A lady of the last century

by Dr. Doran

CHAPTER X.

December 20, 1778. Mrs. Scott to Mrs. Robinson, Denton.—“... Miss Coke is a most extraordinary character, and, in my opinion, a most contemptible one, though I suppose she thinks herself a heroine. I have great compassion on one who blushes at her frailties, or rather her vices, for I hate those mincing names, designed only to palliate wrong actions; but I detest a woman who glories in her shame, and sets the world at defiance. Such desperate spirits should not be clad in feminine bodies. They are fit only for Sixteen-string Jack and his brother ruffians. Your daughter may in due time fall in love; nay, tho’ not very probable, she may even fall, in a stronger sense of the word; ... but I will venture to answer for her never being one of those intrepid damsels who brazen out their vices, and, without any change of countenance, raise blushes on the cheeks of all their sex. If she ever does ill, she will do it sneakingly; will feel the censure of others, and, suffering for her own, will rectify her errors. However, I am apt to believe she will escape clear of any of this nature.

“... The new singer at the Pantheon is said to be the most extraordinary that ever was heard; unlike every one that ever sang before; very much like a bird, and the compass of her voice far above whatever was known. She has one hundred guineas a night. When, in infancy, she was taken out of a ditch, after a boar or a hog had devoured one fesse,—car elle est aussi mal partagée que la suivante de la Princesse Cunegonda,—who would have imagined she could ever be so great a lady? All her charms are centred in her voice; for she is exceedingly ugly.”

December 31, 1778. Mrs. S. to Mrs. R.—“On my brother (William) Robinson’s return from Burfield, he will be in better spirits, as a light heart and a thin pair of breeches is a conjunction he has little notion of. I fancy when he feels the gain of godliness in his pocket, he will be mighty alert and joyous, and have a better idea of a merry Christmas than he has ever yet formed.”

Mrs. Montagu’s letters now succeed.

To Mrs. Robinson. “Tunbridge Wells, 1778. ... I love London extremely, where one has the choice of society, but I hate ye higgledy-piggledy of the watering-places. One never sees an owl in a flock of wild geese, nor a pigeon in the same company as hawks and kites. I leave it to the naturalists to determine on ye merit of each species of fowl. All I assert is, that nature has designed birds of a feather should flock together. On the menagerie of the Pantiles there is not so just an assortment. However, I have been fortunate now in finding Lady Spencer, Lady Clermont, Mrs. Boughton, Mr. and Mrs. Wedderburne, and many of my voluntary London society here. There was a pretty good ball last Tuesday; and Lady Spencer and the Duchess of Devonshire were so good as to chaperone Miss Gregory; so I did not think it necessary for me to sit and see the graces of Messrs. L’Epy Valhouys and Mlle. Heinel exhibited by the misses. I understand there are not above three dancing-men, and the master of the ceremonies makes one of this number.

“Minouet dancing is just now out of fashion; and by the military air and dress of many of the ladies, I should not be surprised if backsword and cudgell playing should take place of it. I think our encampment excellent for making men less effeminate; but if they make our women more masculine, the male and female character, which should ever be kept distinct, will now be more so than they have been.

“... We still have fine weather here, and I agree with you, that the dust and other little inconveniences that attend a dry season are not to be put in any account. I would have months of dust for one fine day.

“... I have not said anything yet to you of my poor father. The subject is a very melancholy one. At present, all one can hope for him is an easy exit. The great decay of his mental powers has for some time rendered him an object of great pity; yet, to my unspeakable indignation, I was told by a gentleman here, that one of ye whist-party at the coffee-house, some months ago, had not only refus’d to pay a debt of eighteen guineas, which he owed my father, but had triumphed over him in a shocking manner, asserting his loss of memory and imbecillity. What a wretch must it be that would insult an old man. Extream old age is little to be coveted. In a long life one must outlive one’s friends, and, perhaps, oneself. I imagine by the accounts of to-day, that the great deliverer from human woes has before this time given him his release. My porter calls every night, just before the last letter bell, to let me know how he does....

“It is much the fashion here to go and see the camp at Coxheath.... My father’s illness would make it impossible for me to go; and I had much rather have the honour of seeing their majesties at St. James’s. Of all fields, the field of Mars is that I like least. The fields which sustain manhood are pleasant objects; those in which they are destroyed, suggest melancholly ideas.

“The fine condition in which I found my estates in Northumberland and in Yorkshire, and the universal prosperity there, made me wish we might enjoy our plenty in peace, run no new hazards, and incur no new taxes. The labouring people in the north do not suffer the poverty we see in the same rank in the south, and our parish rates are very low.

“... Lord Kames and Mrs. Drummond, his wife, came from Edinburgh, which is an hundred miles from Denton, on purpose to spend a few days with me. His lordship is a prodigy. At eighty-three he is as gay and as nimble as he was at twenty-five. His sight, hearing, and memory perfect. He has a great deal of knowledge and a lively imagination, and is a most entertaining companion. I have promised to return his visit two years hence. I think as he has not grown old in the space of eighty-three years, two years more cannot have much effect. If it should abate a little of his vivacity, he would still have enough left.”

“Sandleford, February 10, 1779. ... I am inform’d that our minister at Lisbon sends an account that Admiral Rodney fell in with the Spanish fleet in the Gulf of Gibraltar, has blown up the admiral’s ship of ninety guns, taken four or five ships, and only one has got into Cadiz. This news is but just arrived. Rule, Brittannia, rule the waves. There is an admirable work of Mr. Anstey’s just published called ‘Speculation; or, a Defence of Manhood,’ a poem.

“... Montagu is still at Harrow.... His master says more of him than it becomes me to repeat; so I will, for once in my life, show more discretion than vanity.”

To Mrs. Robinson. “Sandleford, June ye 13th, 1779. ... As I had not been to Bath since the Circus was finished and the Crescent began, I was much struck with the beauty of the town. In point of society and amusement, it comes next (but after a long interval) to London. There are many people established at Bath who were once of the polite and busy world, so they retain a certain politeness of manner and vivacity of mind which one cannot find in many country towns. All contracted societies, where there are no great objects of pursuit, must in time grow a little narrow and un peu fade; but then there is an addition of company by people who come to the waters, from all the active parts of life, and they throw a vivacity into conversation which we must not expect from persons whose chief object was the odd trick or a sans prendre. Cards is the great business of the inhabitants of Bath. The ladies, as is usual in little societies, are some of them a little gossiping and apt to find fault with the cap, the gown, the manner, or the understandings of their neighbours. But that does not much concern the water-drinkers, who, not being resident, are not the objects of their envy; and, I must say, they are all very obliging to strangers. As the primate of Ireland was at Bath almost all the time I was there, I had the daily pleasure of passing my time in the most agreable society; for such is that of a person of his noble mind, endeared still more by his friendship to our family.

“I did not go at all to the publick rooms, which are hot and noisy. As much as I could, I excused myself from private assemblies. So, when the primate, Lord Stormont, and some others of my acquaintance who happened to be at Bath, had an idle hour, they bestowed it on me. The Bishop of Peterborough, very unluckily for me, went away the day I came to Bath. We just met at Marlbro’. Another agreable acquaintance of mine, the Provost of Eton, arrived only just before I came away. Mr. Anstey was often with me, and you will believe he is very droll and entertaining; but what recommends him more, is his great attention to his family. He has eight children. He instructs his boys in the Greek and Latin, so that they are fitted for the upper forms of Eton School, where their education is finished. He has a house in the Crescent, at which he resides the greatest part of the year. Mrs. Anstey is a very sensible, amiable woman, and does not deal in the gossip of the place. There is also Mr. Hamilton in the Crescent. He is very polite, agreable, and has been much abroad and lived much in the great world.

“I should dislike the Bath much less, if the houses were larger. I always take the largest that can be got in the Circus or Crescent. On the outside it appears a good stone edifice; in the inside, it is a nest of boxes, in which I should be stifled, if the masonry were not so bad as to admit winds at many places. The society and mode of life are infinitely preferable to what one can find in any other country town, but much less agreable than London. I believe if I was to act the part of Minos in this World, I should use it as a kind of purgatory, to which I should send those who had not the taste or qualifications which deserved to be put into the capital city, nor were yet so disagreably unsociable as to merit suffering the terrors and horrors of a long winter in the country.”

The devotion of Bath visitors to cards has been satirised in many an epigram, more or less pointed. There were certain individuals among them who were not likely to come under the eye of Mrs. Montagu, but who did not escape the notice of Fielding. “I have known a stranger at Bath,” he says, in the first volume of “Amelia,” “who has happened fortunately (I might almost say unfortunately) to have four by honours in his hand almost every time he dealt for a whole evening, shunned universally by the whole company the next day!”

“Mr. Anstey, in a little excursion from home, called here on his way to London, where he arrived just to behold the horrors of the conflagration. On his return back, he made me another visit, and his countenance bore the impression of horror, from the dreadful things he had beheld. He got back to Bath just in time to be present at ye riots there.

“Tho’ I am not personally acquainted with the family of Sir E. Knatchbull, I cannot help being glad the heir of it has made so proper a match. I have heard a good character of the young lady. She has a noble fortune, and, by her mother, must be allied to the best families in Kent. Commerce has so enriched this kingdom, that in every county there are some new gentry who eclypse those ancient families which once had the superiority, and I must own I love to see it return to them. The mellow dignity of a gentleman is infinitely preferable to the crude pride of a nabob. I believe you are acquainted with Sir Archer and Lady Croft. They are now come to live in their house in this neighbourhood. It had been lett to a mad West Indian, who ruined his fortune, and then shot himself; after that, to a nabob. I never visit the West Indians in my neighbourhood, because they would teach my servants to drink rum; nor the nabobs, lest they should teach them to want to eat turtle and rich dainties. So I had not been at Dunstan till the other day, since the old proprietor left it.

“I find the lower kind of neighbours are not pleased with Sir A. and Lady Croft, because they are not so profuse as the West, nor magnificent as the East, Indian; but they seem to me very well-bred people.

“My nephew Robinson, according to the primate’s advice, is studying hard at Cambridge this vacation. He has very good sense and an uncommon memory, so he will reap great advantage from application to study. The generality of young people in these days spend all their time in travelling from place to place. Such a life may fit them to be surveyors of highroads, or, if very ingenious, to make maps of England, but for nothing better. An uniformity of life goes far in forming a consistency of character.

“It would have done no harm to Montagu to have practised lessons of idleness rather than study; from the last, there is not anything to divert him here.

“I am very sorry I have not a frank in Denton. However, that my double letter may not put your pocket, as well as patience, to double expence, I convey it to London in a frank, to save half the charges.”

To Mrs. Robinson. “Sandleford, August 18, 1779.—Montagu’s master wrote me a letter on my nephew’s leaving Harrow, giving him every praise I could have wish’d, and desiring me to give him his portrait to hang up with those of four of his distinguish’d scholars who had left his school there. Those young men have since had a considerable reputation at the university, and I hope my young friend will have the same. But one fears for youth in every new stage it is to pass through. He was this summer admitted of Trinity College. I should have preferr’d St. John’s, as the discipline there is stricter; but his tutor, Mr. Gilbank, being of Trinity, I could not continue my nephew under his daily inspection if he was not at the same college; and tho’ the salary I give the tutor makes a considerable difference in the expence, yet if parents are to be pardon’d who spoil the child by sparing the rod, they are not so who spoil the child to spare the guinea.”

Referring to the marriage of the daughter of her brother Charles, she says: “... I imagine this week my neice at Canterbury is made a happy bride, and what is better, in the probability of being a happy wife. Mr. Hougham has a very good character, and I believe my neice is very amiable. Discretion and good-humour are the great sources of domestick happiness.... I dare say my dear neice (Mary) adorned the ball at Canterbury with a charming minouet. I believe the present Miss Robinsons excell by far in that respect the former Miss Robinsons. And I heartily wish all the steps they take in life may be with more smoothness and more graces.

“I am impatient to have my new house fit for habitation, as I think the large and high rooms and its airy situation will be of great service to my health; and I am sure such noble apartments will be a great addition to my pleasures. In the winter of the year and the winter of our life, our principal enjoyments must be in our own house.... I suppose I shall be advised to take some Bath waters before the winter sets in.... I will get the better of my passion for my new house, which is almost equal to that of a lover to a mistress whom he thinks very handsome and very good, and such as will make him enjoy the dignity of life with ease, yet I will give as much of the autumn as I shall be advis’d to the Bath waters.... I have found much more benefit from Bath waters than I have from Tunbridge for some years past; and the accommodations at Bath are infinitely preferable. There are not above two houses on Mount Ephraim and Mount Pleasant that are not mere hovels; the bedchambers are so low and small that one is stifled; and, if the weather is bad, one is confin’d all day in a little parlour not much larger than a bird-cage; so that unless one goes to Tunbridge at the beginning of the season, one is miserably accommodated.

“The airings round Bath are delightful. From every window of my house in the Crescent I had the most beautiful prospects imaginable; so that I enjoyed the sweet face of the fair month of May in all her blooming charms.

“... I am very far from laughing at you, as you suppose, for indulging reveries about your son’s marrying. I often allow my fancy to dance at Montagu’s wedding; and the times are such I can hardly restrain it from attending his divorce bill through the Houses of Lords and Commons. However, it is better to suppose the times will mend. We do more wisely, when we sweeten present cares with the prospect of future pleasures, than when we embitter present pleasures with future apprehensions.”

When Mrs. Montagu made the last reflection, she probably had in her mind the lines in her favourite “Comus:”

“... Be not over exquisite

To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;

For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,

Why need a man forestall his date of grief,

And run to meet what he would most avoid?”

“... I have two objects in a daily state of improvement—my nephew Montagu and my new house. Many people would say my pleasure in both will be less when they are arriv’d at their state of perfection, but I am not of that opinion. The pleasures of expectation and of possession are different, but the quiet serenity of the latter is, methinks, the best.”

To Mrs. Robinson. “December ye 29th, 1779. ... Our town amours present us with every thing that is horrible. Women without religion or virtue, and men void even of a sense of honour. Never till now did one hear of three divorces going forward in one session, in which the ladies of the most illustrious rank and families in Great Britain were concern’d. Lady Percy was the wife of a nobleman of a most distinguished merit, who had a mind too noble to be satisfied with the greatest hereditary wealth and honours, has, merely to serve his king and country, exposed himself to all the difficulties and dangers of military service. Lord Carmarthen is the prettiest man in his person; the most polite and pleasing in his manners, with a sweet temper and an excellent Understanding, happily cultivated. As to Lord Derby, to be sure, he has nothing on his side but the seventh commandment; but that should be sufficient, and was sufficient, in former times. Her family, it is said, triumph that this divorce is only an ugly step to an elevation of title. However, the name of an adulteress will surely blot whatever shall be written over it, even were it an imperial title. It is said, however, that Lord D. will be only divorced in the Spiritual Court; and, in that case, he will have the revenge of keeping her in her present awkward situation; but while he is punishing the faithless Wife, he is doing the greatest service to her gallant (the Duke of Dorset), whom he prevents from incurring infamy and also getting a most extravagant wife.

“I approve much of your getting a dance once a week for the young folks, and I am particularly glad my nephew is of the party. Grace of person is more important for a woman than a man; but the capacity of dancing a minouet is more serviceable to a young man, for, by so doing, he obliges many young ladies, while the minouet miss seldom pleases any girl but herself. Unless a girl is very beautiful, very well-shaped, and very genteel, she gives little pleasure to the spectators of her minouet; and, indeed, so unpolite are the setters-by in all assemblies, that they express a most ungrateful joy when the minouets are over. For my part, tho’ I feel as great ennui as my neighbours on those occasions, I never allow myself to appear so; for I look upon a minouet to be generally an act of filial piety, which gives real pleasure to fathers, mothers, and aunts.... In France, good minouets are clapped; but I believe no nation arrived at such a degree of civilization as to encore them.

“... I do not know whether I am more stupid than other people, but I neither find any of the vexation some find in building, nor the great amusement others tell me they experience in it. Indeed, if it were not that a house must be building before it can be built, I should never have been a builder.... I have not had a quarter of an hour’s pain or pleasure from the operation. I have not met with the least disappointment or mortification. It has gone on as fast and well as I expected, and, when it is habitable, I shall take great pleasure in it; for it is an excellent house, finely situated, and just such as I have always wish’d, but never hoped, to have.

“... I know that in some little alterations we made at Sandleford, the country workmen were so tedious, we were obliged to send for carpenters from London; but here we have such a plenty of Hands, that everything goes continually on.

The Minuet

Photogravure from the painting by E. L. Garrido

“... I was grieved to see Scott’s Hall advertised to be sold. It is a pity such an ancient family should be rooted up to plant some upstart nabob in its place.

“... I suppose your consort was concerned at the indiscretion of his Pallas, Mrs. Macaulay. Had she married a great-great-grandson of one of the regicides, however youthful he had been, it might have been pardonable; but the second mate of a surgeon to an Indian man-of-war, of twenty-two, seems no way accountable. If ye Minerva she carried on the outside of her coach had been consulted, no doubt but the sage goddess, even in effigy, would have given signs of disapprobation. I have sent you some verses of Mr. Anstey’s on the subject. The first copy he put into the urn, at Mrs. Millar’s, at Batheaston; and being desired, when he drew them, to read them a second time, instead of so doing, he read the other copy.”

“Bath, November ye 21, 1780. ... It was time for Montagu to go to Cambridge, where I had rather he had lectures and took degrees under alma mater than under the goddess of folly and dissipation here. In these water-drinking places, every one is more idle and more silly than at their respective homes, where all have some business, and many most important pursuits. I consider, really, life here as a mere dream. Some walk very gracefully, and talk very agreably in their sleep; but a young man should not begin life by acting Le Sonambule. It is very well to do so between the acts of a busy drama, or, alas! as a farce, when the chief catastrophe is over, and the curtain is dropped between the busy world and us.... The primate of Ireland is here. He very kindly sent to my nephew Morris to come to him. Under such protection, I think Bath as good a place as any he can be in. The advantage of domestick society with the primate is the greatest imaginable; nor could any parent behave with more real kindness to the young man, whose gratitude and deference to his grace make the best return that can be to such goodness.... My Nephew very wisely and laudably pursued, with the greatest application, the course of classical studies the primate wish’d him to fall into; and it is with great satisfaction I hear his grace speak of what he has done, with the highest approbation.

“... My new house is almost ready.... I propose to move all my furniture from Hill Street thither, and to let my house unfurnished till a good purchaser offers. Then, should I get a bad tenant, I can seize his goods for rent; and such security becomes necessary in these extravagant times.

“... Doctor Moisey being dead, I applied to Doctor de la Cour, your friend, when I had my cold, to know if I might drink the waters. The poor doctor is very sickly, and, perhaps, from that reason, he is the most inattentive physician I ever knew or heard of. He is very agreable in conversation, but does not remember for a whole day what he has ordered. He suits me very well at present; for I want no medical help, and I always love a lively companion. He took three guineas of me, for which I had some saline draughts and a long direction as to food, the quantity of water to be taken.... The saline draughts were very good and the food was very wholesome; but as I knew before that those draughts were good for a cold, and mutton and chicken easy of digestion, I rather regret my three guineas. But this is between ourselves; for I never say what may hurt a man in his profession; so that, when others complain of a loss of memory and inattention, I am silent.”

The period has now arrived in which some notice is required of the Bluestockings, of the date of whose origin Boswell has made an erroneous statement.

CHAPTER XI.
THE BLUESTOCKINGS

To Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Vesey (a warm-hearted Irish lady), and Mrs. Ord (daughter of an eminent surgeon, named Dillingham, and subsequently a wealthy widow) is generally ascribed the merit of having founded parties where conversation should form the chief, if not only, occupation. But there was a lady much connected with the above, and, indeed, with all the Blues, to whom may be assigned the honour of first attacking what it was the object of the Bluestockings to overthrow, namely, Miss Mulso, better known to us as Mrs. Chapone,—a name which she acquired by marriage in 1760. When this lady was about twenty-three (1750), she, in concert with Johnson, wrote the tenth number of the Rambler. Under the character of Lady Racket, she sent compliments to that censor of manners, and “lets him know she will have cards at her house every Sunday, ... where he will be sure of meeting all the good company in town.... She longs to see the torch of truth produced at an assembly, and to admire the charming lustre it will throw on the jewels, complexions, and behaviour of every dear creature there.”

Of course, this note was written as a text to which Johnson might append a comment that should sharply censure that card-playing against which intellectual ladies were beginning to set their faces and close their doors. Accordingly, the Rambler remarks: “At card-tables, however brilliant, I have always thought my visit lost; for I could know nothing of the company but their clothes and their faces. I saw their looks clouded at the beginning of every game, with a uniform solicitude now and then in its progress, varied with a short triumph, at one time wrinkled with cunning; at another, deadened with despondency, or, by accident, flushed with rage at the unskilful or unlucky play of a partner. From such assemblies ... I was quickly forced to retire; they were too trifling for me when I was grave, and too dull when I was cheerful.” When Johnson suggests to Lady Racket to “light up her apartments with myrtle,” he seems to have made the suggestion which ladies of sense and means adopted, and for which they were ridiculed and nicknamed by persons as brainless as any of the figures staring stupidly at nothing on the court cards.

There already existed, however, conversation parties that were as little attractive to persons of good taste as the ruinous card-tables were to persons of prudence. In one of the few letters of Mrs. Scott which survived her unfortunate request that all should be destroyed, she thus wrote of card-parties and conversations in the very year, 1750, that Johnson and Miss Mulso combined in the Rambler to reform both:

“I find no objection to large companies, except the want of society in them.... I have not the natural requisite for society—the love of cards.... I excuse myself from card-parties by saying I have a great dislike to sitting by a card-table, which no one can pretend is unreasonable; and I find nothing is so useful as asserting one’s liberty in these ceremonious points: it gives little offence, and without it, one may remain all one’s life the suffering slave of a painful civility.... I am glad, by-the-bye, there are such things as cards in the world; for otherwise one would be teazed by eternal conversation parties, which are terrible things. I seldom venture into a Sunday-night circle, and I quite disclaimed them a year before I left London. The principal speakers are always those to whom one is the least inclined to attend. Every day in the week would be as much taken up with these parties, if cards did not conquer even the love of talking.”

Mrs. Montagu, a year before she acquired that name, had expressed her distaste for the flashy conversation of her time. In a letter to her sister Sarah, she describes one of the “talkers” with great vivacity. “Mr. B——’s wife put out her strength to be witty, and, in short, showed such a brilliant genius, that I turned about and asked who it was that was so willing to be ingenious; for she had endeavoured to go off two or three times, but had unhappily flashed in the pan.” In 1750, Mrs. Montagu and some other ladies attempted to reform manners, by having parties where cards could not be thought of, and where the mental power was freshest for conversation.

In that year, 1750, there was a charming French lady taking notes amongst us. Madame du Bocage, in her “Letters on England, Holland, and Italy,” notices Mrs. Montagu; and from the notice may be learned, that the last-named lady was already giving entertainments of a nature to benefit society. While at the Duke of Richmond’s, as many as eighteen card-tables were “set for playing” in the gallery of his house near Whitehall, with supper and wine to follow, for the consolation of the half-ruined, and congratulation of the lucky, gamblers, Mrs. Montagu gave breakfasts. Madame du Bocage thus speaks of them and of the hostess:

“In the morning, breakfasts, which enchant as much by the exquisite viands as by the richness of the plate on which they are served up, agreably bring together the people of the country and strangers. We breakfasted in this manner to-day, April 8, 1750, at Lady Montagu’s” (as Madame du Bocage mistakenly calls her), “in a closet lined with painted paper of Pekin, and furnished with the choicest movables of China. A long table, covered with the finest linen, presented to the view a thousand glittering cups, which contained coffee, chocolate, biscuits, cream, butter, toasts, and exquisite tea. You must understand that there is no good tea to be had anywhere but in London. The mistress of the house, who deserves to be served at the table of the gods, poured it out herself. This is the custom, and, in order to conform to it, the dress of the English ladies, which suits exactly to their stature, the white apron and the pretty straw hat, become them with the greatest propriety, not only in their own apartments, but at noon, in St. James’s Park, where they walk with the stately and majestic gait of nymphs.”

Mrs. Montagu was not the only lady who gave those literary breakfasts. Lady Schaub (a foreign lady who would marry Sir Luke) received company at those pleasant repasts. Madame du Bocage met Frederick Prince of Wales at one of them. The prince, who, with all his faults, was an accomplished gentleman, came incognito, so as to enjoy and to allow greater freedom. Madame du Bocage treated him as an ordinary gentleman, and was perfectly delighted with his conversation, as well as with his thorough knowledge of the literature of her own country. They gossiped beneath the Sigismunda (one of many fine pictures possessed by Sir Luke), which stirred Hogarth to paint the same subject, in rivalry, as he thought, with Corregio; but the picture was since discovered to be by Farini.

When the breakfasts gave way to the evening coteries for conversation (with orgeat, lemonades, tea, and biscuits) is not known. After these had lasted a few years, the word “Bluestocking” occurs for the first time in Mrs. Montagu’s letters. Writing, in March, 1757, to Dr. Monsey, she says: “Our friend, Mr. Stillingfleet, is more attached to the lilies of the field than to the lilies of the town, who toil and spin as little as the others, and, like the former, are better arrayed than Solomon in all his glory. I assure you, our philosopher is so much a man of pleasure, he has left off his old friends and his blue stockings, and is at operas and other gay assemblies every night; so imagine whether a sage doctor, a dropsical patient, and a bleak mountain are likely to attract him.” Mr. Benjamin Stillingfleet used to be seen as often at Mrs. Vesey’s gatherings as at Mrs. Montagu’s. “Bluestocking” was not a term exclusively applied to Mrs. Montagu’s assemblies. To all assemblies where ladies presided and scholars were welcomed, the name seems to have been given. A “Bluestocking club” never existed. The title was given in derision by persons who, as before said, lacked the brains, or who were not distinguished by other merits that would have entitled them to an invitation. The assemblies of Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Vesey, and Mrs. Ord were spoken of indifferently as bas-bleu assemblies.

Sir William Forbes, in his “Life of Beattie,” states that the society of eminent friends who met at Mrs. Montagu’s originally consisted of Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Vesey, Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. Carter, Lord Lyttelton, the Earl of Bath (Pulteney), Horace Walpole, and Mr. Stillingfleet. Around these some of the most distinguished persons of intellect used to assemble. Mrs. Vesey (daughter of the Bishop of Ossory and wife of Agmondesham Vesey), says Sir William, was another centre of pleasing and rational society. Without attempting to shine herself, she had the happy secret of bringing forward talents of every kind, and for diffusing over the society the gentleness of her own character. Mrs. Boscawen (née Granville, wife of the renowned admiral), unknown to the literary world, but made familiar to modern readers by her pleasant letters in the Delany correspondence, made herself welcome by “the strength of her understanding, the poignancy of her humour, and the brilliancy of her wit.” Sir William adds, that Stillingfleet was a learned man, negligent in his dress, and wearing gray stockings, which attracted Admiral Boscawen’s notice, and caused the gallant seaman to call the assembly of these friends the Bluestocking Society, as if to indicate that when those brilliant friends met, it was not for the purpose of forming a dressed assembly.

To one of the so-called Bluestocking Ladies, the once renowned Literary Club owed its name. Sir Joshua Reynolds proposed the formation of such a club; Johnson joyfully acceded, and “the club” was formed. Hawkins, one of the members, has left on record that “a lady, distinguished by her beauty and taste for literature, invited us two successive years to dinner at her house.” Hawkins does not name the hostess (opinion is divided between Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Vesey, and Mrs. Ord); but he ascribes her hospitality to curiosity as to a desire to intermingle with the conversation of the members the “charms of her own.” This idea of “conversation” in place of gambling and other fashionable follies, was the leading idea with the ladies who share the merit of having founded the Bluestocking assemblies. The hostess who received the club “affected,” says Hawkins, “to consider the members as literary men;” and he thinks it probable that the club thence derived an appellation which it never arrogated to itself. The Bluestockings and the Literary Clubbists seem to have had this in common: their discourse was miscellaneous, chiefly literary; politics were alone excluded. The last, however, were sometimes quietly discussed in one or other of the groups into which the assemblies under the leadership of ladies divided themselves.

Mrs. Montagu, being a thorough woman of business as well as a recognised leader in social life, did not make her house in Hill Street a “court for the votaries of the muses” all at once. She had a wholesome horror of being in debt, and she indulged her tastes only when her purse authorised the outlay. In 1767, she completed the Chinese-room which had charmed Madame du Bocage years before. “Mr. Adams,” as Mrs. Montagu informed Lord Kames, “has made me a cieling, and chimney-piece, and doors which are pretty enough to make me a thousand enemies. Envy,” she said, jestingly, “turns livid at the first glimpse of them.”

At this time, Mrs. Montagu had been living in Hill Street more than thirty years. It was not even at the later period the well-macadamised and broadly paved street it now is. A few of the original and noble houses still dignify the street. Mrs. Montagu began to reside there a short time before Lord Chesterfield removed from Grosvenor Square to Chesterfield House; namely, in 1748. In the June of that year, Chesterfield wrote to Mr. Dayrolles: “I am now extremely busy in moving to my new house, where I must be before Michaelmas next.... As my new house is situated among a parcel of thieves and murderers, I shall have occasion for a house-dog.” Chesterfield House is within a stone’s throw of Hill Street. The “thieves and murderers” were among the butchers of May Fair and Sheppard’s Market—not then cleared out for such streets as have since been erected on the site. Park Lane was then Tyburn Lane, and what with the fair of six weeks’ duration (with blackguardism and incidents of horror that will not bear repeating), and the monthly hangings at Tyburn, from which half the drunken and yelling spectators poured through May Fair, Hill Street, and adjacent outlets on their way to home and fresh scenes of riot,—between the fair, the gallows, and the neighbouring rascalry,—the district was not to be entered after dark without risk of the wayfarer being stripped by robbers. Footpads were as common between Hay Hill and Park Lane as highwaymen between Hounslow and Bagshot. Now, Hill Street looks as if no mounted gentleman of the road had ever quietly ridden through it on a summer’s evening westward, on felonious thoughts intent. Chesterfield House stands, but new mansions occupy its once brilliant gardens, whence all the gay spirits have been driven. In that locality no longer can it be said that—

“... round and round the ghosts of beauties glide,

Haunting the places where their honour died!”

In 1770, Hill Street, still unpaved, was most crowded with the carriages of visitors to Mrs. Montagu’s rooms. In the assemblies held there, the hostess had words for all, but she had no special idols; and this was not always gratifying to those who looked for idolatry. Boswell notices one night when “a splendid company had assembled, consisting of the most eminent literary characters. I thought he (Johnson) seemed highly pleased with the respect and attention that was shown him, and asked him on our return home if he were not highly gratified by his visit. ‘No, sir,’ said he; ‘not highly gratified, yet I do not recollect to have passed many evenings with fewer objections.’”

How “objectionable” Johnson could be to others is well known; but they took it good-naturedly. Soame Jenyns having been roughly treated by the doctor on one of these occasions, revenged himself by writing an anticipatory epitaph. It was probably read aloud at one of Mrs. Montagu’s coteries. The original is preserved, with half a hundred sprightly letters by Garrick, among the MSS. belonging to Earl Spencer.

“Here lies poor Johnson! Reader, have a care,

Tread lightly, lest you rouse a sleeping bear!

Religious, moral, generous, and humane

He was; but, self-sufficient, rude, and vain.

Ill-bred, and overbearing in dispute,

A scholar, and a Christian, and a brute.

Would you know all his wisdom and his folly,

His actions, sayings, mirth, and melancholy,

Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit,

Will tell you how he wrote, and talked, and coughed, and spit!”

Mrs. Garrick was among the ladies who met in Mrs. Montagu’s drawing-room, and she remained the fast friend of the latter till death parted them. About a quarter of a century had elapsed since, as Eva Violetti, Mrs. Garrick had made her first appearance on the stage as a dancer. In what guise she made her début was, doubtless, laughingly alluded to by the Bluestockings. The Earl of Strafford, who died childless, in 1791, has left a record of the fact in an unpublished letter (March, 1746) in the Cathcart collection. “She surprised her audience at her first appearance on the stage; for at her beginning to caper, she showed a neat pair of black velvet breeches, with roll’d stockings; but finding they were unusual in England, she changed them the next time for a pair of white drawers.” This was a joke for the more intimate circle in Hill Street. It is probable that it was at the more exclusive gatherings at Mrs. Montagu’s that the satirists, who had no title to enter, flung their shafts. “Beattie used to dwell with enthusiasm and delight,” says Sir William Forbes, “on those more private parties into which he had had the happiness of being admitted at Mrs. Montagu’s, consisting of Lord Lyttelton, Mrs. Carter, and one or two other most intimate friends, who spent their evenings in an unreserved interchange of thoughts; sometimes on critical and literary subjects; sometimes on those of the most serious and interesting nature.”

Mrs. Montagu’s assemblies were held within-doors. Other ladies varied the character of their entertainments. Lady Clermont (for example) was not more remarkable for her conversational parties than for her al fresco gatherings. In May, 1773, when living in St. James’s Place, she issued invitations to three hundred dear friends, “to take tea and walk in the Park.” It is said that the Duchess of Bedford, who then resided on the site now occupied by the north side of Bloomsbury Square, sent out cards to “take tea and walk in the fields.” It was expected that syllabubs would soon be milked in Berkeley Square, around the statue of his Majesty. Walpole speaks of being invited to Lady Clermont’s conversation pieces. These conversation pieces led to such easy manners, that etiquette was sometimes disregarded when it was most expected. Lady Clermont, for instance, being at a card-party at Gunnersbury, with many royal personages, and many witty ones, including Walpole, she remarked aloud that she was sure the Duke of Portland was dying for a pinch of snuff! and she pushed her own box toward him, across the Princess Amelia. Her fluttered Royal Highness, remembering that my lady had been much favoured by the Queen of France, said: “Pray, madam, where did you learn that breeding? Did the Queen of France teach it to you?”

The district around Berkeley Square, Hay Hill, Hill Street, etc., continued to be a dangerous district. Lord Cathcart, in an unpublished letter to his son William, dated December, 1774, affords an instance of the peril which people ran on their way to the houses of Mrs. Montagu, Lady Clermont, Lady Brown, and other residents of that neighbourhood. Lord Cathcart tells his son, that as his sisters and Mr. Graham (afterward Lord Lyndoch) were going to Lady Brown’s, in a coach, they were attacked by footpads on Hay Hill. One opened the door and demanded the company’s money. The future Lord Lyndoch showed the stuff of which that gallant soldier was made. He upset the robber who addressed them, then jumped out and secured him. The confederate took to his heels.

One night in the autumn of 1776, the house in Hill Street was crowded. The French ambassador and Mme. de Noailles were there, but the hero of the night was Garrick, who electrified his audience by reciting scenes from Macbeth and Lear. “Though they had heard so much of you,” Mrs. Montagu wrote to Roscius, “they had not the least idea such things were within the compass of art and nature. Lady Spencer’s eyes were more expressive than any human language.... She amazed them with telling them how you could look like a simpleton in Abel Drugger, had many comic arts equally surprising, when murderous daggers and undutiful daughters were out of the question.” Mme. de Noailles was so profuse, as she descended the stairs, in thanks for the great intellectual enjoyment, that Mrs. Montagu was afraid she would forget herself, and, by a false step, break her neck. She fervently hoped, too, that Garrick had not caught cold by going out into the air, “when warmed with that fire of genius which animated every look and gesture.”

In March, 1779, Johnson wrote to Mrs. Thrale: “On Monday, I came late to Mrs. Vesey. Mrs. Montagu was there. I called for the print” (of Mrs. Montagu, in the costume of Anne Boleyn) “and had good words. The evening was not brilliant but I had thanks for my company.” In October of the same year, Johnson wrote to Mrs. Thrale: “I have been invited twice to Mrs. Vesey’s conversation, but have not gone.”

Johnson has described a scene at one of the Bluestocking assemblies (Mrs. Ord’s) where, as he wrote to Mrs. Thrale: “I met one Mrs. Buller, a travelled lady of great spirit and some consciousness of her own abilities. We had a contest of gallantry an hour long, so much to the diversion of the company, that at Ramsay’s, last night, in a crowded room, they would have pitted us again. There were Smelt, and the Bishop of St. Asaph, who comes to every place, and Lord Monboddo, and Sir Joshua, and ladies out of tale.” On another night he was at Miss Monkton’s, the then young lady who many may remember as the old and eccentric Lady Cork. Mr. Langton, in a letter to Boswell, thus paints the groups of Bluestockings at the house of the lady who shared with Mrs. Montagu the glory of being their founder: “The company consisted chiefly of ladies, among whom were the Dowager Duchess of Portland, the Duchess of Beaufort, whom, I suppose from her rank, I must name before her mother, Mrs. Boscawen, and her eldest sister, Mrs. Lewson, who was likewise there, Lady Lucan, Lady Clermont, and others of note, both for their station and understandings. Amongst other gentlemen were Lord Althorp, Lord Macartney, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Lord Lucan, Mr. Wraxall (whose book you have probably seen, the ‘Tour to the Northern Parts of Europe,’ a very agreeable, ingenious man), Dr. Warren, Mr. Pepys the master in chancery, and Dr. Barnard the Provost of Eton. As soon as Dr. Johnson had come in and had taken the chair, the company began to collect round him till they became not less than four, if not five, deep, those behind standing and listening over the heads of those that were sitting near him. The conversation for some time was between Dr. Johnson and the Provost of Eton, while the others contributed occasionally their remarks.” How well Mrs. Montagu could converse, Johnson has portrayed in a few comprehensive words to Mrs. Thrale: “Mrs. Montagu is par pluribus. Conversing with her, you may find variety in one.” These assemblies were miscalled and sneered at only by the blockheads. Walpole was scarcely sincere when he affected to laugh at them. He not only attended them, but stirred others to do so. Four years after this, he writes to Hannah More: “When will you blue stocking yourself and come among us?”

In 1781, Hannah More took the Bluestockings for a theme for her sprightly little poem, which she entitled “Bas Bleu,” and dedicated to Mrs. Vesey. In a few introductory words, the author explained the origin and character of the assemblies to which the well-known epithet was given. “Those little societies have been sometimes misrepresented. They were composed of persons distinguished in general for their rank, talents, or respectable character, who were frequently at Mrs. Vesey’s and a few other houses, for the sole purpose of conversation, and were different in no respect from other parties, but that the company did not play at cards.”

Hannah More describes the hours she passed at these parties as “pleasant and instructive.” She states that she found there learning without pedantry, good taste without affectation, and conversation without calumny, levity, or any censurable error.

From the following lines, the names of the founders of the new assemblies may be learnt. Their object was to rescue—

“... Society o’errun

By Whist, that desolating Hun;”

and from despotic Quadrille, the “Vandal of colloquial wit.” Three ladies, according to Hannah More, effected the reformation.

“The vanquish’d triple crown to you, (Mrs. Vesey)

Boscawen sage, bright Montagu,

Divided fell. Your cares in haste,

Rescued the ravaged realms of taste.”

Among the genial and the lofty spirits found in the rooms of those ladies, and of Mrs. Ord and others, Hannah More names accomplished Lyttelton, witty Pulteney, polished, sometimes sarcastic, Walpole, with humourists who charmed and never wounded, critics who recorded merits before they looked for defects, Christian poets, skilled physicians, honest lawyers, men of all shades of politics, with princes of the church, ladies of ton, and “reasonable beauties.” Roscius (Garrick), Mars (Mason), Cato (Johnson), and Hortensius (Burke), are recorded amongst those who, at those intellectual gatherings, at various times, led the conversation, and made it as glorious as Hannah More, who shared therein, proceeds to describe it.

The chief incident in Mrs. Montagu’s life in the year 1781, one which threw a shade over several succeeding years, was her quarrel with Doctor Johnson, founded on certain depreciatory passages in Johnson’s “Life of Lyttelton.” When Johnson sent to Mrs. Montagu his MS. of the Life before it went to press, the homage implied that he submitted it to her judgment for approval or correction. Mrs. Montagu disapproved the tone, and Johnson sent his copy to press without altering a word or modifying a sentiment.

Nevertheless, Johnson’s account of Lyttelton seems fair enough to readers of the present day, though it greatly offended the lady who paid Lyttelton a homage of reverential affection. Johnson duly records Lyttelton’s precocity at Eton, and his creditable attempt in his “Blenheim,” to become a poet, at Oxford. His political career, as the opponent of Walpole, by whose fall Lyttelton came into office, is told without passion, and Lyttelton’s honest progress from honest doubt to honest conviction of the truth of Christianity is delicately and sympathetically narrated. His merits as a landlord, his good fortune as a politician, his fidelity as a friend, and his anxiety to be at least accurate as an historian, are chronicled without reserve. The details of Lyttelton’s dignified death might have made his best friend forget and forgive the criticisms on some of his writings. Mrs. Montagu might forget a part, but she could not forgive an expression of compassionate contempt, which was worse than adverse criticism. She might forget that Johnson spoke of “The Progress of Love,” as verses that “cant of shepherds and flocks, and crooks dressed with flowers.” She may have been only momentarily stung by the censurer’s remark that, in the “Persian Letters,” the ardour for liberty which found expression there, was only such “as a man of genius always catches when he enters the world, and always suffers to cool as he passes forward.” She might herself have sneered at Johnson’s praise of the “Advice to Belinda,” on the score of its purity, truth, vigour, elegance, and prudence, whereas, with some merits, it is a poem which no one now would dare to read aloud, where it was meant to be read, to Belindas of the time being. The paragraph in the Life which gave Mrs. Montagu such exquisite pain was the following, in reference to the “Dialogues of the Dead:” “When they were first published, they were kindly commended by the critical reviewers; and poor Lyttelton, with humble gratitude, returned his acknowledgments in a note which I have read; acknowledgments either for flattery or justice.” This paragraph gave the great offence. The words “poor Lyttelton” rendered it almost unpardonable. Notwithstanding the offence, Mrs. Montagu subsequently invited Johnson to dinner; but she could not treat him with her old cordiality, nor would she fall into conversation with him. General Paoli sat next to the doctor. Johnson turned to him and remarked, “You see, sir, I am no longer the man for Mrs. Montagu!” He was not indifferent to this condition of things. “Mrs. Montagu, sir,” he afterward said to a friend, “has dropt me. Now, sir, there are people whom one should like very well to drop, but would not wish to be dropt by.”

Good-natured friends embittered the quarrel. Mrs. Vesey “sounded the trumpet,” as was remarked by Walpole, who added: “It has not, I believe, produced any altercation; but at a Bluestocking meeting, held by Lady Lucan, Mrs. Montagu and Johnson kept at different ends of the chamber, and set up altar against altar there. She told me, as a mark of her high displeasure, that she would not ask him to dinner again. I took her aside and fomented the quarrel, and wished I could have made Dagon and Ashtaroth scold in Coptic.” Walpole (who in this quarrel was quite as malicious as Mrs. Vesey, whom he affected to laugh at, was indiscreet) called Johnson in another letter referring to this quarrel, “Demagorgon,” and says that the doctor and the lady kept aloof “like the west from the east.” He states that Lady Lucan, whose house was the scene of the comedy, “had assembled a Bluestocking meeting in imitation of Mrs. Vesey’s Babels. It was so blue, it was quite mazarin blue. There were Soame Jenyns, Persian Jones, Mr. Sherlock, the new court, Mr. Courtenay, besides the outpensioners of Parnassus.” And besides those named, every man of whom was a man of intellect, there was Mr. Horace Walpole himself, who certainly was present, because he knew he would not be among fools, though he pretended to go as if he found amusement in their folly. He seems, in the above extract, to recognise the good-natured Irish lady, Mrs. Vesey (whose house in Bolton Row, or subsequently in Clarges Street, was hospitably open to people of merit—proved or promised), as the founder of assemblies to which the slang name of bas-bleu assemblies was given. Referring to Mrs. Montagu, with whom he was very glad to dine, he says (in this year, 1781), “She is one of my principal entertainments at Mrs. Vesey’s, who collects all the graduates and candidates for fame, where they vie with one another till they are as unintelligible as the good folks at Babel.” We should honour any lady of the present century who, like Mrs. Vesey, Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Ord, Lady Lucan, and others in the last century, welcomed to their houses, not only all the graduates, but also the candidates for fame. Johnson himself was annoyed when not invited to those intellectual meetings. In 1780, he writes, “I told Lady Lucan how long it was since she sent to me; but she said, I must consider how the world rolls about her.” From the lips of the guests whom Walpole met at the houses indicated he could not carry away the stories that he loved so well as to insert them, in his most exquisite hand, into folios carefully arranged. These still exist; they illustrate phases of life among high-born women and men of the last century who were graduates, not in fame, but in infamy. Nothing could well be worse, except the infamy of him who must have passed many a night in penning that unutterably horrible and scandalous chronicle. The chronicler, on the other hand, is not to be blamed for noting the little affectations of those whom he encountered, as in the following example, the date of which is 1781: “I met,” he says to Lady Ossory, “Mrs. Montagu the other night at a visit. She told me she had been alone the whole preceding day, quite hermetically sealed. I was very glad she was uncorked, or I might have missed that piece of learned nonsense.” However, “Mrs. Montagu,” writes Mrs. Boscawen to Mrs. Delany, “is in perfect health and spirits in her Château Portman.” But, in Montagu House, Portman Square, the so-called Bluestockings were much less at home than in Hill Street. Nevertheless, there, and at similar houses supposed to be of a Bluestocking class, Walpole was much more amused than when he was at the Princess Amelia’s, at Gunnersbury, with the “cream of the cream” of Europe, and playing commerce with the grandest of them. He never had to say of himself at Mrs. Montagu’s, as he did of his doings at the Princess’s, “Played three pools of commerce till ten. I am afraid I was tired, and gaped!”

There died in this year, 1781, a Provincial Bluestocking,—who has been delicately praised by Miss Seward, and furiously attacked and ridiculed by Horace Walpole,—Mrs. Miller, the neighbour of Mrs. Scott and Lady Bab Montagu at Batheaston. There is an old story that Walpole, declining to recognise a man in London whom he had known at Bath, explained himself by saying, that he would be happy to know the same individual again—at Bath! So, with regard to literary or bas-bleu assemblies, he acknowledged those only of London. Provincial meetings he treated as shams, and covered them with ridicule. Mrs. Miller’s house,—to which she invited a rather mixed assembly of persons distinguished for intellectual merit, or persons who were distinguished only by the accident of birth,—Walpole mis-named the “puppet-show Parnassus at Batheaston” (or Pindus)—“a new Parnassus, composed of three laurels, a myrtle-tree, a weeping willow, and a view of the Avon, which has been new-christened Helicon.” Miss Rich, Lady Lyttelton’s sister, took Walpole to dine there.... He ridiculed his hosts, described Captain Miller as officious, though good-natured, who, with his wife, had caught “taste,” and outlived their income. Having (like wise and honest people) recovered themselves by living economically abroad, they resumed their old home with improved habits. “Alas!” says Walpole, “Mrs. Miller is returned a beauty, a genius, a Sappho, a tenth Muse, as romantic as Mademoiselle de Scuderi, and as sophisticated as Mrs. Vesey. They have introduced bouts-rimés as a new discovery. They hold a Parnassus fair every Thursday, give out rhymes and themes, and all the flux and quality of Bath contend for the prizes. A Roman vase, decked with pink ribbons and myrtle, receives the poetry, which is drawn out every festival. Six judges of these Olympic games retire and select the brightest compositions, which the respective successful acknowledge, kneel to Mrs. Calliope Miller, kiss her fair hand, and are crowned by it with myrtle.... The collection is printed, published,—yes, on my faith, there are bouts-rimés on a buttered muffin, by her Grace the Duchess of Northumberland, receipts to make them, by Corydon the Venerable, alias George Pitt; others, very pretty, by Lord Palmerston; some by Lord Carlisle; many by Mrs. Miller herself, that have no fault but wanting metre.... There never was anything so entertaining or so dull.” It may be added here, that Lord Palmerston’s lines “On Beauty” are more than “very pretty,” and that the duchess could not avoid the subject laughed at, since two of the rhymes given to her were “puffing” and “muffin,” and she came out of the difficulty with skill and dexterity. There are, perhaps, few people in a mixed company at the present time, who could more pleasantly dance such an intellectual hornpipe in similar fetters.

Miss Seward modifies Walpole’s satirical account without disturbing the main facts. She adds, with reference to the volumes of these prize poems then published: “The profits have been applied to the benefit of a charity at Bath, so that Lady Miller’s institute” (her husband had been knighted) “was not only calculated to awaken and cultivate ingenuity, but to serve the purposes of benevolence and charity.” Walpole suppressed the fact that any one profited by the assemblies at Lady Miller’s, of whom and of whose husband who presumed to have Walpole’s predilection for virtu, Horace says: “They make themselves completely ridiculous, which is a pity, as they are good-natured, well-meaning people.”

Some fine spirits contributed to the Batheaston vase, and their contributions, for which the writers generally had a fortnight’s notice,—the one theme being given to all competitors,—are often marked by power, grace, fancy, and, in the comic pieces, rough humour. On one occasion, some scandalous verses were dropped into the vase, the reading of which in the very first lines called up blushes on the cheeks of the modest, and caused suspicion to rest on the rather audacious Christopher Anstey. “An enemy hath done this,” was the sum of the general comment. Lady Miller’s death soon followed. Miss Seward has generously spoken of her really intellectual friend, though she begins with a curious figure of speech. “Lady Miller,” she says, “was surrounded by a hornet’s nest,” which was, as she goes on to state in more common sense style, “composed of those who were disappointed in their expectations of being summoned to her intellectual feast, and of others whose rhyming offerings could neither obtain the wreath, nor be admitted to a place in her miscellany. ‘Who knows not the active malice of wounded vanity to blot the fairest worth and blast the brightest fame?’ From its venom, excellence cannot even find repose in the grave, and it never fails to descend upon those who dare defend the claims of the deceased.”

Reference has been made, in a previous page (see p. 46) to Boswell’s error in stating that the Bluestocking Clubs were originally established about this time, 1781, when Hannah More was writing of them as institutions, the chief members of which had already passed away. The amiable philosopher and thoroughly honest, modest, and accomplished man, Benjamin Stillingfleet (the grandson of the bishop), from whom they are supposed to derive their name, had been dead ten years. In his early days, he made the ascent of Mont Blanc; his last were spent in Kensington Barracks, where his salary as barrack-master satisfied his wants and left him wherewith to help those who were in need. He contributed toward the social reform commenced by Johnson, Miss Mulso (Chapone), and Mrs. Montagu in 1750, a poem on “Conversation.” It rings with echoes of Pope, and lays down some very excellent rules that, implicitly followed, would make conversation impossible. Boswell refers to Hannah More’s poem on the Bluestockings without noticing her record that so many of the persons named in it were then dead. The institution, in fact, was in “the sere, the yellow leaf,” and one, at least, of its old leaders was weary. In 1782, when Mrs. Montagu was established in her palace (as Wraxall says the Italians would call, and as many English people did call, it), in Portman Square, her assemblies were more crowded than ever. She herself, queening it beneath the ceiling painted by Angelica Kaufmann, felt, or affected to feel, a little weary of her splendour.

“I think,” she wrote to Lord Kames, in 1782, “the calm autumn of life, as well as of the year, has many advantages. Both have a peculiar serenity—a genial tranquility. We are less busy and agitated, because the hope of the spring and the vivid delights of the summer are over; but these tranquil seasons have their appropriate enjoyments, and a well-regulated mind sees everything beautiful that is in the order of nature.”

In 1785, Cumberland took the new assemblies, at Montagu House, for the subject of an essay in The Observer. He places Mrs. Montagu, under the name of Vanessa, in the foreground, and mingles praise with mockery. He does not refer to the slang word by which the assemblies conducted by ladies were known; he calls Vanessa’s assembly the Feast of Reason. Throughout life, according to this essayist, Vanessa had been a beauty or a wit, whose vanity had this good quality, namely, that it stimulated her to exercise charity, good nature, affability, and a splendid hospitality,—qualities which carried her into all the circles of fine people, and crowded all the fine people into hers.... In her saloons there was a welcome for every follower of science, every sort of genius,—a welcome which extended, so the satirical essayist affirms, from the manufacturer of toothpicks to the writer of an epic poem. Authors looked to her for fees in return for dedications; and players, for patronage and presents on their benefit nights.

According to Cumberland, the lady of Montagu House was seated, like the statue of Athenian Minerva, incensed by the breath of philosophers, poets, orators, and their intellectual brethren. Hannah More states, on the contrary, that at the original Bluestocking parties, previous to 1781, the company, instead of being a formal unity, were broken up into numberless groups. Something, too, of this fashion seems to be referred to by Cumberland, who describes Vanessa as going from one to another, making mathematicians quote Pindar, persuading masters in chancery to write novels, and Birmingham men to stamp rhymes as fast as buttons.

We are further told that the books on Vanessa’s table (and Mrs. Montagu often complained of the number of presentation copies which were sent to her) indicated who were among her guests. This little civility is sneered at, and she from whom it emanated was also occasionally sneered at by some of her guests; which would have been more natural than courteous if the lady of the house ever dressed herself, as Cumberland describes her with boundless exaggeration, in a dress on which were embroidered the ruins of Palmyra! The same exaggeration is applied to the description of the company, among whom figure cracked philosophers and crazy dreamers, with Johnson alone grand, powerful, majestic, eloquent, and ill-mannered.

Next, and perhaps equal with Johnson, is the unmistakable presence of Mrs. Siddons, who, since the October night of 1782, when she took the town by the passion and pathos of Isabella, had been the idol of the time. There she sits at Mrs. Montagu’s on a sofa, leaning on one elbow, in a passive attitude, counting, or seeming to count, the sticks of her fan, as homage and compliments are profusely laid at her feet. To silly questions she has sensible replies—replies which indicate the queries: “I strove to do it the best I could; I shall do as the manager bids me; I always endeavour to make the part I am about my best part;” and, “I never study anything but my author.” There is, probably, no exaggeration in this; and the more fantastic side of Mrs. Montagu’s character is not overcharged in the incident that follows. The hostess introduces a “young novitiate of the Muses,” in a white frock. A fillet of flowers crowns her long hair, and the novice, advancing to Melpomene, addresses her with—

“O thou, whom Nature’s goddess calls her own,

Pride of the stage, and fav’rite of the town;”

which puts poor Mrs. Siddons to the blush, and half of those who are within hearing to flight.

In 1790, the so-called Bluestocking Club puzzled dwellers in country places. Nestor, of Bark Place, Salop, was sadly perplexed as to what the club was, and also as to the meaning of another slang term then prevailing. He writes to Sylvanus Urban accordingly, with a sort of apology for being old and living in remote Shropshire. Among others, he frequently meets with the term “white bear,” applied to many characters of eminence; and often reads of “the Bluestocking Club,” which he knows consists chiefly of the literati. But being ignorant of the derivation and propriety of application of those terms, he will be much obliged to any correspondent who will condescend to inform him. It does not appear that any correspondent, not even the editor himself, could enlighten Nestor, either as to the bear or the club.

Among the latest writers who have, as Hannah More said, misrepresented these intellectual parties is Miss Mitford. She speaks of Batheaston in her “Recollections of a Literary Life” (A. D. 1857) as “memorable for the Bluestocking vagaries of a certain Lady Miller, a Somersetshire Clemence Isaure, who, some seventy years ago, offered prizes for the best verses thrown into an antique urn; the prize consisting, not of a golden violet, but a wreath of laurel, and the whole affair producing, as was to be expected, a great deal more ridicule than poetry.” In Lady Miller’s case, the original object, “conversation,” was lost sight of; and some vanity was mixed up with the doings of the Batheaston Muse. But to stir up even dull minds to make an attempt to write some sort of poetry was an intellectual exercise at least as beneficial as the process which counts honours, and eternally asks, “What’s trumps?”