Of these, it is obvious that the Earl of Chesterfield was the most remarkable. The name of Devonshire suggests a yawn, and the third duke was characteristic of it. His viceroyalty was more apparent than real, and seems to have been conducted on the principle that Ireland and Irish affairs were a bore, the journeys to Dublin intolerable, and the Irish Parliament 'impossible.' The duke, however, clung to the office until 1744, content to leave administration to the Lords Justices, and pocketing the salary readily—the only point of unanimity amongst the holders of the office in the eighteenth century.
Lord Chesterfield
The great Earl of Chesterfield was Viceroy of Ireland for eight months only, and his life, therefore, belongs to the history of his native country; but he left his mark on Dublin, and in a few months accomplished more to raise the name of Englishman there than the seven years of Devonshire and the eight of Dorset. It is unnecessary to recapitulate all the main facts of Chesterfield's life, while, as his 'Letters' do not concern Irish affairs, they are no part of this history. At the time of his appointment to the viceroyalty in 1745 he had just passed his fiftieth year, and had left behind him many full years. Before he was twenty-one he was a member of Parliament, and by the time he succeeded to the peerage in 1726 he had gained much of that renowned knowledge of the world which provided the inspiration of the famous 'Letters.' Chesterfield appears to have had a passion for the unconventional, but he carried it to such an extent, and so successfully, that it almost became conventional. Brought up in the society of the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II., he discovered in maturity that it is not wise to put faith in princes. Chesterfield was the prince's henchman in all his escapades, and when Henrietta Howard, Countess of Suffolk, became the prince's mistress, Chesterfield was the chosen friend of both. This meant, of course, that the princess, better known as Queen Caroline, exerted all her influence to bring about an estrangement between her husband and the earl, and she succeeded, as she always was certain to do.
Chesterfield, however, was too powerful a man for even the King of England to ruin, and although George II., after the inevitable quarrel, sought to keep the earl out of public life, he had to agree to his nomination to the embassy at the Hague. He was very popular there, but his sojourn in Holland, while it is remembered by the Dutch by reason of the fortune Stanhope lost at cards, is only famous because it was at the Hague that the English Ambassador made the acquaintance of Madamoiselle du Bouchet. To the son that was born to them Chesterfield addressed his 'Letters.' Returning to England impecunious but as debonair as ever, Stanhope, nevertheless, realized that it was imperative that he should marry money. The heiress of the day was Petronilla Melusina von der Schulenburg, the natural daughter of George I. by the notorious Duchess of Kendal, the heroine of Wood's halfpence. Petronilla, who was Countess of Walsingham in her own right, was not exactly a beauty, but she possessed a fortune of £50,000, and in addition an annuity of £3,000 payable out of the Irish treasury. At the time of her father's death in 1727, the countess was thirty-four and unmarried. The king had kept her guarded jealously, and George II., mindful of the fact that if Lady Walsingham married, her husband might make awkward inquiries about her estate, continued the policy of his father. Chesterfield, however, was not averse to offending George II. There had been a great coolness between them, and the earl must have realized that Queen Caroline would make it utterly impossible for them to renew the friendship of early days. He therefore courted the countess, who was his senior by a year, and the reputed wittiest and handsomest man of his time had little difficulty in capturing the hand and fortune of the illegitimate daughter of his king's father. They were married in 1733, unknown to King George, and when the inevitable discovery came, the king, though passionately angry, could do nothing beyond uttering threats. The marriage was entirely one of convenience—Chesterfield wanted money; the countess required a deliverer from the thraldom of the court. Cynically indifferent to the opinions of the world, they lived in separate houses, but tried to humour Mrs. Grundy—who was born the day the serpent entered Eden—by taking houses next door to one another!
His monetary affairs freed from embarrassment, Chesterfield entered once more into the life of the town, careless of the king's anger, oblivious of the queen's spite. When he had looked into his wife's affairs he sent George a bill for £40,000, due to her from the royal estate, and on the monarch ignoring the hint, the earl promptly began an action in the Courts for the recovery of the money. The king eventually compromised by paying £20,000.
A political legacy
Even in the eighteenth century it was sometimes distinguished to act with the minority, and Chesterfield adopted the now favourite modern pose of championing the weak. He railed at the Government, wrote pamphlets against it, hired men of letters to aid him, and quickly became the leader of that ever-present body of men and women who are dissatisfied, and yet know not what they want. He patronized Johnson and Pope and many others, the majority completely forgotten, and chiefly with their help and his own ready tongue attained the distinction of being the most sought-after man in London society. Whatever Chesterfield did for pleasure, generally brought him gain, and it is only one of the many lucky incidents of his life that the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough should have left him £20,000 as a token of her approval of his opposition to the Government. The legacy came in 1744, and at a time when Chesterfield's affairs were once more badly situated.
The Earl of Chesterfield's character and life have been the subject of innumerable essays, but one incident forcibly illustrates the real weakness of the man who could afford to view with equanimity the bitter antagonism of his king and queen, and the animosity of the most powerful ministers of the day, and yet confess himself mortally wounded by a jest against him. Like most great wits, Chesterfield had no sense of humour, and his witticisms were merely props on which his general pose rested. One day he happened to be standing in the hall of a coffee-house club in St. James's Street, when he overheard George Selwyn remark to an acquaintance, 'Here comes Joe Miller.' This was too much for Chesterfield, and he struck his name off the club at once.
