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Royalty Restored or London under Charles II
Chapter X
by Molloy, J. Fitzgerald
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Notorious courtiers.--My Lord Rochester's satires.--Places a
watch on certain ladies of quality.--His majesty becomes
indignant.--Rochester retires to the country.--Dons a disguise
and returns to town.--Practises astrology.--Two maids of honour
seek adventure.--Mishaps which befell them.--Rochester forgiven.
--The Duke of Buckingham.--Lady Shrewsbury and her victims.--
Captain Howard's duel.--Lord Shrewsbury avenges his honour.--A
strange story.--Colonel Blood attempts an abduction.--Endeavours
to steal the regalia.--The king converses with him.
Prominent among the courtiers, and foremost amid the friends of
his majesty, were two noblemen distinguished alike for their
physical grace, exceeding wit, and notable eccentricity. These
were the Earl of Rochester, and his Grace of Buckingham; gallants
both, whose respective careers were so intimately connected with
the court as to make further chronicle of them necessary in these
pages.
My Lord Rochester, though younger in years than the duke, was
superior to him in wit, comeliness, and attraction. Nor was
there a more conspicuous figure observable in the palace of
Whitehall than this same earl, who was ever foremost in pursuit
of such pleasures as wine begets and love appeases. His mirth
was the most buoyant, his conversation the most agreeable, his
manner the most engaging in the world; whence he became "the
delight and wonder of men, the love and dotage of women." A
courtier possessed of so happy a disposition, and endowed with
such brilliant talents, could not fail in pleasing the king; who
vastly enjoyed his society, but was occasionally obliged to
banish his person from court, when his eccentric conduct rendered
him intolerable, or his bitter satire aimed at royalty. For it
was given no other man in his age to blend merry wit and caustic
ridicule so happily together; therefore those who read his lines
were forced to laugh at his fancy, even whilst hurt by his irony.
Now in order to keep this talent in constant practice, he was
wont to celebrate in inimitable verse such events, be they
private or public, as happened at court, or befell the courtiers;
and inasmuch as his subjects were frequently of a licentious
nature, his lines were generally of a scandalous character. He
therefore became the public censor of court folly; and so
unerringly did his barbed shafts hit the weaknesses at which they
aimed, that his productions were equally the terror of those he
victimized, and the delight of those he spared.
This liberal use of satire he was wont to excuse on the plea
there were some who could not be kept in order, or admonished, by
other means. Therefore, having the virtue of his friends keenly
at heart, an ingenious plan occurred to him by which he might
secretly discover their vices, and publicly reprove them. In
order that he might fulfil this purpose to his greater
satisfaction, he promptly sought and found a footman, who, by
virtue of his employment, was well acquainted with the courtiers.
This man the "noble and beautiful earl" furnished with a red coat
and a musket, that he might pass as a sentinel, and then placed
him every night throughout one winter at the doors of certain
ladies of quality whom he suspected of carrying on intrigues.
In this disguise the footman readily passed as a soldier
stationed at his post by command of his officer, and was thus
enabled to note what gentlemen called on the suspected ladies at
unreasonable but not unfashionable hours. Accordingly, my lord
made many surprising discoveries, and when he had gained
sufficient information on such delicate points, he quietly
retired into the country, that he might with greater ease devote
himself to the composition of those lively verses which he
subsequently circulated through the court, to the wonder and
dismay of many, and the delight and profit of few.
To these lampoons no name was attached, and my lord took
precautions that their authorship should not be satisfactorily
proved, no matter how sagely suspected. Moreover, in his
conversation he was judicious enough to keep the weapon of his
satire in reserve; sheathing its fatal keenness in a bewitching
softness of civility until occasion required its use; when forth
it flashed all the brighter for its covering, all the sharper for
its rest. And satire being absent from his speech, humour ever
waited on his words; and never was he more extravagantly gay than
when assisting at the pleasant suppers given by the merry monarch
to his choicest friends.
Here, whilst drinking deep of ruddy wine from goblets of old
gold, he narrated his strange experiences, and illustrated them
with flashes of his wit. for it was the habit of this eccentric
earl, when refinements of the court began to pall upon him, or
his absence from Whitehall became a necessity, to seek fresh
adventure and intrigue disguised as a porter, a beggar, or a
ballad-monger. And so carefully did he hide his identity in the
character he assumed, that his most intimate friends failed to
recognise his personality.
No doubt the follies in which he indulged were in some measure
due to the eccentricity ever attendant upon genius; but they were
probably likewise occasioned by craving for excitement begotten
of drink. For my lord loved wine exceedingly; and when he drew
near unto death in the dawn of his manhood, confessed to Bishop
Burnet that for five years he was continually drunk: "Not that
he was all the while under the visible effects of it, but his
blood was so inflamed, that he was not in all that time cool
enough to be perfectly master of himself." Charles delighted in
the society of this gay courtier, because of his erratic
adventures, and his love of wine. Moreover, the licentious
verses which it was the earl's good pleasure to compose, the
names of some of which no decent lips would whisper in this age
of happy innocence, afforded the monarch extravagant enjoyment.
Withal his majesty's satisfaction in Lord Rochester's wit was not
always to be counted upon, as it proved. For it came to pass one
night at the close of a royal supper, during which the earl had
drunk deep, that with great goodwill to afford the king
diversion, he handed his majesty what he believed was a satire on
a courtier, more remarkable for its humour than its decency.
Whereon Charles, with anticipation of much delight, opened the
folded page, when he was surprised to see, not a copy of verses,
but an unflattering description of himself, which ran as follows:
"Here lies our mutton-eating king,
Whose word no man relies on;
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one."
Now the king, though the best tempered of men and most lenient of
masters, was naturally wrathful at this verbal character: the
more so because recognising its faithfulness at a glance. He
therefore upbraided Rochester with ingratitude, and banished him
from the court.
Nothing dismayed, my lord retired into the country; but in a
short time, growing weary of pastoral solitude which gave him an
appetite for adventure it could not wholly supply, he returned
privately to town, and assuming a disguise, took up his residence
in the city. Here exercising his characteristic tact, and great
capacity for pleasing, he speedily made friends with wealthy
merchants and worthy aldermen, who subsequently invited him to
their hospitable tables, and introduced him to their gracious
ladies.
And as his conversation had not failed to delight the husbands,
neither were his charms unsuccessful in affording satisfaction to
their wives. To the one he railed against the impotence of the
king's ministers, to the other he declaimed upon the wickedness
of his majesty's mistresses; and to both his denunciations were
equally sincere and acceptable. But his bitterest words were
reserved for such courtiers as Rochester, Buckingham, and
Killigrew, whose dissipated lives were the scandal of all honest
men, the terror of all virtuous women: insolent fellows,
moreover, who had the impudence to boast that city ladies were
not so faithful to their husbands as was generally supposed, and,
moreover, the boldness to assert that they painted. Indeed, he
marvelled much, that since such men were frequenters of
Whitehall, sacred fire from heaven had not long since descended
and consumed the royal palace to ashes. Such virtuous sentiments
as these, expressed by so gallant a man, made him acceptable in
many homes: and the result was he speedily became surfeited by
banquets, suppers, and other hospitalities, to which the
excellent but credulous citizens bade him heartily welcome.
He therefore disappeared from their midst one day as suddenly and
unaccountably as he had come amongst them. He did not, however,
take himself afar, but donning a new disguise, retreated to a
more distant part of the city: for an idea had occurred to him
which he determined speedily to put in practice. This was to
assume the character and bearing of a sage astrologer and learned
physician, at once capable of reading the past, and laying bare
the future of all who consulted him; also of healing diseases of
and preventing mishaps to such as visited him. Accordingly,
having taken lodgings in Tower Street, at a goldsmith's house,
situated next the Black Swan, he prepared himself for practice,
adopted the title of doctor, the name of Alexander Bendo, and
issued bills headed by the royal arms, containing the most
remarkable and impudent manifesto perhaps ever set forth by any
impostor.
Copies of this may yet be seen in early editions of his works.
It was addressed to all gentlemen, ladies, and others, whether of
the city, town, or country, to whom Alexander Bendo wished health
and prosperity. He had come amongst them because the great
metropolis of England had ever been infested by numerous quacks,
whose arrogant confidence, backed by their ignorance, had enabled
them to impose on the public; either by premeditated cheats in
physic, chymical and galenic, in astrology, physiognomy,
palmistry, mathematics, alchymy, and even government itself. Of
which latter he did not propose to discourse, or meddle with,
since it in no way belonged to his trade or vocation, which he
thanked God he found much more safe, equally honest, and more
profitable. But he, Alexander Bendo, had with unswerving
faithfulness and untiring assiduity for years courted the arts
and sciences, and had learned dark secrets and received signal
favours from them. He was therefore prepared to take part
against unlearned wretches, and arrant quacks, whose impudent
addresses and saucy pretences had brought scandal upon sage and
learned men.
However, in a wicked world like this, where virtue was so exactly
counterfeited, and hypocrisy was generally successful, it would
be hard for him, a stranger, to escape censure. But indeed he
would submit to be considered a mountebank if he were discovered
to be one. Having made which statement, he proceeded to draw an
ingenious comparison between a mountebank and a politician,
suitable to all ages and dimes, but especially to this century
and country. Both, he intimated, are fain to supply the lack of
higher abilities to which they pretend, with craft; and attract
attention by undertaking strange things which can never be
performed. By both the people are pleased and deluded; the
expectation of good in the future drawing their eyes from the
certainty of evil in the present.
The sage Alexander Bendo then discoursed of miraculous cures
which he could effect, but he would set down no word in his bill
which bore an unclean sound. It was enough that he made himself
understood, but indeed he had seen physicians' bills containing
things of which no man who walked warily before God could
approve. Concerning astrological predictions, physiognomy,
divination by dreams, and otherwise, he would say, if it did not
look like ostentation, he had seldom failed, but had often been
of service; and to those who came to him he would guarantee
satisfaction. Nor would he be ashamed to avow his willingness to
practise rare secrets, for the help, conservation, and
augmentation of beauty and comeliness; an endowment granted for
the better establishment of mutual love between man and woman,
and as such highly valuable to both. The knowledge of secrets
like this he had gathered during journeys through France and
Italy, in which countries he had spent his life since he was
fifteen years old. Those who had travelled in the latter country
knew what a miracle art there performs in behalf of beauty; how
women of forty bear the same countenance as those of fifteen,
ages being in no way distinguished by appearances; whereas in
England, by looking at a horse in the mouth and a woman in the
face, it was possible to tell the number of their years. He
could, therefore, give such remedies as would render those who
came to him perfectly fair; clearing and preserving them from all
spots, freckles, pimples, marks of small-pox, or traces of
accidents. He would, moreover, cure the teeth, clear the breath,
take away fatness, and add flesh.
A man who vouched to perform such wonders was not long without
patients. At first these were drawn from his immediate
neighbourhood, but soon his fame reached the heart of the city.
Accordingly, many ladies of whose hospitality he had partaken,
and of whose secrets he had become possessed, hurried to consult
him; and the marvellous insight he betrayed regarding their past,
and strange predictions he pronounced concerning their future,
filled them with amazement, and occasionally with alarm. And
they, proclaiming the marvels of his wisdom, widened the circle
of his reputation, until his name was spoken within the precincts
of Whitehall.
Curiosity concerning so remarkable a man at once beset the minds
of certain ladies at court, who either feared or expected much
from the future, and were anxious to peer into such secrets as it
held concerning themselves. But dreading the notoriety their
presence would naturally cause in the vicinity of Tower Street, a
spot to them unknown, they, acting with a prudence not invariably
characteristic of their conduct, sent their maids to ascertain
from personal experience if the astrologer's wisdom was in truth
as marvellous as reported. Now, when these appeared in fear and
trembling before the great Alexander Bendo, the knowledge he
revealed concerning themselves, and their mistresses likewise,
was so wonderful that it exceeded all expectation. Accordingly,
the maids returned to court with such testimonies concerning the
lore of this star-reader, as fired afresh their mistresses'
desires to see and converse with him in their proper persons.
It therefore came to pass that Miss Price and Miss Jennings,
maids of honour both--the one to the queen, the other to the
Duchess of York--boldly resolved to visit Doctor Bendo, and learn
what the future held for them. Miss Price was a lady who
delighted in adventure; Miss Jennings was a gentlewoman of
spirit; both looked forward to their visit with excitement and
interest. It happened one night, when the court had gone to the
playhouse, these ladies, who had excused themselves from
attending the queen and the duchess, dressed as orange girls, and
taking baskets of fruit under their arms, quickly crossed the
park, and entered a hackney-coach at Whitehall Gate. Bidding the
driver convey them to Tower Street, they rattled merrily enough
over the uneven streets until they came close to the theatre,
when, being in high spirits and feeling anxious to test the value
of their disguise, they resolved to alight from their conveyance,
enter the playhouse, and offer their wares for sale in presence
of the court.
Accordingly, paying the driver, they descended from the coach,
and running between the lines of chairs gathered round the
theatre, gained the door. Now, who should arrive at that moment
but the beau Sidney, attired in the bravery of waving feathers,
fluttering ribbons, and rich-hued velvets. And as he paused to
adjust his curls to his greater satisfaction before entering the
playhouse, Miss Price went boldly forward and asked him to buy
her fine oranges; but so engaged was he in his occupation, that
he did not deign to make reply, but passed into the theatre
without turning his glance upon her. Miss Jennings, however,
fared somewhat differently; and with less satisfaction to
herself; for, perceiving another courtier, none other than Tom
Killigrew, a rare wit and lover of pleasure, she went up to him
and offered her fruit for sale. These he declined to buy; but
chucking her under the chin, and glancing at her with an air of
familiarity, invited her to bring her oranges to his lodgings
next morning. On this Miss Jennings, who was as virtuous as
lovely, pushed him away with violence, and forgetting the
character she assumed, commenced rebuking his insolence, much to
the amusement and surprise of the bystanders. Fearing detection
of their identity, Miss Price pulled her forcibly away from the
crowd.
Miss Jennings was after this incident anxious to forego her visit
to the astrologer, and return to Whitehall, but her companion
declaring this would be a shameful want of spirit, they once more
entered a hackney-coach, and requested they might be driven to
the lodgings of the learned Doctor Bendo. Their adventures for
the evening were unfortunately not yet at an end; for just as
they entered Tower Street they saw Henry Brinker, one of the
gentlemen of the bedchamber to the Duke of York. Now it happened
this courtier had been dining with a citizen of worth and wealth,
whose house he was about to leave the moment the maids of honour
drove by. They, knowing him to be a man remarkable for his
gallantries, were anxious to avoid his observation, and therefore
directed the driver to proceed a few doors beyond their
destination; but he, having caught sight of two pretty orange
wenches, followed the coach and promptly stepping up as they
alighted, made some bold observations to them. On this both
turned away their heads that they might avoid his gaze, a
proceeding which caused him to observe them with closer scrutiny,
when he immediately recognised them, without however intimating
his knowledge. He therefore fell to teasing them, and finally
left them with no very pleasant remarks ringing in their ears,
concerning the virtue which obtained among maids of honour, for
he did not doubt their disguise was assumed for purposes of
intrigue.
Overwhelmed with confusion, they walked towards the goldsmith's
shop, over which the oracle delivered wisdom; but being no longer
in a humour to heed his words, they presently resolved on driving
back to Whitehall with all possible speed. But alas! on turning
round they beheld their driver waging war with a crowd which had
gathered about his vehicle; for having left their oranges in the
coach, some boys had essayed to help themselves, whereon the man
fell foul of them. But he, being one against many, was like to
fare badly at their hands; seeing which, the maids of honour
persuaded him to let the crowd take the fruit and drive them back
at once. This conduct had not the effect of appeasing those who
profited by its generosity; for the gentlewomen were greeted with
most foul abuse, and many unworthy charges were laid to their
account in language more vigorous than polished. And having at
last arrived in safety at Whitehall, they resolved never to sally
forth in search of adventure again.
After various strange experiences in his character as doctor of
medicine and teller of fortunes, of the weakness of human nature
and strength of common credulity, the learned Alexander Bendo
vanished from the city; and about the same time the gallant Earl
of Rochester appeared at court, where he sought for and obtained
the merry monarch's pardon. The wonderful stories he was enabled
to relate, piquant in detail, and sparkling with wit, rendered it
delightful to the king, in whose favour he soon regained his
former supremacy. Nay, Charles even determined to enrich and
reward him, not indeed from the resources of his privy purse, his
majesty's income being all too little for his mistresses'
rapacity, but by uniting him to a charming woman and an heiress.
The lady whom his majesty selected for this purpose was Elizabeth
Mallett, daughter of Lord Hawley of Donamore. Now this
gentlewoman had a fortune of two thousand five hundred a year, a
considerable sum in those days, and one which gained her many
suitors; amongst whom Lord Hinchingbrook was commended by her
family, and Lord Rochester by the king. Now the latter nobleman,
having but a poor estate, was anxious to obtain her wealth, and
fearful of losing his suit: and being uncertain as to whether he
could gain her consent to marry him by fair means, he resolved to
obtain it by execution of a daring scheme.
This was to carry her off by force, an action which highly
commended itself to his adventurous spirit. Accordingly he
selected a night on which the heiress supped at Whitehall with
her friend Miss Stuart, for conducting his enterprise. It
therefore happened that as Elizabeth Mallett was returning home
from the palace in company with her grandfather, their coach was
suddenly stopped at Charing Cross. Apprehending some danger,
Lord Hawley looked out, and by the red light of a score of
torches flashing through darkness, saw he was surrounded by a
band of armed men, both afoot and on horse. Their action was
prompt and decisive, for before either my lord or his
granddaughter was aware of their intention, the latter was
seized, forcibly lifted from the coach, and transferred to
another which awaited close at hand. This was driven by six
horses, and occupied by two women, who received the heiress with
all possible respect. No sooner had she been placed in the coach
than the horses were set to a gallop, and away she sped,
surrounded by a company of horsemen.
Lord Hawley was cast into the uttermost grief and passion by this
outrage; but his condition did not prevent him speedily gathering
a number of friends and retainers, in company with whom he gave
chase to those who had abducted his granddaughter; and so fast
did they ride that Mistress Mallett was overtaken at Uxbridge,
and carried back in safety to town. For this outrageous attempt,
my Lord Rochester was by the king's command committed to the
Tower, there to await his majesty's good pleasure. It seemed now
as if the earl's chance of gaining the heiress had passed away
for ever; inasmuch as Charles regarded the attempted abduction
with vast displeasure, and my Lord Hawley with terrible
indignation.
But the ways of women being inexplicable, it happened in a brief
while Mistress Mallett was inclined to regret my Lord Rochester's
imprisonment, and therefore moved to have him released; and,
moreover, she was subsequently pleased to regard his suit and
accept him as her wedded lord. It speaks favourably for his
character that with all his faults she loved him well: nor did
Rochester, though occasionally unfaithful, ever treat her with
unkindness. At times the old spirit of restlessness and passion
for adventure would master him, when he would withdraw himself
from her society for weeks and months. But she, though sadly
afflicted by such conduct, did not resent it. "If I could have
been troubled at anything, when I had the happiness of receiving
a letter from you," she writes to him on one occasion when he had
absented himself from her for long, "I should be so because you
did not name a time when I might hope to see you, the uncertainty
of which very much afflicts me." And again the poor patient wife
tells him, "Lay your commands upon me, what I am to do, and
though it be to forget my children, and the long hope I have
lived in of seeing you, yet I will endeavour to obey you; or in
memory only torment myself, without giving you the trouble of
putting you in mind that there lives such a creature as your
faithful humble servant." At length dissipation undermined his
naturally strong constitution; and for months this once most gay
and gallant man, this "noble and beautiful earl," lay dying of
that cruel disease consumption. The while such thoughts as come
to those who reason of life's vanities beset him; and as he
descended into the valley of shadows, the folly of this world's
ways was made clear to him. And repenting of his sins, he died
in peace with God and man at the age of three-and-thirty.
George Villiers second Duke of Buckingham, was not less notable
than my Lord Rochester. By turns he played such diverse parts in
life's strange comedy as that of a spendthrift and a miser, a
profligate and a philosopher, a statesman who sought the ruin of
his country, and a courtier who pandered to the pleasures of his
king. But inasmuch as this history is concerned with the social
rather than the political life of those mentioned in its pages,
place must be given to such adventures as were connected with the
court and courtiers. Buckingham's were chiefly concerned with
his intrigues, which, alas! were many and strange; for though
his wife was loving and virtuous, she was likewise lean and
brown, and wholly incapable of controlling his erring fancies.
Perhaps it was knowledge of her lack of comeliness which helped
her to bear the burden of his follies; for according to Madame
Dunois, though the duchess knew he was continually engaged in
amours, she, by virtue of a patience uncommon to her sex, forbore
mentioning the subject to him, and "had complaisance enough to
entertain his mistresses, and even lodge them in her house, all
which she suffered because she loved him."
The most remarkable of his intrigues was that which connected his
name with the Countess of Shrewsbury. Her ladyship, was daughter
of the second Earl of Cardigan, and wife of the eleventh Earl of
Shrewsbury. She was married a year previous to the restoration,
and upon the establishment of the court at Whitehall had become
one of its most distinguished beauties. Nor was she less famed
for the loveliness of her person than for the generosity of her
disposition; inasmuch as none who professed themselves desirous
of her affection were ever allowed to languish in despair. She
therefore had many admirers, some of whom were destined to suffer
for the distinction her friendship conferred.
Now one of the first to gain her attachment was the young Earl of
Arran, the grace of whose bearing and ardour of whose character
were alike notable to the court. The verses he sung her to an
accompaniment of his guitar, and the glances he gave her
indicative of his passion, might have melted a heart less cold
than hers. Accordingly they gained him a friendship which, by
reason of her vast benevolence, many were subsequently destined
to share. Now it chanced that the little Jermyn, who had already
succeeded in winning the affections of such notable women as the
poor Princess of Orange and my Lady Castlemaine, and had besides
conducted a series of minor intrigues with various ladies
connected with the court, was somewhat piqued that Lady
Shrewsbury had accepted my Lord Arran's attentions without
encouraging his. For Henry Jermyn, by virtue of the fascinations
he exercised and the consequent reputation he enjoyed, expected
to be wooed by such women as desired his love.
But when, later on, Lord Arran's devotion to the lady was
succeeded by that of Thomas Howard, brother to the Earl of
Carlisle, and captain of the guards, Jermyn was thoroughly
incensed, and resolved to make an exception in favour of the
countess by beginning those civilities which act as preludes to
intrigue. My lady, who was not judicious enough to be off with
the old love before she was on with the new, accepted Jermyn's
advances with an eagerness that gave promise of further favours.
This was highly displeasing to Howard, a brave and generous man,
who under an exterior of passive calmness concealed a spirit of
fearless courage. Though not desirous of picking a quarrel with
his rival, he was unwilling to suffer his impertinent
interference. Jermyn, on the other hand, not being aware of
Howard's real character, sought an early opportunity of insulting
him. Such being their dispositions, a quarrel speedily ensued,
which happened in this manner.
One fair summer day Captain Howard gave an entertainment at
Spring Gardens, in honour of the countess. These gardens were
situated close by Charing Cross, and opened into the spacious
walks of St. James's Park. Bounded on one side by a grove, and
containing leafy arbours and numerous thickets, the gardens were
"contrived to all the advantages of gallantry." The scene of
many an intrigue, they were constantly frequented by denizens of
the court and dwellers in the city, to whom they afforded
recreation and pleasure. In the centre of these fair gardens
stood a cabaret, or house of entertainment, where repasts were
served at exceeding high prices, and much good wine was drunk.
Here it was Captain Howard received my Lady Shrewsbury and a
goodly company, spread a delicate banquet for them, and for their
better diversion provided some excellent music played upon the
bagpipes, by a soldier noted for his execution on that
instrument.
Jermyn hearing of the great preparations Captain Howard made,
resolved to be present on the occasion; and accordingly, before
the hour appointed for dinner, betook himself to the garden, and
as if he had arrived there by accident, strolled leisurely down
the broad pleasant paths, bordered by pinks and fragrant roses
clustering in the hedgerows. And presently drawing nigh the
cabaret, he tarried there until the countess, rich in physical
graces, with sunny smiles upon her lips, and amorous light in her
eyes, stepped forth upon the balcony and greeted him. Whereon
his heart took fire: and entering the house, he joined her where
she stood, and held pleasant converse with her. Inflated by his
success, he resolved on making himself disagreeable to the host,
and therefore ventured to criticize the entertainment, and
ridicule the music, which he voted barbarous to civilized ears.
And to such an extent did he outrage Thomas Howard, that the
gallant captain, being more of a soldier than a courtier, and
therefore preferring passages at arms to those of wit, could
scarce refrain from drawing his sword and demanding the
satisfaction due to him.
However, he subdued his wrath till the day was spent, and early
next morning sent a challenge to his rival. Accordingly they met
with fierce intent, and the duel which followed ended almost
fatally for Jermyn, who was carried from the scene of encounter
bleeding from three wounds caused by his antagonist's sword.
The unfortunate issue of this fight deprived Lady Shrewsbury of
two lovers; for Howard, having rendered Jermyn unable to perform
the part of a gallant, was obliged to fly from the country and
remain abroad some time.
In their stead the countess sought consolation in the
companionship of Thomas Killigrew, a handsome man and a notable
courtier. She therefore had no regrets for the past: and he was
entirely happy in the present, so that he boasted of his
felicities to all acquaintance, in general, and to his friend the
Duke of Buckingham in particular. It was Killigrew's constant
habit to sup with his grace, on which occasions his conversation
invariably turned on her ladyship, when, his imagination being
heated by wine, he freely endowed her with the perfections of a
goddess. To such descriptions the duke could not listen unmoved;
and therefore resolved to judge for himself if indeed the
countess was such a model of loveliness as Killigrew represented.
Accordingly, at the first opportunity which presented itself, the
duke made love to her, and she, nothing averse to his attentions,
encouraged his affections. Killigrew was much aggrieved at this
unexpected turn of affairs, and bitterly reproached the countess;
but she, being mistress of the situation, boldly denied all
knowledge of him.
This was more than he expected or could endure, and he
consequently abused her roundly in all companies, characterizing
the charms of which he once boasted as faults he could not
endure; ridiculing her airs, and denouncing her conduct. Reports
of his comments and discourses speedily reached Lady Shrewsbury's
ears; and he was privately warned that if he did not desist means
would be taken to silence him effectually. Not being wise enough
to accept this hint he continued to vilify her. The result was,
one night when returning from the Duke of York's apartments he
was suddenly waylaid in St. James's Park, and three passes of a
sword made at him through his chair, one of which pierced his
arm. Not doubting they had despatched him to a better world, His
assailants made their escape; and my Lady Shrewsbury, who
singularly enough happened to be passing at the time in her
coach, and had stopped to witness the proceedings, drove off as
speedily as six horses could carry her.
Knowing it would be impossible to trace the villainy which had
prompted this deed to its source, Killigrew said not a word
concerning the murderous attempt, and henceforth held his peace
regarding his late mistress's imperfections. For some time she
continued her intrigue with the Duke of Buckingham without
interference. But in an evil hour it happened the Earl of
Shrewsbury, who had long entertained a philosophical indifference
towards her previous amours, now undertook to defend his honour,
which it was clear his Grace of Buckingham had sadly injured.
Accordingly he challenged the duke to combat, and in due time
they met face to face in a field by Barnes Elms. His grace had
as seconds Sir Robert Holmes and Captain William Jenkins; the
earl being supported by Sir John Talbot and Bernard Howard, son
of my Lord Arundel. The fight was brief and bloody; Lord
Shrewsbury, being run through the body, was carried from the
field in an insensible condition. The duke received but a slight
wound, but his friend Captain Jenkins was killed upon the spot.
The while swords clashed, blood flowed, and lives hung in a
balance, the woman who wrought this evil stood close by,
disguised as a page, holding the bridle of her lover's horse, as
Lord Orford mentions.
In consequence of this duel the Duke of Buckingham absented
himself from the capital; but two months after its occurrence
King Charles was pleased, "in contemplation of the services
heretofore done to his majesty by most of the persons engaged in
the late duel or rencontre, to graciously pardon the said
offence." Three months after the day on which he fought, Lord
Shrewsbury died from effects of his wounds, when the duke boldly
carried the widow to his home. The poor duchess, who had
patiently borne many wrongs, could not stand this grievous and
public insult, and declared she would not live under the same
roof with so shameless a woman. "So I thought, madam," rejoined
her profligate lord, "and have therefore ordered your coach to
convey you to your father."
The countess continued to live with her paramour; nor was the
court scandalized. The queen, it is true, openly espoused the
cause of the outraged duchess, and sought to enlist sympathy on
her behalf; but so low was the tone of public morality that her
words were unheeded, and no voice was raised in protest against
this glaring infamy. Nay, the duke went further still in his
efforts towards injuring the wife to whom he owed so much, and
who loved him over-well; as he caused his chaplain, the Rev.
Thomas Sprat, to marry him to my Lady Shrewsbury; and
subsequently conferred on the son to which she gave birth, and
for whom the king stood godfather, his second title of Earl of
Coventry. His wife was henceforth styled by the courtiers
Dowager Duchess of Buckingham. It is worthy of mention that the
Rev. Thomas Sprat in good time became Bishop of Rochester, and,
it is written, "an ornament to the church among those of the
highest order."
One of the most extraordinary characters which figured in this
reign was Thomas Blood, sometimes styled colonel. He was
remarkable for his great strength, high courage, and love of
adventure. The son of an Irish blacksmith, he had, on the
outbreak of civil warfare in his native country, joined
Cromwell's army; and for the bravery he evinced was raised to the
rank of lieutenant, rewarded by a substantial grant of land, and
finally made a justice of the peace. At the restoration he was
deprived of this honour, as he was likewise of the property he
called his, which was returned to its rightful owner, an honest
royalist. Wholly dissatisfied with a government which dealt him
such hardships, he organised a plot to raise an insurrection in
Ireland, storm Dublin Castle, and seize the Duke of Ormond, then
lord lieutenant. This dark scheme was discovered by his grace;
the chief conspirators were accordingly seized, with the
exception of Blood, who succeeded in making his escape to
Holland. His fellow traitors were tried and duly executed.
From Holland, Blood journeyed into England, where, becoming
acquainted with some republicans, he entered into projects with
them calculated to disturb the nation's peace; which fact
becoming known, he was obliged to seek refuge in Scotland. Here
he found fresh employment for his restless energies, and in the
year 1666 succeeded in stirring up some malcontents to rebellion.
The revolt being quelled, he escaped to Ireland; and after a
short stay in that country returned once more to England, where
he sought security in disguise.
He lived here in peace until 1670, when he made an attempt no
less remarkable for its ingenuity than notable for its villainy.
Towards the end of that year the Prince of Orange, being in
London, was invited by the lord mayor to a civic banquet.
Thither the Duke of Ormond attended him, and subsequently
accompanied him to St. James's, where the prince then stayed. A
short distance from the palace gates stood Clarendon House, where
the duke then resided, and towards which he immediately drove, on
taking leave of his royal highness. Scarce had he proceeded a
dozen yards up St. James's Street, when his coach was suddenly
stopped by a band of armed and mounted men, who, hurriedly
surrounding his grace, dragged him from the carriage and mounted
him on a horse behind a stalwart rider. Word of command being
then given, the gang started at a brisk pace down Piccadilly.
Prompted by enemies of the duke, as well as urged by his own
desires to avenge his loss of property and the death of his
fellow-conspirators, Blood resolved to hang him upon the gallows
at Tyburn. That he might accomplish this end with greater speed
and security, he, leaving his victim securely buckled and tied to
the fellow behind whom he had been mounted, galloped forward in
advance to adjust the rope to the gallows, and make other
necessary preparations.
No sooner did the echo of his horse's hoofs die away, than the
duke, recovering the stupor this sudden attack had caused, became
aware that now was his opportunity to effect escape, if, indeed,
such were possible. He to whom his grace was secured was a burly
man possessed of great strength; the which Lord Ormond, being now
past his sixtieth year, had not. However, life was dear to him,
and therefore he began struggling with the fellow; and finally
getting his foot under the villain's, he unhorsed him, when both
fell heavily to the ground. Meanwhile his grace's coach having
driven to Clarendon House, the footmen had given an account of
the daring manner in which his abduction had been effected. On
this an alarm was immediately raised, and the porter, servants,
and others hastened down Piccadilly in search of their master,
fast as good horses could carry them.
They had proceeded as far as the village of Knightsbridge, when
reports of muskets, cries for help, and sounds of a scuffle they
could not see for darkness, fell upon their ears, and filled them
with alarm. The whole neighbourhood seemed startled, lights
flashed, dogs barked, and many persons rushed towards the scene
of encounter. Aware of this, the miscreants who had carried off
the duke discharged their pistols at him, and leaving him, as
they supposed, for dead, fled to avoid capture, and were seen or
heard of no more. His grace was carried in an insensible
condition to a neighbouring house, but not having received
serious hurt, recovered in a few days. The court and town were
strangely alarmed by this outrage; nor as time passed was there
any clue obtained to its perpetrators, though the king offered a
thousand pounds reward for their discovery.
The duke and his family, however, had little doubt his grace of
Buckingham was instigator of the deed; and Lord Ossory was
resolved the latter should be made aware of their conviction.
Therefore, entering the royal drawing-room one day, he saw the
duke standing beside his majesty, and going forward addressed
him. "My lord," said he in a bold tone, whilst he looked him
full in the face, "I know well that you are at the bottom of this
late attempt upon my father; and I give you fair warning, if my
father comes to a violent end by sword or pistol, or if he dies
by the hand of a ruffian, or by the more secret way of poison, I
shall not be at a loss to know the first author of it: I shall
consider you as the assassin; I shall treat you as such; and
wherever I meet you I shall pistol you, though you stood behind
the king's chair; and I tell you it in his majesty's presence,
that you may be sure I shall keep my word." No further attempt
was made upon the Duke of Ormond's life.
Scarce six months elapsed from date of the essayed abduction,
before Blood endeavoured to steal the regalia and royal jewels
preserved in the Tower. The courage which prompted the design is
not more remarkable than the skill which sought to effect it;
both were worthy a man of genius. In the month of April, 1671,
Blood, attired in the cassock, cloak, and canonical girdle of a
clergyman, together with a lady, whom he represented as his wife,
visited the Tower on purpose to see the crown. With their desire
Mr. Edwards, the keeper, an elderly man and a worthy, readily
complied. It chanced they were no sooner in the room where the
regalia was kept, than the lady found herself taken suddenly and
unaccountably ill, and indeed feared she must die; before bidding
adieu to life, she begged for a little whisky. This was promptly
brought her, and Mrs. Edwards, who now appeared upon the scene,
invited the poor gentlewoman to rest upon her bed. Whilst she
complied with this kind request, the clergyman and Edwards had
time to improve their acquaintance, which indeed bade fair
towards speedily ripening into friendship.
And presently the lady recovering, she and her spouse took their
leave with many expressions of gratitude and respect. Four days
later, the good parson called on Mrs. Edwards, in order to
present her with four pairs of fine new gloves, which she was
pleased to receive. This gracious act paved the way to further
friendship, which at last found its climax in a proposal of
marriage made by the parson on behalf of his nephew, for the hand
of young Mistress Edwards. "You have a pretty gentlewoman for
your daughter," said the clergyman, "and I have a young nephew,
who has two or three hundred pounds a year in land, and is at my
disposal; if your daughter be free, and you approve of it, I will
bring him hither to see her, and we will endeavour to make a
match of it."
To this project Edwards readily consented, and invited the
clergyman and the young man to spend a day with him when they
could discourse on the subject with greater leisure and more
satisfaction. This was cordially agreed to by the parson, who,
with the bridegroom elect and two of his friends, presented
themselves on the appointed date, as early as seven of the clock
in the morning. Edwards was up betimes; but the good clergyman,
apologizing for the untimely hour of their arrival, which he
attributed to his nephew's eagerness for sight of his mistress,
declared he would not enter the keeper's apartments until Mrs.
Edwards was ready to receive them. However, in order to pass the
time, he begged his host might show the jewels to their young
friends.
With this petition Edwards complied readily enough. One of the
men, protesting he did not care to see the treasures, waited at
the door; the other three entered with the keeper, who was no
sooner inside the room than a cloak was thrown over his head, a
gag, constructed of wood with a hole in it by which he might
breathe, clapped into his mouth, and the more effectually to
prevent him making a noise, an iron ring was fastened to his
nose. He was told if he attempted an alarm he would be instantly
killed, but if he remained quiet his life should be spared.
Blood and his two accomplices then seized upon the crown, orb,
and sceptre, seeing which, Edwards made as much noise as he
possibly could by stamping on the floor, whereon the robbers
struck him with a mallet on the head, stabbed him with a short
sword in the side, and left him, as they thought, for dead.
Blood then secured the regalia under his cloak, one of his
companions put the orb into his breeches pocket, whilst the other
proceeded to file the sceptre that it might be more conveniently
carried.
Now, at this moment it happened the keeper's son, who had been
absent in Flanders, returned to his father's home. He who stood
sentinel asked him with whom he would speak, whereon young
Edwards said he belonged to the house, and so passed to the
apartments where his family resided. The other giving notice of
his arrival, the robbers hastened to depart, leaving the sceptre
behind them. No sooner had they gone, than the old man struggled
to his feet, dragged the gag from his mouth, and cried out in
fright: "Treason--murder--murder--treason!" On this his
daughter rushed down, and seeing the condition of her father, and
noting the absence of the regalia, continued his cry, adding,
"The crown is stolen--thieves--thieves!"
Young Edwards and another who heard her, Captain Beekman, now
gave pursuit to the robbers, who had already got beyond the main
guard. Word was instantly shouted to the warder of the
drawbridge to stop the villains, but Blood was equal to this
emergency; coolly advancing, he discharged his pistol at the man,
who instantly fell. The thieves then crossed the bridge, passed
through the outward gate, and made for the street close by, where
their horses awaited them, crying the while, "Stop thief! stop
thief!" Before they advanced far, Captain Beekman came up with
Blood, who, turning quickly round, fired his second pistol at the
head of his pursuer; but Beekman, suddenly stooping, escaped
injury, and sprang at the throat of his intended assassin. A
struggle then ensued. Blood was a man of powerful physique, but
Beekman was lithe and vigorous, and succeeded in holding the
rogue until help arrived. In the contest, the regalia fell to
the ground, when a fair diamond and a priceless pearl were lost;
they were, however, eventually recovered. The other thieves were
likewise captured, and all of them secured in the Tower.
Certain death now faced Blood; but the wonderful luck which had
befriended him during life did not desert him now. At this time
the Duke of Buckingham was high in favour with the king, and
desirous of saving one who had secretly served him; or fearing
exposure if Blood made a full confession, his grace impressed
Charles with a desire to see the man who had perpetrated so
daring a deed, saying he must be one possessed of extraordinary
spirit. Giving ready ear to his words, the monarch consented to
have an interview with the robber, for which purpose he gave
orders Blood should be brought to Whitehall.
Those who heard of the king's resolution felt satisfied Blood
need not despair of life; "for surely," said Sir Robert
Southwell, on becoming aware of his majesty's design, "no king
should wish to see a malefactor but with intentions to pardon
him." Now Blood, being a man of genius, resolved to play his
part during the audience in a manner which would favourably
impress the king. Therefore when Charles asked him how he had
dared attempt so bold a robbery, Blood made answer he had lost a
fine property by the crown, and was resolved to recover it with
the crown. Diverted by his audacity his majesty questioned him
further, when Blood confessed to his attempted abduction of the
Duke of Ormond, but refused to name his accomplices. Nay, he
narrated various other adventures, showing them in a romantic
light; and finally concluded by telling the king he had once
entered into a design to take his sacred life by rushing upon him
with a carbine from out of the reeds by the Thames side, above
Battersea, when he went to swim there; but he was so awed by
majesty his heart misgave him, and he not only relented, but
persuaded the remainder of his associates from such an intention.
This strange interview resulted in Charles pardoning Blood his
many crimes. The Duke of Ormond, at his majesty's request,
likewise forgave him. Nor did the king's interest in the villain
end here; for he gave him a pension of five hundred pounds a
year, and admitted him to his private friendship. Blood was
therefore constantly at court, and made one of that strange
assembly of wits and profligates which surrounded the throne.
"No man," says Carte the historian, "was more assiduous than he.
If anyone had a business at court that stuck, he made his
application to Blood as the most industrious and successful
solicitor; and many gentlemen courted his acquaintance, as the
Indians pray to the devil, that he may not hurt them. He was
perpetually in the royal apartments, and affected particularly to
be in the same room where the Duke of Ormond was, to the
indignation of all others, though neglected and overlooked by his
grace."
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