gained by dirty 
 plunder of this kind perhaps four or five hundred 
 pounds, which is carefully stowed away, with all 
 his other ill got savings, until gaunt Death walks 
 in and bears him off as ruthlessly as a hawk 
 snaps up a sparrow, or the lordly gamecock picks 
 a grub from the dunghill ; and his heir, rinding 
 this five hundred among the rest, gives it to some 
 procuress, or spends it on a single cast of faro,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 85 
 
 and it goes at once to the devil, where its first 
 owner had preceded it, and its new master will 
 probably follow. 
 
 Being thus perpetually tormented about 
 economy, and having dinned daily into her im- 
 patient ears the necessity of saving, Lady Mary 
 was obliged to get money for her pleasures how 
 she could ; for she had a truly ducal set of pas- 
 sions which craved to be fed, and were very 
 indignant when they could not be gratified. She 
 had already half starved poor Lady Marr, and 
 out of the five hundred pounds set apart for 1. 
 support, at least saved four. This was very well, 
 but ducal appetites need something more thaa 
 this paltry food. She then took to gambling, 
 and as she did not much care what she did, she 
 won immensely for a short time, until at last 
 people began to suspect that there was more than 
 met the eye in this uncommon amount of good 
 luck, and the wise declared off accordingly, leav- 
 ing only the young fools to be her antagonists, 
 who were glad to lose their money to a wit, a 
 fine lady, and a duke's daughter. But this was 
 after all only a precarious resource, so she began
 
 86 EDWAED WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 to dabble in the stocks, and here her acquain- 
 tance with Craggs was of great advantage to her. 
 This fellow's father had been a common pandar 
 to the Duke of York or any other great lord who 
 would pay him, and as he did not lack shrewd- 
 ness, he scraped up a vast deal of money, which 
 he freely expended in the education of his only 
 son, hoping to see him Prime Minister, perhaps ; 
 at all events, high in the administration of this 
 happily-governed land. And he succeeded in his 
 wish. Younof Craggs was handsome, and with a 
 good porter-like person. Young women about 
 the Court took a liking to him ; he had great 
 calves, a broad back, a body like an Irish chair- 
 man, and was, moreover, not very choice about 
 trifles ; and owning a seat in Parliament, he ab- 
 solutely became one of his Majesty's principal 
 secretaries of state, to the wonder of all who re- 
 membered the unhallowed trade of his revered 
 father, but not at all to the astonishment of those 
 who were behind the scenes, and knew the pliancy 
 of the young gentleman, and his conven ient subser- 
 viency to such people as Kendal and Kilmansegg. 
 This man my Lady Mary greatly courted.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 87 
 
 Alas ! do not blame her. Did not Pope and Swift 
 and Harley, and the king, and two hundred mem- 
 bers of Parliament, and fifty or sixty heaven born 
 children of the Upper House, with stars, garters, 
 ribbons, and long pedigrees, do the same ? Why, 
 then, pour all the vials of wrath upon a weak 
 woman ? But I know you will not ; you are too 
 good natured ; you yourself despise a lord and 
 right honourable, but you have mercy on those 
 who adore and kneel before them. Lady Mary 
 courted him, then, and as Craggs was always 
 buying and selling, and scheming and speculat- 
 ing, and possessed, as a cabinet minister, means 
 of knowledge such as no other person had, he 
 was usually successful in his stock exchange 
 commerce, and they to whom he gave hints were 
 successful also. Was it wrong ? Well I don't 
 know. The world agrees to say yes, and I sup- 
 pose the world is right ; but I shall not enter into 
 the question. Suffice it to say if it was wrong 
 it was pleasant. Yes, by Plutus ! pleasant in the 
 extreme. For show me the parallel on earth of 
 that ecstatic joy which, like Venus from the ocean, 
 is born out of cent, per cent. ; the rapture
 
 88 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 with which I, who have invested a thousand 
 pounds, suddenly find myself without any care, or 
 thought, or trouble, or toil, the happy master of 
 five thousand guineas, all bright, golden, shining, 
 beautiful as God himself. Talk of the wedding 
 day and successful love, and the joy of an heir, 
 and the rational delight felt and experienced at 
 your rich father's sudden death, and the triumph 
 of a successful speech in Parliament, and the 
 rapture of intoxication born out of ambrosial 
 Burgundy, and the joy one feels when his shrew 
 of a wife runs away with a wealthy simpleton 
 who can pay three thousand pounds in damages, 
 and the ecstatic dreams of Quixotism, and the 
 glorious uprising of a blessed spirit into 
 the light of paradise, and the white robo'l 
 seraphs of the celestial. Ml these, I sup- 
 pose, are very fine, but is there one man on 
 earth who would be donkey enough to barter 
 these for the transporting bliss which that happy 
 mortal feels who having given twenty thousand 
 guineas to his broker, wakes up next day and 
 finds himself owner of a plum — yes, a plum 
 value one hundred thousand solid pounds.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEf MONTAGU. 89 
 
 So felt and thought Lady Mary Wortley 
 Montagu — so felt and thought that lively French- 
 man, Monsieur Achille, Hannibal, Caesar, Charle- 
 magne Kuremonde, my lady's dark-eyed friend and 
 lover. For he was both. What is the good of 
 denying it? Kuremonde was master of ten thou- 
 sand pounds ; when, or where, or how acquired, 
 only Heaven knows, and no doubt it was regis- 
 tered above in some awful book. But that he had 
 it was certain ; that he was a vain, volatile, con- 
 ceited fool was equally matter of mathematical 
 demonstration. He was a small, fiery man, with 
 a big nose, ferocious, flashing eyes, a terrible big 
 moustache ; he dressed with great elegance, had 
 a fine taste in perfumes ; was ringed, curled, 
 ringletted, scented, and even washed to perfec- 
 tion. He fell in love with Lady Marv. He was 
 a Frenchman, and had but to whistle after any 
 woman, and she was his, so he believed — but like 
 many another frail mortal, he was deceived by his 
 self-love. Had my lady been the Virgin Mary 
 he would not have doubted that he could conquer, 
 for what Frenchman ever distrusted his sweet 
 seductive powers of fascination ? But it was the
 
 90 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 lady who fooled him to the top of his bent ; si 
 tamed him inside out like an old glove. She 
 had no serious notion of breaking the seventh 
 commandment with a Frenchman. The thing 
 was absurd. Had he been another Sultan, 
 indeed — well — but she resolved to make the little 
 rascal Gaul pay soundly even for entertaining the 
 wild conceit. What ! a Frenchman dare to lift 
 his eyes to her ? Ridiculous. The Sultan him- 
 self had deigned — but I pass on. 
 
 She wrote Ruremonde letters that drove him 
 mad. Here was a lovely woman dying for him — 
 only she couldn't get away. She sent him notes 
 that almost set fire to the paper ; they certainly 
 burned up the small remnant of brains which 
 Ruremonde possessed, and lo! he was utterly lost 
 and frenzied. Oh how she loved hiui ! How she 
 adored, idolised, worshipped his dear image! 
 But alas ! flight was impossible — flight with him, 
 her soul's darling, the treasure of her eyes, the 
 Adonis among mankind, the chevalier sans peur 
 et sans reproche. Ruremonde was distracted. 
 What was to be done? Should he shoot 
 Montagu ? He meditated it a long time. The
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 91 
 
 fate of Count Konigsmark's friends, who had 
 sometime before performed that kind office for 
 Tom Thynne (Tom o' ten thousand), butchering 
 him like a pig in Pall Mall, rather deterred our 
 valorous friend. Yet I think he would have 
 risked it, had he been quite certain of my lady ; 
 but as he was not, why he trusted to the chapter 
 of accidents. Meanwhile Lady Mary was all 
 sympathy, all soul, all anxiety about Kuremonde. 
 He occupied her thoughts night and day — he was 
 her dream, her passion, &c. How could she 
 serve him ? Oh, lucky thought ! There was 
 Mister Craggs — her right honouraole acquain- 
 tance and associate. She would invest his 
 money, — she would make it double, treble, 
 quadruple — nay, she would make it reproduce 
 itself twenty fold. Was not Craggs Secretary of 
 State, and did he not know what was what, and 
 did he not make the fortune of Johnny Gay and 
 fifty others who confided in him. "Why should 
 he not do the same for Lady Mary's dearest and 
 most trusted friend ? Aye, indeed, why should 
 he not ? 
 And the Frenchman absolutely gave my
 
 92 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 mother five thousand pounds, and it was all lost, 
 gone, swallowed up — no one ever knew what 
 became of it— gone, though Craggs had advised 
 and counselled, and revealed secrets which by 
 oath he ought not to have revealed. So Rure- 
 monde raved like a madman, there were fright- 
 ful scenes and frightful letters, and he 
 threatened to show her sweet billets to her hus- 
 band, and she threatened to have his throat cut 
 by the right honourable Lord Stair, and there 
 was nothing but fire and wrath, and fury, and 
 revenge between this amiable pair. How it was 
 settled in the end I know not. My father, it was 
 supposed, never bothered his head about it. I 
 believe my lady disgorged two thousand pounds, 
 but the other three were lost irretrievably. Rure- 
 monde, I fancy, went mad. At all events, he 
 was never afterwards heard of. I think it cured 
 him of conceit. One can't make love to a duke's 
 daughter without pnying the piper handsomely 
 for such a privilege. The few who wore in the 
 secret laughed at him for a dupe, but my lady 
 dreaded to the last moment of her existence that 
 he would some day turn up and tell all to her
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 93 
 
 husband. What if he had ? Was it not that 
 worthy gentleman's own fault ? W as it not the 
 legitimate end of all his screwing, scraping, sav- 
 ing, and pinching ? I suppose he must have 
 heard something of it, but he was discreetly 
 silent if he had. What was it to him ? His 
 wife had got three thousand pounds clear profit 
 out of this transaction, and only lost what she 
 did not value, nor he regard. Pope also, who 
 was now one of our dearest friends, heard some 
 tittle tattle about it; but he was too well bred to 
 mention a syllable of the matter to the profane 
 vulgar at large. It was only in after years he 
 alluded to it in the line—" Who starves a sister 
 and denies a debt." Everyone then knew who 
 he meant, and everybody laughed and sneered 
 when my lady's back was turned, but when she 
 was present face to face, they all shook hands 
 with her, and smiled, and simpered, and flattered, 
 as if she were the sweetest vestal since the days 
 of Rhea Sylvia. ! England I England ! thou 
 art the land of honesty, and truth, and frank- 
 ness ; yet have I seen more humbug, falsehood, 
 and hypocrisy practised in one day within thy
 
 94 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 golden isle, than in a month in France, Spain, or 
 Italy, or even in the subtle Orient itself. Bat 
 perhaps I ought not to avow this. It looks un- 
 patriotic. I know that it will be called a rascally 
 lie. Well, so be it
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 95 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " I decked thee also with ornaments, and I put bracelets upon 
 thy hands j and a chain on thy neck. And I put a jewel on thy 
 forehead, and earrings in thine ears, and a beautiful crown upon 
 thy head. * * But thou didst trust in thine own beauty, and 
 playedst the harlot because of thy renown.' 
 
 From all these pleasing incidents, it may be 
 seen that my life was horribly wretched. Oh ! 
 how I longed for sympathy — for one bright beam 
 of love, for one sweet, fond smile under whose 
 soft and genial influence my heart might bud in 
 flowers. But no smile, though I looked for it 
 morning, noon, and night. I had a vague re- 
 membrance of some caresses which my mother 
 gave me while I was yet in petticoats. I could 
 vividly recollect those bright eyes beautified with
 
 96 EDWARD WORTLET MONTAGU. 
 
 the maternal gleam of warm affection, which, 
 more than any other type on earth, gives unto 
 the soul the strongest image of the love of God 
 for all His creatures. Her long and silken hair 
 fell over my cheeks and brow, as she kissed and 
 pressed me to her breast ; her face assumed the 
 likeness of an angel ; her smile dwelt still within 
 my soul, like a faint dream of Paradise. But all 
 this was gone, and gone, I feared, never to return. 
 As I grew up, her demonstrations of love became 
 fainter, and even still more faint, until at last 
 they disappeared for ever. How I have lingered 
 near her, hoping for some gentle word; how 
 I have looked into her eyes and yearned 
 for one sweet sunbeam of returning fondness ; 
 how I have sought by every boyish art to win her 
 back once more to olden days when that long and 
 dearly cherished kiss was given, and all the 
 mother sparkled in her look ; how I have listened 
 at her bedroom door to hear those tones that even 
 still were melody to my ear, dreaming that they 
 may haply breathe of me; how I have lain 
 awake at night, and wept, and sighed, and 
 thought how intensely I could love her if she only
 
 EDWABD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 97 
 
 cared for me in the least — all these things, God 
 and my own breaking heart knew. The books I 
 thought she loved most, these 1 sought to master, 
 and was proud and happy when she found me 
 poring over them ; the flowers she regarded bes t 
 I tended with all the skill that I owned, so that 
 they were ever free from dust or weeds or insects ; 
 and when she walked forth every bright parterre 
 was faultless to the eye. But no rewarding smile 
 or word or token of approval did I get. To 
 Congreve she was all brightness, life and spirit ; 
 her silvery laugh sounded like divinest melody ; 
 but when I stood before her, scarcely daring to 
 look into those eyes for that sacred love after 
 which I pined, she was cold, severe, and silent . 
 When Pope was near, when Wharton was by her 
 side, gazing at her with his large and earnest 
 eyes, how beautiful she appeared ; all her genius 
 shone out of her spirit face ; her features glowed 
 with animation; her tongue spake in softest 
 accents, and she seemed a something more than 
 earthly. But when the visitor departed, a magic 
 change came over her —she froze, as it were, into 
 marble; she grew cold, still, selfish, unfeeling, 
 vol. I. F
 
 98 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 capricious, and exacting. One reads in old 
 romances of a beautiful damsel discovered in a 
 forest by some brave, errant knight ; she weeps, 
 she prays, she smiles, she fascinates. The gallant 
 adventurer vows to devote his life to her service j 
 she leads him to her bower, or to some faerie 
 castle. Something in her appearance suddenly 
 awakens suspicion, and the noble knight clutches 
 his good sword Excalibar within his mailed hand, 
 and mayhap as an additional precaution lifts up a 
 prayer to God and the Virgin. Scarcely has he 
 done it, when a transformation is seen — a mighty 
 transformation indeed ; and the virgin disappears, 
 and he sees only a venomous serpent looking at 
 him with deadly eyes, as Lucifer looked on Eve, 
 and hissiDg forth cold poison. Such was the 
 difference between my mother before her visitors, 
 and my mother with her son. 
 
 Ah me, my friend, there are many, many of 
 these snake- women on the earth, and when I see 
 them I know them as if by instinct ; my blood 
 congeals into stone, and I get away as quick as I 
 cm, for they awaken gloomy reminiscences, and 
 1 feel as it' in the presence of something exceed-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 99 
 
 ingly deadly, slimy, and repellant. The depth 
 of ice within their hearts can no man fathom : 
 the force of energy in carrying out their cold 
 purposes even unto death, can no man exaggerate. 
 You may note them by the firm compressed lip 
 when the face is in repose, and the icicle-light 
 that glazes over their eyes as if with a trans- 
 parent gauze, and the smile that never blushes out 
 of the heart, or returns again into that impas- 
 sioned fount, but is born of the external skin, 
 plays over it, and retires back into it, when its 
 mechanical work is done. All these women are 
 poisoners in their hearts. I believe that great 
 numbers of them in reality kill their husbands, 
 or all who stand in their way — but they can smile 
 over them even while they murder. The false- 
 hood of men I care not for. I am prepared for 
 it, and I can baffle it ; if I fail it is my own fault. 
 But the falsehood and selfishness and want of 
 feeling in women seems so utterly, so outrage- 
 ously monstrous and unnatural that when I find 
 and experience them, I feel like one who has 
 trodden unawares on some pestiferous serpent 
 whose very breath is ruin. I start back aghast 
 
 F 2
 
 100 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 and in despair. My limbs quiver ; my face grows 
 pallid; my hairs stand erect. I am horror- 
 stricken and frightened in my very inmost being. 
 For woman was given to man to soothe, to 
 soften, to refine, to humanise into angelic beauty ; 
 and when she perverts this holy purpose how very 
 dreadful must her spirit appear before her Lord 
 and Maker. 
 
 I was not at this period able to fathom the 
 secret of this scornful indifference, but I think I 
 can now do so. In the first place all love between 
 Lady Mary and her husband had long since dis- 
 appeared ; with her love for him, or whatever the 
 feeling originally was, vanished also her love of 
 his son. In the second place she was immersed 
 in so many plots, pursuits, and occupations that 
 she really had no time to give the softer feelings 
 of her heart the least chance of vitality. She was 
 a leader in that heartless game called " fashion- 
 able life," and this absorbs a great quantity of a 
 woman's time : she studied very hard and spent 
 a great portion oi every day among her books 
 and papers ; by no other means I suppose can a 
 lady obtain and keep the renown of being 
 
 ' ' That dangerous thing a female wit."
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 10 1 
 
 She was also perpetually devising new schemes 
 and devices to get money and to keep it when 
 got ; for my father's wretched avarice was so all- 
 absorbing that I verily believe if he could have 
 fed us on bran and littered us on straw he would 
 have been but too glad to do it : and as he was 
 perpetually railing at her extravagance she was 
 absolutely forced into a life of meanness, shifts, 
 falsehoods, equivocations, and dirty petty savings 
 in order to preserve the household circle from 
 being a perfect hell upon earth. Finally, she was 
 so fond of admiration that she was perpetually 
 employed in inventing new limes to captivate the 
 wealthy or the witty ; from the first of whom she 
 won their money at the bassette table, and from 
 the second their applause in the journals or in 
 song ; so that she had really no leisure to be good 
 or kind or loving; and when a woman's or a 
 man's mind has all these various vanities and 
 employments daily and hourly pressing on it, 
 probably you will not be surprised to hear that 
 the result is, little feeling for any one except 
 themselves. 
 If I dread one thing more than another in pen-
 
 102 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 DiDg these papers, it is that I may appear un- 
 natural in my delineation of the parents of my 
 being. But after a long and painful meditation I 
 must hazard this charge unless I deliberately 
 violate the truth. Nothing of course could be 
 more easy than for me to avoid all reference to 
 these miserable transactions ; to smother them up 
 for ever in night, and to plunge into the details 
 of my own life without any lengthened reference 
 to either Lady Mary or her husband. By doing 
 this I should avoid great censure and spare my 
 own heart. But would it be honest, just, and 
 fair? Would it even be right to myself whose 
 character has been moulded, whose career to a 
 great extent has been fashioned by the training 
 which I had at home, by the examples which I 
 there beheld, by the life which I saw there pre- 
 vail ? I am persuaded that it would not, and 
 that even were there no higher motive, self- 
 defence would require from me this anatomy. 
 But there is a higher motive. Can I for one 
 moment suppose that Lady Mary and her husband 
 were the only parents who ever behaved so to 
 their only son ? It is impossible. On the con-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 103 
 
 trary, have I not the best reason for believing 
 that there are hundreds and hundreds of similar 
 fathers and mothers who look upon their children 
 as nuisances and enemies ; and freeze out of them 
 in their earliest youth every flowing sentiment of 
 beauty and of love, which holy Nature implanted 
 in their souls. Yea by Alia, they are to be 
 counted in thousands, and to such we may attri- 
 bute in a great measure the sad discordance which 
 prevails in all things; the exaggerated foibles 
 and vices and absurdities for which our young 
 men are noted, and the general tone of affectation, 
 selfishness, and infidelity which pervades every 
 order of society. Therefore do I write these 
 things that parents and guardians may see with 
 their own eyes a vivid picture of themselves ; 
 and may be startled by those incidents in the 
 career of others which they themselves daily 
 repeat, but on which their self-love has never let 
 them cast an investigating glance. 
 
 When, therefore, friend and reader, thou 
 Censurest me for my misanthropy, bear in mind 
 that all my finest feelings were frozen at their 
 source while I was yet a child ; when thou
 
 104 EDWAED WOETLEY MOKTAGU. 
 
 arraignest me for waywardness and wilfulness, 
 remember that from the first I never had a 
 guiding hand, or a loving eye to restrain me in 
 the least; ^hen thou cavillest at my life misused, 
 my talents thrown away, my virtues pei verted 
 into vices, nay passions let loose in tempests on 
 myself and others, pause and ask thyself what 
 right have I to blame this man? How know I 
 what I also may not have grown to he, had I 
 been nurtured like him ? From the first he was 
 an outcast from the heart and centre of home ; 
 he was thrown among servants ; he was exiled 
 from all affection, from all fond solicitude, from 
 all the melodious influences of sympathy and 
 feeling. Ihe most vagabond order of existence 
 seemed to him, and was preferable to his own 
 home. Within his father's threshold virtue 
 never passed, nor meek-eyed charity, nor soft for- 
 giveness ; but everything he witnessed was hard, 
 cold, severe, and despicable. The guests whom 
 he saw assembled were selfish scoundrels or silly 
 coxscombs; they mLo should have been purified 
 by learning, or genius, or great and shining 
 talent were merely intellect ^without God. His
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MOKTAGU. 105 
 
 father was a hardened miser, whose whole soul 
 w as in his gold and in his guineas ; his mother 
 was a vain woman of fashion, who thought wit, 
 gallantry, and scandal the three sister graces of 
 the earth ; his only sister was a mere idiot, who 
 never soared a thought above the existence of a 
 grub ; his tutors were harsh, unfeeling wretches, 
 who tortured him body and soul ; he never heard 
 a noble and generous sentiment, but, on the con- 
 trary, was surrounded by a motley crew, who 
 laughed at all religion and virtue, and whose sole 
 object was to get on in the world, no matter by 
 what means, or by what resources. 
 
 Let me cite for example, one of these fellows. 
 Congreve, the co-labourer with Pope in that 
 honourable attempt on my mother, which was 
 foDowed up with so much pertinacity, and ended 
 with so much wretchedness. Congreve was what 
 many would call a handsome man, but he never 
 seemed to be so in my eyes. There was an in- 
 sufferable pride in every puppy feature ; not the 
 pride of nobleness, or honour, or self-conscious 
 dignity, but a low, foppish, arrogant pride, 
 founded on his figure, his eyes, his fine dress, his 
 
 f 5
 
 106 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 reputation as a wit, his official place, his luxu- 
 rious bachelorhood, and the applause of some 
 score of silly women of high rank, who were 
 half crazy after "darling Will." To see him 
 strut about the theatre was itself a sight ; it re- 
 minded one of the peacock, the basest of birds, 
 except for its plumage. To hear him lisp finely, 
 and see him look at you with a supercilious 
 scornful air, as if you were unworthy to be his 
 slave, and note in every word, and look, and ges- 
 ture, that himself alone was the object of his in- 
 cessant admiration, was one of the most trying 
 ordeals to which one's temper could be put. He 
 would lounge into a drawing-room, gorgeously 
 dressed, and before a dozen women who ought to 
 be virtuous, and who certainly were in the peer- 
 age books, exclaim— 
 
 " Oh ! demme, I don't know what I shall do 
 for all you women. You won't give a man a 
 moment's peace. Like Orpheus, T shall be torn 
 into five hundred pieces. There are fifty con- 
 tending for me at the same moment. By Gad ! 
 I shall retire into a forest, or into an uninhabited 
 island. I once thought the Rape of the Sabines
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 107 
 
 was a true event ; but by Gad I now think that 
 it was the ladies themselves who ran away with 
 the Roman vagabonds." 
 
 And after this abominable scene, he would re- 
 tire and repeat it somewhere else ; the ladies — 
 dear creatures — being enraptured with such high 
 breeding and such choice wit. 
 
 Congreve was "the fashion," and could do 
 almost anything. That he was an abandoned 
 and dissolute rake was a matter of course. To 
 be so was one of the main accomplishments of a 
 fine gentleman of the period ; and the women 
 could not endure a man who lay under the horrid 
 suspicion of being virtuous. He had the run of 
 the green rooms, and what they were, and are, 
 and always will be, every man about them knows, 
 and everybody not about them may guess. He 
 raked until he got blind ; now with Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle, now with Nan Jallett, now with Madame 
 Berenger, now with Madame Marlborough. His 
 middle age was cursed by the memorials of his 
 excesses. Never shall I forget a scene which 
 once took place at Hampton Court Palace, when 
 I was but a child. It was a beautiful day in
 
 108 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 August, aud Lady Mary took it into her head to 
 conduct me through the gardens. We sauntered 
 about for some time. Congreve joined us, and 
 was elaborate in his politeness. He made use 
 of all his wit to charm, and finally prevailed on 
 Lady Mary to leave me near one of the fountains 
 and walk with him alone. My heart still burns 
 with the rage I felt when I saw them disappear. 
 Instinct told me, poor boy — I was not more than 
 eight years old, I think — that he meditated no 
 good to my mother, but I knew nothing farther. 
 Every fibre was alive and hot with fury. I ran 
 in the direction which they had taken, but I could 
 not find them. I called aloud. Echo repeated 
 my words, and yet again I called, {l Mamma ! 
 mamma I" In a few minutes, Lady Mary ap- 
 peared ; she seemed in haste ; her hair was in 
 slight disorder, and she hurried towards me. 
 After her followed Congreve, with a quick step, 
 and he seemed apologising, beseeching, deprecat- 
 ing. She hurried on without taking any notice 
 of him, and when she came up to me I was 
 amazed to find her kiss me ; her face was flushed; 
 she seemed agitated and feverish. Again I
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 109 
 
 knew that something wrong was meditated, and 
 I looked at Oongreve with fury in my looks. He 
 saw it, and gave me a bunch of roses which he 
 had gathered, and had already vainly offered to 
 Lady Mary. I took them and flung them in his 
 face ; he affected to smile, but there was rage and 
 the venom of a devil in his false smile. 
 
 He spoke to her in French, a language which 
 I knew not. I scanned him closely, and 
 endeavoured to penetrate into his meaning with 
 my eyes. His language was supplicating ; his 
 demeanour obsequious in the extreme ; he 
 seemed entreating pardon for some involuntary 
 offence. He spoke earnestly ; she affected for a 
 period not to listen; but the poison gradually 
 stole into her ears and won her heart. She even 
 answered him, a thiDg which she had first posi- 
 tively refused to do. I could see a smile of vil- 
 lainous triumph in his eyes. Again he led her 
 away under an avenue of trees, and I was left 
 alone. They had not been out of sight many 
 moments, when I felt as if enveloped in horror ; 
 my heart again swelled with rage; lava fire
 
 110 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 seemed to thrill through me. I was under an 
 unknown fever. I was under the influence of 
 a mighty magnetic spell. A consciousness of 
 evil again smote me, as if with the wing of a 
 whirlwind, and I burst into a torrent of tears. 
 How terribly is all this graven on my memory ; 
 now, after the lapse of more than half a century. 
 My sobs, my loud cries were again re-echoed, and 
 Lady Mary returned as before ; but now she was 
 filled with anger. Congreve again followed, and 
 I could see his face pale with rage, or disap- 
 pointment, or repulse. Lady Mary addressed 
 me harshly, but I clung to her robe, and kept 
 a firm hold of her. I entwined myself among 
 the folds of her dress; she sought to loose me, 
 but I would not let her go. Congreve used 
 entreaties, threats, endearments, and finally, 
 even force, but I kicked at him with all my 
 strength, and the beau's silk stockings bore ves- 
 tiges of my toes. At length a sudden cloud 
 burst overhead, thunder pealed, and lightning 
 flashed, and rain fell in torrents, and Lady 
 Mary and myself returned home, without Con-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. Ill 
 
 greve, whose escort she positively declined, arid 
 who took his leave evidently chagrined, if not 
 enraged at something that had crossed him. 
 
 This incident is slight, but I never can forget 
 it I have lived it over again, while I penned 
 the last few pages ; every line and feature of it 
 was reproduced before my mind's eye. I can 
 remember even the dripping of the rain on a 
 certain stone which Congreve put aside with his 
 gold-headed cane. I can remember the green 
 leaves of a laurel tree on which the drops flashed, 
 and from which they rebounded against my face. 
 I can remember the momentary shelter which we 
 took beneath a clump of trees, and my own feel- 
 ing of delight that the storm had come on, and 
 my ardent hope that the next lightning flash 
 would strike my enemy dead at my feet. When 
 he came near me I went to the opposite side ; 
 when he edged round again and sought to speak 
 to me, I retreated from his odious presence, and 
 got back to my old place. Why was he thus court- 
 ing me at this moment ? — he who had never be- 
 fore condescended even to look upon me? My 
 heart asked itself this question ; and though J can
 
 112 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 now guess his motive, I was then only a child, 
 and could not fathom it in the least. He offered 
 me some apples, but I flung them into the road ; 
 he presented me with cakes, but I trampled them 
 beneath my feet. At length the temper of the 
 man prevailed, and I think he would have broken 
 out with something savage, but my mother or her 
 presence restrained him. I saw him many times 
 again, at our own house and at the houses of 
 others ; but I always hated him from that day. 
 I could not endure his presence ; I looked at him 
 with loathing, and fled from him with aversion, 
 until at length we grew open foes, nor did either 
 mask his hate from the other. When I heard he 
 was dead I regretted it only for one reason, and 
 that was that I had not driven a sword into his 
 heart. The grim envoy seemed to me to have 
 cheated me of that which belonged to me of 
 right.
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. U3 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "A generation that are pure in their own eyea, and yet are not 
 washed from their filthinesa." 
 
 Though the Rt. Hon. Edward Wortley Montagu 
 grudged every penny that he expended, and 
 parted with a guinea more sorrowfully than if ifc 
 were his heart's blood, yet was he nevertheless 
 obliged by the ab ominable laws and customs of 
 society to throw his doors open occasionally for 
 the reception of the most brilliant members of 
 rank and fashion, whom he entertained accord- 
 ingly, and whom he hated like fiends as they de- 
 voured his costly dainties and guzzled his ex- 
 pensive wines. But he could not help himself. 
 He and his lady wife were asked to various par-
 
 114 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 ties, dinners, balls, suppers, breakfasts, and 
 masquerades. To refuse the hospitable givers of 
 these splendid entertainments would have been 
 to make them bitter foes ; to accept their invita- 
 tions entailed the dire necessity of a return in 
 kind. Had Mr. Montagu manfully resolved to 
 live like a hermit and do nothing but reside in a 
 wood and accumulate money, all this dreadful 
 folly would have been avoided. But unhappily 
 for himself he could not well do this. He was a 
 member of parliament, and he did not like to 
 give it up; he was a member of the high 
 fashionable world of wits, and fops, and fine 
 gentlemen, and he could not separate himself 
 from such exalted intercourse without such a 
 struggle as he scarcely cared to endure ; he was 
 an aspirant for ministerial dignity, and it w 
 only Cincinnatus who was taken from the plough. 
 Nobody ever heard of any hermit in England 
 being put into the cabinet, nor would he be so, 
 though he possessed all the virtues of Jesus 
 Christ, all the knowledge of Pythagoras, 
 all the patriotism of Brutus, and all the 
 statesmanship of Solon and Lycurgus. There-
 
 EDWAKD WORTLET MONTAGU. 115 
 
 fore it was that my honoured father still 
 lived in Cavendish Square, still accepted invita- 
 tions from lords and ladies, and still was forced 
 in compliance with cruel custom to give these 
 lords and ladies what lawyers call a quid pro 
 quo. 
 
 Oh ! what scenes these were ! Horace it is, I 
 think, or some other of those Roman voluptuaries, 
 who speaks of certain debauches with ladies in 
 loose purple robes and golden clasps — that were 
 unclasped — and rosy garlands, and silver goblets, 
 and soft couches, and I know not what else — 
 perhaps it is well I do not know — and he irre- 
 verently calls them nodes ccenceque deum — nights 
 and suppers of the gods. But these nights I 
 suppose of my father were nodes ccenceque diabo- 
 lorum, for not only were all the noble and right 
 honourable company fairly entitled to that name, 
 but Mr. Montagu himself endured such an 
 agony of hell during the whole entertainment 
 that it might fairly be said that he was in Tar- 
 tarus itself, and enduring all the torment of that 
 fabled, fabulous, or storied region, which ever 
 name the truly Christian reader wishes to give it.
 
 116 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 Every fresh bottle that was uncorked was a 
 poisoned adder biting his soul ; every fresh pie 
 or pasty that was broken into by fair and delicate 
 hands plunged him into Hades ; every fragrant 
 pine that was sliced was a cup of venom which 
 he was obliged to gulp down with many a hidden 
 grimace. With what a hearty and sincere hatred 
 he detested these odious harpies ; how he wished 
 that every bit and sup might choke them as they 
 gat ; how he cursed and swore at himself, as a fool 
 for yielding to the prevailing fanaticism of society, 
 and blindly following in the wake of an absurd 
 fashion. This he did while the Saturnalia were 
 going on. But next morning he was serene 
 again. He was now free for another three 
 months. The thing was over and done with. 
 His mind was at ease. He had performed his 
 duty, and no Englishman is expected to do more. 
 The bills — well they must be paid, and they were 
 paid with many a pang, and blasphemy^ and de- 
 duction ; and all went on as usual until the next 
 necessity of the same kind again plunged him 
 into Hell. 
 
 Let me sketch one of these charming enter-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 117 
 
 taimnents. I was at one, and only one. All the 
 great people of London were summoned ; all the 
 fine women, all the battered rakes, dukes, mar- 
 quisses, earls, viscounts, barons, with pedigrees 
 — oh ! how long, and bodies — oh ! how diseased, 
 and consciences — oh ! how black with every kind 
 of sin. Did we descend to the vulgar tribe of 
 baronets ? Well, I believe there were a few, but 
 we asked them simply because we could not help 
 it ; VValpole was there, but he was invited not as 
 baronet, but as prime minister. My father, in- 
 deed, despised the whole crawling crew of little 
 barons, and as a general rule they are a con- 
 temptible body of ragamuffins. However, there 
 were some asked, and of course they came. You will 
 always find a baronet where there is a prime 
 minister. Half the peerage thronged our rooms ; 
 the other half that was in patriotic opposition 
 was not asked. The Duke of Wharton came 
 drunk ; Lord Berkeley, for a miracle, came sober. 
 Lord and Lady Pomfret descended like a radiant 
 vision of diamonds of the rarest price. Lady 
 Sundon hid her cancer by a fine shawl around 
 her throat. Lords and Ladies A, B, C, D, E, F,
 
 1 1 8 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 G, H, I, K, L, M, and N, appeared in various 
 costumes of red, white, black, blue, grey, brown, 
 orange, scarlet, azure, pink, green, and crimsoD, 
 set off with pearls, rubies, sapphires, amethysts, 
 opals, emeralds, and gold and silver. Lords and 
 Ladies 0, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z, 
 flashed and fluttered in silk, satin, velvet, and 
 cloth of gold ; they appeared in all the colours 
 of the rainbow, and a great many more that the 
 rainbow never had ; their periwigs breathed the 
 sweetest essences of perfumed powder. Talk of 
 Araby the Blest or Sabaean odours — pooh ! pooh ! 
 Their necklaces, buttons, girdles, earrings, rings, 
 stomachers, and coronets glittered with all the 
 jewels of the East, and their faces shone with all 
 the pigments and figments of the western world. 
 Nothing could be, indeed, more delightful than 
 the whole assembly; though I should be very 
 sorry to see and smell the great majority of them 
 just now, rotting in their coffins and half eaten 
 up by worms. I mean, of course, such of them 
 as did not die in the odour of sanctity, and were 
 not embalmed in spice and frankincense, as all 
 noble and right honourable persons ought to be ;
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 119 
 
 for these earth vermin are odious to think of by 
 all who have aristocratic tastes or habits. For 
 my own part I hope to be burned on a pyre like 
 a phoenix, and so give the elements the benefit of 
 my remains — stap my vitals ! 
 
 There they were, and oh ! how brilliant ! Talk 
 of Paradise, prate of Elysium, brag of Valhalla, 
 expatiate on Vaikoontha, the Hesperides, Hy- 
 brazil, the Golden Islands, the heaven of Indra, 
 the gardens of Shedad or Mohammed — the whole 
 thing would be absurd. Never was there seen a 
 more grand and gorgeous assembly. Lord Somers, 
 the chancellor, left the lady with whom he was 
 living in open defiance of "the seventh command- 
 ment and came ; is it not Horry Walpole who 
 calls him (i one of those divine men who, like a 
 chapel in a palace, remain unprofaned while all 
 the rest is tyranny, corruption, and folly." Well, 
 this u divine man " was there, and the place was 
 redolent of his purity and divinity. His great 
 curly wig flowed over his heavy sensual face and 
 great gloating eyes, and gave one anything but 
 an idea of divineness. But hath not Horry said 
 it, and did not the king and parliament and
 
 120 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 twenty writers of that lie called history, proclaim 
 it in highways and byeways, and who shall 
 breathe dissent ? I only wonder he did not bring 
 his nasty old witch with him. He might have 
 done so [for anything that either his host or 
 hostess cared. Daniel Finch, Earl of Notting- 
 ham, was there ; they called him " Dismal," and 
 a dismal old frog he was. Being too old for 
 politics he was making a sacrifice to God of the 
 devil's leavings, and had taken to theology. It 
 was a rare comedy to hear Phil Wharton make 
 a burlesque of his letters to Waterland on the 
 Trinity, or his epistles to Whiston about the 
 Holy Ghost. The Earl of Suffolk was there, but 
 he I think was deranged, as most of the Howards 
 are ; but he did not bring his mad work called 
 " Musarum Deliciee, ideas supp osed to be written 
 two thousand years ago by an Asiatic Poet," 
 though I am glad to say he quoted largely from 
 it to all whom he accosted, and thereby added 
 greatly to the hilarity of the evening. In fact 
 this noble bard realised to the full his own 
 frenzied description of a beau, and I think I 
 heard that profane wag Wharton pointing him
 
 EDWABD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 121 
 
 oat to half-a-dozen women, and citing his own 
 grotesque verses descriptive of that wondrous 
 creature called a fop. They ran something in 
 this way, and I print them that they may be pre- 
 served, for I fear none of his lordship's works will 
 ever reach "Prince Posterity." 
 
 Adorned with silks and a huge flaunting wig, 
 He proudly tramps and looks most vastly big, 
 Struts like an actor on the Gallic stage 
 And boasts himself example of the age, 
 Though by his leave there should a difference be 
 Betwixt rude fops and these of high degree. 
 A lord in rich embroidery may shine 
 Which for a ninny would be much too fine. 
 Yet let the saucy fop gold laces wear 
 On him they will but tinsel-like appear. 
 And as the learned Erasmus says, an ape 
 An ape will be, though tissue clothe his shape, 
 So Hewett for the beau may garments frame, 
 The value of his mind is still the same. 
 
 Lord Macclesfield came up especially from 
 Staffordshire and figured among the party. He 
 had been found guilty of the grossest corruption, 
 fined £30,000 and his name erased, by the King 
 himself, from the list of Privy Councillors ; bat 
 what was that ? It had been popularly said at 
 his trial before the House of Lords that the County 
 of Stafford had produced the three greatest 
 rogues and scoundrels of the age, Jack Sheppard, 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 Jonathan Wilde and Lord Macclesfield ; bnt 
 what was that? A flea bite, nothing more. Did 
 it exclude him from fashion able society ? Oh ! 
 dear no. There he was, with plenty of money, a 
 peerage, and I don't know what ; certainly with 
 plenty of people ready and willing to flatter him 
 as another Cato of Utica, a Socrates wrongfully 
 accused by Anytus, an Aristides who was 
 ostracised only because he was so just. Lord 
 Chief Justice Raymond, who was ready to hang 
 any man at the bidding of Walpole or the 
 Bishops, was there also, and a brave and noble 
 magistrate he was. Anyone who looked into his 
 eyes could see that they were intense with 
 roguery, sneaking, meanness, and servility ; but 
 what of that ? He was Lord Chief Justice of the 
 King's Bench, and so, good reader if that thou 
 canst read, I have no doubt the wise public 
 thought he was infallible and he himself believed 
 he was an archangel. But the curse of God fell 
 upon him, as it usually does upon gentlemen of 
 his order, and after accumulating wealth all his 
 life by the basest means, and gaining his title by 
 the most degrading arts, he left both to his son,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 123 
 
 who dying without issue, the peerage became 
 extinct, and what remained of the money went 
 to the dogs, amid a loud amen from Tartarus of 
 Hades. 
 
 There was Lord King, the son of a Salter in 
 Exeter, who even then exhibited marks of the 
 paralysis under which he subsequently died, and 
 who bored everybody with his absurd divinity 
 notions, which were as shallow as a rain puddle, 
 and not a bit more agreeable ; but he eat and drank 
 on them, as if he thought he could cheat the 
 devil after a life of chicanery , by a finale of fa- 
 naticism ; — and there was George Granville, Lord 
 Lansdowne, who ran into the opposite extreme 
 and was said to have written a poem on the 
 crucifixion, in Hudibrastic verses, in which the 
 narratives of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, 
 were pleasantly travestied a la Scarron. This 
 noble lord took especial delight in hunting poor 
 King and Dismal about like their shadows, 
 and disgorging within their heariug some of the 
 gay licentious airy blasphemies which were so 
 fashionable a sport in the gallant era of Charles 
 Stuart, the second of that name, King of Eng- 
 
 G 2
 
 124 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 land, France, and Ireland, and strenuous 
 Defender of the Christian Faith. There was the 
 Earl of Peterborough, who made you think of a 
 comet, or a firework, or a quill stuck full of 
 mercury, so wild, erratic and eccentric were all 
 his proceedings, and I remember well that one of 
 his jests on this occasion was pinning the wig of 
 His Grace the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury to 
 the wig of that right reverend Father in God, 
 the Lord Bishop of London, as these two holy 
 men sat discussing the question of a pension on 
 the Irish establishment, for one of the King's 
 cast-off mistresses ; and when they rose and moved 
 in opposite directions great was their dismay at 
 finding that they unwigged each other. 
 
 There was Charles Howard, Earl of Carlisle, 
 Governor and Captain of Windsor Castle, with the 
 cock-up nose and maudlin eye of all that breed ; 
 and Kitty Sedley, Duchess of Buckinghamshire, 
 who fancied herself the offshoot of King James the 
 £ Second, until her mother taught her better, and 
 informed her that she was the unlawful offspring 
 of a player at the theatre, who supplanted his 
 most sacred majesty with the frail daughter of
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 125 
 
 Sir Charles. There was Tom Paget, who was 
 certainly insane, and Jack Herve) r , whom Pope 
 immortalised as Fanny, Sporus, and I know not 
 what else. He wore his gold key as Vice-Cham- 
 berlain to her Majesty, and talked smnt to all the 
 ladies of rank, so that I think the old Duchess of 
 Marlborough was not far from the mark when she 
 called him " the most wretched profligate man 
 that ever was born, besides ridiculous, a painted 
 face, and not a tooth in his head" — or a truth in 
 his heart, she might have added. There was the 
 Earl of Gainsborough, who had just won a large 
 wager by riding naked on a cow through a village, 
 to the great edification of his tenantry and ac- 
 quaintances, but not at all to his damage in high 
 born society, or with the fair, fine women of the 
 fashion ; and there was Frances Thynne, Duchess 
 of Somerset, a short-nosed, swarthy, ugly woman, 
 who thought herself a poetess, and delighted to 
 be drawn with a basket of flowers, a shepherdess' 
 crook, a crescent like Diana, or anything else 
 absurd, extravagant, and as she supposed, ro- 
 mantic and ideal. There was the Duke of New- 
 castle, better known as Tom Empty, and the Earl
 
 126 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 of Northing ton, who spoke the language of a 
 costermonger ; and would no more use a decent 
 word when he could find an indecent one to ex- 
 press his thoughts, than he would have gone to 
 prayers on Sunday, or abstained from any of his 
 usual vices at the request of a parson who wanted 
 a living, and so desired to appear sanctimonious. 
 There was the Duke of St. Albans, one of the 
 weakest of men, and the Duke of Manchester, 
 one of the meanest. That blundering blockhead 
 Lord Falmouth; Lord Pembroke, who could 
 scarcely write his own name, and could certainly 
 not read anybody else's ; and Lady Archibald 
 Hamilton, who had an unmentionable place about 
 the palace, and filled Carlton House with so many 
 Scotch cousins that whenever Lord Chesterfield 
 met any one there whom he did not know, he 
 bowed and said, u your humble servant, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hamilton." But is it necessary to give a 
 catalogue of these noble and illustrious persons ? 
 I think not. I leave it to the man who makes 
 up the fashionable column for the Gentleman* % 
 Magazine, so called in irony, because I believe no 
 gentleman yet ever had anything to do with it.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 127 
 
 The conversation of these high bred and ac- 
 complished persons of quality had all the wit, 
 humour, and variety, which might be expected 
 from their antecedents. The politicians in place 
 got together, and devised traps for the opposi- 
 tion out of place ; the bishops consulted about 
 their next fat dinner and jollification in mulled 
 claret; the lawyers considered what truckling 
 course was most likely to advance them a step in 
 the peerage, or get sinecures for their sons, or 
 commissions in the army or navy for their daugh- 
 ters. The simple noblemen conferred about get- 
 ting their wives pensioned on the Irish establish- 
 ment, which was then the general receptacle of 
 all the infamous who were poor, but had blood. 
 
 " By my life," quoth Lord A to the Earl 
 
 of B , e( your lordship is looking young agaiD. 
 
 You seem to have renewed your youth like the 
 eagles, and no one rejoices more than I do at the 
 manifest improvement in your health> ,r 
 
 " I am honoured," replied the Earl, " by your 
 lordship's good wishes, and I certainly am glad 
 to say that I have not felt better for the last 
 twenty years. I am pleased also that I can re-
 
 128 EDWAED WOKTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 turn the compliment, fcr your lordship never 
 looked more vigorous." 
 
 Now the real thought in Lord A.'s heart was 
 this, though he did not choose to express it, but 
 I could see it, for I read it in his eyes — 
 
 "Here is that loathsome old voluptuary B. 
 He has just gone through a course of mercury, and 
 is looking cut for fresh diseases. How absurdly 
 the fellow is dressed up. He apes the fashion of 
 youth, and no doubt fancies that in those 
 pale looks, emaciated limbs, and blear-eyes, he 
 exhibits all the graces of an Adonis, and is equally 
 irresistible with the women, while he is in fact 
 uglier than Silenus himself. I must tell the old 
 booby I am glad, for his wines are excellent, and 
 his cook one of the best. 
 
 And the real answer that Earl B. ought to 
 have made was this, for no man knew the value 
 and sincerity of Lord A.'s friendship better than 
 he did. 
 
 " This sneaking sponge is scheming for an in- 
 vitation to one of my little suppers, and I sup- 
 pose I must ask him, though he has grown so 
 silly and decrepid of late that I half fancy he
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 129 
 
 will go off in a fit at one. Faith, I hope he may ; 
 it would be a funny sight to see him kick his last. 
 He makes me think of the skeleton at the 
 Egyptian feast, and if he changes into one at 
 our next meeting I shall laugh heartily." 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Tom," says Lord C. to the 
 Marquis of D., " how delighted I am to see you. 
 What news? — what news? How is the little 
 Laura ?" 
 
 " Faith !" says the Marquis, " she was never 
 better. She, and I, and Jack Bellamy, and 
 Fanny Flirtaway had a glorious night of it last 
 Wednesday. We all got drunk as owls. You 
 should have seen how Jack tossed and tumbled 
 like a posture master, till I thought the women 
 would have fallen into fits. For my own part I 
 laughed myself into convulsions." 
 
 "And what became of the harlequin?" 
 
 " Why after going through ten thousand evo- 
 lutions, the last more absurd than the one pre- 
 ceding it, the wine got so completely the upper 
 hand of him that he tumbled dead drunk under 
 the table; we emptied all the heel taps over him, 
 and having baptised the fellow in choice Bur- 
 
 G 5
 
 130 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 gnndy, left him there, and the two ladies rode 
 home in my chariot. Oh ! how Fanny laughed 
 at the thought of his next morning's jealousy !" 
 
 " Exquisite-— exquisite. The spectacle must 
 have been one for gods. And how goes the 
 affair with the Fornarina?" 
 
 " Why the unconscionable little Papist asks 
 five thousand pounds down, an annuity for her 
 parents, a present to the father confessor, and a 
 commission in the Guards for her youngest 
 
 brother." 
 
 €t Oh ! outrageous ! Was ever heard of such 
 insolence ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, and that is the chief reason 
 why I like her so well. I have consented to all 
 her terms except the last." 
 
 " But if she persists on that point?" 
 
 " Pooh — pooh ! she can't persist. I have got 
 the father confessor on my side by doubling the 
 gratuity which the lady asked, and by his assist- 
 ance I have no doubt all will be managed. By- 
 the-bye, have you seen that ugly rat Rutland 
 here to-night? If there is any man I hate it is 
 that fellow."
 
 EDWAED WORTLEY MONTAGU. 131 
 
 " I have not seen him. I suppose he is your 
 rival with the Fornarina ?" 
 
 " Why, yes — yes ; the ungainly coxcomb is vain 
 enough to aspire to her ; but she laughs at him 
 in the drollest way, and throws me almost into 
 hysterics by her mimicry of his absurd grimaces. 
 Only fancy, the fellow vows that he will leave his 
 lawful wife and go abroad with the Fornarina, 
 offering her a cottage and himself by the Lake 
 of Como. She is willing enough to take the first, 
 but the last is worse than a bolus, and so Rut- 
 land is in despair." 
 
 " And what does his wife say ?" 
 
 "Why, like a sensible woman, she consoles 
 herself with Lord Strut, and lets her liege lord 
 blazon his folly as widely as he likes." 
 
 Here the object of this amicable conference, 
 Rutland himself, suddenly appeared — a tall, 
 ugly, thin man, resplendent with the blue ribbon 
 of the most noble order of the garter. As he 
 approached our witty acquaintances the faces of 
 both brightened with the most loving expression 
 of refined friendship, and the honourable mar- 
 quis, who had just called him " a rat," and so
 
 132 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 cordially avowed his hatred, ran up to him, and 
 shaking him by the hand cried out — 
 
 " My dear duke, I am enchanted to see you 
 here. How is the charming duchess ? I cannot 
 tell you how disappointed I was at not meeting 
 you t'other day at court."
 
 EDWAJRD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 133 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Now the Serpent was more subtle than any beast of the 
 fields which the Lord God had made . . . and the Serpent 
 said unto the Woman - " 
 
 But I grow tired of this high life. True, it was 
 the Elysian Garden of Lady Mary, as it is of all 
 such people. Her husband used her as he used 
 his parties, simply to advance his own interests ; 
 but what became of either her body or soul did 
 not enter much into his greedy thoughts. He 
 knew well the kind of people with whom ^he was 
 living ; she knew them also, but she went into 
 this den of serpents without the slightest heed 
 or care as to what she was doing ; and he let her 
 do so without the least compunction in his heart
 
 134 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 whether she conquered or was crushed in the de- 
 testable battle that was waged between good and 
 evil. They met perhaps once a quarter. As a 
 general rule my father lived wholly in town, and 
 my lady was banished to Twickenham to do as 
 she liked ; but when the era of balls, dinners, 
 and parties was on, she was then brought to 
 Cavendish Square, to preside over his table, and 
 play the amiable hostess ; alter which she was 
 again scornfully dismissed to the banks of the 
 Thames ; living there on a stated allowance ; sav- 
 ing out of her sister's annuity ; and doing the 
 duty of an obedient drudge ; for resistance or re- 
 bellion against Mr. Montagu never once seems to 
 have entered into her thoughts. Not that she 
 wanted the will. No, by the gods ! that woman 
 had a will worthy of a Russian empress ; but she 
 dared not. He held her by some invisible iron 
 chain. He was the master of her soul, the 
 despot of her destiny; and though she absolutely 
 loathed him, she trembled at his very name. He 
 himself vegetated in London on fifty or sixty 
 pounds a year, and never wrote to her, or seemed 
 even to think that such a person existed, except
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 135 
 
 when quarter day came, and then he was pain- 
 fully reminded of her vitality. I often wonder 
 whether he hated or despised her most ; but I 
 think the latter was his predominant feeling. 
 
 Figure to yourself, O ! dear reader, this clever, 
 handsome, passionate woman, whom all other 
 mortals of the male sex courted, and all other 
 goddesses of the female sex envied, thus flung 
 carelessly upon the world ; and if you can fancy 
 the boiling pit of Tartarus, with ten million con- 
 flicting damned souls, you can then form some 
 idea of the seething cauldron of her heart. I 
 don't say it was right in my father to treat his 
 wife so, but he had his own reasons, and he was 
 no fool. I have no doubt he acted on the firmest 
 conviction that he was behaving properly ; and he 
 was one of those snake-blooded people who do 
 not make up their minds to an energetic course 
 untilafter alongseriesof dubitations,butwho when 
 they are resolved are as inflexible as cold steel. 
 
 These meetings were like the clash of two ice- 
 bergs ; they parted without, on his side, even the 
 decency of a farewell ; though my lady always 
 kept up appearances, and smiled and shook hands
 
 136 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 with apparent fervour, which did not deceive her 
 lord, though I suppose she vainly hoped it would. 
 He never even affected to look her in the face, 
 but shunned her gaze as if it were something 
 odious and repulsive. Yet she complained not. 
 She did not venture even to remonstrate In my 
 own opinion he would have acted much more 
 mercifully if he had racked or bowstrung her at 
 once, according to approved Eastern fashion ; but 
 our rascally laws prevent this course — and why ? 
 Why, that we may torment our women to death, 
 and make their entire lives a hell upon earth, 
 instead of disposing of them quickly, which is 
 the benevolent Turkish mode. Such favourites 
 are women with the laws of England ; such cruel 
 powers are given to their husbands in that favoured 
 land. 
 
 I have described one scene with Congreve, the 
 nature of which the wise may conjecture. We 
 saw little of him after that. He got tired of 
 what appeared to be a vain pursuit, and took up 
 with the mad Duchess of Marlborough, who had 
 her father's hot blood, without one particle of the 
 cool judgment which guided or restrained it. To
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 137 
 
 her he left his fortune, while his near relations 
 starved in Staffordshire. Let me now paint an- 
 other, and the last of these meetings, which I 
 mean to describe. It was with Pope, who still 
 persisted in his folly, notwithstanding the repulse 
 of his dear friend. The world has often asked 
 itself the cause of those terrible feuds which 
 afterwards rag ed so violently between Lady Mary 
 and the moral bard ? Many suspected, many in- 
 vented, none knew. But it shall be no longer 
 ignorant. I was an accidental witness of the 
 thing, and here it is developed and detailed. 
 
 Suppose yourself at Twickenham, ! reader of 
 a future century, in the golden autumn of 1724. 
 We inhabit a pretty villa by the river side ; the 
 swans are sailing up and down ; the silver clouds 
 float lazily over the blue arch ; the sun is bright 
 with Eastern splendour ; the air is balmy with the 
 breath of flowers. My father is, as usual, in 
 London ; he has not seen my mother for I know 
 not how many days, or weeks, or perhaps months, 
 though she has incessantly sought him in Caven- 
 dish Square. Pope has written her an enraptured 
 letter, and has promised us the distinguished
 
 138 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 honour of a visit. My lady is in her best brocade 
 awaiting him in the garden, and I am playing 
 with some china monsters in a room that over- 
 looks the sparkling river. Suddenly I see a small 
 distorted man, with a lean, haggard, monkey 
 face, blearing eyes, scarcely any hair, a thin, 
 straight nose, and coarse mouth, striding with a 
 long and splay foot up the walk ; his back is 
 bent, his body crooked, his fingers long and like 
 a vulture's claws, his smile satirical, hollow, and 
 sardonic, and his whole appearance that of an 
 obscene bird of ill-omen. He is dressed in a 
 black velvet suit, and leans on a gold headed 
 cane. This is Alexander Pope, the great laureate 
 of the fashionable world, the Horace of the 
 eighteenth century, the ape- A polio of the fair 
 and frivolous. 
 
 My lady went to meet him, and received him 
 with an easy grace. He bowed with all the air 
 of a polished courtier of the highest fashion ; his 
 hat was in his hand, his head bent, and his eyes 
 expressed respect and deference. A faint smile 
 passed over his pale features, and after a brief 
 parley they approached the room where I was
 
 EDWARD WORTLET MONTAGU. 139 
 
 playing. Suddenly, by some mischance, I tum- 
 bled over one of my lady's most beloved mon- 
 sters ; the image fell, and the head was knocked 
 off. I almost heard the footsteps at the door. 
 Dreading a scene, such as I had more than once 
 witnessed, and a well boxed pair of ears, such as 
 I had more than once felt, I picked up the broken 
 china, and with a heart beating quickly, took re- 
 fuge behind a painted screen, which masked one 
 of my lady's favourite corners. Scarcely had I 
 ensconced myself than the door opened, and Lady 
 Mary, accompanied by the cringing, flattering 
 dwarf, whom all England delighted to honour, 
 made her appearance. He had evidently 
 squeezed her hand, or made some other overture, 
 for I could see her face was more suffused than 
 usual. He led her to a sofa, and seated himself 
 beside her. He was silent for a few momen ts, 
 and then began as follows, in a low and deep 
 voice, which bore, at least, the sound of earnest- 
 ness. I could see and hear from my nook ; the 
 scene impressed itself indelibly on my mind. 
 Even then I began to look with hatred on the 
 sickening little troll with all his rhyming art.
 
 140 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " Not written, or sent, or visited," says the 
 gentleman. "What can possibly detain him? 
 Why is he blind to the brightest sun P" 
 
 " I suppose he is no worse than all your states- 
 men and politicians," answered my lady. u I 
 scarcely ever yet knew one of them that was not 
 an owl. They are so wrapped up in their own 
 little dark plots, that they can see nothing else in 
 the world." 
 
 " Then it is your ladyship's opinion that love 
 has taken refuge with poets alone ?" said Pope, 
 after a brief pause. 
 
 u I have scarcely any opinion," answered she, 
 u about what does not exist." 
 
 " What," cries the other, " do I live to hear 
 the most beautiful woman in England negative 
 the existence of the universal passion?" 
 
 " I have found it an universal fable," an- 
 swered she ; u I have heard much of the thing, 
 but have never seen it in actual life. 1 have read 
 of it ; I have been told of it— nay, why should I 
 deny that it has even been professed to myself 
 with many an ardent oath ; but I know that they 
 who were most loud in their declarations sought
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 141 
 
 simply their own amusement, or to indulge their 
 vanity. I could read selfishness in their eyes, 
 and see the hollowness of their false hearts, 
 though they thought 1 could not." 
 
 " Your ladyship should not judge of all man- 
 kind," says Pope, " by such specimens of it as 
 you saw at Paris, or Vienna. There are men 
 who truly love, and who would devote the 
 whole of their existence to her whom they 
 adore." 
 
 The lying pigmy! How came he to know 
 this ? Certainly not from within. 
 
 " Are there?" said my lady ; " what a pity it 
 is that they are not exhibited. The whole female 
 world would flock to see that wonder of wonders 
 — a faithful lover." 
 
 A faint blush passed over the sickly features 
 of the poet. He then resumed. I could see 
 my lady play with him as a cat plays with a 
 mouse. 
 
 " I know a man," said he, (t who loves, and 
 loves devotedly. The woman he worships is the 
 pride and glory of her sex. She is more beautiful 
 than this splendid scene of stream and wood on
 
 142 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 which we now gaze ; she is more bright than the 
 sky lit with sunshine. Her wit is like the 
 diamond; her manners enchant; her smile, her 
 thoughts, her words are music. Unfortunately 
 for him, another owns her, who prizes her not at 
 all, and she has never yet given her admirer more 
 than soft words, and, perhaps, at times, a look on 
 which he lives. Yet this man — will you tell me 
 that he does not love ?" 
 
 My lady looked at the absurd dwarf. She 
 knew well whom and what he meant, but she re- 
 membered that she was a duke's daughter, and 
 that it was a linen-draper's son who ventured to 
 talk in this mad way. She had amused herself 
 with his folly, and played with him — poor wrig- 
 gling trout — until he was fairly hooked, and 
 thought himself secure of the gilded fly. It was 
 a fine thing, a polite thing — and this woman was 
 a subtle deviser — to have Alexander Pope cele- 
 brating her in prose and poetry, dangling in her 
 train, and telling the world how beautiful, and 
 great, and wise she was. It was convenient to 
 use him as her flying newsman, to extend her 
 praises, and make her loving friends grow pale
 
 EDWARD WORTLEf MONTAGU. 143 
 
 with envy. But this was all my lady ever con- 
 templated from him. Had he been a handsome 
 lord ! Well ! She never dreamed the poet was 
 so selfish as to demand a quid pro quo for all this 
 fine sentiment. She now looked at him with the 
 air of a vestal, as if she had never been in the 
 seraglio ; as if she was unable to comprehend how 
 any man could love a married woman ; as if she 
 had not that very day penned to Lady Pomfret 
 a letter all profligacy , scandal, and impurity ; 
 but her air did not deceive her companion, who 
 was as quick and keen as a weasel, or a ferret, 
 and, indeed, at this moment, he gave me a vivid 
 idea of one or both. For I began to hate him 
 with a child's passion. I could feel my blood 
 boil, and my veins throb. I longed to rush out, 
 and brain him with the broken monster, which, 
 by the way, seemed much handsomer than this 
 enamoured minstrel. 
 
 u How can this wretch/' I thought, " dare to 
 talk in this way, in my presence ? Am I not her 
 son — her guardian?" 
 
 I forgot that I was an infant, and unseen.
 
 144 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " And who," enquired my lady, " may this 
 wonderful man be ?" 
 
 " You see him before you," answered the poet, 
 in a low, deep tone, and with an earnest look, 
 that had all the appearance of reality — the devil 
 under an angel's semblance. 
 
 " Lor ! bless me," she answered, " I never 
 should have thought it. I supposed that Swift 
 and Fermor, your grotto and the muses, were all 
 you cared for." 
 
 u Ah !" said he, " you do not know my heart. 
 Would that you did." 
 
 But Lady Mary knew it well. She had seen 
 into the little dirty nook ; she had probed its 
 inmost depths. She saw vanity, falsehood, scorn, 
 and selfishness in that deep hollow cavern, which 
 the poet now pretended was all her own. She 
 knew that all he was telling, or had told her, was 
 a lie, gotten by heart, and repeated to half a score 
 of silly, pretty women, by this Devil on two 
 sticks of a bard. 
 
 "You talk," said he, "of Swift, as if thore 
 could be any real sympathy between that misan-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 145 
 
 thropist and myself. You speak of Fermor, but 
 she thinks only of that impotent Lord Petre, who 
 like all the Catholic nobility is but half a man ; 
 of the muses, but I care not for them ; of my 
 Grotto, but I find no pleasure in it. 
 
 "Ah ! friend 'tis true, this truth you lovers know, 
 In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, 
 In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes, 
 Of hanging mountains and of sloping greens, 
 Joy lives not here j to happier seats it flies, 
 And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes." 
 
 The hateful little hatter murmured this in a 
 way irresistibly comical; I have no doubt he 
 thought it would be pathetic in the extreme ; but 
 Lucretia was not more insensible to the name of 
 Tarquin than Lady Mary was to the raptures of 
 her misshapen admirer. She affected to listen 
 with surprise, and still to wonder who he meant ? 
 The bard took hope. He had ventured thus far, 
 and had not been brained with her ladyship's 
 fan, or given over to the kicks of John Foot- 
 man. 
 
 "Charming Lady Mary," he cried, "can you, 
 indeed, be ignorant of her who is the bright 
 morning star of my heart and love ; on whom my 
 thoughts and feelings have dwelled for years ; who 
 
 vol. i, H
 
 146 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 came before me like a radiant vision of yonth in 
 the dark Hades of London life, and filled me 
 with her presence like a splendour ? Oh ! how I 
 have loved you, and longed to tell you so- 
 dreamed of you when you were afar off; lived 
 upon your image ; panted to behold you once 
 again, and to pour forth the passion of my life, 
 Your portrait by Kneller, which I have hung up 
 opposite to where I always sit, is but a poor sub- 
 stitute for her whom I adore. Give me but 
 your heart, and believe me to be wholly 
 yours." 
 
 And the writhing imp absolutely fell on his 
 knees before her. 
 
 But here an event happened, the most un- 
 romantic possible. The little man was never 
 vigorous; he was at this time weak in health 
 and feeble about the knees, though he professed 
 love like Hercules himself. As he slipped grace- 
 fully to the fair feet of his princess, he fell on 
 the floor and sprawled before her in the most un- 
 dignified manner. He even rolled. It was as if 
 Nemesis had knocked the lying little baboon on 
 the head in pure spite. This was too much for
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 147 
 
 Lady Mary. That keen sense of the ludicrous, 
 which no woman ever possessed in greater per- 
 fection, was immediately called into play. The 
 contrast between the impassioned poet and the 
 sprawling, rolling mannikin on the carpet, who 
 looked all confusion and mortification, appeared 
 so striking, that she burst into a loud fit of un- 
 feeling laughter, which sounded in Alexander's 
 ear like his death knell. The woman who could 
 thus sport with his deformity he knew at once 
 never couid be his. The blood rushed to his 
 very eyes — -not red, but black, envenomed, yellow, 
 snakey blood. He raged and writhed like a mad- 
 man. He sought to scramble to his legs, in 
 some impiiKu fashion, but failed, and his appeal- 
 ing glance io my lady for assistance was an- 
 swered only by another burst of ringing laughter. 
 The bell sounded, a servant entered, and with ill- 
 concealed mockery — perhaps he had been listen- 
 ing — lifted up the nightingale of Twickenham. 
 No word did he speak — I suppose he could not. 
 Ee did not bow or look farewell ; but hastened 
 out of the room with a fury gnawing his heart 
 My lady's clear and silvery laughter accompanied 
 
 h 2
 
 148 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 his flight, and goaded him like a poisoned arrow. 
 Never was a love scene ended so ridiculously. 
 As he hobbled down the garden, he could hear 
 her singing — 
 
 *' Cease, fond shepherd, cease desiring 
 
 What you never can enjoy ; 
 She derides your vain aspiring, 
 
 She to all your sex is coy. 
 Cunning Damon once pursued her, 
 
 Yet she never would incline ; 
 Strephon too as vainly wooed her, 
 
 Though his flocks are more than thine." 
 
 Aud here her silvery scornful laughter rang 
 again. 
 
 Pope turned round; there was a grinning 
 devil in his face. 
 
 " Woman ! " he cried out, " vile, heartless, 
 deceitful ! You shall rue this to the end of time. 
 I will cover your name with ignominy ; I will 
 unmask your profligacy before the world. What ! 
 you, the woman of the seraglio, the jest of 
 Wharton, the deceiver of your husband, the 
 plunderer of Ruremonde, the gambler on the 
 Exchange, with every foul conceit abiding in 
 your heart, vicious as a Roman empress, corrupt 
 in every thought that passes through your brain 
 — think you that I did not know you as you are ?
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 149 
 
 Yea, I did, indeed ; and so shall the world see." 
 And, shaking his fist, he turned round, while 
 Lady Mary still laughed ; but her mirth now 
 seemed hollow and feigned. 
 
 And now all was over between this amiable 
 pair. They never again met as friends, but 
 always as deadly enemies, each bent as if on the 
 ruin of the other. The poet lampooned the lady ; 
 the angry fair one libelled the poet. Pope in- 
 vented lies and gave them circulation. My 
 mother was equally fertile in calumny and cun- 
 ning. Both parties were to blame ; he, for 
 labouring as he had, to withdraw a wedded dame 
 from her loyalty ; she for even appearing to 
 encourage his base pursuits. An accident had 
 foiled him, and perhaps preserved her, for the 
 moment, at least, from him. The labours of 
 years had vanished in a trice. For anyone who 
 has read his letters to Lady Mary, written while 
 she was abroad, and after her return home, can 
 have but one feeling, and that must be of 
 mingled scorn and disgust for this puling hunch- 
 back, who omitted no art of flattery or insinua- 
 tion to debauch her heart and poison her mind,
 
 150 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 and make her an easy prey to his advances. I 
 have read them over and over again, as they have 
 heen copied into one of her note- books; and at 
 each perusal my heart was fire. Had I been able 
 at this moment, pitiless for his discomfiture, I 
 could have torn him in pieces. But I was so 
 thunderstruck at the scene that I was speech- 
 less. I suppose I made some noise, for all that 
 I recollect next was seeing my mother stand 
 before me, with rage in her eyes, and flame 
 flashing out of every feature. I was covered with 
 confusion. I pointed to the broken monster, but 
 she evidently believed that I had deliberately 
 concealed myself. From that moment till her 
 death she detested me. She did not speak, she 
 did not pause to think, but with one blow felled 
 me to the floor.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 151 
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 "Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron ; Thou shalt dash 
 them in pieces like a potter's vessel." 
 
 My father's house was now no more a home for 
 me. I was sent to school, oh! terrible re- 
 miniscence. Now began my days and nights of 
 misery. For the silvery river, the green leasowe, 
 the garden, wood, or bower, I was immersed in 
 a horrid dungeon, flogged by a detestable wretch, 
 whose name was Casey, and who as he laid the 
 lash over my back, grinned with a fiend's delight, 
 till the fire leaped out of his dark eyes. Every 
 morning regularly I was stripped to my shirt, 
 hoisted on the back of a boy, and belaboured with 
 a cane, till my shrieks re-echoed through the long
 
 152 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 room, and I writhed in bloody agony. When I com- 
 plained to my mother, I got no sympathy, bnt a 
 cool assurance that if I were not so great a rascal, 
 dunce, and liar, I should fare better. I was not 
 alone, indeed, in my misery. Our school was a 
 field of blood — like the Hakeldamaof the Jews. 
 We suffered like galley slaves under the whip, and 
 were fiends and tyrants to one another. It was 
 horrible to hear our cries and screams when the 
 hour of torture came ; but we might as well have 
 attempted to melt the marble sphynx of Egypt 
 into sympathy as this hardened cannibal, Casey, 
 whose name I thus preserve in pickle as an 
 example to future pedagogues. 
 
 Cne day, as I suppose, I had been more indo- 
 lent than usual, and the master was determined 
 to make an example of me. The fact was I was 
 sick of my life, and I scarcely cared to learn a 
 lesson. When I knew it well, I got no praise ; 
 when I knew it indifferently, I was mercilessly 
 flogged. It was a lesson in English Grammar, 
 wholly uninteresting to the mind of a boy. And 
 I had now fed my fancy on works of imagination 
 — "The Seven Champions of Christendom,"
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 153 
 
 " The History of Prince Arthur," and the mar- 
 vellous adventures of " Robinson Crusoe" ;, so 
 that it required something more entertaining 
 than nouns, pronouns, or prepositions, their rise, 
 history, and use, to impress anything about 
 them upon my memory. Casey prepared himself 
 for the task. He pulled up his coat cuffs, and 
 exposed his great heavy hands and wrists, which 
 were not very clean. He wielded a large and 
 flexible cane, which was four feet long. I was, 
 as usual commanded to strip. I did so, for 
 resistance was useless, and I was subdued and 
 tamed into a negro's submissiveness. I was then 
 hoisted on the back of the strongest and biggest 
 boy in the school. The first lash shot through 
 my tender frame as I have seen a mighty wave 
 leap upon a small ship, until every plank quivers 
 with the dreadful shock, and she seems to have 
 got her death blow. So ran that thrill through 
 every muscle, vein, and fibre. I quivered beneath 
 it. A fierce delight appeared to animate and 
 nerve Casey's arm. He flogged and flogged 
 apparently for ever, until the boy on whose back 
 I was, at length flung me down, and saying he 
 
 H 5
 
 154 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 would serve no longer, escaped into a corner. I 
 fell on the floor ; Casey still struck me savagely. 
 I clung about his legs and knees ; I screamed, I 
 implored mercy; I made a thousand promises. 
 Frenzy seemed to seize him. He would not, or 
 he could not cease. The whole demon was upon 
 him. 
 
 At length I fainted ; I foamed at the mouth. 
 I remained senseless for an hour. I was sub- 
 sequently told that Casey then got frightened, and 
 bathed my head and limbs with cold water and 
 other restoratives, but in vain. I was carried 
 home on a litter and lay in bed for several weeks, 
 not quite sane, as I have since heard — certainly 
 with only a dim recollection of what I had en- 
 dured. Nature took compassion on me, and 
 dipped the horrid scene in Lethe. My mother 
 never came near me after the first day. She said 
 it was only what a dunce and a liar deserved, and 
 I was left wholly to the care of servants. I 
 verily believe she would have sent me back again 
 when I recovered, but one of her sisters, my Aunt 
 Evelyn, interposed; and I was rescued, almost 
 by chance, from the fangs of thie accursed wretch.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 155 
 
 A brief interval now passed before I was again 
 sentenced to hell. Alas! that it should have 
 been so brief. I lingered by the sunny banks 
 and watched the fish disporting. I wished to 
 join them. They had no lessons, no grammar, 
 no pedagogues among them. I did not know or 
 think that even they had their tormentors, their 
 Caseys in the shape of pikes. They seemed so 
 happy in the sun that I have often felt tempted 
 to leap in and join in their play. Again I looked 
 up into the sky. The birds sang ; every bloom- 
 ing spray danced, to their delight ; their whole 
 hearts seemed bursting with ecstacy. I went 
 over my favourite books of adventure and romance, 
 and from their contrast with the jail from 
 which I had been rescued, derived a novel in- 
 terest. I fancied myself a hero, a knight, 
 a prince, an enchanted wanderer in enchanted 
 lands. What marvellous exploits I performed ; 
 what castles I beseiged, what giants I slew ; what 
 royal damsels I delivered from bondage. The 
 whole earth possessed not such a hero ; the whole 
 of Christendom resounded with my glory. I was 
 the favourite champion of all the feeble. I was
 
 156 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the honoured guest of kings and emperors; 
 magicians trembled at my name ; the most fell 
 enchanters owned their weakness when in my 
 golden armour I appeared, and thundered at their 
 brazen forts or battlements of steel. Suddenly 
 these faerie dreams were dispelled, and I was 
 again informed that I must prepare for school. 
 Horror seized me. I felt like Job when that 
 Spirit which made the hair of his flesh stand up 
 passed before his eyes^-" Fear came upon me 
 and trembling, which made all my bones shake." 
 I had five guineas in my pocket — the wealth of 
 Croesus to a boy — with which I immediately made 
 a flight to Oxford. This was in 1725. I found 
 myself in the High Street. It was fair time. 
 The place was filled with booths, puppet shows, 
 and menageries, and seemed to offer an inexhaus- 
 tible source of joy. As I was gazing on these 
 wonders, a tall youth, with a merry eye and lip, 
 a long nose, and an arch smile, came up and 
 said, " Hallo ! Wortley, what are you doing 
 here?" — dragged me away into one of the puppet 
 shows. It was my cousin, Harry Fielding, then 
 a youth only a little older than myself, who had
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 157 
 
 made a nearly similar escape from Eton, but 
 with not so well filled a purse. We both re- 
 counted our adventures to each other, and laughed 
 heartily at the fancied dismay of our parents. We 
 went from show to show, devouring ginger-bread 
 nuts and apples, until we were entirely gorged ; 
 Fielding drawing on me as if I were old Drum- 
 mond the goldsmith, and scattering about our 
 silver among the columbines and clowns — the 
 former of whom he kissed and cuddled to the im- 
 mense delight of the populace, while he joked 
 with the latter in the broadest style ; which pro- 
 duced peals of laughter from the chawbacons and 
 their sweethearts. I think we passed the night 
 in a round house, but we both drank so much 
 wine that I can scarcely say with certainty. 
 The debauch, however, was unlucky, for the con- 
 stables having discovered who we were, commu- 
 nicated the fact to some of the dons, and we were 
 both next day packed back to our respective 
 houses, under the guardianship of one of the pre- 
 servers of the peace, who gave us many a sage 
 admonition on the road, to which I fear we paid 
 no attention. My Lady Mary received me with
 
 158 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU, 
 
 her usual demonstration of love — a hearty flog- 
 ging — I was now eleven years old — and confined 
 me to my room on bread and water for three 
 days, when I was removed in custody, only not 
 handcuffed or chained, to another physician of 
 the mind. 
 
 My new master was one Porter ; he was L.L.D. 
 of some university, but I think it was £atan cod - 
 ferred on him his degree. He was tall, thin, and 
 slightly grey haired. His eye was like a piece of 
 stone ; there was a frigid light in the lower part 
 of it which made oue shudder. His mouth was 
 hard and firm ; his forehead showed self-conceit ; 
 his bearing was quick, despotic, and unfeeling. 
 He was an accomplished man, but a most hard- 
 ened scoundrel. His torture was refined. It 
 was wholly different from Casey's ; the latter was 
 a vulgar brute, who merely tormented the body : 
 but Porter was a subtle inquisitor ; he spared 
 your flesh, but made your heart and spirit writhe. 
 He filled you with self- contempt, self-loathing ; 
 he looked at you as if you were some misshapen 
 beast ; he grinned, he sneered, he curled his lip 
 in scorn, until you felt disposed to fall on your
 
 EDWARD WOHTLET MONTAGU. 159 
 
 knees, and ask the rod in mercy. Never was any 
 wretchedness greater than that which we endured 
 under this miscreant. We hated him, we detested 
 ourselves ; the whole world seemed one vast theatre 
 of horror. This mental slavery was perfect in 
 its way. I have read of a man who was put into 
 a hollow pillar, which was gradually heated to a 
 white glow, and the wretch expired piecemeal. 
 In such a pillar I seemed to move and abide 
 under this odious villain, until I quivered with 
 affright when I heard his foot ascend the stairs, or 
 listened to his harsh voice echo through the house. 
 It gave me the notion of the links of a chain used 
 only to fetter criminals, and lead them to execu- 
 tion. This was our classical teacher ; in mathe- 
 matics we were under the tuition of a fellow 
 named .Douglas, a vulpine coloured knave. 1 hated 
 him the moment I saw him. You will ask me 
 why ? It was not merely from a boy's impulsive 
 instinct, but his breath stunk horribly ; it was 
 something rank, putrid, most offensive. My 
 nerves and organs were finely constituted ; this 
 defect disgusted their delicacy, and I never could 
 bear to go near him. Yet near him I was forced
 
 160 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 to go, and this also constituted a new and most 
 dreadful punishment. Mathematics I hated ; 
 Euclid, algebra, arithmetic — all the horrid jargon 
 of science were odious to me, I failed and failed, 
 and utterly failed, until Douglas gave me up ; he 
 treated me with contempt, and telling me il T 
 should never set the Thames on fire," he gave 
 me his worst mark, with a satirical and contu- 
 melious grin that entered into my soul. Why did 
 he not honestly tell me that I could not learn 
 the rubbish ? Because he revelled so heartily in 
 the suffering of others, and took such a dislike to 
 me, from the antipathy of our two natures, that 
 he could not bear to relinquish the 'power of 
 punishment, which his tutelage over me gave ; 
 and he took vengeance on me because he saw me 
 turn away my face every time he came near and 
 breathed balefully upon me. I would rather have 
 borne the hardest blow at any time than have 
 inhaled this serpent's odour. I shrank from it. 
 He saw this. If he knew why I did so I suppose 
 he hated me the more — a personal defect dis- 
 covered, inflicts pain on the possessor of it, which 
 he repays with an undying thirst of vengeance.
 
 EDWAED WOKTLEV. MONTAGU. 161 
 
 Five days in every week we were subjected to 
 these dreadful ordeals. On the sixth day (Satur- 
 day) was our day of judgment. The marks of 
 the whole week were then added up. We had 
 what were called judgment books, in which all 
 our shortcomings for all the preceding days were 
 noted under separate heads. These were com- 
 puted, and according to our approach or retro- 
 cession from a fixed number, which was the per- 
 fect one — I think it was thirty — was our corporeal 
 chastisement. For fancy not, wondering 
 reader, that bodily correction was banished from 
 this academic grove. By no means, but it was in a 
 different department. A man named Hamblin, 
 who was Porter's partner in the establishment, 
 was the executioner. Porter and Douglas, hav- 
 ing wasted all their spite and tormented your 
 mind till it could endure no more, then handed 
 you over to the hangman, who was to finish you off 
 and dismiss you to the Sabbath-day with a temper 
 beautifully attuned for the Sunday lesson of 
 charity, mildness, peace and good will to all men. 
 We were paraded in a long line before Hamblin ; 
 each trembling truant with his judgment book in
 
 162 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 his hand ; the minister of punishment at our head 
 with his long whip. Each was examined in 
 turn, each was flogged according to his book, and 
 then sent off with a satirical courage mon ami from 
 the hangman, which seemed the bitterest of all. 
 Why we did not drown, or hang, or shoot our- 
 selves, seems now a mystery to me ; but it is 
 wonderful what an amount of suffering boys will 
 endure before they finally rebel. 
 
 All my days during this period were days of 
 misery. Night brought me no repose. I slept 
 in a long attic all alone, and soon discovered from 
 the servants' talk that the house was haunted. 
 They had the most curious tales of horror. I 
 listened to these till my blood ran cold, and i 
 could feel it like a frozen rivulet in my heart. 
 Hamblin's wife had a mark under her left eye — 
 a slight mark, like a scar, and when you looked 
 at it but for a second, she winced under your 
 glance as if in dread. I once asked the girl who 
 most usually attended me what it was, and heard 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Misses's father was, they say, a parson 
 somewhere in the north, and though one of
 
 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 163 
 
 the cloth, was as bad a man as the country 
 held. He was covetous, too, like all parsons, 
 and always greedy after money ; so that some 
 folks did say he was ready to sell his soul to the 
 devil for pelf; but for my part, I do not believe 
 that the devil is fool enough to give money for 
 any mortal souls, when he can get so many on 
 'em for nothing. However this may be, there 
 was a kitchen garden attached to his glebe house, 
 and this garden, like a grasping old huncks as 
 he was, he began to extend from time to time 
 into the churchyard, which was one of great 
 extent, and when the horses were ploughing it up 
 they disturbed the bones, and smashed in the 
 coffins, and broke the skulls, and knocked the 
 dead about in the most shameful manner. And 
 his wife, misses's mother, wept sorely, and did all 
 she could to change the avaricious old brute ; but 
 he went on, heedless of God or man, encroaching 
 more and more every year on the place devoted 
 to the dead, and his eldest daughter, Mrs. Ham- 
 blin, who was most like himself, backed him up, 
 and abused her mother, who died at last of vex- 
 ation and affright. Well, when the turnips or
 
 164 EDWARD WORTLKY MONTAGU. 
 
 parsnips were brought to table, they used to be 
 full of human teeth and bits of bones, and they 
 say the celery and cucumbers dropped blood ; and 
 at last no one would eat, nor would any neigh- 
 bour buy anything grown in the field, and the 
 parson got almost mad, and his daughter told 
 him to gather up all the bones and fragments, 
 and have them burned or thrown into the river, 
 and then all would go well. So the parson em- 
 ployed a lot of men to grub 'em up, and they 
 were cast without a sigh, or prayer, or bles- 
 sing, into the river ; and that very night as the 
 daughter was lying in bed, an old lady rustling 
 all in rich silks came into her bedroom, and look- 
 ing proudly and fiercely at her, flung something 
 which hit her straight under the eye. Then the 
 old lady laughed, and misses immediately jumped 
 up and screamed out, and the whole house was 
 alarmed ; and she told them what had happened, 
 and the parson began to curse and swear, and 
 said he would send the old lady to the Red Sea, 
 and he ordered everyone out of the bedroom. But 
 from that night to the present time, misses has 
 lost the sight of that very eye, and they say
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 165 
 
 wherever she goes, the spirits follow her, and 
 don't let her sleep in her bed, but are always 
 worrying her; but how that may be, no one 
 except herself and her husband knows ; but for 
 my part, I believe that nothing goes right here 
 after midnight, and I have often thought of run- 
 ning away and drowning myself at the things I 
 hear and see." 
 
 This story set me half mad. I remember well 
 the day after the first night I heard it. I ran 
 home in a frenzy ; I rushed into my mother's 
 presence, I fell on my knees, and pathetically im- 
 plored her to take me home, or send me to another 
 school, before i should grow wholly mad, or fling 
 away my life in disgust. My lady coolly rang 
 for a servant, and I was conveyed back in dis- 
 grace and bondage, where a hearty thrashing 
 awaited and rewarded me. I was then paraded 
 before the boys, and crowned with a large goat's 
 head and horns ; on my back was pinned a paper 
 with these words, "Liar! Coward !" and was stuck 
 up on a stooi in the most conspicuous corner of 
 the school-room, and remained the centrepiece of 
 mockery and laughter, and I suppose contempt,
 
 166 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 for the remainder of the day. My heart was 
 almost throbless ; but my brain burned like red 
 hot embers, and a flood of hatred of life, man- 
 kind, God, my parents, my country, and every 
 conceivable object, rushed through my entire 
 being, drenching it with livid bitterness. I re- 
 member that day still. It was the first of disgrace 
 I had endured. Torture and punishment I had 
 hitherto borne without repining ; indeed, I had 
 grown vain of my back, which was perfectly cal- 
 lous and horny from repeated floggings, and half 
 defied the cane of Hamblin. But this stigma 
 now branded on me seemed indelible, and I was 
 mad with rage and suffering. 
 
 The night that followed that day — shall it ever 
 pass out of my mind ? I was locked up in my 
 attic, supperless and wretched. As I lay on my 
 hard bed, I heard two deep drawn sighs that 
 sounded quite close to my pillow. An electric 
 chill passed through me ; I felt as if a hand of 
 death, cold, colder than ice, was drawn over my 
 face. I covered my head up in the quilt, I trem- 
 bled, I screamed in agony ; but my screams were 
 inaudible. I seemed as if enveloped in a cloud,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 167 
 
 out of which no sound could penetrate. Darkness 
 palpable was around me, but I could see it illumi- 
 nated as if by pale light. Then a gaunt shape all 
 bones, with an enormous head, stood right over 
 me, and looked out of the threatening eyes 
 with all the force of hell and hate. I swooned, 
 and when I woke to consciousness , found myself 
 in the arms of the friendly domestic, who had 
 already narrated to me some of her own ex- 
 periences of this loathed mansion. She bathed 
 my head, she soothed me with her hand, she spake 
 words of comfort, but T heard them not. Only a 
 confused vision of home, and grinning eyes, and 
 bloodless phantoms, seemed to roll in clouds before 
 my mind's vision ; but at last she lulled me into 
 forgetfulness by a low wild plaintive song ; the 
 lament of a young girl hanged for child murder, 
 aod of which I only remember these words, whose 
 melancholy music still haunts me — 
 
 * ' But his whispered words, and his soft blue eyes, 
 And the drinking of strong wine, 
 Were the fatal spells that did me betray, 
 And broke this heart of mine ; 
 
 Mine, 
 And broke this heart of mine." 
 
 Next day I fled from Porter's, never to return.
 
 168 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 Away, away, down by the green fields, beside 
 the sparkling open river, glorious, golden in the 
 laughing sunshine, inhaling the perfumed winds 
 that stole their fragrance from the flowers, by the 
 high road through vales and villages, anywhere, 
 anywhere so as not to school, or equally detested 
 home. I found myself hungry and exhausted in 
 a great city, which I soon knew was London. I 
 was finely dressed, but I had not a penny in my 
 pocket, and I had not tasted food all day. Still, 
 my heart failed not, for I fled from worse than 
 death, and threw myself into the whirlpool of life, 
 hopeful, confident, brimful of bright expectations. 
 I knew not whither I was going, or how I was to 
 live. I cared not what became of me, until my 
 escape was secured, so I wandered on and on, not 
 even staying to look into the brilliant shops, that 
 flashed with gold and silver, and all the treasures 
 of a great capital. At length darkness rushed on 
 me, but in a brief space the streets were lighted 
 up, carriages rattled by, preceded by link boys ; 
 the vivid life of the day seemed still to extend 
 into the night, and all was glitter, gaiety and 
 splendour. As I stood in a dark recess and
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 169 
 
 watched the noisy crowd of equipages whirled by, 
 I noted a chariot bearing the Montagu arms; 
 and leaning back on the soft cushions I saw my 
 mother superbly dressed, and looking haughtily 
 on the humble pedestrians. Beside her was a 
 man whom I afterwards knew to be Lord Hervey, 
 but I did not then have the honour of his acquaint- 
 ance. She looked methought into the very place 
 where I was hiding ; if she saw me, she took no 
 notice of the runaway, but laughed and smiled 
 upon her companion, who was blazing with finery ; 
 but had a languid effeminate air, which filled me 
 with utter scorn for the fopling. My tongue was 
 silent, but I could feel as if my heart grew ice in 
 her presence ; I did not curse her, but I felt 
 hatred. As to my father, I thought of him not. 
 He had never treated, or even looked at me as his 
 son ; to me his face was cold and hard ; he had 
 invariably repelled me whenever I approached 
 him. From the first moment that I can remem- 
 ber we have been strangers, perhaps foes. What 
 was there between him and me that I should seek 
 him now ? 
 Hitherto I had not once faltered. I now grew very 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 170 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU, 
 
 faint with hunger. I looked around me and began 
 to feel afraid. I was alone in wide London. There 
 was no friendly home to welcome me ; no warm 
 hand to clasp mine and lead me to a shelter. 
 Everyone I saw pass by, seemed to scrutinize me 
 with curious gaze. I looked up to heaven and 
 saw the stars, and wished to be among them. 
 u They," thought I, " would be my friends. 
 They are so bright, so glorious, so beneficent, they 
 would receive and shelter me. Oh ! that I could 
 fly away to them for ever. How shall I get food ? 
 I have no money to buy it — nobody seems to offer 
 it me ? Anyone can see that I am hungry, and 
 almost dead, yet no one offers to take me in. Yet 
 one thing is clear — I shall see no ghost to-night ; 
 I shall hear no whisper from hell murmured into 
 my ear; I shall feel no hand of Satan laid across 
 my heart. And if I wake in the morning some- 
 where — if ever I do wake, I shall escape a flogg- 
 ing and a fool's cap, and the jeers and gibes of 
 Lane and Bennett." These were two wretches in 
 the school who had singled me out for persecution ; 
 and added to my other torments by perpetual 
 irritation, and petty annoyance. I often felt as
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 171 
 
 if I could poignard them , but they were big coarse 
 boys, and a blow from either has frequently- 
 stunned me for even minutes. 
 
 While I was thus musing, a sigh or two, I 
 suppose, escaped me. I certainly felt sorrowful 
 enough. A hundred anxious thoughts ran 
 through my soul. The full danger of my situa- 
 tion now for the first time occurred to me. I 
 was accosted by a short stout man, with a very 
 square, full face, a round chin, deep dark eyes 
 of the most earnest expression, his own black 
 hair, a plain brown suit, and a fine cravat, tied 
 very loosely round his neck. He leaned on a 
 thick walking stick with a massive gold head. 
 His presence was assuring, and his smile had 
 something of a charm in it — the magic of a quick 
 benevolence. He looked at me for some time 
 before he spoke, as if meditating how he should 
 begin, but he finally came up to me, and with a 
 rich Irish accent, that was not destitute of soft 
 melody, thus addressed me — 
 
 " How now, youngster, in the fine coat — what 
 are you doing here at this time of night? Wait- 
 ing for your mistress* eh ?" 
 
 I 2
 
 172 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 I was startled, but I had plenty of courage, so 
 I said — 
 
 " Not waiting for a mistress, for here is no need 
 to wait, when they pass up and down in such num- 
 bers ; but wondering what I shall do with myself.*' 
 
 " You are very difficult to please, I suppose, 
 that you hesitate so much. But if you take my 
 counsel, you will go home to your mother, and 
 get your supper, unless, indeed, you prefer a 
 rheumatism." 
 
 si I like one part of your counsel, but not the 
 other." 
 
 " And pray which part, young gentleman, may 
 that be?" 
 
 " That which counsels a supper I approve ; 
 that which recommends home, I disapprove." 
 
 " Upon my word you are a pretty youth, and 
 1 suppose you are now hesitating between Bur- 
 gundy or Champagne, Will's or Button's?" 
 
 " I never heard of either, old gentleman, but 
 I feel hungry." 
 
 " Then step with me to the next tavern, and 
 order what you will. I should like to sup with a 
 youngster of your spirit."
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 173 
 
 M And pray, sir, who may you be that thus 
 accost me, and invite yourself so freely?" 
 
 Cf Well, I am called by my friends Dick Steele, 
 by my creditors Sir Eichard Steele, by the literary 
 world, Steele the Scribbler. Which do you like 
 best ?" 
 
 " The first, certainly, so let us go." 
 
 " And now, sir, that T have answered your 
 bold question, may I take the respectful liberty 
 of asking from which of the planets you have 
 dropped? You don't seem to know much of 
 London, to be ignorant of Will's and Button's." 
 
 " Sir Richard Steel, that is a question I won't 
 answer? so go your ways." 
 
 " Well, I shan't press you ; but come with me ; 
 vou seem a rare lad, and I should like half-an- 
 hour's chat with you." 
 
 We entered the first tavern we saw. My host, 
 for so he appeared to be, ordered a splendid sup- 
 per, but asked me no more questions, for he saw 
 that I was not disposed to be communicative, and 
 he was too fine a gentleman to press me for my 
 secret. He enjoyed the relish with which I 
 evidently discussed the various delicacies, and
 
 174 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 entertained me with agreeable discourse, speak- 
 ing to me all the time as if I were his equal in 
 every respect, and making me laugh by his 
 whimsical, deep, yet witty observations on all 
 around us. He quickly put me into the most 
 perfect good humour with myself and all the 
 world, and I felt half tempted to tell who I was. 
 An accident saved me. Just as I was on the 
 point of opening my heart, one of the drawers 
 came up, and said — 
 
 " Sir Richard, here is a note from Mr. Montagu, 
 he wishes to see you as soon as possible."' 
 
 "Ah, Ned Montagu," says Sir Richard, "I 
 wonder what mare's nest he has now found that 
 he wants me so speedily. But I shall see him to- 
 morrow. Meanwhile, young gentleman, what 
 ails you?" 
 
 (i Nothing ; I was only thinking where I should 
 get a bed." 
 
 "Now by all the gods and goddesses of 
 Olympus, thou art a perfectly unaccountable and 
 mysterious youth. Why can you not sleep here, 
 if you won't go home? Or why can't you fly 
 back to Mercury, from which I suppose you fell?"
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 175 
 
 i 
 
 " Simply because the inns in Mercury are closed 
 for the night, and I don't possess a farthing to 
 pay for one here." 
 
 " Then, my boy, you shall come home to my 
 house, and stay with me as long as you please ; 
 or at all events, until you go back to your mother, 
 or Mercury, or wherever else you have escaped 
 from." 
 
 " Then I fear I shall remain for some time, as 
 I don't feel inclined to go back at all." 
 
 " With all my heart, with all my heart ; and 
 boy, you shall be welcome to all I can supply — 
 welcome as my own flesh and blood. Here, 
 drawer, discharge the reckoning." 
 
 And flinging a guinea to the man, he rose up. 
 When he had received his change we got into the 
 street. Two dogged-looking fellows were lurking 
 outside the door, and immediately came up. 
 
 " Sir Richard, I beg your pardon, but you are 
 wanted." 
 
 " Am I, indeed ? Tell your master I can't 
 come." 
 
 u My master is the sheriff, Sir Richard, and he 
 will take no refusal."
 
 176 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " At whose suit is this new invitation ?" 
 
 " Flounce, your tailor, Sir Richard. The debt 
 is—" 
 
 "Pooh! nevermind." And he sighed. "Well, 
 I suppose I must go. But, young gentleman, as 
 you can't go home with me, for the Sheriff of 
 Middlesex wants me on pressing business, I sup- 
 pose you need a couple of guineas. Would that 
 they were twenty." 
 
 And he gave them to me while they took him 
 away. 
 
 I scarcely now remember whether I then 
 knew the full meaning of all this. The impres- 
 sion at the time on my mind was one of deep 
 gratitude to this unknown friend, who had thus, 
 almost by miracle, dropped on me from Heaven, 
 and saved me from famishing. Why was he thus 
 compelled to leave me?— to depart in the com- 
 pany of those two bold shabby-looking fellows, 
 who seemed strange lacqueys from the Sheriff of 
 Middlesex. A couple of link boys standing near, 
 and who had seen the occurrence, soon enlightened 
 me. 
 
 " Ah ! there he goes," says one, " for the five
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 177 
 
 hundredth time nabbed by the bloodhounds — the 
 merriest man in England, and the most open 
 hearted. His wife will miss him for some days." 
 
 " Aye," says the other, " and I am sure he 
 regrets it more for her sake than his own. He is 
 a noble fellow. You remember Jack Hall. Well, 
 when he was run over by that infernal old rogue 
 Montagu, who has twenty millions of gold in the 
 Bank of England, Sir Richard never ceased, night 
 nor day, till he made him give twenty pounds to 
 his mother, and got a promise from him that 
 when the boy was well he would apprentice him 
 to some trade where his hurt limb would not in- 
 terfere with his calling ; for he could flash a link 
 no more." 
 
 " Aye, and that was not the only fine thing he 
 did. There was Tom Brown " 
 
 But here they walked on, and I heard no more. 
 I could almost cry ; but where was the good of 
 that ? I returned to the inn and ordered a bed. 
 But I never saw Sir Richard Steele again. He 
 died soon after. 
 
 When I rose in the morning I scarcely knew 
 
 i 5
 
 178 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 how I should act. I was determined to seek my 
 fortune, and go in quest of adventures. I had 
 read " Gil Bias" in French at school, and thought 
 I should do as well as him. The shifting variety 
 of scenes, and circumstances, and characters ; the 
 independence, the wild gaiety, the change of place 
 and condition fascinated me. Why should not 
 my life also be a romance ? Why should it not 
 be narrated by some future Le Sage ? Or should 
 I go to sea, and like Robinson Crusoe, find my- 
 self the monarch of some Paradise Island in the 
 Southern Ocean, "where all was sunshine and re- 
 pose ? Anything was preferable to home, and 
 school, and the cane, and the sneers and sarcasms, 
 and the phantoms. Now that they had begun, I 
 felt certain if I once got back again they would 
 haunt me for ever — perhaps bear me away body 
 and soul into perdition, and leave no trace of me 
 behind. But whatever I did I must resolve on 
 straight. I was only twenty miles from my 
 tyrants ; I was not quite twelve from my mother 
 and her myrmidons. Both would soon, no doubt, 
 be after me, and further and more extended flight
 
 EDWARD WORTLEf MONTAGU. 179 
 
 was absolutely necessary. After breakfast I left 
 the tavern, and proceeded along the streets until 
 I got into the high road at the other side of the 
 Thames.
 
 180 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that 
 humbleth himself shall be exalted." 
 
 I now discovered that I could do nothing until 
 I got rid of my fine clothes. I had a predilection 
 for a vagrant life, and I resolved to gratify it. A 
 hundred different projects crossed my mind. 
 Should I he a soldier ? — for that I was too young ; 
 — a sailor ? — for that I was not big or strong 
 enough ; and though I canvassed the advantages 
 of being a cabin boy, the ills and necessities to 
 which it would subject me seemed to more than 
 counterbalance the rollicking freedom which it 
 promised. I did not much care for the toil or 
 hardship, and I was charmed by the quick variety
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 181 
 
 and change of scene into which it would lead me, 
 but 1 did not like the notion of cleaning the 
 sailor's shoes, or washing up their dirty dishes. 
 An errand boy did not promise variety enough ; 
 nor a link boy present security ; for though I had 
 half made up my mind to figure in this last- 
 named disguise, I luckily recollected in time that 
 as my avocations would necessarily lead me into 
 fashionable society, I should there run the most 
 extreme daily risk of being discovered, and 
 dragged home with ignominy. I never asked 
 myself why it was absolutely necessary that I 
 should be anything but what I was ; but took it 
 for granted that it was my kismet or destiny, as 
 the Orientals call it, and obeyed unerring in- 
 stinct. Of one thing I was sure, that as at home 
 I was detested and despised, and at school flogged 
 into fits, any condition of life was better than 
 either of these ; and as I had too much of my 
 father's practical prosaic spirit to fling myself 
 into the Thames, so I had enough of my mother's 
 errant blood to drive me into odd adventures, 
 which had, in the distance, a vague, indistinct 
 shadowy charm for my wandering imagination.
 
 182 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 I once meditated a good deal upon the advis- 
 ability of joining some strolling players. Here 
 would be variety of adventure, quite enough, I 
 thought, to gratify my ardent longings. But on 
 reflection I dismissed the notion. I saw no pros- 
 pect of the pleasure that I desired. I was a mere 
 stripling, and could, of course, be of histrionic 
 use only on the rarest occasions. The fine gilded 
 dresses and waving feathers which appeared so 
 captivating in the distance, would be forbidden 
 fruit to me until I was some years older, and I 
 should also be a dependent, and wholly devoid of 
 that wild freedom for which I panted. On full 
 consideration it seemed to me that the business 
 of a sweep was that for which I was best suited, 
 and which also promised the most agreeable inci- 
 dents. I thought what a fine thing it would be 
 to go from house to house, and from room to 
 room ; to-day in a nobleman's palace, to-morrow 
 in a cobbler's lodging ; this hour penetrating the 
 interior of some old manor house, full of quaint 
 passages and secret recesses, every one of which 
 concealed a romance : and the next strolling into 
 the country, and diving through the ivied walls
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 183 
 
 of some rustic cot, surrounded by trees and green 
 fields, or gazing over the wide expanse from the 
 highest summit of some lordly castle of the 
 feudal time. The curious in metaphysics may 
 enquire how or why it was, that I, with all my 
 patrician blood, had these vulgar notions ? I 
 have never examined into the reason myself. It 
 was odd, but it is true. If I were disposed to 
 search into it, vanity would no doubt come to my 
 aid, and I should liken myself to the glorious 
 Caliph Harim al Raschid, who, though com- 
 mander of the east, and lord of all the 
 beauty and the splendour of his imperial post, 
 was never more happy than when, disguised as a 
 merchant, or a slave, he strolled with his faithful 
 GiafTar through the streets of Bagdad, and in its 
 manifold phases of human existence forgot the 
 cares of empire, the demands of domestic duty, 
 and the supposed instincts of royal blood. But 
 the truth is that these same notions about royal 
 or noble blood are all arrant nonsense. There is 
 no instinct after truly great or noble things neces- 
 sarily among people of high descent. On the 
 contrary, my observation of them, and I have seen
 
 184 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 them all intus et in curte, has convinced me that, as 
 a general rule, the higher we ascend in the social 
 scale the more base and ignoble is the taste. 
 "The only steps to the favour of the Great," writes 
 Pope to Gay (and the little monkey well knew 
 it, having passed through all), " are such compla- 
 cencies, such compliances, such distant decorums, 
 as delude them in their vanities, or engage them 
 in their passions. He is tJieir greatest favourite 
 who is the falsest ; and when a man by such vile 
 gradations arrives at the height of grandeur and 
 power, he is then at best but in a circumstance 
 to be hated, and in a condition to be hanged for 
 serving their ends." So many a minister has found 
 it ! I know half-a-dozen dukes and marquises, 
 who spend all their lives in the cockpit; and in 
 bear-baiting, bull-dog righting, boxing, and rat 
 catching, find the true Elysium of existence. I 
 know a dozen earls and lords who roam from 
 bagnio to bagnio, and from gaming table to gam- 
 ing table, cursing, drinking, swearing, and talk- 
 ing smut with infinitely more gusto than I ever 
 heard among the lowest members of the mob. I 
 know scores and scores of viscounts, barons, and
 
 EDWABD WORTLET MONTAGU. 185 
 
 members of Parliament, who have no ideas beyond 
 ale tankards and pipes, and who spend their lives 
 in dirty little amonrs with dirty little doxies, and 
 fancy that Paradise means this and nothing more. 
 Allthesepeople are of ancient descent, and baronial 
 pedigree, and have genealogies and rent rolls, and 
 picture galleries, and muniment rooms, and are 
 " gracious," u most noble," " right honourable," 
 and so forth ; but if you could see their souls, you 
 would only behold some mean and frog-like little 
 abortions, squatting over a pool of dirt, and wholly 
 incapable of one generous sentiment. And so it 
 is with their lady wives, and mothers, and 
 daughters, whose tastes are quite as low, base, 
 and despicable (with all their grand blood), as 
 those that belong to their noble lords and 
 masters. 
 
 The picture of English life and manners which 
 I draw, may appear to the inexperienced unreal, 
 tinctured with misanthropy, and over-coloured by 
 a satirical spleen. But in truth it is not so ; it 
 is in all things literally accurate, historically true. 
 Anyone who will consult the memoirs of the 
 period can ascertain this. My mother's own
 
 186 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 Letters and Works will themselves prove all that 
 I have written. Before my volume be condemned 
 let those be studied, and then let who will, throw 
 stones upon my grave. To the ignorant or weak 
 this memoir may appear parricidal; to the base and 
 time serving, who know nothing of the facts, my 
 delineation of Lady Mary may appear to be that of 
 a matricide. In future days the partisans of Bute 
 (who having married my sister, is now revelling 
 in my father's ill-gotten money) will halloo 
 against my name, and cover it with obloquy. Let 
 them read and understand before they do so. 
 What respect could I have for either father or 
 mother when I knew their inner lives and odious 
 associates ? My mother herself has left Memoirs 
 and Diaries descriptive of them; and if these 
 should ever be seen, what will they not reveal ? 
 But that Scotch minion of the Princess, and his 
 lickspittle wife will take care of that ; they will 
 burn them with zealous care. Though of high 
 descent, my mother there confesses that she was 
 on the most intimate terms with the infamous 
 Kilmanseg — one of the old King's mistresses : 
 and with Craggs, who she tells us was " in the
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 187 
 
 closest engagement " with another, namely 
 Madam Platen. This horrid woman left her 
 husband, and voluntarily presented herself to the 
 doting old king to be his paramour. Her own 
 mother had been mistress to the king's father. 
 u She was naturally gallant," says Lady Mary, 
 writing of Platen, and as the king could only 
 u cut paper " in his mistress's apartments she 
 "pursued her warmer inclinations," and in- 
 trigued with Craggs, who was recommended by 
 her to Majesty, and became Secretary of State 
 for this kingdom of ours. He got engaged in 
 the South Sea swindle, by which he gained 
 enormous sums, and was mixed up with Lady 
 Mary's dabbling in lotteries, and in that odious 
 scheme by which so many innocent thousands — 
 widows and orphans — were reduced to ruin. 
 Cragg's father was originally footman to the 
 Duchess of Norfolk, and procured men for her, 
 " as she always had half-a dozen intrigues to 
 manage." He was engaged in the same honour- 
 able employment by King James II., and the 
 Duke of Marlborough, who hired him " as pro- 
 curer, both for women and money," — that is, as
 
 188 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the medium by which he negotiated his seduc- 
 tions and his bribes — for none was ever wickeder 
 than Churchill. 
 
 In this way Craggs, senior, amassed a large 
 fortune ; got into Parliament amid the other 
 pimps of the period, and was in the South Sea 
 robbery, with his son, the Secretary ; was made 
 Postmaster-general by his infamous employer, 
 to whom he continued to pander to the last, and, 
 dying after his right honourable son, gave 
 occasion to old Le ^Neve, the herald to make this 
 epitaph on him — li Here lies the last who died 
 before the first of his family " All this my mother 
 knew and has herself related. 
 
 Yet of this Craggs, who rose to eminence by 
 surrendering his person to one of the King's mis- 
 tresses, Pope had the ineffable baseness to write 
 an epitaph, which still disgraces and pollutes 
 Westminster Abbey, whose dean has not the 
 courage or decency to erase it ; and where all well- 
 bred people are compelled to read an apotheosis 
 of a scoundrel. 
 
 Another of our intimate friends at this time 
 was Methuen, afterwards Sir Paul, who, seeing
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 189 
 
 the means by which power was to be obtained, 
 and finding Platen pre-engaged, became the 
 favourite of old Madame Kilmanseg, " whose 
 constitution," says Lady M., "inclined her 
 to gallantry, she seeming to have rather Lord 
 Rochester's resolution of avoiding all sorts of 
 self-denial." Methuen was not ashamed to be 
 taken into the protection of this hag ; by which 
 debasement he became a Lord of the Treasury, 
 Secretary of State, and finally Treasurer of the 
 Household. He was one of Pope's virtuous 
 allies ; and notwithstanding his infamy, was a 
 member of the highest circles, as the lowest 
 wretches are commonly called. Schulenberg, 
 another of my mother's friends, finding that her 
 own day had gone by, and that the King no longer 
 cared for her (she being now three score), observ- 
 ing also that harlotry was the only road to 
 eminence, and that there were hundreds of our 
 fine gentlemen ready to be her accomplices ; she, 
 I say, actually brought over her own niece or 
 daughter from Hanover, and offered her to 
 the Prince of Wales — afterwards George the 
 Second — in which she was supported by Bern-
 
 190 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 stoff, "artful, avaricious, and designing, who 
 had got his share in the King's councils by 
 bribing his women." This fellow, intending to 
 keep his master wholly in his own and Schulen- 
 berg's hands, dissuaded Platen from coming to 
 England, telling her that the English would cut 
 her head off; but Platen was too cunning to 
 believe him, and so she came. In this plot he 
 had for his associates Walpole, who had been 
 expelled from the House for corruption, and 
 Townsend, who had married Walpole's handsome 
 sister, Dolly, she having been already debauched 
 by King Charles's boon companion, the old 
 Marquis of Wharton ; the Marchioness herself, 
 who studied her lord in all things, having been 
 actually a party to the plot in which the poor girl 
 was ruined under her own roof at Winchenden. 
 Lady Mary describes this Lady W. as " a 
 woman equally unfeeling and unprincipled ; flat- 
 tering, fawning, canting, affecting prudery, and 
 even sanctity, yet in reality as abandoned and 
 unscrupulous as her husband himself." Yet she 
 herself was almost domesticated with this person ; 
 was a cordial ally of her daughter Jane ; and is
 
 EDWARD "WORTLEY MONTAGU. 191 
 
 generally believed to have been on the same 
 terms of intimacy with her son Philip — from 
 whom she won loads of money — as she is popu- 
 larly thought to have been with Congreve and 
 Hervey ; her love verses to both of whom, one 
 ending — 
 
 " This meek epistle comes to tell 
 On Monday I, in town shall dwell, 
 Where, if you please to condescend, 
 In Cavendish Square to see your friend, 
 I shall disclose to you alone, 
 Such thoughts as ne'er were thought upon." 
 
 can leave leave no doubt of her position towards 
 them. Hence the fiery sting of Pope's verse in 
 which she is called Artemisia, the chaste and 
 faithful wife of King Mausolus, whose ashes she 
 swallowed. An elder brother of this Lord, Carr, 
 was the father of Horace Walpole, to Sir Robert's 
 own certain knowledge, and, indeed, it may 
 almost be said with his consent and approbation, ; 
 while Sir Robert passed his easy hours with Polly 
 Skerrett, a low girl from Holborn, a most intimate 
 visitor at our house, even while she was living 
 openly as the mistress of the minister, and the 
 mother of his babes. Of our cousin Lord 
 Halifax, called Mouse Montagu, I need not
 
 192 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 speak. He is the Bufo, that is the Toad of Pope, 
 and he had all the qualities of that reptile. The 
 old Duchess of Marlborough said, u There never 
 was a falser man than Lord Halifax was," and, 
 indeed, she never said a truer word. 
 
 Nor was it footmen only like Craggs and 
 Stephen Fox, or their ignoble breed, who rose to 
 power and peerages by the most ignoble means — 
 by pandering and procuring. The stream of 
 morals flowing from the Court, ran into Leicester 
 Fields to the Prince of Wales, whom my mother 
 condemns for not reflecting that a high rank 
 carries along with it a necessity of a more de- 
 cent and regular behaviour than is expected 
 from those who are not set in so conspicuous a 
 light. He was so far from being of that opinion, 
 that he looked on all the men and women he 
 saw as creatures he might kick or kiss for his 
 diversion ; and whenever he met with any opposi- 
 tion in these designs he thought his opponents 
 insolent rebels to the will of God, who created 
 them for his use, and judged of the merit of all 
 people by their ready submission to his orders. 
 He was equally well mated, his Princess having,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 193 
 
 according to the same authority, u that genius 
 which qualified her for the government of a fool, 
 and made her despicable in the eyes of men of 
 sense ; I mean a low cunning, which gave her 
 an inclination to cheat all the people she con- 
 versed with, and often cheated herself in the first 
 place, by showing her the wrong side of her in- 
 terest ; not having understanding enough to ob- 
 serve that falsehoods in conversation, like red on 
 the face, should be used very sparingly, or they 
 destroy that interest and beauty which they are 
 designed to heighten. Her first thought on 
 her marriage was to secure to herself the sole 
 and whole direction of her spouse ; and to that 
 purpose she counterfeited the most extravagant 
 fondness for his person ; yet at the same time 
 so devoted to his pleasures (which she told him 
 were the rule of all her thoughts and actions) 
 that whenever he thought proper to find them 
 with other women, she even loved whoever was 
 instrumental to his entertainment, and never re- 
 sented anything, &c, &c." And the highest 
 people in the land, seeing what prevailed both 
 with the king and his son, shaped their morals 
 vol. i. k
 
 194 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 accordingly. Hence seduction and adultery, 
 drunkenness and cheating, every form of corrup- 
 tion, political and moral, was universal. Prin- 
 cess Amelia intrigued openly with the Duke of 
 Grafton (who intrigued also with Lord Burling- 
 ton's Countess) and was said to have amused her- 
 self in the same way with Hervey, who himself 
 made no secret that he seduced Miss Vane, thus 
 helping her brother Harry to his earldom. Pope 
 called Hervey u a sharper in a gilded chariot, " 
 but he was in truth far worse. George II. never 
 met Lady Deloraine, who was one of his mis- 
 tresses, without addressing her in the most filthy 
 language, nor did he behave to another of them 
 much better ; I mean Lady Archibald Hamilton, 
 who was another man's wife ; and at the sober 
 age of thirty-five was as grossly shameless as if 
 she had been but twenty. Yet for this woman's 
 son the Duke of Cumberland stood publicly as 
 godfather, and no bishop was found to rise up 
 and protest. On the contrary the bishops, one 
 and all, dangled about the Court, and paid 
 obeisance to the adulteresses in vogue. Of the 
 whole crew whom we were in the habit of meet-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 195 
 
 ing, there was only one for whom I really felt 
 sorry ; poor Sophia Howe, one of the maids of 
 honour — a laughing, happy, charming girl, with 
 whom I went to Farnham Church when I was a 
 little boy. I remember well her childlike gaiety, 
 that seemed to radiate from eyes, and face, and 
 mouth like a sunbeam. Another year and what 
 was this happy creature ? — the victim of seduc- 
 tion, abandoned by the world, and dying in 
 solitude and shame of a broken heart So jogs life 
 on, and so we all walk merrily to rain. It was in 
 answer to this poor soul's question — " What is 
 prudery ?" that Pope wrote : — 
 
 " What is prudery ? 'Tis a beldam 
 Seen with wit and beauty seldom ; 
 'Tis a fear that starts at shadows ; 
 'Tis, no 'tisn't like Miss Meadows, 
 'Tis a virgin hard of feature, 
 Old and void of all good nature, 
 Lean and fretful, would seem wise, 
 Yet plays the fool before she dies ; 
 'Tis an ugly, envious shrew 
 That rails at dear Lepel and you." 
 
 lines that I feel sure did our poor Maid no 
 good. 
 
 And now, my good friend, you who feel in- 
 clined to censure me, what sayest thou to this 
 picture ? Can you wonder that it changed my 
 
 K 2
 
 196 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 blood to poison, when I think that such was the 
 society in which I found myself, and to which I 
 was expected to conform ? You may ask, cui bono 
 all this exposure? I answer, cui bono all his- 
 tory, if it is uot to illuminate us with knowledge 
 of the past, and of the real characters of those 
 who are set before us as the great of the earth ? 
 Can anything help more to make the mind philo- 
 sophic, or to imbue it with content, if it should 
 be fired by ambition, than to see how wealth and 
 power are acquired ; and that a man to get the 
 world, or its goods, must lose his own soul in the 
 pursuit ? What homily or pulpit can give me a 
 nobler scorn of vice, by general disquisitions on 
 the subject, than those pictures of the actual 
 living men and women who ruled the destiuies of 
 England for a period, and who, if they dazzle us 
 while we are ignorant, disgust us when the 
 domino is removed ? It maybe said — "But you 
 should not do it." Well, perhaps there is some- 
 thing in this. I can only answer that no man is 
 capable of forming a true opinion of that, unless 
 he has passed through the hells which I have 
 passed, and found himself, from his childhood,
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 197 
 
 an object of hatred, scorn, and persecution ; in 
 his manhood, a mark of contempt and poverty ; 
 in his old age a wanderer and outcast, while a 
 hideous Scotchman was revelling in the treasure 
 which, by all the laws of God and man, he only 
 should possess. And his lady mother, spite- 
 ful to the last, bequeathed him, on her death-bed, 
 a guinea, which proved to be real gold — unlike 
 the emerald ring which she once gave as her 
 passage-money to a sea captain, and which 
 proved to be glass. Yet think not that I believe 
 that all are vicious, and that decency is not to be 
 found among the high as well as the humble. I 
 hold no such vain opinion. There are exceptions, 
 but these exceptions prove the rule; and 
 if we examine the annals of mankind, from 
 Julius Csesar and Tiberius, down to Philip of 
 Orleans and Frederick of Wales, we shall find 
 that persons of high descent are generally the 
 most mean, and dirty, and small-minded animals, 
 with low tastes, and habits, and notions, seldom 
 rising above the meanest trifles or the grossest 
 filth. 
 
 In saying this, I expose myself, of course, to
 
 198 EDWARD WOBTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the retort " tu quoque" Well ! I can't help 
 that. I have said what I believe to be God's 
 truth, so let it remain, despite all cavil or cen- 
 sure. If I wrote to please I should pen very 
 different things ; but I write to teach and ex- 
 hibit, at all events, my own notions, such as they 
 are. I have no doubt a great deal can and will 
 be said on the other side, and I shall hear of 
 " chivalry," "knighthood," "gallantry," "the 
 Norman blood," " the line of Plantagenet," and 
 so on. But I never denied that these things 
 exist, and have existed among those who call 
 themselves the " aristocracy." Heaven forfend 
 that I should say that all were like those dukes 
 and marquises whom I have seen and despised. I 
 only illustrate by facts, that nobility of mind, 
 though usually supposed to attend nobility of 
 birth, is by no means an usual concomitant of 
 that happy accident ; and I do not hesitate to 
 put myself forward as an example of the doctrine 
 which I propound ; for all my tastes have been to 
 some extent what is called " low." Like 
 Diogenes, I have preferred my tub to a palace, 
 and the presence of a sunbeam to the shadow of a
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 199 
 
 king. I could have rolled and revelled in wealth 
 and pleasure if I had been a living lie. I could 
 have eaten and drunk gold and pearls, if I had 
 worn a mask on my face, and humoured my 
 father in his avarice, and been an assentator to 
 my mother in her coquetries. But I was so low 
 and vulgar a fellow that I could not do so. 
 I preferred being a sweep or a gipsy, and I don't 
 regret the preference. It is not the calling or the 
 trade that is " low," but the man who is in it; 
 and a sweep may have as high and noble a soul, 
 and as truly gallant a spirit, as the greatest 
 nobleman in the land. Nay, I have known 
 sweeps who were the truly noble of nature, and 
 noblemen who were far more vulgar than sweeps. 
 But let me leave all reveries of this kind to 
 speculatists ; and descending from the sphere of 
 philosophy, let me alight again on sober facts. 
 
 A sweep, therefore, I determined to become — a 
 falling off this from the Embassy, or the Treasury, 
 from Carlton House and Cavendish Square — 
 nevertheless it was so, and I lost no time in 
 carrying out my project. I went early towards 
 the city, resolved to change clothes with the first
 
 200 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 sweep I met. But though he was a very little 
 one, and had never read Lilly's Latin Grammar, 
 he had more shrewdness than myself; and he 
 soon convinced me that as my fine clothes would 
 be of no use to him, and his rags would probably 
 not fit me, our best plan was to go to Mon- 
 mouth Street and equip at some Jew's shop, who 
 would probably give us a guinea into the bargain, 
 for my clothes were rich with lace and fine work, 
 and were very nearly new. I readily embraced 
 this proposal, and he shewed me the way to that 
 famous emporium of old-new garments. We 
 soon found a Jew, to whom I mentioned my 
 desire to see a sweep's dress. 
 
 " Ach! mein Cott," he said, " I does 'ave de 
 finest sveep's dress dat ever vas in Engelterre, 
 and you shall see it, and you shall vear it, and 
 you shall be like von noble in de dress. Mein 
 Cott, it is made exack for you, mein herr ; mein 
 Cott it is." 
 
 I was soon disarrayed, and clothed anew in 
 the honourable costume of a sweep ; indeed it was 
 only an old blanket (worth sixpence) and a cap 
 value one penny.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 201 
 
 " Ach ! mein Cott," exclaimed the Jew, 
 "cevare, nevare did I see von so fine a fit. Mein 
 Cott, you do look like von fine young prince in 
 dat fine dress. Look here, Rebecca, look at dis 
 young gentleman-sreep," and he called in an old 
 withered Jewess, who seemed his wife. 
 
 Rebecca was, of course, equally in love with 
 " dis young gentleman sveep." In the mean- 
 time, while I was absorbed about my new 
 raiment, the good woman very carefully put 
 aside my old dress, and fell into fresh raptures 
 about my blanket. At length, when I was tired 
 of being worshipped, I asked him what he was 
 going to give me for my clothes? The Jew's face 
 instantly fell. 
 
 " Ach, mein Cott," he said, u vhat do I hear? 
 vhat do I hear from you ? Mein Rebecca, mein 
 vife — vhat is dis do I hear ?" 
 
 Rebecca was evidently struck dumb with 
 surprise ; she spoke, however — 
 
 " Vy, my pretty gentleman, vhat vurdher do 
 you vhant ? Is not you have de sveep's dress, 
 and is not ve have your old dress ? A bargain is 
 a bargain, and dis vas de bargain, my tear." 
 
 k 5
 
 202 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " Oh dear no," I answered, " my good lady ; 
 there was no bargain at all of the kind ; you are 
 under a mistake. Come hand me over the 
 difference." 
 
 " De difference — de difference ! vhat is de 
 difference? Me understand not dat vord." 
 
 " Why seeing that my clothes are worth about 
 ten guineas, I think you ought to give me at 
 least five on the exchange." 
 
 " Ach mein Cott," cried the Jew, lifting up his 
 hands and eyes to heaven ; " hear him, hear 
 him ; de exchange. Ye have exchange ; vhat 
 more do you vant ?" 
 
 " I want the difference, I tell you — I will take 
 four guineas." 
 
 " Five guineas, four guineas, de difference, de 
 exchange. Vhat is all dis, vhat is de meaning of 
 all dis ? Ah, my pretty gentlemans, you laugh, 
 you mock de poor Jew man." 
 
 I now began to get into a rage. I could not 
 believe that the fellow's ignorance of my mean- 
 ing was sincere. I saw indeed it was a device to 
 cheat me. 
 
 u I tell you what, Mister Solomon," I said, " if
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 203 
 
 you don't give four guineas, I shall give you back 
 your old blanket and put on my clothes again." 
 
 " Oh, mein Oott, mein Cott, here be one 
 damn devil trick of dis young gentlemans. First 
 of all you ax for de difference, den you ax for de 
 five guineas, den you ax for de four guineas, den 
 you ax for de exchange, den you ax to have your 
 clothes back again, after you have changed dem 
 vid me for dat beautiful sveep's dress. No, no, 
 young gentlemans, I am an old man, and you 
 must not play tricks vid de old. Go your vays, 
 go your vays, 1 ' and he began to push me out of 
 the shop. 
 
 This was a catastrophe for which I was not 
 quite prepared, i determined to resist so gross 
 an imposition, but Rebecca now came to her 
 husband's assistance. 
 
 " Ah, you pretty young gentlemans," she said, 
 '• g° y° ur va y s quietly ; go and do not mock de 
 poor old man, go your vays, and here is a ha'- 
 penny," and she tendered me this splendid coin, 
 still urging me towards the door. Her husband 
 also gently impelled me — as the lawyers say 
 molliter manus imposuit, when one man gives
 
 204 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 another a hearty bang, heavy enough to fell an 
 ox. I struggled, but what could I do ? I was fairly, 
 or rather foully thrust into the street, the old 
 robber still crying out, " Go your vays, vagabone, 
 go your vays, vagabone ; von dam vagabone you 
 be ; you vant to cheat poor man vid your guineas, 
 and your four and your five, Cott dam, and your 
 difference, and your exchange, Cott dam. Mein 
 Cott, I never saw so young a rogue ; so deep, so 
 deep as de river Thames, Cott dam. Ach, mein 
 Cott, go your vays, go your vays, you must not 
 stay in de vay, Cott dam," and he slapped the 
 door in my face, leaving me half frantic with 
 passion. 
 
 This was a sorry prelude to the honourable pro- 
 fession on which I was entering. My poor little 
 sweep companion seemed thunderstruck, but we 
 both felt that we were powerless. With heavy 
 hearts we departed, and I accompanied him to 
 his master, who soon enrolled me as one of his 
 supernumeraries without asking any disagreeable 
 questions. There were five of us, all young 
 sweeps with dark eyes, like Spaniards, and white 
 teeth, and merry features, and in truth we were as
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 205 
 
 gamesome as so many trout in a pond. I soon 
 formed a friendship for them, and many were the 
 pranks we played. I was ten times happier than 
 I ever had heen at Cavendish Square or Twicken- 
 ham. Aye, by Alia ! and I was happier than the 
 Prince of Wales in Carlton House, or Leicester 
 Fields, with all his Dodingtons around him. 
 
 I continued this life for some months. Many 
 of my adventures were absurd. I had from the 
 first made it a rule to do exactly as I pleased, and 
 when I was sent up into one chimney, I very 
 often descended down another. Many, conse- 
 quently, were the discoveries which I made. I 
 have appeared unexpectedly when a gallant was 
 on his knees before another man's wife, and a 
 grave and sober citizen was making love to a little 
 bona roba, whose only income was her smiles. I 
 have stolen into a room where a miser was count- 
 ing his gold, and a married woman was reading 
 the love letters of — not her husband. I have 
 seen the clerk making up the false ledgers which 
 were to defraud his master, and heard the thief- 
 catchers plotting with the ladies of Hockley-in- 
 the-Hole to betray this or that amorous highway- 
 man to the gallows. I have seen the vintner
 
 206 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 mixing drugs with his wines, and the grocer 
 putting Epsom salts (deprived by fire of its medi- 
 cinal qualities) into his sugar to give it the 
 semblance of crystallization. I have come upon 
 a gang of coiners (but here I narrowly escaped 
 with life), and have heard a bevy of lady's maids 
 scandalising their mistresses with several members 
 of the peerage. 
 
 One night, or rather morning, about four 
 o'clock, my master sent me up a chimney at a 
 large hotel at the West End of the town. We 
 were thus early, because it was requisite that the 
 work should be done betimes, to give sufficient 
 opportunity to prepare for a grand wedding break- 
 fast. When I had completed my chimney I lis- 
 tened and heard oaths, blasphemies, and the 
 sound of altercations ; ascending an adjacent flue, 
 I immediately got into the chimney which led 
 out of the adjoining room whence the sounds 
 proceeded, and was at once cognizant of what was 
 going on. A young and silly goose, who had just 
 come into a large fortune, had been decoyed by 
 some dear friends into the hotel for the purpose 
 of spending a pleasant evening. When he was 
 half fuddled with Burgundy, dice and cards were
 
 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 207 
 
 introduced, and with the assistance of a few kind 
 associates, he was plucked to a terrible extent. 
 All his ready money, consisting of bank notes to 
 the amount of nine or ten thousand pounds, had 
 been already secured, and as he had lost about 
 twenty more — I mean in hundreds — his com- 
 panions were now getting him to put his name 
 to bills or bonds, or some other kind of devilish 
 security — such as my father would have under- 
 stood — for the amount. But with the dawn of 
 day the silly coxcomb seemed to have grown 
 sober, and he was gravely protesting that he had 
 been cheated. His companions, who had swallowed 
 large quantities of wine when their purpose was 
 accomplished, and who were infinitely more drunk 
 than gentlemen of their profession usually are, 
 were denouncing vengeance against themselves 
 from Hell and Satan, if all had not been as honour- 
 able and fair as it was possible that play could be. 
 
 " Damme," cried one, " do you suspect our 
 honour. May the devil," &c. 
 
 <l By heaven," cried another, " I was never 
 before so insulted as by our excellent friend here. 
 Only that I love him as my own soul, I would 
 wish the devil," &c.
 
 208 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " Nay," cried a third, " may the devil come 
 and fetch us all if anything could be more strictly 
 honourable than every game we played." 
 
 At this moment a sudden thought seized me. 
 I meant only a freak, but it ended differently. I 
 suddenly popped down the chimney and into the 
 room. Flinging a cloud of soot from my dress 
 and face, I said — 
 
 "Very well; here I am, come to fetch yon 
 with me to hell ; so prepare." 
 
 The scene that I now beheld was perfectly ap- 
 palling. The drunken cowardly cheats, seeing 
 me but indistinctly in the waning candle light, 
 conscious of their guilt, and with nerves highly 
 excited, rushed altogether into a distant corner, 
 and huddled into a mass. One groaned out, 
 " Lord Jesus forgive mef another cried, "By 
 G — it is the devil himself;" a third fell down 
 into a swoon ; the others who were able, made for 
 the door, and burst out of the chamber screaming 
 with alarm. Seeing the coast clear, I went up to 
 the table and the cheated sot. I coolly pocketed 
 all the bank notes, and tearing into a thousand 
 pieces the bills and promissory notes, which the 
 deluded ninny had been asked to sign, I vanished
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 209 
 
 up the chimney as suddenly as I arrived. And 
 it was well I lost no time, for some of the gang, 
 having fortified themselves with brandy, imme- 
 diately returned ; but the coast was clear — the devil 
 was no longer visible, neither were their notes. I 
 escaped without difficulty ; nor did I ever again 
 return to my old master. By means of an en- 
 dorsement on one of the notes, I was enabled to 
 discover the wretched fool who had well nigh 
 gambled himself into ruin. I called on him in 
 a few days, and restored his lost property. T 
 informed him of my absurd freak, and told him 
 my suspicions that he had been robbed. He 
 thanked me, and offered me a hundred pounds, 
 which I refused. The next night I was at 
 home. 
 
 How this came to pass was accomplished 
 in the following wise. As I was leaving the 
 young gentleman's house, a greengrocer who was 
 in the habit of serving some of my father's 
 servants in town, came straight up to me. He 
 looked with great earnestness at me, and I saw 
 that I was recognised. I ran off as fast as I could, 
 but he pursued and collared me.
 
 210 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 M Hallo, young master," he said, " where are 
 you going? You must come home with me." 
 
 I was thunderstruck, and could not utter a 
 word. He called a hackney coach, into which he 
 thrust me almost before I knew where I was. 
 I kicked and struggled and pushed, but I was 
 brought home disgracefully in captivity, and again 
 consigned to my old jail, where I lay for some 
 weeks. I was then sent to Westminster School, 
 of which I entertain any but pleasing recollec- 
 tions. What a shame it is that in childhood, 
 when we might all be happy as sweeps or link 
 boys, we should be consigned over to those 
 pedantic old scoundrels, who make that period of 
 our lives as wretched as any subsequent portion 
 of it can ever be !
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 211 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " There were two men in one city, the one rich and the other 
 poor. The rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds ; but 
 the poor man had nothing save one little ewe lamb, which he had 
 brought and nourished up ; and it grew up together with him and 
 with his children ; it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his 
 own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was to him as a daughter. 
 And there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to 
 take of his own flock, and of his own herd, to dress for the way- 
 faring man that was come unto him, but took the poor man's 
 lamb and dressed it for the man that was come to him." 
 
 How well do I remember my first dreams of love 
 and beauty; with what divine sweetness and 
 delight they revive within my withered heart. 
 So have I seen the rose tree blooming out of the 
 granite, and the golden hyacinth raise her head 
 out of the broken fragments of the past. But 
 they are nought but dreams — wild and half- 
 forgotten dreams — glimpses of a Paradise that is 
 gone for ever. I find myself — old hackneyed, 
 hardened vagrant as I am — sometimes weeping
 
 212 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 over them, weeping as if I were a child, or a 
 weak woman — feeling as a boy once more, and 
 wafted back into that summer sunshine, which 
 is in the heart of all when they revert to child- 
 hood. For I was only a child, indeed, when 
 these dreams began — alas ! that I cannot be a 
 child again and feel as then. And thus it was 
 that these emotions had their birth. 
 
 Among the pictures which my mother had 
 brought with ber from the East, was one that the 
 moment I began to perceive and feel, moved me 
 with a strange fascination. It was only a sketch, 
 but oh ! how lovely was that sketch. It was a 
 profile likeness of a young girl of twenty. The 
 complexion was delicate and pure as the rainbow 
 tint that is on an Indian shell ; only that it was 
 softer, fairer, more exquisitely bloom-like. The 
 eyes were dark and bright, the lashes long, and 
 like a silken veil over those crystal fountains of 
 thought. The hair fell in loose clouds of shining 
 brown over the neck and bosom, and one of the 
 hands held a bunch of flowers ; but these were 
 indistinct, and had been but half touched by the 
 artist. The eyebrows were delicately limned, and 
 were a perfect study to contemplate. The mouth
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 213 
 
 was beautiful when you viewed it closely, but 
 when you scanned the picture at a distance, there 
 was a severe dignity about it that impressed you 
 with a sacred awe of her who was pourtrayed, 
 and effectually checked any feeling but that of 
 respectful admiration. It was a face to look 
 upon and love ; but it enshrined a spirit that 
 you might also worship, nor deem that you dis- 
 honoured Heaven by paying homage to one of 
 its choicest works. No frivolity was there ; all 
 was pure, holy, refined. The thoughtful brow, 
 the marble stillness of the features, which yet 
 were flesh and blood, and belonged to one who 
 had a thorough woman's heart within her, and 
 could die fur him she loved ; the firm mouth, the 
 liquid eyes that gave the face its sweetest, softest 
 charm — never shall I forget them ; and though 
 it is sixty years since first I saw that charming 
 portrait, still it shines fair over my memory, 
 and flowers in beauty out of the ashes of my 
 soul. 
 
 Well ! it became my passion. I could not tear 
 myself away from it. I was but six years old — 
 indeed, I do not think I was quite six — but in 
 feeling I was six-and- twenty. I stole away every
 
 214 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 hour to look at it ; to gaze upon it as the Guebre 
 gazes on the sun ; to worship it ; to take it into my 
 heart of hearts as if it were some holy spirit whom 
 I longed to enshrine within. I had heard of the 
 Guardian Angel, who with heavenly love accom- 
 panies every human being, and guards him from 
 temptation — this, one of the most beautiful of the 
 Popish legends, is now rejected by the priests, and 
 laughed at as a myth. It served them in the 
 dark ages, and now is flung aside with scorn. 
 Yet there were moments when I half believed it, 
 and said to my heart. " Even such as this is the 
 Guardian Angel that watches over me." And I 
 have caught myself bending over my shoulder, 
 or rushing in front of a looking-glass to see 
 whether I could not by chance get a glimpse of 
 that invisible one of the celestials who was my 
 appointed guide and guardian on the earth. I 
 will see if they are alike, I said; but I never 
 could catch the heavenly sprite. She eluded me 
 — she would not be beheld. Yet I had no doubt 
 in beauty she was the counterpart of that divine 
 portrait on which I so loved to look, Morning, 
 noon, and night I gazed upon it ; I could not tear 
 myself away. I was a devotee. My mother saw
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 215 
 
 it, knew it, and scolded me ; but I did not care 
 for this. I neglected the few elementary books 
 that were placed before me ; I cared for nothing 
 but my picture. Thus time passed until I was at 
 Westminster school, and sick of its restraints and 
 rods. 
 
 One day as I was sauntering listlessly through 
 one of the parks, looking at the sky, and wonder- 
 ing what fantastic form the clouds would next 
 assume, I heard a merry laugh, which made 
 every nerve within me quiver. It went into my 
 very soul, and seemed to meet its echo there. I 
 turned round, and saw a young girl with a middle- 
 aged man. He was short, sturdy, common place ; 
 and evidently belonged to the lower classes, as we 
 who are so sublimely raised upon Olympian 
 heights above them, condescend to call the work- 
 ing members of society. I did not give him 
 more than one glance ; all my gaze was concen- 
 trated on the young girl. She seemed in beauty 
 like my picture ; only hers was of a more youthful 
 type ; for she was not more, I think, than sixteen 
 or seventeen— probably not quite so much. She 
 was dressed simply, but simplicity accorded with 
 her pure, innocent, and open face ; there was a
 
 216 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 frank cheerful look about her, like a sunshiny 
 day, that at once flashed gladness on the soul, 
 and made you happy, you knew not why. She 
 did not see me — she did not mark those dark and 
 fiery eyes that gazed intensely on her — if she had, 
 she would have burned beneath them. She con- 
 tinued her conversation and merry laugh, and 
 passed on. A powerful spell moved me. I fol- 
 lowed her ; I never once lost sight of her all that 
 day. I knew not whither they went, or what 
 they did, or whether they sat or walked ; I only 
 saw one bright form, and that I followed me- 
 chanically. She entered a house, the door closed, 
 and I was in darkness. Isow for the first time I 
 looked about me. I was in a strange unknown 
 land. The houses were old and wretched; the 
 locality exhibited all the symptoms of poverty. 
 The very house into which the girl and her com- 
 panion — instinct said, " He is her father " — had 
 gone, seemed mean enough. I was bewildered — 
 frightened — I began to wonder, for the first 
 time, how I should get home. I was tired 
 also ; I saw an old woman hobbling along, 
 and asked her what place this was ? 
 She looked at me with a drunken
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 217 
 
 fixed stare ; surveyed my fine clothes, as if she 
 had a mind to strip me ; then seeing one or two 
 persons approaching, she said, " This is Black- 
 wall, my pretty dear — what brings you so far 
 from home T' I had no mind to answer her, but 
 calling a coach, 1 was driven back to West- 
 minster, and alighted just outside the school. 
 When I got into our dormitory that night, I could 
 think of nothing but this lovely girl. Now for 
 the first time occurred to me the thought how 
 like the picture she appeared. " This is but an 
 image," 1 said, " here is the living reality. Oh ! 
 that I could gaze on her for ever." I tossed and 
 tumbled about ; sleep was banished from my eyes. 
 In the morning I attempted to get my lessons ; I 
 might as well have attempted to fly. The thing 
 was impossible. I was flogged, but my dreams 
 consoled me. The next day I tried, and again 
 failed ; I could not remember a single word. I 
 was flogged again. No matter, I did not feel it. 
 I did not care for it. Again a third day came, 
 and I was dunce as before. I was flogged, sorely 
 flogged on this occasion. " Why should 1 endure 
 this," I asked myself, a when I am free and can 
 vol. I. l
 
 218 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 go away if I like?' That night I disappeared. I 
 scarcely know how I got to Black wall, but I found 
 myself there next day. I had some difficulty in 
 discovering the house, for now all the shops were 
 open, and when I had last been there, they were 
 all closed. At length I found it. The father 
 was behind the counter. He was a fishmonger. 
 I had taken the precaution of coming away in 
 some old clothes; I now boldly went in and 
 said — 
 
 i( Master, do you want a boy ?" 
 
 He looked at me with some surprise ; I suppose 
 be saw I was not designed to be a fishmonger's 
 apprentice. He was silent for sometime, as if he 
 thought 1 was but making game of him, and 
 would go away when I had had my jest. I re- 
 peated, " Master, do you want a boy ?" 
 
 " Get away, you young jackanapes," said he, 
 u and let me mind my business." 
 
 " Master," 1 answered, " this is business ; if 
 you want a boy, take me, I want a place, and I 
 will serve you faithfully." 
 
 He looked at me again. 
 
 " AY hat can you do ?" said he. 
 
 st Anything you ask me to do in the way of
 
 EDWARD WORTLBf MONTAGU. 219 
 
 your trade," I replied. u I will sweep your shop, 
 sell your fish, and go your errands. I have no 
 home, and I should like to stay with you." 
 
 The old man mused again — he was evidently 
 surprised. 
 
 i( Well," he said, " I'll try you. Who are you ? 
 Where do you come from?" 
 
 c { My name is John Smith ; my parents are 
 dead, and I have just come up to London from 
 the country to seek my fortune." 
 
 " What an abominable liar, 1 ' says Mrs. Prude. 
 u What a false young scoundrel," exclaims Mr. 
 Grave, when he comes to this passage. Call me 
 what you like, dear madam, and, sir, I deserve it 
 all. You who never told a fib in your lives are 
 well justified in flinging stones at me — and so — 
 
 u Poor boy," says the old man, " if what you 
 say be true, I'm sorry for you. I suppose you're 
 hungry ; come in." 
 
 I went in ; he led me to a back-parlour. I 
 expected to see the radiant being there for whom 
 I was undergoing this degradation. There was 
 only an elderly female — she proved to be the fish- 
 monger's wife. She was knitting with great 
 
 L 2
 
 220 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 deliberation. The fishmonger introduced me in 
 a few words. They gave me food, sympathised 
 with me, and oh, bliss ! took me into their employ. 
 I was to go errands, to hawk and cry fish — but 
 they did not know that I was sometimes to catch 
 a glimpse of her who was like the Angel of God 
 to my heart. I lived with them for a year. 
 Never man had more faithful servant. 
 
 Once or twice a-day, I saw the fair Elizabeth — 
 such was her name. These stolen views of Hea- 
 ven repaid me for all. Yet I was nothing to her. 
 T was only an errand boy— crying fish and clean- 
 ing knives. Her thoughts were far away. Was she 
 m love? She sometimes gave me a letter to 
 deliver, and the man to whom I delivered it was 
 a footman, finely powdered, gilt, and dressed, 
 who waited for it at a public-house near. With 
 what trembling innocence she placed it in my 
 hand. Her sweet eye seemed conscious of a 
 something which showed that her heart was ill at 
 ease. She offered no caution as to secresy, but 
 instinct told me that I must not mention it; and 
 T feared that if I did, I should lose those momen- 
 tary intercourses with her, so full of rapture to 
 my soul. She must have known that I loved
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 221 
 
 her, I looked at her with such an earnest and 
 enamoured gaze, during which I felt my face 
 flush. I quivered in my every nerve, and trem- 
 bled with a wild delight, until I almost fainted 
 away before her. But she never gave me any 
 token of sympathy. Poor girl ! Her whole heart 
 was doubtless fixed upon one, and I was but an 
 orphan fed by her father's bounty, and con- 
 demned to slavery all my life. There were 
 moments when I thought I should fall before her, 
 take her by the hand and confess all — my name, 
 my rank, my prospects, declaring my passion 
 with that wild eloquence which flowed from my 
 lips, when I found myself alone, and beseeching 
 her to wait a little longer and become wholly 
 mine. But I was only fourteen. She was 
 some years older, and was a woman in appear- 
 ance and in feeling. The hazard was greater 
 than I chose to risk. I said to myself, " I shall 
 be immediately expelled from her presence as an 
 impostor, and shall never see her again. She 
 will be lost to me for ever. Let me wait yet — 
 wait and work ;" and so I did. 
 
 There was a fellow named Matthews — Henry 
 Matthews — who had been introduced into our
 
 222 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 house as an accountant by Dr. YouDg, the author 
 of the " Night Thoughts.'' The man was worthy 
 of the master; they were birds of a feather. 
 Young, was a sneaking, lying, dirty sycophant, 
 who would any day have licked the mud off the 
 boots of any noble lord or lady who could get 
 him a place, or give him a purse. All sense of 
 self-respect was extinct within him. This 
 Matthews was an animal of the same class. He 
 was not destitute of talent ; but I detested him 
 for his falsehood, hollowness, and selfish rascality. 
 This miserable creature was brought up in a 
 Jesuit school. He was a tall, awkward man, 
 of scorbutic habit — the poisoned eruptions of dis- 
 ease — with a large hyena eye, a square forehead, 
 a hideous mouth, hands, or rather talons, exactly 
 like a vulture's or a kite's claws, and he had all the 
 qualities of those fine birds ; being secretive, foul, 
 gluttonous, sensual, cunning, and grasping. His 
 spirit seemed to emit an odour or stench so 
 dreadful that I could not sit in his company. If 
 I were near, I felt as if in close proximity to 
 some being, horribly wicked, and destitute of all 
 moral perception. Yet he was smooth, pliant, 
 smiling ; and the general mob of mankind, who
 
 EDWARD WORTLET MONTAGU. 223 
 
 are as blind as moles, would think him any- 
 thing but the knave he was. Mr. Wortley 
 Montagu highly regarded him, and used him for 
 many purposes ; and under the tutelage of this 
 individual it happened that I spent a good deal 
 of time. What exact duty he filled in our house 
 I can scarcely tell. He got up statistics, and 
 was a sort of secretary and deputy liar when ugly 
 questions had to be answered ; kept accounts for 
 my father, and aired my lady's chemises and 
 combed her lap-dogs. 
 
 I was on one of my usual errands for my 
 m aster, and crying " fresh fish, fresh fish/' with all 
 the force of my lungs, when a sailor came up to 
 me, and saying, " Master, let me see your wares," 
 detained me for some time. I showed him my 
 goods and chattels —plaice, flounders, lobsters, 
 crabs, and soles, and had nearly concluded my 
 bargain, when he suddenly said — 
 
 " Wait, wait, till I ask this old gentleman 
 about them ;" and he pointed to two persons who 
 stood close by, and whom in my eagerness to sell 
 I had not observed before. I looked at them. 
 In the first I at once recognised Matthews ; the 
 second was our old domestic Jupiter, who had
 
 224 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 carried me in his arms when I was a baby, and 
 with whom I had always been a favourite. These 
 two had been to Blackwall on some business for 
 Mr. Montagu, and hearing me cry out as I have 
 above mentioned, immediately knew my voice; 
 they saw me pass and employed the sailor to 
 detain me in conversation, that they might make 
 themselves more certain. The instant I saw 
 them, I guessed their object. I left my basket 
 and fled home. But I had scarcely got housed, 
 when they entered; the name of my master 
 painted on the basket had led them to his house, 
 and there was a discovery and a row. The 
 
 ■r 
 
 * 
 
 honest fisherman was faultless. He had behaved 
 with humanity ; nay with great generosity. I 
 told them so ; I narrated all ; but not the true 
 cause of my flight. He gave me the best of 
 characters, and I was again dragged home, leaving 
 the whole family in tears for my loss, in which 
 I also joined them with flowing eyes. 
 
 But though they brought me back to West- 
 minster, and placed me under my former task- 
 masters, with the most positive orders as to close 
 custody, and strict vigilance, they forgot that I 
 also had a will of my own, and had already
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 225 
 
 evinced a resolution to carry out that will when I 
 pleased. I now indeed began to pride myself on 
 my numerous flights, as Jack Sheppard did of 
 the many jails he had escaped from, and 1 began 
 to find a wild charm in this varied vagabond 
 species of existence, such as I cannot describe. 
 The main one, I suppose was, a sense of thorough 
 independence ; there was also perhaps a hidden 
 delight in feeling that I was walking the world 
 under a species of mask, and that I could at any 
 time change a position apparently most lowly for 
 that of the heir of the richest man in London. I 
 saw too, a most odd and diversified mode of life ; 
 and learned the ways and manners of the poor, 
 their thoughtless follies, their improvident luxury ; 
 their existence wholly in the present, with utter 
 heedlessness of the morrow, which are the three 
 main sources of all their wants and miseries. 
 The English character presents a greater mixture 
 of eccentricity and humour than any other that I 
 have ever examined ; and I seemed to myself a 
 sort of spectator of a real drama of life, some- 
 times comic, sometimes deeply tragical, but on all 
 occasions interesting, and played as it were on 
 
 L 5
 
 226 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the breathing stage of the actual world for my 
 own particular amusement and instruction. As 
 to Mr. Montagu, when his first rage at my dis- 
 appearance had exploded, he cared very little to 
 make any further enquiry whether I was dead or 
 alive ; and he thenceforward behaved as I always 
 knew instinctively he would, with the most 
 sublime indifference as to what became of me. 
 From Matthews I, of course, received several 
 lessons in deceit, which though intended ap- 
 parently for my benefit, operated still more in 
 increasing the aversion in which I held that 
 smooth tongued schemer. In vain he suggested 
 to me that my true policy was to humour Mr. 
 Montagu ; to attend regularly at church ; to give 
 in to his ways and crotchets in all partic ulars ; 
 and to be a dutiful and obedient son. " Hum- 
 bug, the old fool," he said : " humbug, as the 
 grand winner of all things, and the great con- 
 queror of men?" But I would not humbug. 
 What is the good of doing so, if, when you have 
 won all things you scorn yourself? Matthews 
 could not understand this. The glittering 
 prospect of gold and power which he held 
 forth before me as the reward and price of
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 227 
 
 my subservience, had no influence whatever on 
 my mind. That there might be a payment for 
 such degradation was one of the main reasons 
 why I was always resolute in following out my 
 own purposes. Had I been lured only by the 
 moral beauty of filial submission, to a father who 
 had at least no active vice, as against myself, but 
 was merely the basest of mankind in grubbing 
 and hoarding gold from the jnost filthy sources, 
 I might possibly have sunk into the level of the 
 other honourable Toms, and Jacks, and Freds, 
 who went about the metropolis, heaping upon 
 their absent father's heads all the scorn and con- 
 tempt they could accumulate : while in the 
 parental presence, and in their letters home, 
 they were the most affectionate, dutiful, and 
 obedient of sons ; a little gay perhaps, but 
 wanting in respect to their honoured sires — never, 
 oh ! never. 
 
 But this course I did not choose to take. My 
 father and mother did not care for me, nor did 
 I feel one atom of love for them. My mother 
 in truth hated me virulently, and made no secret 
 of that hate ; but I almost fancy my father's 
 silent scorn was even still more biting. Matthews
 
 228 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 would not, or could not understand my notions. To 
 him, the hope of a million of money would have 
 been quite enough to make him devote a whole 
 life to every species of infamy. In this view I 
 do not say he was singular, for there are but few 
 men who would not imitate him. But Nature 
 made me one of these few, and all Jesuit 
 counsels were wasted on me. On the whole I 
 am not sorry that they were. I would rather be 
 the wanderer I am, than Bute with all my father's 
 money in his coffers ; and a transmigration after 
 death, into the form of a rat, cockroach, a dog, 
 fish, or something equally noisome, and detes- 
 table. 
 
 Three months longer at Westminster sickened 
 me of it for life. I resolved to fly at the first 
 opportunity, and I did so. My first visit was to 
 my old master at Blackwall. But he was a 
 changed man — changed and altered for the worse. 
 The sturdy frame was bent, the once keen eye 
 was dim ; the fire within the man had burned 
 out, and he was but the cinders of a human be- 
 ing. A revolution of twenty years seemed to 
 have done its work upon him. His hair was 
 white, his voice tremulous, his step — once so
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 229 
 
 sturdy, so bold, so freeman like — was transformed 
 into a slip-shod creep. When he saw me he burst 
 into tears ; he could not speak, but led me in 
 silence into the little room behind the shop, which 
 had been once his parlour. I asked for his good 
 woman. This question renewed his grief. I 
 looked round, but saw her not. " She is dead," 
 he muttered. " And Miss Elizabeth?" I asked. 
 
 u Gone — gone, 1 ' said the old man, " gone and 
 left me desolate and heartbroken." 
 
 I was stricken with horror. Could it be pos- 
 sible that both were dead — both in so short a 
 period. My eyes I suppose questioned him, for 
 my tongue was incapable of dong so. He shook 
 his head ; his tears broke out afresh. 
 
 "No," he said, u not dead; worse — worse — 
 worse." 
 
 I now began to suspect the truth. My unlucky 
 letter-carrying was beginning to rise up in judg- 
 ment against me. I learned it at length from the 
 old man. 
 
 After I left, she had grown melancholy and 
 silent ; she was absent often from her meals ; 
 she was not communicative as of old ; the frank 
 smile vanished ; the sweet musical laugh was
 
 230 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 unheard. One night she disappeared. She left 
 a letter on the table saying she was gone to be 
 married to a gentleman with whom she had long 
 corresponded, and who loved her. In a little 
 time she would return, and all would be well. 
 She blessed her parents for all their love and 
 kindness; she would be their most dutiful and 
 affectionate daughter in her new state. In vain 
 they made enquiry after her. No tidings could 
 they learn. At length a letter came in a dis- 
 tracted hand writing — it was their daughter's. 
 She had been deceived, betrayed, dishonoured. 
 The person with whom she fled proved to be a 
 married man. He was of high rank, a senator 
 and privy councillor, and when the discovery 
 was made he proposed to her to continue as his 
 mistress, citing high and royal example for the 
 iniquity. But this she spurned. She had now 
 abandoned him, but dared not face her home. 
 What she was to do, she knew not, but she craved 
 forgiveness of God and them. They must forget 
 that she had ever lived. To all her kindred she 
 was dead for ever. Thus ran the wild epistle. 
 The mother sickened and died ; the old father 
 was dying. But he wished once again to hear
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 231 
 
 that voice of melody, and listen to one silvery- 
 note of love. And his tears again fell thick and 
 fast upon his pale cheek. 
 
 I was myself also in an agony of grief and rage. 
 But I will not venture to describe it. This in- 
 cident gave me a new horror of civilised life. 
 Thus, I said, it is, the rich are ever preying on 
 the poor ; the powerful are crushing the feeble. 
 The coronet of my lord is glorified by the number 
 of his victims ; the chariot of the great rolls over 
 broken hearts. Let me fly for ever from these 
 haunts of villany. What have I seen in all my 
 life hitherto but wickedness ? And what is worst 
 of all, wickedness triumphant ! Why is this 
 good man — for good and honest he was— made 
 miserable in his old age, his household desolated 
 and disgraced, his wife killed, his daughter torn 
 from him, to gratify the momentary whim of 
 some gilded coxcomb, who now probably moves 
 in courts or senates, the observed of all observers? 
 Let me abandon such haunts for ever. Let me 
 seek nature in the woods, the mountains, or on 
 the ocean. Let me separate myself from those 
 with whom vice is the daily business, and
 
 232 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 dwell apart from human kind, or at all 
 events, seek them where they are uncon- 
 taminated. Let me become a pirate on the 
 glorious sea ; a brigand in the wild green forest ; 
 an Ishmael among men ; — nay a very beggar on 
 the wayside — a tramp under the splendid arch of 
 heaven, with the winds and sunbeams for my 
 friends ; rather than be one among this wealthy 
 wicked rabblement. Now know I what that 
 Roman Kaisar meant, when he wished that man- 
 kind had but one neck, that he might decapitate 
 them all at a single stroke. It was not blood- 
 thirstiness made him thus cry out, but that " fierce 
 indignation," against human vice, which ate up 
 the fiery heart of Swift : and which must have 
 appeared to this sated wearer of the purple in its 
 most odious and terrible aspect — surrounded as 
 he was every moment by all the subserviency, 
 falsehood and meanness of an imperial court. 
 But was it more degraded than our own, as 
 I saw it? No, no; a thousand times, no! 
 With an aching heart I left the old man. 
 I came back to London. By accident I found 
 myself close by the Sussex waggon ; a great
 
 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 233 
 
 lumbering affair, like a farmhouse on wheels, and 
 drawn by four fat punches. It was going to 
 Bredhemston; but where Bredhemston was I 
 neither knew nor cared. I only knew that I was 
 about to abandon civilization and its rascalities. 
 I easily bargained with the driver for a seat as 
 far as Bredhemston, and lost no time in getting 
 into my berth. Of my adventures in this won- 
 derful machine I have nothing to relate. We 
 rode for some days, stopping at queer inns with 
 great fire places, and public houses at night. 
 We took in and let out several odd characters. 
 As we got deeper into Sussex, and near the sea 
 coast, I heard a good deal of the gypsies who were 
 encamped about the Downs of Brighthelmstone, 
 for such I afterwards found was the original of 
 that which our waggoner had so curiously abbre- 
 viated. And when I was at length shot out of this 
 Noah's ark, I determined to seek my fortune 
 among those wandering people, and if that failed, 
 to scramble on in some way to Portsmouth, and 
 go on board ship ; careless whither I was borne, 
 so that I was wafted from home and kindred, and 
 companions, and the debasing influence of
 
 234 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 wealth, rank, state, and civilized society. I 
 looked forward with considerable curiosity to the 
 new drama of events which I thought was open- 
 ing before me ; and doubted not that I should 
 achieve rare exploits among the people of that 
 most poetical of all gypsies — glorious John 
 Bunyan.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "And David said unto him, To whom belongest thou, and 
 whence art thou come ? And he saidj I am a young man of 
 Egypt." 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon in rosy summer when 
 I got to Portslade, a little hamlet just out of 
 Brighthelmstone. At the side of a green lane I 
 saw something like an encampment. A thin 
 cloud of azure smoke rose up in waving column 
 against a clump of elm trees ; and a dog barked 
 quick and sharp as my footstep beat against the 
 short emerald sward. There were about a dozen 
 tents in all, of various colours and sizes. A 
 crowd of waggons and a troop of horses were 
 scattered about in the adjacent open fields. As 
 I advanced, a young girl came towards me ; her 
 eyes were jet black, with a fixed fiery star in the 
 centre, which gazed upon you with a lurid light 
 that seemed to petrify the very heart. She was
 
 236 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 clothed in scarlet and black, bordered with 
 Asiatic flowers, and was crowned with a vivid 
 red head-dress, fringed with golden ornaments, 
 set with blue stones ; she wore a gold chain in 
 triple folds around her neck, massive as a king's 
 collar, but dark and tawny coloured, from long 
 exposure to the air. Her lips were thick, but 
 not coarse, such as I have since seen in the 
 mighty Indo-Egyptian idols of the past ; and the 
 nose was hooked like that of the Memnon on the 
 banks of the Nile. Many and many a time since 
 have I beheld her type in Nubia, and in the 
 mighty awful depths of the Himmalayas. Her 
 tread was light and bounding, like that which 
 characterises all the wandering tribe ; she was 
 close upon you like some wild dweller of the 
 forest, almost as suddenly as she appeared, and 
 ere you were aware. Seen thus, she gave me 
 the notion of a leopardess, though at that time I 
 had never seen one. I afterwards found I was 
 not mistaken. 
 
 As I had determined, if possible, to dwell 
 among these people, and make their tents my 
 tents, their home my home, for the rest of my 
 life, I had before carefully meditated in what
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 237 
 
 manner I should best make my entrance among 
 them. The only valuable I possessed, in addi- 
 tion to my fine clothes, and one of the guineas 
 which poor Steele had given me, and which I 
 had never parted with during this long interval, 
 was a gold watch, of curious antique workman- 
 ship, which my mother had brought from the 
 East, and in some capricious mood, ere yet I had 
 been witness of her shame, had hung around my 
 neck, from which it had never parted since. On 
 the back was chased the arms of the Montagus ; 
 the eagle displayed. The border was quaintly 
 painted, and had about a dozen oriental characters 
 graven on it, which no one had been able to de- 
 cypher ; and on which I myself set a strange value, 
 as if it were some wondrous talisman on which 
 my fate depended. I had often while at school, 
 amused myself with my fellows by pretending to 
 accomplish various puzzling tricks through the 
 operation of this talisman ; and I had half per- 
 suaded many of them, that I was the only person 
 living who understood and could explain this 
 mystic tablet. The chain that hung to it was of 
 lion's hair, twisted into a thick cable of enduring 
 strength ; and there was a key, and two or three
 
 238 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 seals of agate, or some other Indian stone, on 
 which were also cut some strange devices of far 
 off lands. 
 
 I now resolved to astonish the gypsy — it was a 
 schoolboy trick, grave reader — and as she came 
 close to me and before she spoke, I pulled out my 
 watch, and putting it to my ear I suddenly cried 
 out " Ziga zi." The gypsy started at the strange, 
 unusual sound. Whether it really conveyed any 
 idea to her mind I know not ; but I could see that 
 she marked the watch and its graven border, and 
 scanned me with a curious eye of fear or wonder. 
 She called out in a shrill voice — and immediately 
 an old hag, wrinkled, dwarf-like, black, but fierce- 
 eyed as a panther, came out of one of the tents. 
 Her hair was dark as jet, and she wore an ebon- 
 coloured robe, girdled by a broad belt, on which I 
 could plainly see, worked in gold thread, some- 
 what tarnished, three or four characters similar in 
 formation to those on my watch and seals. Her 
 step was slow, her glance fixed and full of sur- 
 prise — for I still held my watch to my ear, and 
 the seals glittering in the sun and dangling about, 
 probably made manifest to both, that the bauble 
 before them was also from the Lord of the Sun.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 239 
 
 She stood gazing fixedly at me for, I think, three 
 or four minutes, leaning all the while on a stout 
 staff with a quaintly fashioned head. At length 
 she spake, but in a language which I could not 
 understand. I shook my head to her to intimate 
 that I did not know what she meant — and 1 
 looked at my watch, as if reading in its page 
 some deep revelations of the future. v She mused 
 again, and whispered to the younger one; at 
 length she said, 
 
 " Come you here, little one, on business of 
 Egypt ?" 
 
 " Aye indeed," said I, " mother, on business of 
 Egypt do I come." 
 
 There was something so weird, mysterious, and 
 witch-like in all these proceedings, that I re- 
 solved on the instant, as^if instinctively, to adapt 
 myself to all they did and said, like an adept of 
 their own ; and this subsequently proved to be the 
 most sagacious policy I could have devised ; for 
 my sudden apparition, as it afterwards proved, 
 filled their wild brains with an idea that I was 
 somehow mysteriously sent among them, and my 
 fearlessness and cool manner confirmed them in 
 the thought. Had they known from what a pair
 
 240 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 of accomplished diplomatists I had descended, 
 
 their surprise perhaps would not have been so 
 
 great. 
 
 "And what business of Egypt came you 
 
 upon?" asked the aged crone, regarding me with 
 
 the same keen, and searching, and lightning-like 
 
 glance, that her companion had before bestowed 
 
 upon me. 
 
 u Behold," said I, extending the watch before 
 
 her, " it is written here ;" and pointing to the 
 
 seals, "here you, wise queen, can doubtless 
 
 read both." 
 
 The hag took the watch out of my hand ; her 
 
 eyes sparkled as she held the golden toy ; she 
 
 peered closely into both it and the seals, but she 
 
 could evidently make nothing of either; I could 
 
 c ee, however, that she was favourably impressed 
 
 v. ith my credentials, aDd somehow began to 
 regard me as one of themselves, though how, or 
 
 therefore sent, was a puzzle that did not seem 
 
 likely to be solved. This was just what I desired. 
 
 I knew that a secret was the very thiug to serve 
 
 n e with the fair. Seeing their perplexity, 1 asked, 
 
 " Bast thou read what is herein written, 
 
 mother?"
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 241 
 
 She shook her head, as if admitting her in- 
 ability to do so. 
 
 " Then," said I, " I will do so," and taking 
 the watch again from her hand, I muttered some 
 unintelligible jargon, to which they both listened 
 with perplexed wonder ; they were unable how- 
 ever to comprehend it. 
 
 It would have been much more wonderful 
 still, if they could have done so, for it was a 
 hash of Greek and Latin, mixed up at the 
 moment, and which meant just nothing at all — 
 something like our school incantation, oxus, 
 doxus, glorioxus, <f*c., $c. 
 
 " And what, little one of Egypt, means this 
 message ?" again asked the elder of the two 
 women. 
 
 " This," I replied ; and in a deep solemn 
 voice repeated, " The heir of the Stars, the foster- 
 child of the Queen Serpent, the beloved of the dark 
 Goddess of the Woods, seeks a hospitable tent, and 
 soft pillow"' 
 
 They scanned me again for some moments with 
 their glittering eyes. I bore their scrutiny with- 
 out flinching. The crone again took the watch 
 
 vol. I. M
 
 242 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 out of my hand ; she breathed over it, and 
 sraelled at the lion-hair guard chain. The whole 
 thing seemed to her to be — if I might judge by 
 appearance — the most extraordinary incident in 
 her life. Then coming towards me, she took me by 
 the hand, and turned the palm up, minutely 
 inspecting the lines and intersections ; occasionally 
 also gazing with an inquisitive search into my 
 eyes ; and flashing out of her own the clearest 
 light, that seemed full of a divining spirit. At 
 length she seemed satisfied. She led me into 
 her tent, and seated me at her right hand ; she 
 hung the watch around my neck, and stroked my 
 hair, and head, and cheeks ; her hand was soft as 
 down, though seventy winters had revolved since 
 first it pressed the mother's nipple. She set 
 before me choice food, and preserved fruits of 
 rare delicacy ; she poured out of an earthen 
 pitcher, water, cool, clear and bright as crystal ; 
 and of so sweet and pure a flavour to the palate 
 that it seemed to taste like ethereal wine. 
 
 As the evening gathered in, and the violet- 
 coloured clouds folded over the distant hills, and 
 the glittering stars, one by one, peered out of the 
 transcendent arch of heaven, the men and women
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 243 
 
 of the tribe gradually came in, and recounted 
 with many a wild sign and gesture the varied 
 chances of the day. I found they were exiles, 
 or wanderers from many lands; the gypsy of 
 England, the Bohemian of France, the Gitano 
 of Italy, the Zingari of Spain ; and that their 
 trades or callings were even more numerous than 
 the countries from which they came. , Some 
 forged nails and horshoes ; some were farriers, 
 tinkers, and braziers ; others musicians, others 
 basket-makers ; all the women told fortunes, and 
 exhibited with glee the silver fruits of their day's 
 adventure. When they had supped, but not 
 until then, the old woman who appeared to be a 
 person in authority, presented me and my watch 
 before the assembled group. In a few words she 
 explained the mystery of my appearance, my 
 words of introduction, my missive from some 
 unknown power to their tents and households. 
 She exhibited with seeming awe to some of the 
 oldest men, the mystic watch and seals, and I 
 could see that these made a powerful impression. 
 After a long consultation, carried on more by 
 signs than words, and when words were neces- 
 
 M 2
 
 244 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 sary, in a language which I could not understand, 
 it appeared to be finally agreed that I was to be 
 received among their number ; and the men shook 
 me by the hand in rotation, beginning with the 
 oldest ; and the women kissed me, ending with the 
 )■ oungest. This latter portion of the feast pleased 
 me most. 
 
 And now it was determined that 1 should be 
 
 solemnly initated among the brotherhood, and a 
 
 day was fixed for the ceremony. Gitanos came 
 
 from all parts of the country ; the soft and 
 
 sunny downs were thick with tents. There was a 
 
 ruined old chapel of the bygone Papal days, close 
 
 by the green lane, and in view of the blue sea ; 
 
 and though only the gray gable ends, and half a 
 
 tower remained, still it furnished a sort of rude 
 
 accommodation, well adapted for the sight that 
 
 was to take place. On the twelfth day from my 
 
 first visit to these strange people, the mystery 
 
 began. My skin was darkly died all over with 
 
 walnut juice, so that in appearance, at least, I 
 
 was a perfect African. A new suit of clothes, 
 
 half Oriental, half Spanish, was supplied by the 
 
 quick fingers of the younger gypsies, who seemed 
 
 to take a wild maternal glee in arraying me in
 
 EDWARD WORT LEY MONTAGU. 245 
 
 this new finery. When I was brought into the 
 chapel I was amazed to see a large idol, three- 
 headed, black, and cross-legged, but whether of 
 stone, metal, or wood, I do not now remember. 
 A chain of ivory, ' carved into the likeness of 
 human skulls, surrounded the waist and neck of 
 the idol ; and in its hand it held a bunch of 
 flowers. But no prayer was offered up, no adora- 
 tion was gone through ; it appeared to have been 
 brought there merely to be present, as if nothing 
 of so important a nature could be transacted in its 
 absence, or without its knowledge or permission. 
 I was led around the chapel twelve times ; at the 
 last 1 stood before the idol, the bunch of flowers 
 was taken out of its hand, and placed over my 
 heart; some strange mystical signs were then 
 made about my head, chest, and back ; my eyes 
 and mouth were kissed, and I was dubbed by a 
 new name, which I always thenceforth bore — 
 namely, Zala Mayna. 
 
 And after these things were done, they carried 
 me far away, into the very heart of the Downs ; 
 we got there when the moon and stars were in 
 their full splendour of light. It was midnight ; 
 and such a glorious midnight of blue skies, and
 
 246 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 transparent silvery brightness. I have seen such 
 often in the east, or in the Hesperian land, or 
 over the golden sierras of Eispania, or in the 
 Mexican steppes ; but seldom in our own clime 
 of fogs, shop-keepers, and clouds. There was an 
 immense tent erected, and blazing with light 
 from brightly polished lamps ; the oil was per- 
 fumed, for the fragrance was rich and exquisite. 
 There was no table, but the supper was served on 
 the green carpet, in plates of China, painted with 
 a brilliancy and fire of fancy such as I had never 
 seen, and which was worthy of the halls of kings. 
 It was probably two hundred years old. Had it 
 been ransacked from some royal palace r from 
 Samarkand or Delhi ? or had it travelled further 
 still by some unexplained method of pillage or 
 contraband from the imperial gardens of Cathay? 
 Goblets of Venetian glass, bottles, and curiously 
 shaped decanters, filled with Oriental wines, cool, 
 sweet, and not intoxicating, were served round ; 
 and when the repast was over, silver ewers, of the 
 most quaint and ancient form — probably the work 
 of four or five hundred years before — were 
 brought in, filled with perfumed waters, in which 
 we dipped our fingers. Then one of the most aged
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 247 
 
 gypsies rising up, commanded silence. All was 
 still as death. He held in my hand the watch 
 and seals, and looking on me steadily, spoke as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Blessed are the true Calore — the true 
 Calore, who are the Sons of the Gods. There is 
 no other race or people, equally the favoured of 
 the Powers, as the true Calore of the east. From 
 the Pun and Moon we came ; the spheres, of 
 golden fields and silver mountains ; there the 
 trees have leaves of pure emerald; diamonds, 
 amethysts, and sapphire are their priceless fruit. 
 And every stream is pebbled with the finest gold, 
 and every drop of dew is silver, and every blade 
 of grass is finer than the Cashmere fleece. And 
 these, indeed, once were ours, and ours alone — 
 once, alas ! in the days gone by, for we are the 
 true Calore, the blessed Sons of the Gods, and 
 the wanderers from the Sun and Moon. But 
 when the Mighty Powers stood asunder, and dis- 
 cussion rose, and there was discord in the Spheres 
 and Cycles, then the true Calore were in trouble ; 
 and they no longer dwelled in happiness ; and the 
 Sun cast them forth ; and the Moon no longer 
 embraced them in her silver hills ; and we were
 
 248 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 exiles, and deep was our sorrow, and sad the pain 
 and misery of exile. Then came an Eagle unto 
 the true Calore, saying unto them, ' 0, Calore, 
 why do ye lament V -And the Calore said, 'We 
 lament because we are in darkness ; and the Sun 
 gives us not his golden light, nor does the Moon 
 shed her silver beam over us.' And the Eagle 
 said, u It is fated — this is destiny ; but it shall 
 not be always so. For ye, the true Calore, are the 
 Sons of the Gods, and your powers are above 
 those of all other existences. ' " 
 
 And the old man ceased, and the assembled 
 gypsies clapped their hands, and joy sparkled in 
 their eyes, and they cried out — 
 "Good! good!" 
 Then the old man resumed — 
 u And when the Eagle spake these words, he 
 said unto the King of the Calore, ' Take these 
 wings and fly and seek another place, for the Sun 
 and Moon will receive ye no longer.' And the 
 King of the Calore took the wings, and he fled 
 nine days ; and at length he came unto a great 
 land — a land of lofty mountains, and green plains, 
 and mighty forests, and vast rivers, and lakes, 
 beautiful as crystal. And the King of the Calore
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 249 
 
 said ; ' This land is good ; behold I will bring my 
 people unto this land.' And he again took the 
 Eagle's wings, and he flew nine days, and he 
 came back unto his -own people, and he said, c I 
 have found a land, and a fair land ; and there are 
 rich plains, and noble mountains, and far extend- 
 ing forests, and flowing rivers, and lakes bor- 
 dered with trees and flowers, and there may the 
 Calore abide.' And they were glad; and they 
 said, ' Be it so.' And he flew, and the Calore 
 followed the King ; and they sang joyfully, nor 
 did their hearts once fail them. And this was 
 the burden of their song — < Happy are the true 
 Calore — the true Calore, who are the Sons of the 
 Gods ! ' " 
 
 And the gypsies clapped their hands, crying 
 out, " Good ! good ! " 
 
 "And when the Calore came unto this new 
 land, they were a great and happy people, and 
 they begat sons and daughters, and they feasted 
 merrily, and they sang and played sweet music, 
 and they danced beneath the sun and moon, and 
 abided in the green forest, and clothed themselves 
 in gold and jewels, and lived from year to year, 
 
 M 5
 
 250 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 as they had lived in the golden fields and silver 
 mountains. And thus they passed ten thousand 
 years, and there was no trouble known among 
 the true Calore. And when ten thousand years 
 were passed and gone, a new sect sprang up 
 among the" true Calore ; but these, indeed, must 
 have been the sons of devils, for they began to 
 live according to new and strange customs, 
 wholly different from those of the true Calore — the 
 sons and favourites of the Gods of Splendour ; for 
 they builded houses and hewed stones, and 
 burned earth, and cut down trees, the happy 
 everlasting homes of us, the true Calore ; but 
 these, indeed, must have been the sons of devils 
 — for they burdened the green and beautiful 
 earth with their abominations. And they in- 
 creased, and waxed proud and fierce, and they 
 drove the true Calore out of their much-loved 
 forests, and hunted them like wild foxes, and 
 killed them, and robbed them of their gold, and 
 despoiled them of their daughters, and made 
 them slaves and beasts of burden. And the true 
 Calore wept, and were in great sorrow, and knew 
 not what to do."
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 251 
 
 And the gypsies hung down their heads, and 
 cried, "Ah, me! ah, me!" 
 
 " Then the King of the true Calore said, ' Oh, 
 golden Eagle, where art thou ? Come again unto 
 the true Calore, and counsel them what they shall 
 do.' And the Eagle came, and he said, ' What 
 seek ye?' And they said, { We are wanderers, 
 and were despoiled by these, the sons of devils ; 
 and we know not what to do.' And the Eagle 
 said, ' Why will ye not live with them, and abide 
 in houses, even as they abide T And the true 
 Calore said, f We will not hide our heads in 
 shame, beneath the dark screen that veils us 
 from the Sun, and Moon, and Stars ; for the Sun 
 and Moon were once our homes, and we love to 
 look upon them in the day, and on the stars by 
 night. Peradventure, if we dwell in covered 
 places with the sons of devils, and keep not 
 these glorious spheres ever ^before us, we shall 
 forget, and be forgotten by them, and shall no 
 more return unto our primal homes. Wherefore 
 we have vowed a vow never to put a screen of 
 wood, or stone, or tile between ourselves and 
 these glorious organizations. And this vow we 
 will never break — no not though earth and
 
 252 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 heaven should clash together. But the sons of 
 devils persecute and drive us out, and rob us of 
 our woods and forests. Therefore is our cry 
 made to thee.' Then the Eagle said, ' Follow 
 me.' And he led them into a new and fruitful 
 land, where there were other forests, and fair 
 hills, and fertile rivers ; and the true Calore were 
 again happy." 
 
 And the gypsies clapped their hands again, 
 saying, " Good ! good !" 
 
 " And the true Calore, the Sons of the 
 Gods, dwelled in this new land for ten 
 thousand years ; and though it equalled not their 
 recent country, still it was a fair dominion. And 
 they passed their days in fields and forests, and 
 their only roof-tree was the leafy bower of the 
 living oak and elm and walnut, and the everlast- 
 ing ceiling of the banyan, through whose bloom- 
 ing branches the sun glittered ; and the emerald 
 bright stars of heaven shone over them in the soft 
 night ; and their sons and daughters increased 
 wonderfully, and their days were happiness and 
 peace. And it came to pass that the sons of 
 devils extended their dominion unto this fair land 
 also, and they said unto the true Calore ; i Live ye
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 253 
 
 in houses and under roof-trees even as we do, or 
 ye shall not abide with us, neither shall ye any 
 longer pollute this land.' But the true Calore said, 
 ' We are the Sons of the Gods ; we love to look 
 upon the Sun and Stars ; we love to feel them shin- 
 ing, smiling, watching over us, and we will not bar 
 them out with lattice of stone.' And the sons of 
 devils said, ' Depart ye therefore ; this land is no 
 more a land for ye.' And they drove out the true 
 Calore with fire and sword ; and they devastated 
 their peaceful bands, and slew them wheresoever 
 they found any, and bore away their wives and 
 daughters into slavery, and feasted in their de- 
 solated homes." 
 
 And the gypsies hung down their heads, say- 
 ing, " May their mothers be accursed for ever ; 
 may their graves be defiled : may the faces of 
 their fathers blacken in hell J" 
 
 "And the true Calore called again unto the 
 Eagle ; and the Eagle came at their call, and he 
 said, ' What want ye now, Sons of the Gods V 
 And the true Calore answering said. 'Behold 
 we are again exiles ; the sons of devils 
 have again despoiled us — nor is there any 
 longer a resting place on this earth for the
 
 254 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 true Calore. Wherefore have we called aloud 
 unto thee, Golden Eagle, for thou hast 
 rescued us from our tribulation.' And the Eagle 
 said, ' In this land there is no longer a home ; 
 but the true Calore must cross the seas.' And the 
 true Calore cried out, ' Golden Eagle, command 
 us not to cross the seas.' But the Eagle said, ' It 
 is fated — this is destiny. But this ye shall re- 
 ceive for recompense ; knowledge of the past, 
 knowledge of the present, knowledge of the future. 
 In the eyes, the face, the mouth, and hands ; in 
 the form and the presence of the stranger and the 
 friend ; in the tone of the voice, in the manner of 
 the gait shall ye read him, as if all his heart were 
 laid before ye bare, and the tablet of his spirit 
 opened wide before your eyes. And this shall 
 be the gift of the true Calore, above all other 
 dwellers of the earth ; and the sons of devils shall 
 fear ye, and be your suitors, nay, your very slaves 
 for these things, until the end of time.' " 
 
 And the gypsies clapped their hands, and 
 sprang upon their feet, and shouted with great 
 joy, " Good! good ! Blessed be the Golden Eagle 
 of Heaven!" 
 
 " Then the true Calore sailed over the" seas,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 255 
 
 and the Sun led them in the day, and the Moon 
 and Stars guided them in the night, and the 
 Eagle sailed before them over the blue waters, 
 and they came into Europe and dwelled therein ; 
 and they abided there ten thousand years, until the 
 sons of devils again followed them, and took 
 possession of their lands and leafy homes, and 
 drove them out. Then they became wanderers, 
 and were broken up into tribes, and some went 
 here, and some went there, and they dwelled 
 beneath tents in this cold clime, but excluded not 
 the Moon or Stars, for these indeed gleamed still 
 through their transparent roofs. And they 
 exercised their knowledge with wisdom, and the 
 sons of devils came to them, and gave them gold 
 and silver in exchange for mystic lore ; and 
 were their suitors and their slaves unto this 
 end ; even as the Eagle foretold. Wherefore 
 rejoice ye, true Calore, and be not dis- 
 pirited; for the promise of the Eagle hath 
 now been fulfilled for thousands, and yet 
 many thousands of years ; and with us the divine 
 gift shall ever abide ; so that in the eyes and the 
 face, and the mouth and hands of the stranger,
 
 256 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 and in his voice, and in his walk ye shall read 
 his present, past, and future unto the end of 
 time." 
 
 Then all the gypsies rose up again, and some 
 clapped their hands, and others clashed silver 
 cymbals, and they cried out, u Good ! good ! all 
 this is good." 
 
 Then the old man resumed — 
 
 u All this have I expounded, because one is now 
 amongst us who hath brought a mystic message 
 from the Eagle ; and behold the Signet of the 
 Lagle is on his watch and seals ; and the Eagle 
 hath sent him unto the true Calore — the Sons 
 and favourites of the Gods. And the Sent of 
 the Eagle hath delivered this message unto the 
 true Calore ; " The heir of the Stars, the foster- 
 child of the Queen-Serpent, the beloved of the dark 
 Goddess of the Woods, seeks a hospitable tent and 
 soft pillow." These words he hath spoken, but 
 these words are not the words which the Eagle 
 himself hath written on the watch — though this 
 lad in ignorance or forget fulness of his true 
 message hath said it. But the words upon the 
 watch are sacred words— and are a talisman from
 
 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 257 
 
 our most holy books. These I have deciphered, 
 and thus do they proclaim — 
 
 c Who knows, and who shall declare 
 Whence and why creation took place ? 
 He who is in the highest heaven of light 
 Knows this— no other.' 
 
 Blessed is he who beareth these words among us, 
 and glad shall be his welcome among the true 
 Calore ; for he hath come no doubt on business of 
 Egypt, though as yet we know it not. Where- 
 fore it is for this we have in ducted him into our 
 holy tribe — wherefore it is for this we have paid 
 him honour — for no other than one truly the 
 favourite of the Gods could he be who beareth 
 these words. And we have given unto him anew 
 name — Zala-Mayna, or the Eagle-sent. 
 
 " But thou, Zala-Mayna, shalt henceforth be 
 welcome among our people; and whithersoever 
 thou goest, there shall be a tent open to receive 
 thee. I see in thine eyes and brow many tokens 
 of the future. Thou shalt wander among many 
 lands and achieve many adventures ; thou shalt 
 seek repose, and shalt not find it ever. Thy life 
 will be a dim perplexity, but thou shalt discover 
 truth and abjure error. Thou shalt be hated and 
 loved of many ; thou shalt smite and slay thine
 
 258 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 adversary, and be the sport of fierce whirlwinds 
 but the Eternal shall still shine before thy spirit 
 and thou shalt not mingle with the common herd 
 nor shall the sons of devils have power over thee 
 though many and great will be their arts of 
 fascination. A great grief, and a dark sorrow 
 shall steal over thee, and shall be the eclipse of 
 thy life's sun ; it shall cling to thee, and fasten 
 itself round about thee ; it shall abide by thee 
 unto death ; it shall be the evil curse bestowed 
 upon thee by those who gave thee birth ; but thou 
 shalt not quail or perish beneath it. Happier 
 shalt thou be in the desert, or on the mountain, 
 alone with Him unto whom thy spirit rises, than 
 if thou didst tread the halls of kings, and didst 
 behold a thousand parasites in thy train. But 
 thine ending shall be quick and sudden — yet shall 
 thy name not perish, nor thy wrongs be un- 
 avenged." 
 
 Thus terminated this strange scene, enacted in 
 the solitary heart of those silent Downs, when all 
 the dwellers of the hamlet were buried in sleep 
 or dream ; unconscious of the drama that was 
 being played within so short a distance. The 
 lights were now extinguished ; there was bustle
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 259 
 
 and hurry; the dogs were called together; the 
 horses were gathered in ; the waggons were har- 
 nessed ; the visitors departed. The stars alone 
 saw us and them — the silent, holy stars of heaven 
 to which I lifted up my soul, and felt as if they 
 were my kindred. So real, so profound, so sacred 
 seemed the conviction that I was indeed Eagle- 
 sent, upon the wild minds of these people, that 
 I was in my own heart heartily ashamed 
 of what I now felt for the first time was 
 a species of imposture ; an abuse of the 
 divine rights of hospitality, an unhallowed 
 intrusion upon the privacy of an isolated 
 race. But what was I to do ? Was I to confess 
 all, and be driven with curses from out their 
 circle ? Nay, was I quite sure that with these 
 passionate Children of the Sun, my life itself 
 would be safe one moment after 1 had avowed the 
 cheat? Self-preservation imperatively required 
 that I should not follow this course. But again 
 other thoughts succeeded, and I began perhaps to 
 deceive myself, as most of us poor erring crea- 
 tures are but too much inclined to do. Was it 
 then quite certain that I was an impostor ? Was
 
 260 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 it beyond all dispute clear that I was not divinely 
 led among these people — conducted by some 
 mysterious and superior influence ? Was the pos- 
 session of this watch, which seemed the talisman 
 of my fate, a mere accident such as might have 
 happened to anyone else ? Was my exile from my 
 father's home, my mother's hatred, my school 
 boy suffering, my flight so auspiciously untracked 
 to the present time, all mere accident; or were 
 they not all rather links of a chain woven by 
 destiny itself to lead me into that future life of 
 change by land and sea, which this adventure 
 seemed to offer ? How could I tell ? At all 
 events, this was not the time, nor the most favour- 
 able opportunity for enquiring too nicely into the 
 matter. I contented myself therefore with the 
 present, secure at least in a home, and safety and 
 protection among these strange dwellers of the 
 Downs. I was given over to the especial care of 
 one whom they called Manasam, and in his tent 
 I was to abide thenceforth, until 1 was thoroughly 
 indoctrinated in all the lore of the tribe. He 
 was a young man, eminently handsome, and 
 might have served for a model of Apollo. His
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 261 
 
 eyes were bright as running streams, that dance 
 and glitter in the sun ; his tongue was sweet and 
 musical. Well have the ancients called the 
 voice the image of the soul, and well did the 
 sage of old say to the silent man, u Speak, that 
 I may know thee ! " Never have I been deceived 
 in this infallible test of man and woman ; nor was 
 1 deceived in that of Manasam. A strange 
 affinity seemed to spring up between us ; he led 
 me to his tent, and shewed me my separate bed. 
 I undressed myself, and with a parting glance at 
 the golden lights of heaven, all splendent in the 
 violet arch above me, threw myself upon my 
 heathery couch, and soon was wrapped in sleep.
 
 262 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "My Lord is wise according to the wisdom of an Angel of God, 
 to know all things that are in the earth." 
 
 I was now comparatively happy. Existence 
 under canvas was novel; it was a delightful 
 contrast to that from which I had so recently 
 escaped. Like all boys, I was an intense lover 
 of the open air. Solitary confinement at a desk 
 or lesson had become odious to me. I had been 
 flogged so hard under Casey and Porter, and 
 fagged so hard at Westminster torture house, 
 that the transition to indolence in the open 
 country was like emerging out of Purgatory into 
 Paradise. I would have said the flames of hell ; 
 only that a high authority in the Protestant 
 church, who might have written the thirty-nine 
 articles, has laid it down that, " out of hell there 
 is no redemption." I had made a certain pro-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 263 
 
 gress under these classic savages. If I was 
 flogged, and kicked, and trampled on, I had at 
 all events the pleasure of not having suffered for 
 nothing. I was master of Latin and French ; I 
 knew Greek pretty well ; I had a sort of smatter- 
 ing of Italian. I had a general knowledge of 
 history and literature ; not deep, but sufficient for 
 all ordinary purposes. I had besides, what was 
 better than all, a love of books ; and though I 
 panted for a life of adventure, I was not insensible 
 to the exquisite enjoyment which flows from the 
 acquisition of new truths, new information, new 
 acquirements in the arts or sciences. May I 
 confess that I had even scribbled poetry ; 
 but that is One of my accomplishments 
 of which I do not intend to present my reader 
 with a single specimen in this work. I believe 
 I am the only rhymer that ever lived who had 
 the modesty or decency to practise so much self 
 denial. 
 
 Oh ! how I revelled in this new scene. I was 
 drunken with delight. There were no bounds or 
 limits to my joy. I sent my soul loose upon the 
 free winds of heaven, that swept across the Downs 
 redolent of the sea, the violet and wild thyme ;
 
 264 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the dewy breath of fragrant fields, the balm of 
 an ethereal unknown beauty. I jumped, I 
 skipped about, I was never tired of leaping over 
 hedge, or fence. I sang, I shouted aloud ; I no 
 longer envied the birds, for my heart was as 
 joyous as the happiest songster of them all. The 
 earliest beam of sunshine found me at my tent 
 door, ready dressed ; almost before a dog awoke I 
 was out upon the hills, crossing over the valleys, 
 vaulting over brush and briar, and gorse, giving 
 loose to the gushing ecstacy of my enfranchised 
 spirit. A cold blooded spectator who had seen 
 me, must have thought me mad, and in truth I 
 was mad with the new feeling of freedom. I ran 
 down the hares which I saw gliding through the 
 thick fern and underwood. I rushed into the 
 open sea, and breasted the green billows that 
 dashed in living emerald upon the soun-Hng 
 beach, and seemed to speak the words of one 
 Eternal. I stood and filled my lungs with the 
 sweet breezes ; I opened my hand and sought to 
 grasp it, and make it all mine own. The glorious 
 sunshine filled me with a divine feeling. I was 
 like an immortal God, imbued with the nectar 
 and ambrosia of the heavens. We did not al-
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 265 
 
 ways confine ourselves to one place, but wandered 
 away far and far, making this lonely silent slade 
 our head quarters, to which we generally 
 returned after scouring all the sea coast 
 country ; sleeping in rich corn fields, or on the 
 warm beach when the summer sun gleamed 
 over us with Italian glow and brilliancy ; now 
 on the Bexhill down, and Hastings, and chivalric 
 Battle ; now pursuing our course westward, and 
 wandering like Bedoweens over the South Downs, 
 to Arundel and Chichester, and Salisbury Plain, 
 where amid our father's temples, Stonehenge and 
 Amesbury, we camped, and heard traditionary 
 tales of the enchanted Past — ere yet a Druid 
 dwelt in Britain ; ere yet a Hebrew emerged from 
 Oude. And mark how grandly still do they 
 survive — these Boodhist fanes of vast gigantic 
 architecture. They seem and are, the works of a 
 colossal race, before whom our puny modern 
 men are but as elves. For what are all the 
 palaces and crumbling churches of the Pagan ; 
 what are the marble fragments of Greece or 
 Rome, or Gaul, when compared with the stupen- 
 dous reliques of our great forefathers? They are 
 vol. i. N
 
 266 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 but children's toys — they are but doll's houses — 
 utterly mean and miserable. The Parthenon — 
 the Pantheon, even the great Colosseum itself — 
 oh, name them not ; they are but poor, contemp- 
 tible, and pigmy dust holes, if contrasted with 
 these sublime memorials. These defy Time 
 itself; they are more ancient than the Pyramids, 
 and will outlive them. They give a grander 
 notion of the men who reared them by arts un- 
 known to Euclid or Newton, than all the epic 
 strains of Hellas or Hesperia. 
 
 My companion, guide, or tutor, whichever he 
 might be called, sympathised with my new-born 
 rapture, aud gave me golden glimpses of the 
 Past. He repressed me not in the least degree ; 
 but himself, when he was not occupied in other 
 pursuits, shared with me in all my sports, with 
 the wild and savage freedom of a boy. While 
 others poured their ancient lore into my heart, Jie 
 taught me a variety of arts — to snare the rabbit, 
 or pheasant ; to steal upon the partridge in her 
 nest; to surprise the nimble hare, and catch the 
 s Liver tenants of the streams. Under his instruc- 
 tion I became a first-rate marksman with the 
 arrow, the pistol, or the sling ; I could hit a
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 267 
 
 cherry with a stone from the last at a distance of 
 a hundred yards. I had before some skill in 
 swimming, but he instructed me in a variety of 
 tricks, so that I could manage myself almost as 
 skilfully as a fish in the water; nor did any feat 
 seem too difficult for me to accomplish. He 
 made me also a master of fence ; he showed me 
 how to wrestle and box ; in a word I became an 
 adept in all athletic sports. Two years thus 
 pleasantly passed, and I was now seventeen. I 
 was well-grown, tall, active, bold, quick, and 
 daring. I feared no man ; I blenched at no 
 danger ; and I had already distinguished myself by 
 a variety of encounters with the myrmidons of 
 the law, in which we usually came off victorious. 
 I had become likewise a curious and keen 
 observer of nature, and of the habits of the 
 birds, the beasts, even the insects of the fields. I 
 saw that they also were like human beings, with 
 passions, feelings, emotions, vices, and virtues. I 
 saw the strong oppress the weak; I saw the 
 powerful destroy the feeble. Alas ! when I went 
 into the great world, I beheld the same; and 
 could find no difference between the policy of the 
 
 N 2
 
 268 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 scorpions and the rats, and that of men and 
 women ; except that the latter were more refined 
 and cruel in their love of power, or their lust of 
 evil. I remember an incident which happened 
 about this period, and which gave me a lesson, 
 not unuseful afterwards to me in my varied 
 career. 
 
 Two swallows began to build a nest under a 
 projecting stone of one of the old gable ends of 
 the ruin that stood adjacent to our encampment. 
 Every day the work advanced. At length it was 
 complete; all that feathers, wool, and fine grass 
 could do to make the tenement comfortable and 
 compact had been supplied. While this labour 
 was proceeding, two sparrows perched on a corn- 
 rick close by, watched the swallows with eager, 
 anxious eyes. When all was finished the swallows 
 disappeared into a garden some way off, and the 
 sparrows quietly took possession of the nest. 
 Conscious, however, of their guilt, they never 
 dared to quit it together; but when one was 
 absent gathering food, the other kept watch 
 within, and with beak protruded like a soldier's 
 pike, seemed ready to do battle with all the 
 world, in defence of its ill-gotten citadel. The
 
 EDWARD WORTLEf MONTAGU. 269 
 
 Duke of Austria could not be more alert in 
 guarding one of his felonious acquisitions, Our 
 late King William did not more vigilantly secure 
 the crown which " he received, but did not 
 steal." 
 
 At length the swallows re-appeared. They 
 came as they supposed to a warm cottage ready 
 prepared for their expected brood. But great 
 was their dismay at finding the felons in posses- 
 sion. The male bird flew at the nest and 
 attempted to expel the robber ; but the stronger- 
 beaked knave repelled him easily, and he re- 
 treated to his bride, bleeding and confused. A 
 hasty and anxious discussion took place between 
 them ; they flew off, and all seemed tranquil. 
 
 And now a quick, sharp twitter from the tri- 
 umphant sparrow recalled his mate ; a consulta- 
 tion took place; sudden measures and precau- 
 tions seemed requisite. They both flew off for a 
 short period, and returned, laden with food. The 
 garrison having been thus supplied, they both 
 put themselves on their defence, and with jave- 
 lins extended, made rather a formidable appear- 
 ance. Their two sharp pikes stretched out 
 beyond the nest, seemed to oppose an impreg-
 
 270 EDWAED WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 liable barrier. I trembled for the luckless swallows 
 who had thus fallen victims to these king-like 
 spoliators. But soon the scene was altered. A 
 shrill cry was heard in the air ; I looked up and 
 saw about thirty or forty swallows flying rapidly 
 to the spot. I had no difficulty in recognising as 
 their leaders the two outraged exiles, who like 
 the sons of iEneas conducted this avenging army 
 to this second Troy. They planted themselves on 
 the corn rick and surveyed the enemy. There was 
 a coolness and intrepidity about their appearance 
 that gave me great hope that poetical justice was 
 about to be done, and that the ravishers must 
 share the fate of their prototype, Paris. Nor was 
 I deceived. The sparrows, indeed, remained 
 watchful; their eyes were bold and fierce, as 
 became a besieged party. They did not, of course, 
 venture on a sally ; but they seemed determined 
 to die in their stronghold. And their determina- 
 tion was fulfilled, but in a manner on which they 
 bad scarcely reckoned. Suddenly about a dozen 
 swallows, each laden with a pellet of mud, flew 
 against the nest and discharged it with unerring 
 aim. They then retreated, and made way for a 
 fresh party, who renewed the attack ; these in
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 271 
 
 turn gave place to a third, who likewise fired 
 their shot. The first battalion now returned with 
 a fresh supply of mud, which they pierced into 
 the very eyes of the besieged, blinding and con- 
 fusing them ; and the attack thus continued 
 until the luckless sparrows were completely em- 
 bedded in the soft compact, and stifled to death. 
 All their struggles to escape with wing and 
 beak were ineffectual. A reserve corps of 
 swallows kept watch just over the nest, and 
 while the others were absent, effectually plastered 
 in the mud over the sallyport, so that flight was 
 impossible, and the ravishers were bricked up 
 alive. And now, how great and glorious was 
 their triumph. As flocks of winged cranes, or 
 long-necked swans in Asian meadows, by the fair 
 flowing streams of Cayster, fly here and there, 
 exulting in their wings, and settling down with 
 noise and glee triumphant, so raised their paeans, 
 the victorious band of swallows ; as mighty eagles 
 — but let me drop the Homeric strain, and simply 
 say that, in a few short hours, by the united 
 labours of all, a new nest was constructed just 
 over that which had been blocked up, and the re-
 
 272 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 instated birds were next day in quiet and con- 
 tented possession. 
 
 Among the dwellers of our tents was an aged 
 Indian who, I think must have been at least a 
 hundred years old ; yet he was not bent, nor bald, 
 nor white haired. His eye retained its fire ; his step 
 was firm, but slow ; his hand shook not, nor did 
 his head wag. He went by the name of Akiba. 
 He had travelled over nearly all the earth ; he 
 had sojourned among the Boodhist talapoins, and 
 the Brahmin priests; he had visited the sacred 
 temples of the Lama ; and had penetrated the 
 enigmas of the holy city of Benares, and the 
 more ancient fanes of Samarkand. He had been 
 initiated into the profound philosophy of the 
 sages of Mecca, and the hidden rites of the sect 
 of Lao-Tseu. He had searched the mystic 
 treasures of the Vatican — all as yet in manu- 
 script, and carefully hidden away from profane 
 eyes; unrevealed to the world, and never 
 to be revealed ; consulted, like the Sibyl- 
 line books, by the highest order of the priests 
 alone, and by them sought only on the most 
 difficult occasions and emergencies. There the
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 273 
 
 wealth of human wisdom and experience is 
 hoarded up ; the secret engines that moved 
 empires; the dark intrigues that to mankind 
 appeared so specious ; the hidden causes of ruins 
 and revolutions are laid bare ; and no complica- 
 cation of circumstances can arise too difficult to 
 be solved by those profound oracles of thought. 
 This aged man became my Gooroo, or spiritual 
 teacher. He showed me the insignificance of that 
 knowledge which is to be derived from what we 
 call the classical writers of Greece or Italy — the 
 Platos, Ciceros, and other dotards who knew 
 nothing ; the mad, fantastic, and degrading 
 nonsense of their mythology— originally sublime 
 and heaven-sent, but transformed by the accursed 
 tribe of sophists and poets into a medley — so 
 trifling and contemptible, that only children 
 could be amused by it, while all men of sense 
 must lausrh it to scorn. He demonstrated that 
 the Greeks, whom we in Europe absurdly vene- 
 rate as the patriarchs of all philosophy, were 
 despicable dreamers, without even the merit of 
 originality in their shallow speculations ; all of 
 which were borrowed from an older and a greater 
 
 n 5
 
 274 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 people ; but so travestied in the copy, that what 
 was primarily so sublime, became, in their hands, 
 utterly ridiculous. He enumerated their subtle 
 distinctions and puerile definitions of God, the 
 Soul, theKosmos, and Eternity; and distinguished 
 between that exalted wisdom which consists in 
 ideas as opposed to that which is made up only 
 of words. The Greeks were, in fact, always 
 babblers. Their taste in art was fine and pure, 
 though delicate and small; but they were a 
 nation of coxcombs, without any real or solid 
 grandeur. To one who has really mastered 
 Indir.n lore, Plato is the vainest prater of the 
 Schools. The Romans were too much immersed in 
 wars and politics, and the extension of their sway, 
 to devote any lengthened period to the study of 
 philosophy or of true religiou. They were, like 
 ourselves, a practical, money-getting race. Those 
 of them who did think, drew from Greek foun- 
 tains ; which, originally shallow, would, of course, 
 offer nothing greatly worthy of acceptance. 
 Cicero was a pedant, who knew scarcely anything 
 of the subjects on which he professed to write. 
 His Nature of the Gods reads like a burlesque. 
 Seneca was a dabbler or a driveller — a drearv
 
 EDWABD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 275 
 
 copyist of other men ; Lucretius versified the 
 pamphlets of Epicurus. 
 
 From the East all true science came ; in the 
 East only was it to be found, Thales aud Pytha- 
 goras knew this, for they travelled thither and 
 explored. The knowledge which they brought 
 back they developed among their fellows ; but 
 the Grecian intellect, like that of Gaul, was too 
 puny to comprehend its simple grandeur. It 
 became diluted, weakened and effeminated, so that 
 only a small remnant of true Orientalism re- 
 mained; but it was that remnant which gave 
 vitality to their speculations. True science was, 
 indeed, hoarded among the Wise, as a secret 
 which ought not to be expounded to the common 
 herd ; and it may at least be said in defence of 
 both Thales and his disciples, that they each had 
 followers whom they initiated into the higher 
 branches of the highest knowledge. But this 
 policy defeated itself in the end. The great 
 Monarch s of Wisdom, who committed to mere 
 memory the vast treasures which they had 
 acquired, the mighty conquests in the realms of 
 thought which they had gained, trusted all to a 
 most frail vehicle ; and hence it came to pass that
 
 276 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 in the course of time, a great deal was forgotten, 
 and, consequently, lost for ever. To this may be 
 attributed the present extension of Ignorance, and 
 the vast twilight in which mortals wander. Had 
 the Wise from the beginning, instead of confiding 
 to each other, or to undecypherable tablets, their 
 vast researches and great discoveries, committed 
 them to writing, and published them to all the 
 earth, the world would be ten thousand years in 
 advance of what it is. There would be but One 
 Eeligion and One System of Philosophy known 
 among mankind; wars — the dice of hell— would 
 cease, and confraternity universally prevail. But 
 they kept their knowledge to a few, and hence the 
 present wreck of all things. 
 
 Thus the old man taught me. We began at 
 the rudiments of philosophy; we extended our 
 inquiries into the most august speculations. He 
 showed me how the earth of man was formed in 
 the beginning ; how it, and all the planets of this 
 solar sphere were originally thrown off, like 
 bubbles from the sun. These bubbles condensing, 
 became vast globes of water ; a few living seeds 
 germinated ; the result gradually produced solid 
 matter ; this solid substance sank, and was at-
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 277 
 
 tracted into one centre from all the vast circumfer- 
 ence of waters. Hence deposits of mud, which 
 grew into sand ; from sand to stone, from stone to 
 all that we behold. God sent forth Vital Essences, 
 which we call Spirits. He commanded them to 
 animate existence, and gave them power to de- 
 velop themselves as they thought proper. This, 
 in the lower creatures, man calls instinct ; but it 
 is by this instinct that man himself is formed. 
 God says to a living spirit, " Go forth, appear in 
 any shape that pleases thee." The spirit assumes 
 that shape which is in harmony with its desires. 
 If the spirit be inclined to evil, it assumes an evil 
 shape, like that of a wolf, or tiger, or rat, with 
 propensities cruel and cunning ? if it be inclined 
 to good, it assumes a noble development, such as 
 the spirit of Pythagoras or Socrates assumed. 
 God did not make Plato and Thersites. He was 
 not, could not, and would not be so unjust. Each 
 made himself ; exactly as an insect makes its 
 wonder-causing cells, which all the art of man 
 could not imitate. 
 
 I asked him how it came to pass that spirits 
 should have these propensities to good or evil, if 
 God did not make them so inclined? And I
 
 278 EDWARD WOETLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 argued that there could be no difference in the 
 Creator making a man to be a Plato or Thersites, 
 and making the spirit which so developed itself in 
 Plato or Thersites, to have a propensity for the 
 good or the evil which afterwards existed in these 
 men ? He said God did not make Plato or Ther- 
 sites ; neither did He cause the spirits which 
 assumed these forms to have a propensity, the 
 one for a noble, the other for an ignoble develop- 
 ment. God made all spirits equal in the begin- 
 ning of creation, but He left them free to do as 
 they thought fit. Hence arose a difference at 
 once between them ; for free will, must ever pro- 
 duce variety of desire, and this variety of desire 
 will develope itself in ten hundred thousand 
 different ways. Remember, we are speaking of 
 millions and millions of years that have gone by, 
 since first our actual spirits were emaned from 
 God ; during which every spirit which is now on 
 earth — for all living creatures are only spirits 
 veiled in flesh, or body of some sort — must have 
 played innumerable parts, and passed through un- 
 counted stages of existence. Some men now 
 living, have been archangels, and might have 
 ever continued so, but the spirit is ever changing ;
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 279 
 
 confine it in one place, restrain its ever-growing 
 desire for novelty, and it immediately becomes 
 unhappy. God would not so restrain it; the 
 consequence of which was, it sought some other 
 form of being, and left its archangelic manifesta- 
 tion. Thus a spirit that desires to develope itself 
 in a tree, or a rose, or a bird, three exquisite 
 bodies, capable of great enjoyment, is permitted 
 to do so ; and this was what the Greeks meant 
 when they filled the forests with Dryads, and 
 gave to each particular tree a living nymph, 
 whose existence terminated with the tree itself. 
 If these things were not animated by an im- 
 mortal essence of spirit they could not survive a 
 year. Cut down a tree ; its life is gone, its 
 spirit is departed, it decays and rots, and is no 
 more. So it is with all things. Yet men see 
 this, and deny a spirit-life to these substances, 
 because they say they are devoid of reason, 
 instinct, or intelligence. How know they that ? 
 Who would not rather be a tree or rose than one 
 of the great herd of humankind who toil and 
 drudge, and have no thought higher than that of 
 animal existence, and the support of the gross 
 body ? In the eyes of a Supreme Being, is not
 
 280 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the life of the tree more beautiful in all respects? 
 It is innocent, pure, and sacred. But what is the 
 life of such a man as I have named? And what 
 is his intelligence ? and who from heaven told 
 him that the tree has not great and noble aspira- 
 tions ; and that when it lifts its head beneath the 
 sun and stars it does not see God, in and through 
 them, and does not feel His being in its every 
 fibre? 
 
 The reader may judge how all this entered into 
 my soul — soured and saddenned as it had been 
 by the sensualisms and abominations which I had 
 seen around me ! 
 
 u You assume then," said I, " that the soul 
 pre-exists ; that it was an immortal essence before 
 it animated the body?" 
 
 " I assume nothing," he answered, u I merely 
 say what must be the fact. I do not assume that 
 the sun shines. I see it, I feel it, I know it. In 
 the same way I know that my father and mother 
 did not make my soul. God made it. But when ? 
 Why millions of years ago. Then He made it, 
 and it was worthy of His hands ; then it was a 
 great, a splendid, a divine thing, as all the works 
 immediately proceeding from God are. Taunt
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 281 
 
 not Him with creating such frail, miserable, and 
 paltry things as human souls now be. It is they 
 themselves, who, sinking from their primal 
 majesty, have degenerated into their present low- 
 liness. But mankind will not believe this. Their 
 wretched self-love will not be satisfied with any- 
 thing but an immediate creation from the hand 
 of the Supreme. Thus they are enabled to father 
 on Him, the Pure and Just, all their short- 
 comings, sins, and imperfections. God made me 
 so, says the thief and drunkard ; I can't help it ; 
 I did not make myself. Miscreant! thou liest. 
 Thou didst make thyself. When God made thee, 
 He formed thee all pure ; but when abandoning 
 Him, thou gavest thyself up to thine own will, 
 then began that change in tbee, which finally 
 flowers forth in robbery and intemperance. But 
 man, you will say, is unconscious of this pre- 
 existence. It is not possible but that if he lived 
 in other stages of being he must have some 
 memory of them. This is not a sound argument. 
 All memory is seated in the brain ; destroy the 
 brain, and though the man survives he loses all 
 recollection of the past. The greatest philoso- 
 pher of the day becomes insane ; his brain
 
 282 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 softens ; his memory is past and gone. Tell him 
 that he existed twenty years ago, and he 
 will betray no recollection of the fact Does this 
 prove he did not exist ? You yourself, who now 
 hear me, where were you this day ten. years? 
 What were your thoughts, your words, your 
 actions ? You cannot tell. Does this prove you 
 did not exist ? Yet your brain is the same now 
 as then, and I am assuming that your memory is 
 as sound as that of ordinary men. If then the 
 brain, and the brain alone be the seat of memory, 
 how can your spirit possibly recollect what hap- 
 pened in some prior stage, when it is separated 
 from the brain, where all traces of that existence 
 would be treasured up ? I have shewn you that 
 even with your present brain you cannot recollect 
 what took place ten or fifteen years since. How 
 then is it possible that you could remember what 
 took place ten thousand years since, unless you 
 had the same brain now as you had then : or even 
 if you had the same brain now as then, which of 
 course it would be impossible you could have. 
 
 u Moreover, is it beyond all cavil established 
 that we have no memory of the past ? What is 
 imagination — that power of building splendid
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 283 
 
 castles in the air ; of soaring into new regions and 
 spheres ; of clothing incidents with a golden 
 brilliancy that gives to them the hues of fairy 
 land ? How know you that this enchanting fancy 
 is not a dim recollection of other and more lovely 
 spheres ? You hear sweet music ; you are fas- 
 cinated ; the tears roll from your eyes ; your heart 
 melts away in heavenly feeling. How know you 
 that this also is not memory awakened by the 
 song of happier days and times ? Can the con- 
 currence of a few notes alone produce so power- 
 ful an effect as tha t which I have described ? I 
 once travelled with a Dutchman through the 
 Vale of Cashmere ; at the close of a long day's 
 march, we rested in a beautiful plain, rich with 
 silver rills, and flowers, and lovely trees, and 
 sleeping as it were under a distant mountain, with 
 varied tints of azure, pink, and violet. ( Good 
 God ! ' said the Dutchman, ' I have seen all 
 this before. How well I recollect it! Every 
 foot of ground is familiar to me,' and he men- 
 tioned several remarkable beauties of the place, 
 which had not then disclosed themselves, but 
 which we subsequently discovered. Was not this 
 memory ? What else could it be. This dull
 
 284 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 fool had never been out of Europe before ; or left 
 his stagnant pool of mud and mammon ; had 
 never before trodden that bewitching valley. 
 Yet he knew every feature of this identical spot 
 as well as any native." 
 
 These doctrines opened to my mind an entirely 
 new view of Providence, and the Divine Laws, 
 and proved incontrovertibly the necessity of human 
 responsibility for sin. It is clear beyond all 
 dispute, that if God made my soul as it is at 
 present, He, not I, it is, who should be adjudged 
 responsible for all I do. I am no free agent, for 
 how can I go against that inclination which God 
 himself has given me ? But this in fact is 
 blasphemy against His goodness. To preach that 
 God makes men predisposed to evil, and damns 
 them because they commit evil, is to make him a 
 demon, not a Divine Principle. Yet how many 
 millions of people there are who honestly, but 
 unthinkingly, hold this atheistical notion ; and 
 never once meditate on the awful consequence to 
 which it leads. If, therefore, God did not make 
 me as I am, it follows that I made myself so ; 
 and as a natural consequence I must pay the 
 penalty of my own misdoings. This at once
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 285 
 
 vindicates the ways of God to man. Milton 
 sought, or fancied that he sought, to do this ; but 
 his notions of God were altogether mean, despic- 
 able, and grovelling ; and the Almighty Ruler of 
 the Heavens appears in his pages as a sort of 
 creature with all the errors of a man, and none 
 of the sublime majesty of a God. The devil is 
 his true hero ; and while he represents him as 
 something above spirit, he makes God infinitely 
 below it. 
 
 Then the old man taught me the true age of 
 the earth, or rather, of man's existence on the 
 earth ; which he said had been considerably 
 lessened from its real period, for the purpose of 
 propping up certain systems. He detailed the 
 wouderful discoveries which the old astronomers 
 had made, and which furnished conclusive proof 
 that science at an early p eriod had made gigantic 
 progress, and that the true solar system, which 
 we— vain puppets — suppose to have been a recent 
 discovery, was perfectly well known to the most 
 ancient men. In proof of this he mentioned the 
 Cycle of the Naros, which was known thousands 
 of years before what are called the postdiluvian 
 ages. This cycle consists of 3 1 periods of 19, and
 
 286 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 one of 11 years, and is the most perfect of the 
 astronomical cycles. It consists of 600 years of 
 7,200 solar months, or 219,146£ days ; and this 
 same number of 219,146^ gives years consisting 
 each of 365 days, 5 hours, 51 minutes and 36 
 seconds, which differs less than 3 minutes from 
 what its length is observed to be at this day. 
 Supposing this cycle were correct to a second, if 
 on the 1st of January at noon, a new moon took 
 place, it would take place again in exactly COO 
 years, at the same moment of the day, and under 
 all the circumstances. This is the most perfect 
 cycle ever known ; and how many hundreds of 
 years must it not have taken before the first 
 astronomers could have observed and recorded the 
 heavenly movements so as to be able to note the 
 time that made it up. 
 
 Next he showed me the reasonableness of the 
 Indian Metempsychosis, which is erroneously 
 called the trans migration of souls. Souls do not 
 change their bodies on this earth. If a beggar 
 dies to-morrow, he is not found next day animat- 
 ing a dog. This is the vulgar notion, which those 
 who get their bread by error desire to propagate, 
 Buc the true Metempsychosis is this. A man has
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 287 
 
 passed his whole life like Timur or Aureng-Zebe, 
 in shedding blood ; in cruel savage thoughts ; 
 in devising cunning schemes and plots. In what 
 condition does his soul present itself before God 
 when he dies ? It bears upon it all the marks of 
 those hideous vices. As cruelty and tyrannic power 
 give a man's appearance, his eyes, mouth, and 
 look, all the dread tokens of his savage nature, so 
 also do they imprint themselves upon his soul ; 
 so that God when He beholds it, immediately 
 knows its nature. He casts it forth from Him ; 
 for it cannot enter into the spheres of Purity. It 
 wanders away in darkness ; light is hateful to its 
 black and gloomy nature. Here it gradually 
 suffers until its period is expired ; when it is again 
 permitted to assume a corporeal development in 
 accordance with its nature and propensities. 
 This would be probably that of a hyena, or a wild 
 cat, or a tiger, if its intellect was large ; of a 
 weasel or a rat if its intellect was small and weak. 
 And this truth is shadowed forth in the Hebrew 
 Scriptures by the Story of Nebuchadnezzar, who 
 worshipped the Bull Idol, and was changed into a 
 wild beast of the same order. 
 
 Thus did we discourse — thus did he teach me.
 
 288 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 We traced man from his first appearance on the 
 earth, down gradually to his present state ; we 
 saw the various forms of existence through which 
 successive races passed ; hunting, nomadic, war- 
 like, agricultural, commercial. The scientific next 
 remains. What it will develope mankind into is 
 to be seen — but it is as yet a great way distant. 
 We traced the various forms of religion, and 
 identified those general features of a sublime 
 original which all creeds possess in common. 
 The various systems of philosophy we next 
 examined, and found that nearly all were hollow 
 and fantastical. The old man felt for me a 
 paternal instinct. I suppose he was proud of the 
 progress I made ; he was evidently gratified with 
 the devotion which I displayed towards him, and 
 the unmistakeable zeal with which I executed 
 his slightest wish. Those were pleasant days! 
 How different from the gin-horse curriculum of 
 the schools. Nature was our school-room ; the 
 stars our monitors. We wandered by the mighty 
 sea; and in the majesty of the splendour around, 
 before, and over us, more fully learned to appre- 
 ciate the mystery that is in all things. 
 
 Nature ! thou Supreme Heaven ! How I
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 289 
 
 thank thee that my soul had nerve enough to fly 
 from man and mammon. What might I not 
 have been had I remained for ever the serf of 
 civilization, and all its accursed crimes? I might 
 have been like Walpole, Pelharn, or Bute, 
 Ministers of England, surrounded by the 
 wickedest of the human race ; obliged by force of 
 circumstances to lie and fawn and flatter : to 
 cringe to him who had six votes : to be the min- 
 ion of the man who commanded twelve. I might 
 have been forced to lie to every fool I met : to 
 bow down to the most detestable of creatures, 
 because they could command the ear of the 
 many : to the most loathsome of women, be- 
 cause they could dispose of the passions of the 
 King. I might have been tempted to make the 
 most false and evil hypocrite a bishop, because 
 he had votes and influence ; and to have placed 
 upon the bench, as administrators of law, men 
 whose whole lives were meanness, falsehood, vil- 
 lainy, and chicanery. And all these crimes for 
 what ? A few thousands of money ; a few years 
 of patronage to fellows whom I loathed : a few 
 years of worship by creatures whom I scorned : a 
 vol. i. o
 
 290 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 brief period of homage as false as the empty soap 
 bubble. Many and many a day have I wanted 
 bread, and many a night have I asked myself 
 where I should lie down, but never once have I 
 regretted that I was not heir to my father's mil- 
 lions, or envied the lord and master of Hough- 
 ton.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 291 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 1 ' And I saw the Beast and the Kings of the Earth, and their 
 armies gathered together to make war — and the Beast was 
 taken, and the remnant were slain with the sword." 
 
 One summer evening, after one of our disquisi- 
 tions on these subjects, Manasam suggested to 
 me that I should ask Akiba to narrate his his- 
 tory for us. The old man had a parental — alas ! 
 what was I going to say ? — I mean a truly 
 patriarchal feeling for me, and he indulged me 
 as a spoiled child. Indeed, I do not remember 
 that he ever refused me a reasonable request. I 
 was myself not a little inquisitive about what 
 must at all events have been a varied experience. 
 I asked him to oblige me ; the old man paused 
 for a few moments, and entering his tent, re- 
 turned with a small parcel ; he then resumed his 
 
 o 2
 
 292 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 seat beneath a branching tree, and began as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 (i You ask me for a narrative of my life, and 
 you shall have it — briefly, for I am old, and my 
 lamp is nearly quenched ; the river of my days 
 is exhausted. My earliest recollections are of 
 tents and plains. I was born in the desert ; I 
 am a child of the mountain and the forest ; the 
 rapid stream and the tempest-footed steed were 
 my first companions. My father was a robber — 
 so, indeed, were all our tribe ; Belochees — whose 
 boy dreams are tinged with blood and pillage, 
 and terrible adventure. Strange that I, who 
 drew my primal breath far away in the hills of 
 the Orient, under a hot sun and fiery heaven, 
 and in the parched and beam-reflecting desert, 
 should sink into the earth in this cold English 
 land, and beneath its varying skies of cloud, 
 mist, and azure; with no kindred hand to smooth 
 my pillow, or draw the curtains of my tent when 
 the wind blows cold and raw; and in its melan- 
 choly wail I seem to hear the spirits of my sires 
 calling to their last descendant. 
 
 " We led a wild life, and many a village 
 owned our sway. Our swords were sceptres ;
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 293 
 
 where they waved we were as kings. The flash 
 of our turbans was like the coming of lightning ; 
 when they glittered it was death. < ften were 
 we hunted over the plains by omrahs fierce and 
 bloody as ourselves — the legalised banditti of the 
 land ; but our fleet Khorassan steeds bore us 
 safely from their fangs, and we avenged ourselves 
 in smoking huts, and rifled hareems. Had we 
 been ten thousand strong we might have founded 
 a dynasty, and been kings by all the laws that 
 regulate and delude mankind, but we were never 
 more than a few hundreds ; and so we were 
 marauders and public enemies, against whom 
 every man's dagger was uplifted, and those lies 
 called laws were put in force. 
 
 (t We were only conquerors on a small scale, 
 and we had not killed or robbed enough to take 
 our place in histories, though we were celebrated 
 by many a bard. 
 
 11 It was a wild life, and yet a glorious happy 
 one! We were here to-day, and sixty miles 
 away to-morrow. We spared the very poor, but 
 had no mercy on the rich, who lorded it over 
 slaves ; and though they usually sprang from 
 nothing, were far more proud and cruel than the
 
 294 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 hereditary nobles of the kingdom. In one night 
 we often captured as many as sixty camels, and 
 drove them over the plain in one long file. Oh! 
 how we scorned the mean-eyed dwellers in cities, 
 whose sneaking walk and fawning looks, and 
 wincing tones of sham humility were so widely 
 different from ours ; for even the least of us 
 when fettered, wore the independent air of a 
 prince ; and even in his dungeon flashed around 
 the splendid fire of freedom. With our swords, 
 shields, and matchlocks, we thought ourselves a 
 match for any equal number of men in the world ; 
 and who shall say that we were not so ? Our 
 chief was a tall, fierce fellow, with black matted 
 hair, like so many clustering vipers beneath a 
 ponderous turban; his eyes were strong and 
 flaming as an eagle's ; his breath was fiery, like 
 a lion's breath. I would you could have seen 
 him- Ee was of that mighty race of men who 
 raised Carnac, Stonehenge, and the mysterious 
 wonders of Elora ; who built the Babylonian 
 Tower, and reared the sunken splendours of 
 Maha Bali Puram. These heroic sons of gods, 
 or demi-gods, are departed, and in their place 
 subsists a weak, degenerate tribe of pale-eyed,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 295 
 
 craven- hearted drudges, who love to compass 
 gold by trickery and deceit, rather than by the 
 daring of the strong right hand. And they win 
 it, but are not worthy of the prize. My soul 
 spits at them ; my heart loathes their very name. 
 1 hate to think of them — so I have betaken my- 
 self away to die amid the green hills and silent 
 dales, where I feel freedom, and see not knaves 
 or cowards. This was my sword," and here the 
 old man produced a Belochee blade of the most 
 exquisite temper. It was folded reverently in 
 silk and velvet, and when he bared it to the 
 setting sun, he kissed its glittering point as if it 
 were some cherished relique of a fakir or saint, 
 or holy Yogee of the fanes. On the upper part, 
 and just beneath the hilt, was graven a sacred 
 motto — w God gave the sword to man to save his 
 spirit from dishonour." And as he decyphered for 
 me this warrior text, his eyes shone with some of 
 their ancient lightnings ; and I could see that his 
 heart beat with a stronger pulse than usual. He 
 handed the sword to myself first, and afterwards to 
 Manasam ; and evidently enjoyed the feeling of 
 respect which we appeared to evince as we touched 
 this cherished memorial of past achievements.
 
 296 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 " With that sword," said he, 4l I have slain 
 fifty men. I speak not figuratively, but an 
 actual fact. When the fiftieth head had rolled 
 upon the dust, then, and not till then, did I re- 
 linquish the loved companion of my youth." 
 
 And kissing it again, he enveloped it within 
 its gorgeous covering, and laid it by his side. 
 
 a Our robber chief was wedded — well, I sup- 
 pose I must say wedded — to a daughter of 
 Sindhia. Where he got her, no one knew. 
 Whether she had been torn from a forest cot, or 
 from a royal hareem, was a secret. Enough for 
 us was it that she was our Chieftain's wife, and 
 that her word or even nod, was law absolute. 
 Dark she was as starry night ; dark, yet glori- 
 ously bright and lovely. When you looked 
 into her black eyes, rolling spheres of flame 
 beneath her white and queen-like brow ; when 
 you watched her long raven hair, floating loosely 
 over her neck of pure snow, as I have seen the 
 sable clouds flying in wild disorder over the 
 crystal heaven ; or viewed her rose-like mouth, 
 or, sweeter still, listened to the deep music of 
 her voice ; you knew that a woman of superior 
 order was before you, and that she was made for
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 297 
 
 the greatest hero in the world. She was a splen- 
 did savage — wild as a tigress, and equally un- 
 tameable. You loved, yet dreaded to look upon 
 her. Her motions were as quick as lightning 
 flashes. She was never still ; you could as easily 
 chain the winds of heaven, or the green and ever 
 gliding ocean. Rest was wholly foreign to her 
 nature. She was one of those spirits of flame 
 that if they are still, die and are forgotten. Her 
 lord was an uncultivated brute — strong as an 
 elephant, bloody as a hyena, subtle as a lion, 
 but wholly rude and ignorant. He was a mere 
 animal. As an animal, he was perfect ; for no 
 one member of the brute creation could be com- 
 pared with him ; but as a man, he was inferior 
 to many of our tribe. I have seen at Athens 
 and Rome statues of demi-gods or heroes, — 
 Hercules, Theseus, and Moses. Well, such in 
 outline was Beloli. He had their mighty limbs, 
 and muscles of steel ; but he had no informing 
 soul within to give refinement or perfection to this 
 gorgeous mass of bone and flesh, and symmetry. 
 What sympathy could there be between him and 
 Hamida ? There was none. It was the living wed- 
 
 o 5
 
 298 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 ded to the dead. It was the star Venusi bound to 
 the dark and gloomy Saturn. It was a spirit of 
 light, chained to one of the dark spirits of clay ; 
 chafing the chain ; restless and evermore unhappy. 
 " Upon a time it happened that she fell ill. 
 There was no leech among our tribe. Beloli 
 called two or three enchanters to his aid, but their 
 nostrums were of no avail ; Hamida was evidently 
 dying. Beloli's rage knew no bounds. The 
 baffled magi were scourged out of the tents ; 
 they were dismissed with every mark of ignominy. 
 In vain they denounced curses and revenge ; he 
 heaped dirt upon them, and hunted I hem out of 
 our bounds with his dogs. All was now confu- 
 sion and despair. At this moment I came 
 forward. I had always been a seeker after know- 
 ledge ; though a robber and the son of robbers, I 
 had gained many a hidden gem of science. I 
 had been singularly fortunate also: for I had 
 once rendered a service to an old crone on the 
 hills, by saving her idiot son from a flogging in 
 our tents, and she had repaid the obligation by im- 
 parting to me the secret virtues of many a lowly 
 herb. I pledged my life for Hamida's recovery. 
 Beloli scanned me for sometime with a suspicious
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU, 299 
 
 eye, but at length accepted my offer. " Villain," 
 he said, " what knowest thou of the healing art? 
 but if thou failest, thou shalt die the death." I 
 willingly consented, and he introduced me into 
 the tent. Hamida was there — oh, how beautiful ! 
 — how glowingly beautiful even in the flush of 
 fever ! With a simple decoction, I at once pro- 
 duced a change ; her recovery was rapid ; she 
 was well, almost before it could be hoped she was 
 convalescent I had indeed snatched her from 
 the jaws of death. The means were not pro- 
 found, but Hamida knew that 1 had saved her 
 life. This was all the reward I sought. Beloli 
 dismissed me with thanks. He gave me a suit of 
 armour, all gold, — it had been plundered from a 
 palace. But I cared not for it — and never wore it. 
 Six months passed away, and I had almost for- 
 gotten what had taken place ; when as I was 
 lying one night alone by the river, looking at the 
 moonbeams playing over its surface, I heard a 
 slight noise ; I started up, thinking it was a wild 
 beast that stole upon me. I pulled out an arrow, 
 and began to fit it to the string ; when suddenly 
 a low, sweet laugh was heard, and I was struck 
 on the face by a piece of jasmine. I dropped my
 
 300 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 arrow and waited ; no one appeared, and I lay 
 down again. I knew that the lady — if it was a 
 lady — would not take all this trouble for nothing ; 
 and I determined that she should seek until she 
 found me. All, however, remained still ; I 
 lingered there for an hour, and the moon sank, 
 and all was darkness, and I went home to my 
 tent ; angry with myself that I had not followed 
 up what seemed a lucky adventure. The next 
 night, and many nights after, I sought the same 
 retreat, but no one came. I cursed myself for a 
 fool. I stamped with rage, and was almost 
 tempted to destroy myself. Thus three or four 
 weeks fled — fled did I say ? — no, crawled, crawled 
 with leaden feet, till I was in despair and almost 
 mad. A thousand wild, conflicting thoughts 
 made chaos of my bosom, and I grew weak, 
 timid, desperate and savage by turns. I no 
 longer entered with anxiety into the measures of 
 my companions. Many laughed at me as a 
 poltroon, but I cared not. Yet one eye watched 
 me during all the time. 
 
 "Well — let me come to the point. What is the 
 use of spinning out an old man's legend. We 
 met, Hamida and I — how, when, or where it
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 301 
 
 matters not. She it was who had stolen upon 
 me--but she dared not follow it up then. She 
 retreated half frightened at what she did. Bat 
 her fiery nature could not rest. Love occupied 
 her whole being; she was wild, mad, fevered 
 with her passion. We met — we loved — what 
 more is needed to be said ? Oh, the wild delirium 
 of that passionate embrace ! We were young — 
 wild — dreamers —lovers. These phrases com- 
 prise everything — they embody a whole world of 
 romance, sentiment and recklessness. But it 
 lasted not. Those stolen interviews were sweet, 
 but full of danger. Beloli heard of our meet- 
 ings ; some of his numerous spies whispered into 
 his ear. He dissembled welJ. No look or word 
 betrayed his knowledge. One day he called me 
 to him. * Akiba,' he said, ' great is my faith in 
 you. I am upon an expedition to the far off 
 hills — I shall be absent for a week. Assume my 
 place of command, and in my absence let your 
 word be a law unto the brethren that remain." 
 He called them before him, and thus spake, 
 * Brother, I depart — I go with fifty men on an 
 expedition. All ye who remain obey Akiba, he 
 is my lieutenant. Obey him as myself/ and
 
 302 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 they promised to do so. That evening he 
 departed ; his fifty chosen companions were with 
 him. The watch fires were lighted ; I went the 
 usual rounds and saw that all was secure. I 
 posted sentinels, and stole into the tent of Beloli. 
 Hamida was there. The hours passed on golden 
 wings ; the stars rose one after the other, and 
 walked in luminous paths across the purple 
 heaven, and we looked out into that luminous arch 
 of fiery beauty ; and she lay upon my breast ; for 
 deeply, passionately did I love Hamida ; and when 
 the night was at its middle course, we retired into 
 the inner tent and fell asleep. I was awakened 
 by a strange noise. Me thought I heard the 
 distant tramp of feet, yet it was a still and 
 stealthy tramp. I rose to look forth into the 
 gloom. Hamida was instantly beside me. There 
 was a magnetic sympathy between us ; when she 
 slept, I slept ; when either woke, slumber fled 
 fuom the brain of the other. She folded her arms 
 around me and said, ' Dear Akibn. what is it V 
 1 whispered to her to be still, and making a slit 
 in the tent, we peered outwards. My heart beat 
 — was still — and beat again. She folded her 
 long white, loving arms around me, saying, ' It
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 303 
 
 is a dream, Akiba — be not alarmed, come/ and 
 she half pulled me backwards. But I felt an in- 
 ward monitor more powerful even than Hamida to 
 my heart and spirit, and the monitor said, 
 i Watch V Suddenly, quicker than I can speak 
 the words, the tent was surrounded. I saw a 
 body of armed men gather about us. All was 
 darkness ; all was silence ; but there was a cool 
 resolve about their movements that seemed the 
 prelude to a dreadful deed. Then a loud voice 
 spake, ' Akiba, come forth !' It was the voice 
 of Beloli. It shot through me like an arrow of 
 death ; not for my own sake, but for the sake of 
 Hamida. I knew not what to do, but silence 
 seemed the wisest course I could adopt. Beloli 
 waited for some moments ; at length, finding 
 that there was no answer, he advanced, armed, 
 towards the tent. His men followed him. 
 6 Stand back!' he cried, in a voice of thunder. I 
 feared him not. Why should I ? He was a 
 ravisher of this fair woman. He had dragged 
 her from her home ; he had forced her to be his. 
 Her heart she never gave him — nay, she loathed 
 his very presence. In giving herself up to me 
 she had broken no pledge, she had committed no
 
 304 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 breach of faith ; she had violated no vow. Beloli 
 had destroyed — I had saved her. Towards him 
 all her feelings were those of hatred; to 
 me she felt gratitude, and where a woman 
 gives her grateful heart we know that she 
 gives all. Therefore did I fear him not. 
 I knew that I had done him no wrong. I blushed 
 not in the least. I trembled not before him. I 
 advanced and pulled open the tent. I had drawn 
 my sword. ' Here I am,' I said, i what wantest 
 tbou with me, Beloli V He started back ; terrible 
 in his strength though he was, he did not hope 
 that I should confront him. ' Villain!' he said, 
 c thou shalt die ! — and thou shalt not die 
 alone !' Then he turned to his men and cried, 
 ' Fire !' But before they could do so, Hamida 
 was by my side. Her eyes flashed ; she flung 
 herself before me; the stars gleamed over her 
 with their splendid light ; never had she looked 
 so beautiful. Her night robe only was on her, 
 and half her magnificent form could be seen. 
 The robbers started back ; the majesty of her 
 appearance, the glorious spirit which she evinced, 
 abashed, appalled, transfixed them with a mighty 
 awe. i Fire P she said, ' fire, oh friends ! but
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 305 
 
 let every shot be aimed at me, for I alone am 
 guilty — if guilt there be. This youth is innocent 
 of wrong.' And she again presented herself like 
 a buckler in my front, so that if they discharged 
 their pieces they must have destroyed her. I 
 was so utterly confused and paralyzed with fear 
 for her, that I knew not what to do — otherwise I 
 believe T should have rushed forward upon Beloli's 
 sword. * Fire !' he said again, with a ferocious 
 cry — but they would not fire. Beloli himself 
 moved not. In a moment the tent pole was re- 
 moved, and we were enveloped in its folds* 
 'Fly!' said she, 'fly to the hills— the hills ; 
 and I will follow !' I easily escaped ; but when 
 I looked she was Dot near me. I hid myself 
 under a hillock where a clump of bushes grew, 
 and waited for her with a beating heart; but she 
 came not. I stole down towards the camp again. 
 Before 1 had gone half-way, a fierce light rose up 
 around the fallen tent ; the thick black felt 
 ignited rapidly ; a fearful blaze was seen of dry 
 and green wood ; and round the burning centre 
 were the robbers and Beloli making a horrible 
 outcry to the noise of tom-toms and sitarrs. My 
 blood ran cold ; Hamida had died to save me ; she
 
 306 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 had sacrificed herself for me — most worthless. In 
 that moment, in that humiliating thought, I died 
 a hundred times. Yet was my heart filled with 
 admiration for this noble woman. I had still my 
 matchlock in my hand — that trusted tube, whose 
 aim had never failed. The flame and smoke, and 
 sparks of death now rose higher and higher. No 
 cry was heard from beneath that blazing tent. 
 She had either perished instantly, or else that 
 haughty heart disdained to weep. Beloli laughed ; 
 he ran round the fire with fierce exultation ; his 
 companions seemed pleased that at all events 
 they had not shed the blood of their mistress. 
 The distinction between shooting and burning 
 her to death was a nice one ; I suppose it satisfied 
 the casuists among them. At all events they 
 looked on and did not interpose ; while Beloli 
 heaped thicker and thicker the blazing brands. 
 Then he raised his sword and waved it over his 
 head, but in that instant he fell dead into the very 
 fire himself had raised, and the echo of my match- 
 lock rang among the hills." 
 
 Here the old man was silent — he remained so 
 for a considerable interval. Suddenly he flung 
 himself upon the ground — he moaned aloud ; his
 
 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 307 
 
 agony was dreadful to behold. The big tears 
 coursed each other down his cheek and beard ; 
 his bosom shook with an internal agony too great 
 for words. He moaned, he cried, he beat his 
 breast ; he struck his head against the earth. I 
 almost feared that he was about to destroy him- 
 self. Never have I seen grief more violent. It 
 was dreadful in so old a man. " 0, Hamida," 
 he exclaimed, " form and beautiful spirit of my 
 first, my last, my only love, look upon me from 
 the sphere of light and beauty where I know thou 
 art enthroned — look upon me with thy sweet fond 
 eyes, and know by all the agonies I have endured 
 and still endure, that none but thou hast had my 
 heart. Thou has gone before me — for me indeed 
 has thou sacrificed thy life ; yet was not thy love 
 greater than mine, and could I by ten thousand 
 deaths but bring thee back once more to earth 
 and life, ten thousand deaths would I endure in 
 proof of what I feel. Fair woman ! noble heart ! 
 oh, hear me ! A wanderer have I been — a wild 
 and wayward sinner ; unworthy of a love so great, 
 so high, so holy and exalted, as thine. Oh ! what 
 am I that thou shouldst die for me ?— a weak 
 wretched worm. Yet do I love thee — I dare to
 
 308 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 love thee who art all splendour and beauty. Pray 
 for me, Hamida — pray for me to the Supreme 
 — to thee will Alia hearken, for thou art of the 
 spirits whom He loves ; but as for me, poor miser- 
 able outcast, I dare not lift my voice to Him. 
 God, Father, for her sake grant that we may 
 meet again — Thy heaven were a void to me if I 
 had not Hamida." 
 
 We did all we could to soothe the old man, but 
 success was impossible. He would not listen — 
 perhaps he did not hear. He lay in terrible 
 suffering, and would not be comforted. We com- 
 mended him to the care of one of the women, 
 and took our leave. We did not see him for 
 several days. When we met, if was by chnnce 
 amid the hills. The old man seemed to have 
 grown older ; the lapse of a week had apparently 
 added twenty years to his head. He did not 
 seem to notice us; he was absorbed in deep medi- 
 tation. We did not obtrude upon him : his grief 
 was too sacred to be disturbed. A month elapsed, 
 and we again met. He introduced the subject 
 himself. We sat under the ruined church. The 
 sun was sinking, and there was a golden valley of 
 light in the west.
 
 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 309 
 
 " Zala-Mayna," said Akiba, "look upon 
 yonder sunset. Like it are the dreams and hopes 
 of youth. You see a gorgeous valley, a castle 
 of pure gold, with battlements of silver, and a 
 purple lake of waters. It seems the abode of 
 heavenly spirits. The green waters smile in 
 sunny brightness beneath ; the East is darkened 
 as if with violet lines ; but they are tinged with 
 golden brilliancy. If any earthly scene can give 
 you an idea of celestial beauty, now you may be- 
 hold it. But like all terrestrial things, this is an 
 unreal spectacle. Even while you gaze upon it, the 
 valley darkens, the castle melts away into an orange 
 coloured mist, the silver battlements fade into a 
 dim twilight, and the lake of purple water grows 
 into dim cloud. So it is with all that is on earth. 
 Everything we see is Maya ; a faint and transitory 
 illusion. Ihe sceptical in my country say that God 
 also is Maya ; but the truly sage know that He 
 alone is Real, but that all else is the Maya of the 
 fancy. Follow and adore Him, therefore, through 
 all vicissitudes; all else but He is vapour." 
 
 We conversed until the Evening Star arose. 
 Our themes were high and holy. When we were 
 wrapt in darkness, Akiba said,
 
 310 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 u Let me resume my story where I broke off ; 
 yet all the rest is plain prose. This was the epic 
 of my life, and no man has two epics. You must 
 be content for the remainder with the dull lees. 
 I vowed revenge, and fulfilled my vow. There 
 was not one of those fifty bandits who thus sur- 
 rounded the tent and destroyed Hamida that 1 
 did not follow up, and, in the course of time, de- 
 stroy. It took me nearly six years before I had 
 completed my purpose, but at the end of that 
 time I had fifty dried scalps of my companions. 
 No man can ever know what pains, what toils, 
 what strange disguises it required before I could 
 accomplish this glorious vengeance. But at the 
 end of that time the great object of my life had 
 been gained. I was at peace. I carried the 
 scalps to the place where we encamped on that 
 fatal night ; and on the very spot where stood 
 Beloli's tent, and the remains of Hamida reposed, 
 I made a funeral pile, and sacrificed them to her 
 manes. I then fled into a distant part of the 
 country, and for a while sojourned in the woods. 
 I lived with nature, and gave a respite to my 
 passions. But after a year all the ardour of my 
 nature again broke forth. I longed for action.
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 311 
 
 I panted once again to mingle in the fiery strug- 
 gles of life. Shah Jehan was now involved in 
 troubles ; the sceptre of Hindostan trembled in 
 his feeble grasp. Addicted to his pleasures he 
 was unable to reduce his sons to order ; he lived 
 only in his past glories ; luxury and magnifi- 
 cence were all his care. But his four sons — they 
 were perpetually fomenting strife and discord. 
 The fiercest hatred burned in their hearts. Dara, 
 the eldest and noblest, had been invested by his 
 father with a share of the sovereign power ; but 
 Aureng Zebe had long marked out the gorgeous 
 crown of India for himself, and the better to as- 
 sure success, he had assumed the mask of reli- 
 gious zeal and holiness. His austerities were 
 the themes of applause, but only a few were 
 cognisant of the ambition of his soul. He 
 gathered partisans from all sides ; he was pro- 
 fuse in promises ; he was lavish also in rewards. 
 Inferior in figure and manner to his two elder 
 brothers, Dara and Sooja, and in true nobility of 
 heart to his younger brother Morad, he outshone 
 them by an appearance of solidity and gravity, 
 which gave weight to all he said and did. He was 
 plausible, false, and dissimulating ; and could sow
 
 312 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 dissention among the most intimate friends, 
 without himself appearing to be aught except the 
 mutual confidant of both. When the Mogul fell 
 ill, and Dara had half assumed the sovereignty, 
 Sooja rebelled, but was speedily overthrown. 
 Morad, the youngest son, now took the field. He 
 wrote to Aureng Zebe, and solicited his assistance. 
 This crafty prince was delighted at the proposal. 
 He well knew that if with Morad's help he could 
 destroy the predominant power of Dara, he would 
 have no difficulty of getting rid of Morad himself, 
 as soon as he had served his purpose. He sent 
 an answer, accusing Dara of weakness, and Sooja 
 of infidelity ; both were consequently unworthy 
 of the crown. "As for me," said he, U I have 
 long since dedicated myself to the service of 
 God ; I desire only that safety and tranquillity 
 which suit the fervency of my devotion. But I 
 will, with my poor abilities assist Morad to take 
 possession of a sceptre which the united wishes 
 of the people of Hindostan have already placed 
 in his hands. Morad may then think of his 
 faithful Aureng Zebe, and assign him a quiet re- 
 treat, that he may pass the remainder of his life 
 in the austerities of religion, and in communion
 
 EDWARD WOliTLEY MONTAGU. 313 
 
 with God." Morad was utterly deceived; he 
 levied troops, and among his new recruits I was 
 one. We crossed the Nerbudda, and having 
 joined the forces of Aureng Zebe, tried our 
 strength against the Maha Rajah. A terrible 
 battle ensued. We were on the right flank ; 
 Aureng Zebe occupied the left. After a bloody 
 conflict we succeeded. The Maha Rajah fled, 
 and we entered Ugein in triumph. Great was 
 the consternation now at the Court of Shah 
 Jehan. The Emperor himself resolved to take 
 the field ; a step that would have destroyed the 
 power of Aureng Zebe in one day, so greatly was 
 Shah Jehan still adored by all the soldiers ; bat 
 Darah dissuaded him and went in person against 
 the two rebel leaders. We met in the plains of 
 Guzerat. Dara himself led on the troops. 
 Never was there a more desperate fight, but the 
 fall of Rustum in the beginning of the battle 
 destroyed the expectations of Dara. With the 
 life of his bravest general ended all further 
 chance of victory. His troops fought like lions, 
 but his evil star prevailed. A variety of un- 
 toward accidents intervened ; and at the very 
 VOL, i. p
 
 314 EDWARD WOKTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 moment when he should have led his soldiers 
 against the wearied forces of his brothers, his 
 elephant driver retreated in a panic, and all was 
 lost. Aureng Zebe succeeded almost by a 
 miracle. Never was a more extraordinary com- 
 bination of lucky accidents than those that won 
 for him that eventful battle. 
 
 Of the subsequent fate and fall of Morad, why 
 
 need I speak? That brave prince became a 
 
 victim to the treachery of his brother. Aureng 
 
 Zcbe assumed the imperial crown at Delhi, and 
 
 Shah Jehan became his prisoner. With the fall 
 
 of Morad, his soldiers were transferred to the 
 
 new monarch, and I now swore fealty to Aureng 
 
 Zebe. But he was not destined to sit beneath 
 
 the imperial umbrella without perpetrating other 
 
 crimes. Soliman, the son of Dara, was yet in 
 
 arms. Dara himself was at the head of a large 
 
 army. Aureng Zebe marched forth to meet him. 
 
 We arrived on the banks of the Suttuluz, but 
 
 there was no opposing foe. Disunion was in the 
 
 councils of Dara; his camp was full of spies sent 
 
 by the usurping emperor, who sowed suspicion 
 
 and dissension. In the night preceding our 
 
 arrival he fled. We pursued him rapidly. Our
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 315 
 
 scouts informed us that lie had taken the direc- 
 tion of Moultan, and thither we advanced. But 
 news was brought to Aureng Zebe that Sooja 
 now was in the field, and was marching on 
 Delhi. The emperor left the main army with 
 some chosen troops, and went to meet his 
 brother. We, in the meantime, followed. Dara 
 again fled. He pursued various routes, but at 
 length made a final stand at Ajmere, where he 
 fortified his camp. Aureng Zebe having, in the 
 meantime, destroyed the forces of Sooja, now re- 
 joined us with his victorious troops. But the 
 ramparts of his brother dismayed him. He pre- 
 pared to outwit him. When the rigour of the 
 lion availed not, he knew how to put forth the 
 subtlety of the fox. Two of his generals had 
 formerly served under Dara, but had fled from 
 him as his star began to wane. These Auren°: 
 Zebe now employed in one of those crafty de- 
 vices which never fail pretenders to religion. 
 They sent a letter to Dara, craving forgiveness, 
 and offering assistance, provided he would leave 
 the gates of his camp open for their reception. 
 Dara fell into the snare. Before the day dawned 
 all our troops were in arms ; we were drawn up
 
 316 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 behind the tents, and hidden from the view of 
 Dara. The pretended fugitives issued forth in a 
 large body; we pursued them, and fired our 
 cannon on their rear, but it was only blank 
 cartridge. Dara was wholly deceived. He 
 came forth himself to welcome his repentant 
 friends. They bore down all before them, and 
 took possession of his camp. We followed, and 
 the fate of India was decided in half an hour. 
 Dara now fled with his family into the burning 
 deserts. Every one deserted him ; his own sol- 
 diers plundered and robbed him. The petty 
 nobles hunted him from among them. At length 
 he was betrayed by Sooja, whose life he had twice 
 saved, but who now received an immense bribe 
 from Aureng Zebe, the price of his brother's blood. 
 u We brought him to Delhi ; even we, when we 
 saw him meanly dressed, and bound in chains, 
 pitied the eldest son of Shah Jehan. But it was 
 Fate — and who can resist? He was carried 
 through the city, which he had so often paraded 
 with royal pomp, on an old decrepid elephant, 
 with tattered housings ; he was clothed in coarse 
 linen; his turban was ragged; bis hair had 
 grown grey during his misfortunes. The lowest
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 317 
 
 among the rabble pitied when they saw him ; 
 the women burst into tears. Dara retained his 
 dignity, but his young son was weeping by his 
 side. He was conducted to Chizarabad, and his 
 death decreed. In the dead of the night Aureng 
 Zebe despatched the assassins. They rushed into 
 the cell where Dara and his son were prisoned. 
 They tore them asunder and prepared to strangle 
 him. But the blood of the descendant of Timour 
 arose against this infamous death. Dara stabbed 
 one of the villains with his penknife. They im- 
 mediately fell upon him with their swords. His 
 son, though in chains, rushed into the cell, and 
 saw them in the act of beheading his father. The 
 assassins left him with the decapitated trunk, and 
 carried the bloody memorial to Aureng Zebe. 
 That monarch had been in dreary expectation all 
 the night for their return. When the murderers 
 arrived, they were immediately admitted to his 
 presence. The bloody head was presented, but 
 the features could not be recognised. He ordered 
 a charger of water to be brought, and when he 
 had wiped away the clotted gore with his hand- 
 kerchief, he saw that it was indeed his brother's 
 
 p 3
 
 318 EDWARD W0RTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 head. 'Alas! unfortunate man,' he exclaimed ; 
 but Aureng Zebe was more to be pitied than his 
 victim. For a few short years of grandeur he 
 bartered his everlasting hopes of heaven. Where 
 is he now ? Acd what avails his villany ? 
 
 '•' I saw him sit upon the peacock throne, the 
 greatest wonder of art that man has ever seen ; 
 before which the pageantry of Alexander, Xerxes, 
 or Cambyses fade into dirt. The ceiling of the 
 Dewaun Khan, in which it was set, and which 
 was the chamber set apart for royal audience, 
 was incrusted with silver foliage, massive, rich, 
 and shining ; columns of white marble, adorned 
 with inlaid flower-work of beautiful stones, sup- 
 ported the roof. Around the cornice, in Persian 
 letters of gold, was written — l If there be a 
 paradise upon earth, this is it, — 'tis this, 'tis 
 this.' The pillars themselves were hung with 
 tapestries of purified gold, haviDg the ground of 
 gold, and for the roof of the hall there was 
 nothing but great canopies of flowered satin, 
 fastened with red silken cords that had big tufts 
 of silk, mixed with threads of gold hanging on 
 them. The throne was formed of solid gold, in- 
 crusted over with diamonds, rubies, sapphires,
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 319 
 
 and emeralds. Two peacocks stood upon it with 
 their tails expanded, which were studded with 
 various jewels to represent the life. Between the 
 peacocks stood a parrot, of the ordinary size, cut 
 out of one emerald. There were also two nose- 
 gays, consisting of various sorts of flowers, all of 
 bearen gold enamelled. The twelve columns that 
 upheld the canopy were set round by rows of 
 pearl ; and at each side of the throne were two 
 umbrellas, the handles of which were about eight 
 feet high, covered with diamonds ; the umbrellas 
 themselves were of crimson velvet, embroidered 
 and fringed with pearl. And I saw Aureng 
 Zebe sitting on this throne splendidly apparelled 
 in white satin, flowered with the finest gold. His 
 turban was of cloth of gold, having a bird 
 wrought upon it like a heron, whose feet was 
 covered with diamonds of an extraordinary bigness 
 and price, with a great Oriental topaz which may 
 be said to be matchless, shining like a little 
 sun. A collar of large pearls hung about 
 his neck to his stomach, and a transparent 
 jewel, with a diamond appendant to it, as 
 large as an egg, encompassed with rubies and 
 emeralds, was so suspended from the canopy that
 
 320 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 it always met his eye wheresoever he looked. 
 Around him were his Omrahs glittering with 
 jewels innumerable ; offering presents of fine 
 golden vessels set with precious stones, or basins 
 filled with pearls, diamonds, emeralds, or rubies. 
 And I said unto myself, ' Verily these are fine 
 hours with thee, King; but behind thy majesty 
 and magnificence I see death and dim corrup- 
 tion; and even at this moment before thine eye, 
 in place of yon diamond, it is thy brother's 
 bloody head thou seest ; and in thine ear, in place 
 of all these sounding flatteries, it is thy prisoned 
 father's sighs and groans that ring. And in a 
 few years all shall pass away, and thou shalt be 
 carried forth a stiff corse, and in the hour of 
 death thou shalt curse the energy that raised thee 
 to command, through heaps of murdered men, 
 and over heaps of broken oaths. Then shalt thou 
 know that all these scenes are hollow as a human 
 skull ; and thou shalt sup full on sorrow and 
 despair. Thou shalt cast thine eye backward, 
 and it shall be met with blood ; thou shalt cast 
 thine eye forward, and thou shalt perceive dark- 
 ness and despair. And they who now surround 
 thee would not give a mo ment of their own days
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 321 
 
 to protract thine; albeit they now profess entire 
 submission, and are ready with their lives to 
 prove their fealty to thy person.' And as I 
 thought these things, a mist came over my eyes." 
 
 Here Akiba was again silent ; his gaze was fixed 
 on vacancy ; the expression of his features was 
 rapt, and as if inspired. A wild gleam glittered 
 in his eyes ; he seemed awed and daimon-moved. 
 
 " Yes/' he cried, " I see it all. This gorgeous 
 glittering villany hath within it the essence of 
 its own ruin. Yet a few years more and all will 
 be overwhelmed. Thou also, Delhi, which 
 now towerest royally over the plains, shalt be 
 destroyed ; and the peacock throne of Shah Jehan 
 shall be broken into fragments. The gardens of 
 Shalimar, now splendid with their cypress 
 avenues and sparkling fountains, their rose-bowers 
 thick with nightingales ; their jewel crusted caves 
 that shelter from the heat, their cedars shielding 
 out the sun, shall be a waste and a desert, and 
 their owner shall recognize them no longer. 
 Methinks I stand upon the lofty summit of 
 Mejnoon, and gaze downward over that dazzling 
 city ; its thousand minarets of marble ; its 
 thousand cupolas of polished metal, mirrored in
 
 322 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 the shining waters of the Jumna ; and by the 
 grand canal on which King Feroze squandered 
 millions. I see the gay procession pass of princes, 
 and rajahs, followed by corsletted and bucklered 
 crowds that glow in polished steel and gold, while 
 camels, elephants, and horses move in all the 
 pride of purple housings and silver knots. But 
 a cloud arises, and all is tempest — tempest, 
 lightning and the voice of thunders. The stately 
 tower of Kootoob is wrapped in night, and the 
 marble resting home of Humayoon is gathered in 
 the thick folds of many mists. Midnight 
 wreathes the Jumna Musjid which Aureng Zebe 
 himself erected, to diffuse through Ind and 
 Europe his sanctified renown ; and to purge him- 
 self from shame or sin, for an aged father 
 prisoned in his palace, and a gallant brother 
 butchered like a wolf. Within it kneels the king 
 himself, clothed in rags — his purple robes are 
 laid aside ; and thus he prays to heaven for 
 forgiveness. But a bolt smites him, and he is no 
 more ; his palace passes ; his family is destroyed ; 
 the crown obtained with so much treachery and 
 blood is transferred into another's hand ; and all 
 that remains of Aureng Zebe is the memory of
 
 EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 323 
 
 his crimes, and the lesson of his retribution ; the 
 folly of the guilty, and the unerring justice of 
 the Supreme. 
 
 " The fate and fall of Dara worked a wonderful 
 change in my temper. I said to myself, ' This 
 life suits me not.' Years began to exercise their 
 humanising effect on me. I left the ranks when 
 I was not yet thirty years old and became a pil- 
 grim. I visited all the sacred shrines of India ; I 
 cared not whether they were dedicated to Brahm, 
 to Alia, or to Hormuzd — so long as they were 
 consecrated to God, I paid them veneration. 
 Soumanth and Benares, Sri Saila and Maha 
 Kaia, Om-Kara, and Tryambaka, had equal 
 claims for me ; and I became gradually initiated 
 into sacred lore ; learning equally from Buddhist 
 and from Brahmin, the most recondite mysteries 
 of their respective creeds. At length, having 
 traversed India, I penetrated China, and made 
 the pilgrimage of that most wonderful land, 
 seeing all that could be seen, and learning the 
 theology of that most ancient people, who are the 
 lineal descendants of Nuh, whom Europeans call 
 Noah, and the Chinese call Fohi; the former 
 name being unpronounceable in their language.
 
 S24 EDWAKD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 
 
 From China I passed into Russia, and so into 
 European Turkey, from which I descended into 
 I taly and Spain, and, traversing France, crossed 
 the sea, and joined myself to the gypsies, 
 whom I found to be of our people — the same in 
 blood, in language, and in affinity — and with 
 them I mean to pass the brief remnant of my 
 days. I have given orders for my body to be laid 
 in Stonehenge; that Cyclopean monument of the 
 Cuthite priests of India ; and there shall it repose 
 until the world is renewed, and all things are 
 restored to their primal condition. The summary 
 of my life may be comprised in one sentence : — 
 Mankind is everywhere the same ; a mixture of 
 good and evil. God is everywhere the same ; the 
 rewarder of the virtuous, and the punisher of the 
 wicked. Truth is everywhere the same ; one and 
 ud mixed, and wholly different from the popular 
 belief. Life is everywhere the same ; a toilsome 
 pilgrimage which conducts to heaven or hell, 
 according to the way in which it is passed."
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note A. — Chapter I. — Lady Mary's Marriage. — 
 
 She was married young, says Spence, and she told me with 
 that freedom which travelling gives, that she was never in so 
 great a hurry of thought as the month before she was mar- 
 ried. She never slept any one night that month. You 
 know she was one of the most celebrated beauties of her 
 day, and had a vast number of offers, and the thing that 
 kept her awake was who to fix upon. She was determined 
 as to two points, from the first, that is to be married to 
 somebody, and not to be married to the man her father 
 advised her to have. The last night of the month she deter- 
 mined, and in the morning left the husband of her father's 
 choice, buying the wedding ring, and scuttled away to be 
 married to Mr. Wortley. 
 
 Note B. — Chapter II. — The correspondence which 
 passed between Lady Mary and Mr. W. M., fully justifies 
 the description of their intercourse contained in this chapter. 
 The letters may be seen in Lord Wharncliffe's edition, a 
 work which, without apparently designing it, is the most 
 fearful condemnation of his ancestress. But what would 
 the collection have been, had it not been weeded by fire ? 
 
 Soon after her marriage, says her grand- daughter, Lady 
 Louisa Stuart, in the Introductory Anecdotes, prefixed to 
 Lord Wharncliffe's edition of the letters, she (Lady M.) re- 
 sumed the practice of writing a journal, and persisted in it 
 as long as she lived, communicating what she wrote to no 
 person whatever. The diary, of course, became voluminous. 
 Lady Bute, who knew nothing of it till it came into her 
 possession a few days before her mother's death, always kept 
 it under lock and key ; and though she often looked over it
 
 11. NOTES. 
 
 herself, and would sometimes read passages from it aloud to 
 her daughters and friends, yet she never trusted any part 
 out of her hands, except the five or six first copy books, 
 which, at a late period, she permitted one of her family to 
 peruse alone, upon condition that nothing should be tran- 
 scribed. All that she thus in any way imparted related to 
 distant days, to transactions long since past, and people of a 
 former generation ; meanwhile she constantly declared it 
 was her determined resolution to destroy the whole, as a 
 sacred duty owing to the deceased, whose having forgotten 
 or neglected to leave express orders for the purpose made 
 it only the more incumbent upon her survivors. The jour- 
 nal was accordingly burned, although with evident reluct- 
 ance, and not till Lady Bute felt the close of her life draw- 
 ing near, when the act itself sounded too solemn a note of 
 preparation, for those who loved her as she deserved to 
 think of opposing it, or, indeed, to care at all about a matter 
 which would then have seemed totally indifferent had it 
 concerned the finest work in the world. Lady Bute so 
 admired her mother's writings, and took such pleasure in 
 reading her letters, to those whom she thought endowed with 
 taste enough to relish them, that it might have been held suffi- 
 ciently certain she had the most cogent reasons for making 
 what clearly appeared a sacrifice ; yet, as youth is incon- 
 siderate, and the fragments she did allow to be seen or 
 heard were not alike amusing, she was very often assailed 
 with entreaties to forego her design ; and pressed on this 
 head she would ask whether supposing the case one's 
 own, one could bear the thought of having every crude 
 opinion, every transient wish, every angry feeling that had 
 flitted across one's mind, exposed to the world after one was 
 no more; and though she always spoke of Lady Mary with 
 great respect, yet it might be perceived that she knew it had 
 been too much her custom to note down and enlarge upon 
 all the scandalous rumours of the day. without weighing 
 their truth, or even their probability ; to record as certain 
 facts, stories that perhaps sprang up like mushrooms from 
 the dirt, and had as brief an existence, but tended to defame 
 persons of most spotless character. In this ago, she said, 
 everything got into print sooner or later : the name of Lady 
 Mary Wortley would be sure to attract curiosity, and were 
 such details ever made public they would never edify the 
 world, nor do honour to her memory. These were Lady 
 Bute's arguments, and what could any one who had a sense
 
 NOTES. 111. 
 
 of rectitude urge in reply ? especially since it must be 
 acknowledged that in the volumes which she did communi- 
 cate, the earliest written, and one may be confident the least 
 exceptionable, there occasionally appeared traits of satire 
 that showed what might ensue when the vexations and cares 
 of advancing life should have soured the mind, given objects 
 a darker shade of colour, and made farther demands upon a 
 Christian charity not at all likely to have increased in the 
 meantime. These volumes comprised the years immediately 
 succeeding Lady Mary's marriage (1713, 1714, 1715), and 
 also the time of Mr. Wortley's embassy. What passed 
 every day was set down ; often only in a line, or half a line, 
 as thus : " Stayed at home alone," " Went to such a place," 
 "Saw such a person,' 1 so that frequently three or four 
 weeks took up but a single page. Sometimes again an oc- 
 currence or a conversation would be given at a very great 
 length, sometimes dispatched with one sharp sentence like 
 the folio win x humourous application of a speech in Dryden's 
 Spanish Fi r, "Lidy Hinchinbro^e has a dead daughter — 
 it were unchristian not to be sorry for my cousin's misfor- 
 tune, but if she has no live son Mr. Wortley is heir — so 
 there's comfort for a Christian!" 
 
 Spence mentions a treatise written by Lady Mary, which 
 her family have not yet published. " It was from the cus- 
 toms of the Turks," she says, "that I first thought of a 
 septennial bill for the benefit of married persons, and of the 
 advantages that might arise from our wives having no por- 
 tions.'' On this Mr. Spence observes, " That lady's little 
 treatise upon those two subjects is very prettily written, and 
 has very uncommon arguments in it. She is very s Tenuous 
 for both these tenets. That every married person should 
 have the liberty of declaring every seventh year whether 
 they choose to continue to live in that state for another 
 seven years or not ; and she also argues that if women had 
 nothing but their own good qualities and merits to recom- 
 mend them it would make them more virtuous and their 
 husbands more happy, than in the present marketing way 
 among us. She seems very earnest and serious on the sub- 
 ject, and wishes the legislature would take it under their 
 consideration, and regulate these two points by her 
 system." 
 
 Note C. — Chapter III., P. 57. — Addison. — Mr. Addi- 
 son behaved in so tyrannical and assuming a manner, that 
 he at last extorted from Mr. Pope the following lines.
 
 IV. NOTES. 
 
 Speaking of the Moores, Smiths, Welsteds, and other poetical 
 triflers of the times, he turns directly on him, which, con- 
 sidering it was published after his death, is certainly very 
 severe : — 
 
 " Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires, 
 True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, 
 Blest with each talent and each art to please, 
 .And born to write, converse, and live with ease ; 
 Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 
 Bear like a Turk no brother near the throne, 
 View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 
 And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; 
 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer. 
 And without sneering teach the rest to sneer, 
 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, 
 Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike ; 
 Alike reserved to blame or to commend, 
 A timorous foe and a suspicious friend, 
 Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieged, 
 And so obliging that he ne'er obliged, 
 Like Cato gave his little senate laws, 
 And sat attentive to his own applause, 
 While wits and templars every sentence rai^ 1 , 
 And wonder with a foolish face of pi use ; 
 Who, but must laugh if such a man there 
 Who would not weep if A liaon wei ■ h ■•?"" 
 
 Memoirs of Pope, by W. Ayre, Esq. 
 
 Old Jacob Tonson, who was a Jew, and who had all the 
 keenness of that race, summed up Addison's sly hypocr: 
 with a terrible sneer. " One day or other," he said, "you'll 
 see that man a bishop *' — as if the extreme of cant, hypo- 
 crisy, and servility, could no farther go. 
 
 Note D. - Chapter III., F. 57. — Pkior. — Prior left most 
 of his effects (says Pope) to the poor woman he kept com- 
 pany with ; his Chloe (Bessie Cox, of Long Acre); — everybody 
 knows what a iv retch she was. I think she had been a little 
 ale-house keeper's wife. — Spence. 
 
 Dennis thus describes Pope himself — "A young, short 
 gentleman, whose outward form — though it should be that 
 of a downright monkey — would not differ so much from 
 human shape, as his unthinking, immaterial part does from 
 human understanding. He is as stupid and as venemous U 
 a hunch-backed toad." 
 
 One of the penny poets allude to him : — 
 
 " Your pen with Marlborough's sword is much the same, 
 Hi- fought— you write, for profit more than fame. 
 J/is eagles after grants and pensions flew, 
 And all your laurels from subscriptions grew. 
 His friendship, too. like yours, was false and feigned, 
 No longer lasting than his ends were gained. 
 Thus then at once we both your deeds rehears.:, 
 Gold was his god of war, your god of verse."
 
 NOTES. V. 
 
 Note E. — Chaptee III., P. 59. — Swift on Walpole. 
 
 " With favour and fortune fastidiously blest, 
 
 He's loud in his laugh, and he's coarse in his jest ; 
 
 Of favour and fortune unmerited — vain, 
 
 A sharper in trifles, a dupe in the main. 
 
 Achieving of nothing, still promising wonders, 
 
 By dint of experience, improving in blunders, 
 
 Oppressing true merit, exalting the base, 
 
 And selling his country to purchase his place ; 
 
 A jobber of stocks by retailing false news, 
 
 A prater at court in the stye of the stews ; 
 
 Of virtue and worth by profession a giber, 
 
 Of juries and senates the bully and briber : 
 
 -hough I name not the wretch, you all know who I mean — 
 
 'Tis the cur dog of Britain and spaniel of Spain." 
 
 Walpole was of the Marquis of Wharton School, utterly 
 without conscience. 
 
 The following character of this nobleman was published 
 and sold in 1710, with his lordship's name and titles at full 
 length. It was written by Swift. Macaulay has adopted it 
 as the ground work of his delineation of the Marquis in his 
 History of England. 
 
 Thomas, Earl of Wharton, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, by 
 the force of a wonderful constitution, has some years passed 
 his grand climacteric without any visible effects of old age 
 either on his body or his mind, and, in spite of a continual 
 prostitution to those vices, which usually wear out both, 
 his behaviour is in all the forms of a young man at five- 
 and-twenty. Whether he walks, or whistles, or talks, or 
 calls names, he acquits himself in each beyond a templar of 
 three years standing. He seems to be but an ill dissembler, 
 and an ill liar, although they are the two talents he most 
 practises, and most values himself upon. The ends he has 
 gained by lying appear to be more owing to the frequency, 
 than the art of them, his lies being sometimes detected in an 
 hour, often in a day, and always in a week. He tells them 
 freely in mixed companies, although he knows half of those 
 that hear him to be his enemies, and is sure they will dis- 
 cover them the moment they leave him. He swears solemnly 
 he loves and will serve you ; and your back is no sooner 
 turned, but he tells those about him you are a dog and a 
 rascal. He goes constantly to prayers in the forms of his 
 
 ?lace, and will talk and blasphemy at the chapel door, 
 le is a Presbyterian in politics, and an atheist in religion ; 
 
 but he chooses at present to with a Papist. He has 
 
 sunk his fortune endeavouring to ruin one kingdom, and
 
 VI. NOTES. 
 
 has raised it by going far in the ruin of another. He bears 
 the gallantries of his lady with the indifference of a stoick, 
 and thinks them well recompensed by a return of children to 
 support his family, without the fatigues of being a father. 
 He has three predominant passions which you will seldom 
 find united in the same man, as arising from different dis - 
 positions of mind, and naturally thwarting each other ; 
 these are love of power, love of money, and love of pleasure ; 
 they ride him sometimes by turns, sometimes all together. 
 Since he went into Ireland he seems most disposed to the 
 second, and has met with great success, having gained by 
 his government, of under two years, five and forty thousand 
 pounds by the most favourable computation, half in the 
 regular way, and half in the prudential, &c, &c."' When 
 Somers introduced Swift to Wharton as a fit person to be 
 his chaplain, the latter alluding to Swift's supposed opinions 
 on religion, said, " We must not encourage these fellows ; ice 
 have not character enough ourselves.'''' Wharton and Somers 
 thoroughly understood each other. 
 
 Note F. — Chapter IV., P. 69. — Every night ice had 
 prayers, 8fC — To one who contemplates the true nature of 
 the soul and spirit, and knows that they are what our course 
 of life, our daily thoughts and actions make them, not what 
 a death bed conversion and repentance are falsely supposed 
 to make them, it is amusing to find all the wits and pro- 
 fligates dying in the odour of sanctity, like Rochester, 
 Garth, Wycherley. Garth, says Spence, talked in a less 
 libertine manner than he used to do, about the three last 
 years of his life, but he was rather doubtful and fearful than 
 religious. He sent to ask Addison on his death bed whether 
 the Christian religion was true? It was usual for him to say 
 that if there was any such thing as religion 'twas among the 
 Roman Catholics ; probably from the greater efficacy we 
 give the sacraments. He died a Papist, as I was assurvdby 
 Mr. Blount, who carried the father to him in his last hours. 
 He did not take any care of himself in his last illness, and 
 had talked for three or four years as one tired of life ; in 
 short, I believe he was willing to let it go. Wycherley died 
 a Romanist, and has owned that religion in my hearing. If 
 we are to believe Chesterfield, the thing was a mere form 
 with most of those fine gentlemen. Pope, says he, was 
 a Deist, believing in a future state. This he has often 
 owned to me ; but when he died he sacrificed a cock 
 to JEsculapius, and suffered the priests who got him to
 
 NOTES. Vll. 
 
 perform all their absurd ceremonies on his body. It is to 
 Chesterfield that the world is indebted for the proof that 
 Swift ended as the Tale of a Tub shows him to have begun. 
 The Dean died in the first month of the Earl's viceroy alty. 
 He probably picked " The Day of Judgment " out of some 
 confidential companion at Dublin; and in 1751 he com- 
 municated the piece to Voltaire, through whose correspond • 
 ence it first transpired. It ends with that consummately 
 finished confession of the church dignitary's faith— namely, 
 that all was humbug:. 
 
 " While each pale sinner hung his head, 
 Jove, nodding, shook the heavens and said, 
 Offending race of human kind, 
 By nature, reason, learning hlind ; 
 You who through frailty slipped aside, 
 And you who never fell — from pride, 
 You who in different sects were shamm'd, 
 
 And come to see each other d d, 
 
 (So some folk told you, hut they knew 
 No more of Jove's designs than you) 
 The world's mad husiness now is o'er, 
 And I resent these pranks no more ; 
 I to such blockheads set my wit ! 
 I damn such fools ! Go to, you're hit." 
 
 Note G. — Chapter IV., P. 70.— How to lure this man of 
 fashion, &fc— Pope to Lady Mary. — "Among the rest 
 you have all that I am worth, that is my works ; there are 
 few things in them but what you have already seen, except 
 the Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, in which you will find 
 one passage that I cannot tell whether to wish you should un- 
 derstand it or not ' ' Commentators have puzzled themselves 
 much as to what this passage may be. It appears to me 
 that it begins — 
 
 " How oft when pressed to marriage," &c. 
 and that it ends with the line — 
 
 " And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart." 
 
 Note H.— Chapter IV., P. 72.— Lady Mary.— Her 
 Town Eclogues, published in 1716, are abominable. Do the 
 followino- lines refer to some unsuccessful lover's attack ? 
 
 " She paused, and fixed her eyes upon her fan ; 
 He took a pinch of snuff, and thus began : 
 Madam, if love— but he could say no more, 
 For Mad'moiselle came rapping at the door, 
 The dangerous moments no adieus afford. 
 Begone, she cries, I'm sure I hear my lord ; 
 The lover starts from his unfinished loves, 
 To snatch his hat and seek his scattered gloves ; 
 The sighing dame to meet her lord prepares, 
 While Strephon, cursing, slips down the back stairs."
 
 Vlll. NOTES. 
 
 Note I. — Chapter, IV., P. 82. — Lady Mart and Ladt 
 Mar. — The poet returned to the charge in his Epistle to 
 Arbuthnot. The line 
 
 "Who starves a sister or denies a debt," 
 
 was understood to apply to Lady Mary, but was generally 
 considered inexplicable or a mere calumny. The case of 
 M. Ruremonde was known only to a few ; none of Lady 
 Mary'' s descendants ever heard of her starving her sister!! 
 So says Lady Louisa Stuart; and the letters between 
 the sisters breathe only the tenderest affection. Lady 
 Mar, says Bowles, could not have been in any great 
 degree of penury, for when Lord Mar was banished 
 in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, his Scotch estate, 
 which had been settled on his wife, was freely given 
 her by George I. for the maintenance of herself and 
 daughter. A few years since, however, the matter was ex- 
 plained by the publication of some letters of Lord Grange, 
 younger brother of the Earl of Mar, who has 
 obtained an infamous celebrity from his treatment 
 of his wife, banished by him to the remote island of St. 
 Kilda. Grange was a busy, plotting politician, and in 1734 
 he resigned his seat on the Scottish bench, that he might 
 join the political party arrayed against Walpole. He 
 became secretary to the Prince of Wales, and in this situa- 
 tion may have met with Pope. In the printed correspond- 
 ence of Lady Mary there is a blank in the letters addressed 
 to the Countess of Mar of no less than twelve years. Part 
 of this time the Countess would .seem to have suffered from 
 mental aberration. Grange writes to his brother, Thomas 
 Erskine, 22nd March, 1730 :— " Lady Mar, they say, is 
 quite well, and so, as in common justice, she can no more 
 be detained as a lunatic, but she is obstinately averse from 
 appearing in Chancery, that the sentence may be taken off. 
 Her sister probably will oppose her liberty, because thereby 
 she would lose, and Lord M. in effect gain, five hundred 
 yearly, and the poor lady being in her custody and under 
 her management, had need to be very firmly recovered. 
 for the guardian may at present sorer, tease and plague her, 
 that it /could turn any body mad. Grange had a pecuniary 
 interest in procuring the liberation ol the Countess, who 
 with two thousand yearly out of the estate, was, he said, in 
 the hands of his foes, and there was no remedy but to get a 
 pardon for Lord Mar, who could then legally claim his own 
 wife and her estate.
 
 NOTES. XX. 
 
 He succeeded in getting the deranged lady into his hands, 
 but on the road to Scotland she was seized by the Lord 
 Chief Justice's warrant, procured on the affidavit of Lady 
 Mary, that her sister was insane, and after many " wimples 
 and turns," as Grange expresses it, a settlement was made 
 with Lady Mary, and some grants obtained for Lord Mar's 
 family. Walpole fixed the amount to be given to her lady- 
 ship for the custody of her sister at five hundred pounds 
 yearly, though he swore, adds Grange, " that he did not 
 believe she would lay out two hundred pounds on Lady 
 Mar." These details explain, if they do not fully justify the 
 poet's satire. Carruthers' Life of Pope, page 193. 
 
 The above extract shows with what caution all that 
 comes from Lord WharnclifFe in the way of denial should 
 be received. It is impossible to believe that there was no 
 tradition of this affair in the family. Another statement of 
 Walpole's is curious. Writing to Sir Horace Mann, he 
 says : — "Pray tell me if you know anything of Lady Mary 
 Wortley ? We have an obscure story here of her being in 
 durance in the Brescian or Bergamesco; that a young fellow 
 whom she set out with keeping has taken it into his head to 
 keep her close prisoner, not permitting her to write or re- 
 ceive any letters but what he sees. He seems determined, 
 
 if her husband should die, not to lose her, as the Count 
 
 lost my Lady Oxford." And in the next letter he again 
 alludes to this " report." Lord Wharncliffe passes off this 
 in the following manner, which appears to be anything but 
 satisfactory. 'Among Lady Mary's papers there is a long 
 paper, written in Jtalian, not by herself, giving an account of 
 her having been detained some time against her will, in a 
 country house belonging to an Italian count, and inhabited 
 by him and his mother. This paper seems to be drawn up 
 either as a case to be submitted to a lawyer for his opinion, 
 or to be produced in a court of law. There is nothing else 
 to be found in Lady Mary's papers, referring in the least 
 degree to this circumstance, &c, &c.'' But is there no 
 family tradition ? and was it not explained in the papers 
 destroyed ? and why is not the* paper itself set forth ? The 
 count who kept the lady in this odd sort of durance, was 
 Count Palazzi : the affair is alluded to in a letter from 
 General Graham to Count Algarotti, dated Venice, Dec, 
 1756. "Lady Mary is at liberty; lives at Padua, and I 
 fancy intends to call Count Palazzi to account. I do not 
 know the tenth part of her history there, but she begun to
 
 X. NOTES. 
 
 hint it to me when last here. She is more ashamed, I 
 believe, for passing for a dupe in the eyes of the public, than 
 she is of passing for a woman of gallantry." Lady Mary 
 was then sixty-six! So strong was the ruling passion ! 
 This wretched affair was alluded to by Pope in the first edi- 
 tion of his Dunciad : — 
 
 " Whence hapless Monsieur much complains at Paris, 
 Of wrongs from Duchesses and Lady Marys." 
 
 to which he attached the following note. "This passage 
 was thought to allude to a famous lady who cheated a 
 French wit of five thousand pounds in the South Sea year. 
 But the author meant it in general of all bragging 
 
 travellers, and of all w 's and cheats under the name of 
 
 ladies," which allusion to Lady M's oriental pilgrimages and 
 her private pleasures must have conveyed the gall of 
 wormwood to her soul. We next find the matter referred 
 to by Mr. Horace Walpole, in one of his letters to 
 Sir H. Mann. After saying that he had lately been at 
 Woburn, where he had had an opportunity of seeing fifty 
 letters of Lady M's to her sister Lady Mar, whom she 
 treated so hardly while out of her senses, Horace Walpole 
 adds as follows : — " Ten of the letters indeed are dismal 
 lamentations and frights on a scene of villainy of Lady 
 Mary's, who, having persuaded one Ruremonde, a French- 
 man, and her lover, to entrust her with a large sum of 
 money to buy stock for him, frightened him out of England 
 by persuading him that Mr. Wortley had discovered the 
 intrigue, and would murder him ; and then would have sunk 
 the trust. That not succeeding, and he threatening to 
 print her letters, she endeavoured to make Lord Mar, or 
 Lord Stair cut his throat.'' Pope hints at these anecdotes of 
 her history in that line — 
 
 " Who starves a sister or denies a debt." 
 
 One of these letters has disappeared ; the remaining nine 
 are published by Lord Wl*arnelifle, Lady Mary's great 
 grandson, and we there find the lady's own account of this 
 singular transaction. Writing in 1720 or 1721 (eight years 
 after her marriage), she says: — "A person, whose name is 
 not necessary, because you know it, took all sorts of 
 methods, during almost a year to persuade me that there 
 never was so extraordinary an attachment (or what you
 
 NOTES. XI. 
 
 please to call it) as they had to me. This ended in coming 
 over to make me a visit against my will, and as was pre- 
 tended, very much against their interests. I cannot deny I 
 was very silly in giving the least credit to this stuff. But if 
 people are so silly, you'll say 'tis natural for anybody that is 
 good-natured to pity and be glad to serve a person they be- 
 lieve unhappy on their account.' ' She then goes on to say 
 that the Frenchman had given her his money, all of which 
 she laid out in stock, but the shares falling there was a loss. 
 Having communicated this to Ruremonde, "I received a 
 letter from him, in which he told me that he had discovered 
 all my tricks that he was convinced I had all his money un- 
 touched ; and he would have it again, or he would print all 
 my letters to him, which, though God knows, very innocent 
 in the main, yet may admit of ill-constructions, besides the 
 monstrousness of being exposed in such a manner. * * * 
 I beg your pardon, dear sister, for this tedious account ; but 
 you see how necessary 'tis for me to get my letters from this 
 madman. Perhaps the best way is by fair means ; at least, 
 they ought to be first tried." In the next letter she 
 
 writes : — " R wrote to me some time ago to say if I 
 
 would immediately send him £2,000 sterling he would send 
 me an acquittance. As this was sending him several hun- 
 dreds out of my own pocket, I absolutely refused it ; and 
 in return I have just received a threatening letter to 
 print I know not what stuff against me. If you have 
 any compassion for me or my innocent children, I am 
 sure you will try to prevent it ; the thing is too serious 
 to be delayed. I think (to say nothing of either blood or 
 affection) that humanity and Christianity are interested in 
 
 mv observation." Ajrain she writes: — "R does 
 
 nothing but lie, and either does not or will not understand 
 what is said to him. You will forgive me troubling you so 
 often with this business. The importance of it is the best 
 excuse ; in short — 
 
 " Tis joy or sorrow, peace or strife, 
 TiB all the colour of remaining life." 
 
 In her sixth letter she says : — " He has writ a letter to 
 
 Mr. W , to inform him of the whole affair ; luckily for 
 
 me, the person he has sent it to, assures me it shall never 
 be delivered." Again she writes : — " I have actually, in 
 my present possession, a formal letter directed to Mr. 
 W , to acquaint him with the whole business. You
 
 Xll. NOTES. 
 
 may imagine the inevitable eternal misfortunes it would 
 have thrown me into, had it been delivered by the per- 
 son to whom it was entrusted. I wish you would make 
 him sensible of the infamy of his proceeding, which can 
 no way in the world turn to his advantage. * * * All 
 
 he can expect by informing Mr. "W is to hear him 
 
 repeat the same things I assert; he will not retrieve one 
 farthing, and I am for ever miserable. * * * I beg 
 with the utmost earnestness that you would make him sen- 
 sible of his error — observe 'tis very necessary to say 
 something to fright him. I am persuaded if he was 
 talked to in a style of that kind, he would not dare to 
 attempt to ruin me." We next find her writing: — "I am 
 now at Twickenham ; 'tis impossible to tell you, dear 
 sister, what agonies I suffer every post day. My health 
 really suffers so much from my fears, that I have 1 eason 
 to apprehend the worst consequences. * * * j desire 
 nothing from him but that he would send no letters or 
 messages to my house at London, where Mr. Wortley now 
 is. I have come hither in hopes of benefit from the air, 
 but I carry my distemper about in an anguish of mind 
 that visibly decays my body every day. I am too melan- 
 choly to talk of any other subject. Let me beg of you 
 (dear sister) to take some care of this affair, and think you 
 have it in your power to do more than save the life of a sister 
 that loves you." In the ninth letter the lady writes : — " I 
 send you, dear sister, by Lady Lansdowne, this letter, ac- 
 companied with the only present that was ever sent me by 
 that monster. I beg you to return it immediately. I am 
 told he is preparing to come to London. * * * I desire 
 you to assure him that my first step will be to acquaint 
 Lord Stair with all his obligations to him, as soon as 1 hear 
 he is in London ; and if he dares to give me any further 
 trouble, I shall take care to have him rewarded in ■ stronger 
 manner than he expects. There is nothing more true 
 than this; and I solemnly swear that if all the credit or 
 money that I have in the world can do it, either for friend- 
 ship or hire, I shall not fail to have him used as he deserves ; 
 and since I know his journey can only be to expose me, I 
 shall not value what noise is made. Perhaps you may pre- 
 vent it. I leave you to judge of the most proper method. 
 'Tis certain no time should be lost ; fear is his predominant 
 passion, and I believe you may fright him from coming 
 hither, where he will certainly find a reception very disa- 
 greeable to him."
 
 NOTES. Xlll. 
 
 Note L. — Chapter VII. , P. 146. — The portrait alluded 
 to here is now in the possession of Dr. Kexealy, Q.C , to- 
 gether with one of Tope, by Jervas, and several others of 
 the same period. . 
 
 She is painted with hair of immense length, flowing in a 
 dark, rich, waving billow almost to her waist ; her robe is 
 of a deep orange cloth or .silk, with an under dress of lawn 
 looped up on the arm with a button or jewel. The neck 
 and bust are very beautiful ; the mouth particularly small, 
 like a half-opened rose-bud ; the eyes intensely purply dark, 
 and full of keen expression, large, yet soft ; the face oval ; 
 the eyebrows curved and prominent ; the complexion deli- 
 cately fine ; the forehead a most perfect arch, with a little 
 curl coming out just over the left eyebrow ; on her head a 
 golden circlet, which she brought from the east, with a dark 
 sapphire, and a pearl pendant from it. It is topped with a 
 silver crescent, and a veil descends down the left shoulder. 
 Her ear is delicately small, and she has a solid pearl ear- 
 ring. It was hoped that the second volume of this auto- 
 biography would be enriched with a copy of this portrait, 
 and it was entrusted to Mr. Mayall, the Great Master of 
 Photography for this purpose ; but after making several at- 
 tempts with his most powerful lenses, he was obliged to give 
 up the attempt. The colours all ran into one tone, and the 
 copy was impossible. The reader must, therefore, be con- 
 tent with this most meagre sketch of one of Kneller's finest 
 works, and one which Pope himself may be said to have 
 superintended with a lover's eyes. 
 
 [The letters that relate to it are not destitute of amuse- 
 ment now, when we know all about Pope and Lady M.] 
 
 MR. POPE TO LADY M. W. M. 
 
 "Madam, — Sir Geoffrey happening to come from London 
 yesterday, as I did myself, will wait upon you this morning, 
 at twelve, to make a sketch of you in your dress, if you will 
 give leave. He is really very good to me. I heartily wish 
 you will be so too. But I submit to you in all things — 
 nay, in the manner of all things ; your own pleasure and 
 your own time. Upon my word I will take yours, and 
 understand you as you would be understood, with a real 
 respect and resignation when you deny me anything, and a 
 hearty gratitude when you grant me anything. Your w.ll 
 be done, but God send it may be the same with mine. — 1 
 am, most truly, yours, A. Pope. 
 
 " P.S. — I be<r a single word in answer, because I am to 
 send to Sir Godfrey accordingly.
 
 XIV. NOTES. 
 
 " To the Right Hon. the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 
 at Twickenham. 
 
 " Indeed, dear madam, it is not possible to tell you whether 
 you give me, every day I see you, more pleasure or more 
 respect ; and, upon my word, whenever I see you after a 
 day or two*s absence, it is just such a view as that you yes- 
 terday had of your own writings. I find you still better 
 than I could imagine, and think I was partial before to your 
 prejudice. 
 
 '•The picture dwells really at my heart, and I have made a 
 perfect passion of preferring your present face to your p;i 
 1 know and thoroughly esteem yourself of this year ; I know 
 no more of Lady Mary Pierrepoint. than to admire of what 
 I have heard of" her, or be pleased with some fragment of 
 hers, as I am with Sappho's. But now — I cannot say what 
 I would say of you now ; only still give me cause to say 
 you are gcod to me, and allow me as much of your person 
 Sir Godtrey can help me to. Upon conferring with him 
 yesterday, I find he thinks it absolutely necessary to draw 
 your face first, which, he says, can never be set right on 
 your figure, if the drapery and posture be finished before. 
 To give you as little trouble as possible, he purposes to draw 
 your face with crayons, and finish it up at your own hoi 
 in the morning, from whence he will transfer it to canvass, so 
 that you need not go and sit at his house. This, I must 
 observe, is a manner they seldom draw any but crowned 
 heads, and 1 observe it with a secret kind of pleasure. Be 
 so kind as to tell me if you care he should do this to-morrow 
 at twelve ; though, if I am but assured from you of the 
 thing, let the manner and time be what you best like, let every 
 decorum you please, be observed, f should be very un- 
 worthy of any favour from your hands, if I desired any at 
 the expense of your quiet and conveniently in any degree. — 
 I am, sincerely yours, A. Pope." 
 
 His satisfaction with the picture when finished inspired 
 this extemporaneous praise in v< which were imme< 
 
 diately written down and given to Lady Mury, by whom 
 they were preserved. 
 
 " The playlul smiles around the dimpled mouth, 
 Thai air of majesty and truth, 
 
 So would l draw bui oh I 'tis vain to try. 
 My narrow Renins does the power deny. 
 The equal Instrc of the heavenly mind, 
 Where everj grace with every virtue's joined, 
 Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe, 
 
 With greatness easy, and with wit sincere — 
 
 With just description show the s ul divine, 
 And tiie whole princess in my work would shine."
 
 NOTES. XV. 
 
 Such was this charming pair before Pope's repulse by the 
 Lady ; and his unfortunate sprawl on the carpet. After 
 that all was changed. Then she became in his imitation of 
 Horace (Satire 1., book 2), the furious Sappho, whom the 
 most unhappy of love's mishaps has befallen. Then he 
 affects to believe that Mr. M. and his lady will plot to have 
 him waylaid. 
 
 " Shylock and his wife, 
 Will club their testers now to take your life." 
 
 And, indeed, it was publicly reported that she, her hus- 
 band, and Lord Hervey had actually hired two stout fellows, 
 who fell upon the poet in one of his solitary walks at 
 Twickenham, and flogged him like a schoolboy. Whether 
 this was true or not — and it was probably true, it subjected 
 Pope to so much ridicule, that he was obliged to publish the 
 following advertisement : — 
 
 "Whereas there has been a scandalous paper cried about 
 the streets, i ider the title of a Popp upon Pope, insinuating 
 that I was whipped in Ham Walks, on Thursday last. This 
 is to give notice that I did not stir out of my house at 
 Twickenham all that day, and the same is a malicious and 
 ill-grounded report. — A. P." 
 
 The pamphlet stated that it was in the evening Pope had 
 been hoisted and whipped ; and Pope, as it may be seen, 
 reserves his denial to its having happened in the day. There 
 are some quiet allusions to this in Lady Mary's letters, 
 which satisfy me that the little man was actually horsed as 
 the pamphlet describes. 
 
 The following are some of the verses which my lady and 
 Lord Hervey wrote about this time : — 
 
 When God created thee, one would believe, 
 
 He said the same as to the snake of Eve ; 
 
 To human race antipathy declare, 
 
 'Twixt them and thee be everlasting war. 
 
 And all the sequel of the sentence dread, 
 
 And whilst you bruise their heel, beware your head, 
 
 Nor think thy weakness shall be thy defence, 
 
 The female scold's protection in offence, 
 
 Sure 'tis as fair to beat who cannot fight, 
 
 As 'tis to libel those who cannot write ; 
 
 And if thou drawest thy pen to aid the law, 
 
 Others a cudgel or a rod may draw. 
 
 If none with vengeance yet thy crimes pursue, 
 
 Or give thy manifold affronts their due, 
 
 If limbs unbroken, skin without a stain, 
 
 Unwhipt, unblanketted, unkicked, unslain 
 
 That wretched little carcase you retain, 
 
 The reason is, not that the world wants eyes, 
 
 For thou'rt so mean they see and they despise.
 
 XVI. NOTES. 
 
 When fretful porcupine with rancorous wing, 
 
 From mounted hack should sport the harmless quill, 
 
 Cool the spectators stand, and all the while 
 
 Upon the angry little monster smile, 
 
 Thus 'tis with thee, while impotently safe, 
 
 You strike unwounding, we unhurt can laugh 
 
 Who but must laugh, this bully when he sees, 
 
 A puny insect shivering at a breeze ; 
 
 One overmatched by every blast of wind, 
 
 Insulting and provoking all mankind. 
 
 Is this the thing to keep mankind in awe ? 
 
 To make those tremble who escape the law ? 
 
 Is this the ridicule to live so long? 
 
 The deathless satire and immortal song ? 
 
 No! like the self blown praise thy scandal flies, 
 
 And as we're told of wasps, it stings and dies. 
 
 His grotto comes in for my lady's censure ; she calls it 
 the Palace of Dulness. 
 
 " Her palace placed beneath a muddy road, 
 And such the influence of the dull abode, 
 The carrier's horse above can scarcely drag his load ; 
 Here chose the Goddess her beloved retreat, 
 Winch Phoebus tries in vain to penetrate ; 
 Adorned within with shells of small expoi 
 Emblems of tinsel rhyme and triflin.'r ser.se, 
 Perpetual fogs enclose the sacred cave, 
 The neighbouring sinks their fragrant odours gave." 
 
 The allusion to Sappho was so shocking that it called 
 forth from Lady Mary and Hervey certain verses addressed 
 to the translator of the first satire of the second book of 
 Horace ; on which Pope wrote to Lord Hervey as follows, 
 with a sly recollection of his having called her Sappho, 
 though he chooses at the time to forget it : — 
 
 " In regard to the right honourable lady, your lordship's 
 
 friend, I was far from designing a person of her condition 
 
 by a name so derogatory to her as that of Sappho, a name 
 
 prostituted to every infamous creature that ever wrote 
 
 verse or novels. I protest I never applied that name to her 
 
 in any verse of mine, public or private, and 1 firmly believe 
 
 not in any letter or conversation. Whoever could invent a 
 
 falsehood to support an accusation, I pity, and whoever can 
 
 believe such a character to be theirs I pity still more. God 
 
 forbid the court or town should have the complaisance to 
 
 join in that opinion. Certainly T meant it only of such 
 
 modern Sapphos as imitate much more the lewdness than 
 
 the genius of the ancient one, and upon whom their 
 
 wretched brethren frequently bestow both the name and the 
 
 qualification there mentioned." 
 
 These were pleasant passages to come before the public, 
 for so solemn a gentleman as Mr. E. W. Montagu.
 
 NOTES. XV11. 
 
 Note M. — Chapter IX., P. 188. — South Sea Swindle. 
 — The first report of the committee of secresy, when pre- 
 sented to the House, exposed a scene of fraud and iniquity 
 almost unparalleled in the annals of history. 
 
 The committee stated that their inquiry had been attended 
 with numerous embarrassments and difficulties; that in the 
 different books were made false and fictitious entries, with 
 blanks, erasures, and alterations, and in some the leaves 
 were torn out. Some books had been destroyed, others 
 secreted. 
 
 Before the South Sea Bill was passed, and with a view to 
 promote it, the directors, to whom the secret management 
 was principally intrusted, had disposed of a fictitious stock 
 of £574,000. 
 
 As this fictitious stock was designed for promoting the 
 Bill, the sub and deputy governors, Sir John Blunt, Mr. 
 Gibbon, Mr. Chester, Mr. Hoi ditch, and Mr. Knight, the 
 cashier, had the chief disposal of it, and it was distributed 
 as follows : — 
 
 £ 
 To the Earl of Sunderland, at the request 
 
 of Mr. Craggs, sen. ... ... 50,000 
 
 The Duchess of Kendal ... ... 10,000 
 
 The Countess of Platen ... ... 10,000 
 
 Her two nieces ... ... ... 10,000 
 
 Mr. Craggs, senior ... .. ... 30,000 
 
 Charles Stanhope, esquire ... ... 10,000 
 
 The Sword Blade Company ... ... 50,000 
 
 It also appeared that Charles Stanhope had received a 
 difference of £250,000, through the hands of Sir George 
 Caswal and Co., but that his name had been partly erased 
 from their books, and altered to Stangape. That Aislabie, 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer, had an account with Turner, 
 Caswal, and Co., to the amount of £794,451, and that he 
 had advised the company to make the second subscription 
 £1,500,000, instead of a million, by their own authority, 
 and without any Warrant. That of the third subscription, 
 Aislabie's list amounted to £70,000 ; Sunderland's to 
 £160,000 ; Craggs to £059,000 ; and Stanhope's to £47,000. 
 That on the pawned stock, which had been sold, there was, 
 by the means of Mr. Knight, a deficiency of £400,000. 
 
 This report was succeeded by six others less important ; 
 at the end of the last the committee declared that the ab- 
 sence of Knight, who had been principally and solely en-
 
 XV111. NOTES. 
 
 trusted, put a period to the inquiries into this black and 
 destructive affair. — Coxe's Walpole. 
 
 The foregoing shows what worthy predecessors in fraud 
 the gigantic robbers of the present century had — the 
 baronets, bankers, and members of parliament, who within 
 the last fifteen or twenty years have played such parts before 
 the public, and have so utterly shaken the commercial 
 honour of England. One of the rhymers of the past age 
 thus described Sir John Blunt : — 
 
 " Much injured Blunt ! why bears he Britain's hate ? 
 A wizard told him in these words our fate ; 
 At length corruption, like a gen'ral flood 
 (So long by watchful ministers withstood) 
 Shall deluge all ; and av'rice creeping on, 
 Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun ; 
 Statesman and Patriot ply alike the stocks, 
 Peeress and butler share alike the box, 
 And judges job, and Bishops bite the town, 
 And mighty Dukes pack cards for half-a-crown. 
 See Britain sunk in lucre's sordid charms, 
 And France reveng'd on Anne's and Edward's arms. 
 Twas no court badge, great scriv'ner! fir'd thy brain, 
 Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain ; 
 No, 'twas thy righteous end, ashamed to see 
 Senates degenerate, patriots disagree, 
 And nobly wishing party rage to cease, 
 To buy both sides, and give thy country peace." 
 
 Sir John Blunt, originally a scrivener, was one of the 
 proprietors of the South Sea Company, and afterwards one 
 of the directors and chief managers of the famous scheme 
 in 1720. He was also one of those who suffered most 
 severely by the Bill of Pains and Penalties on the said 
 directors. He was a Dissenter of a most religious deport- 
 ment, and professed to be a great believer. Whether he 
 really did credit the prophecy here mentioned is not certain, 
 but it was constantly in this very style he declaimed against 
 the corruption and luxury of the age, the partiality of par- 
 liaments, and the misery of party spirit. He was particu- 
 larly eloquent against avarice in great and noble persons, of 
 which he had indeed lived to see many miserable example-. 
 He died in the year 1732.— Pope ; Epistle to Allen Lord 
 Bathurst. 
 
 Several of the South Sea Directors were secured and ex- 
 pelled the House. The Commons having ordered their 
 doors to be locked and the keys laid on the table, summoned 
 Sir Robert Chaplin, Bart.; Sir Theodore Janssen. Bart., Mr. 
 F. Eyles, and Mr. Sawbridge to attend in their places iinme-
 
 NOTES. XIX. 
 
 diately ; then General Ross acquainted the House, '' That 
 they had already discovered a train of the deepest villainy 
 and fraud that hell ever contrived to ruin a nation, which in 
 due time they would lay before the House ; and that in the 
 meanwhile, in order to a farther discovery, they thought it 
 highly necessary to secure the persons of some of the 
 directors and principal South Sea officers, and to seize their 
 papers, which was ordered accordingly." 
 
 Y"oung Craggs had anticipated this, but died in time. 
 Whether he made away with himself, like his worthy sire, is 
 not quite free from doubt. 
 
 One who came out of the city told me he believed Mr. 
 Craggs, senr., dying, if not actually dead, and gave some 
 circumstances in confirmation of a whisper of his having 
 taken a dose ; if so, it resembles in great measure Lord 
 Essex's case.- Coxe's Walpole Correspondence ; Mr. Brod- 
 rick to Lord Middleton. 
 
 It was generally expected that this day the Commons 
 would have proceeded to that part of the report from the 
 committee of secresy, which related to James Craggs, sen., 
 Esq., but whether the terror of his approaching trial, or the 
 loss of a beloved son, for whom he had been amassing vast 
 heaps of riches, cast a damp upon his spirits, he died the 
 day before in a lethargic fit, leaving behind him an estate 
 valued at one million and a half, to be divided among his 
 three daughters, who are married to three members of par- 
 liament, viz., Mr. Trefusis, Mr. Newsham, and Mr. Elliot. 
 — Political State. 
 
 Subsequently the House of Commons resolved and 
 passed : — 
 
 " That the said James Craggs was a notorious accomplice 
 and confederate with the said Robert Knight, and some ol 
 the late Directors of the South Sea Company, in carrying 
 on their corrupt and scandalous practices, and did by his 
 wicked influence and for his own exorbitant gain, promote 
 and encourage the pernicious execution of the late South 
 Sea scheme. 
 
 " That all the estate, real and personal, of which the said 
 James Craggs was seised or possessed, from and after the 
 1st day of Dec, 1719 (,over and above what he stood seised 
 or possessed of on the said 1st day of December), be applied 
 for and towards the relief of the unhappy sufferers in the
 
 XX. NOTES. 
 
 South Sea Company, and for deterring all persons from 
 committing the like wicked practices in the time to come." 
 
 Like all such things, these threats ended in little or nothing, 
 for we read as follows : — 
 
 " After all the pains that have been taken to detect the 
 villanies of the directors and their friends, 1 am afraid they 
 will at last slip through their fingers, and that nothing 
 further will be done as to confiscation, hanging, tec. There 
 certainly is a majority in the House of Commons that are 
 willing to do themselves and the kingdom justice ; but they 
 act so little in concert together that they are constantly 
 baffled by a set of men whom guilt, money, &c, have linked 
 in the closest bond." — Pari. Hist, vol. vii., p. 800. 
 
 Note N. — Chapter IX., P. 188. — Duke of Marl- 
 borough. — It is to be lamented that we have not Pope's 
 character of this man, which he intended to have introduced 
 into his essay on Man. "I have omitted,'' he says, ''a 
 character though I thought it one of the best I had ever 
 written of a very great man, who had everything from with- 
 out to make him happy, and yet was very miserable from 
 the want of virtue in his own heart." It seems certain that 
 he got a bribe of a thousand pounds from the Duchess for 
 suppressing the Duke's character as well as her own, 
 which latter he did not suppress. See Carruther s Life of 
 Pope, p. 394. 
 
 Note O. — Chapter IX., P. 189. — King George I. — This 
 elderly Adonis ought not to be robbed of a portion of his 
 fame in the annals of Venus, although his amatory feats 
 do not appear to have extended beyond that of "cutting 
 paper " in his lady's apartments, and he had the three 
 named in the text on his establishment. " His Majesty,*' 
 says Horace AValpole, " paid his new subjects the compli- 
 ment of taking an English mistress, Miss Brett, 1 daughter of 
 the second husband of the notorious Countess of Macclesfield, 
 Savages mother. After the Kings death, Mis> Brett mar- 
 ried Sir William Lemon. It was this connection that no 
 doubt helped to save Savage from the seatiold. lor the 
 murder oi Sinclair. George 1. was heard t * > say in the 
 drawing-room, upon the tailing of the South Sea stock, 
 " We had very good luck, lor we sold out last week. ' 
 Reading these things, who does not join in Pope's exclama- 
 tion, " A tree is a nobler object than a prince in his coro- 
 nation robes.''
 
 NOTES. XXI. 
 
 Note P.— Chapteb IX., P. 192.— King Geobge II.— 
 Extracts from Lord Chancellor King's Notes on Domestic and 
 Foreign Affairs. 
 
 Nov. 24, 1727.— Sir R. Walpole came to my house. * • 
 At this time he took occasion to tell me of the great credit 
 he had with the King (George II.), and that it was princi- 
 pally by the means of the Queen, who was the most able 
 woman to govern in the world. 
 
 Sept. 2, 1729.— On this occasion he (Sir R. W.) let me 
 into several secrets relating to the King and Queen — that 
 the King constantly wrote to her by every opportunity 
 long letters of two or three sheets, being generally of all his 
 actions, what he did every day, even to minute things, and 
 particularly of his amours ; what women he admired^ and 
 used ; and that the Queen to continue him in a disposition 
 to do what she desired, returned as long letters, and ap- 
 proved even of his amours, and of the women he used, not 
 scrupling to say that she was but one woman and an old 
 woman, and that he might love more and younger women, 
 and she was very willing he should have the best of them ; 
 by which means, and a perfect subserviency to his will, she 
 effected whatsoever she desired, without which it was im- 
 possible to keep him within any bounds.— Bohn's edition of 
 Lord King's Life, pp. 445 — 481. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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