"This extraordinary man, the son of a clergyman, was a native of Zurich in Switzerland, where he married, but left his country in consequence of an intrigue. Having had an opportunity of visiting the principal cities of Europe, he acquired a taste for elegant and refined pleasures, which, united to a strong inclination for voluptuousness, by degrees qualified him for the management of public amusements. In 1708, when he was near 50 years old, he came to England on a negotiation from the Swiss at Zurich; but, failing in his embassy, he entered as a private soldier in the guards for protection.[2] By his sprightly, engaging conversation, and insinuating address, he soon worked himself into the good graces of our young people of fashion; from whom he obtained the appellation of 'the Swiss Count.'[3] He had the address to procure a subscription, with which in 1709 he was enabled to furnish out the opera of 'Thomyris,'[4] which was written in English, and performed at the Queen's theatre in the Haymarket. The music, however, was Italian; that is to say, airs selected from sundry of the foreign operas by Bononcini, Scarlatti, Stefani, Gasparini, and Albinoni. Most of the songs in 'Thomyris' were excellent, those by Bononcini especially: Valentini, Margarita, and Mrs. Tofts sung in it; and Heidegger by this performance alone was a gainer of 500 guineas.[5] The judicious remarks he made on several defects in the conduct of our operas in general, and the hints he threw out for improving the entertainments of the royal theatre, soon established his character as a good critic. Appeals were made to his judgement; and some very magnificent and elegant decorations, introduced upon the stage in consequence of his advice, gave such satisfaction to George II. who was fond of operas, that, upon being informed to whose genius he was indebted for these improvements, his majesty was pleased from that time to countenance him, and he soon obtained the chief management of the Opera-house in The Haymarket. He then set about improving another species of diversion, not less agreeable to the king, which was the masquerades, and over these he always presided at the king's theatre. He was likewise appointed master of the revels. The nobility now caressed him so much, and had such an opinion of his taste, that all splendid and elegant entertainments given by them upon particular occasions, and all private assemblies by subscription, were submitted to his direction.[6]
"From the emoluments of these several employments, he gained a regular considerable income, amounting, it is said, in some years, to 5000 l. which he spent with much liberality: particularly in the maintenance of perhaps a somewhat too luxurious table; so that it may be said, he raised an income, but never a fortune. His foibles, however, if they deserve so harsh a name, were completely 'covered' by his 'charity,' which was boundless.[7]
"That he was a good judge of music, appears from his opera: but this is all that is known of his mental abilities;[8] unless we add, what we have good authority for saying in honour to his memory, that he walked from Charing-Cross to Temple-bar, and back again; and when he came home, wrote down every sign on each side the Strand.
"As to his person, though he was tall and well made, it was not very pleasing, from an unusual hardness of features.[9] But he was the first to joke upon his own ugliness; and he once laid a wager with the earl of Chesterfield, that, within a certain given time, his lordship would not be able to produce so hideous a face in all London. After strict search, a woman was found, whose features were at first sight thought stronger than Heidegger's; but, upon clapping her head-dress upon himself, he was universally allowed to have won the wager. Jolly, a well-known taylor, carrying his bill to a noble duke, his grace, for evasion said, 'Damn your ugly face, I never will pay you till you bring me an uglier fellow than yourself!' Jolly bowed and retired, wrote a letter, and sent it by a servant to Heidegger; saying, 'his grace wished to see him the next morning on particular business.' Heidegger attended, and Jolly was there to meet him; and in consequence, as soon as Heidegger's visit was over, Jolly received the cash.
"The late facetious duke of Montagu (the memorable author of the bottle-conjuror at the theatre in The Haymarket) gave an entertainment at The Devil-tavern, Temple-bar, to several of the nobility and gentry, selecting the most convivial, and a few hard-drinkers, who were all in the plot. Heidegger was invited, and in a few hours after dinner was made so dead drunk that he was carried out of the room, and laid insensible upon a bed. A profound sleep ensued; when the late Mrs. Salmon's daughter was introduced, who took a mould from his face in plaster of Paris. From this a mask was made, and a few days before the next masquerade (at which the king promised to be present, with the countess of Yarmouth), the duke made application to Heidegger's valet de chambre, to know what suit of cloaths he was likely to wear; and then procuring a similar dress, and a person of the same stature, he gave him his instructions. On the evening of the masquerade, as soon as his majesty was seated (who was always known by the conductor of the entertainment and the officers of the court, though concealed by his dress from the company), Heidegger, as usual, ordered the music to play 'God save the King;' but his back was no sooner turned, than the false Heidegger ordered them to strike up 'Charly over the Water.' The whole company were instantly thunderstruck, and all the courtiers, not in the plot, were thrown into a stupid consternation. Heidegger flew to the music-gallery, swore, stamped, and raved, accused the musicians of drunkenness, or of being set on by some secret enemy to ruin him. The king and the countess laughed so immoderately, that they hazarded a discovery. While Heidegger stayed in the gallery, 'God save the King' was the tune; but when, after setting matters to rights, he retired to one of the dancing-rooms, to observe if decorum was kept by the company, the counterfeit stepping forward, and placing himself upon the floor of the theatre, just in front of the music-gallery, called out in a most audible voice, imitating Heidegger, damned them for blockheads, had he not just told them to play 'Charly over the Water.' A pause ensued; the musicians, who knew his character, in their turn thought him either drunk or mad; but, as he continued his vociferation, 'Charly' was played again. At this repetition of the supposed affront, some of the officers of the guards, who always attended upon these occasions, were for ascending the gallery, and kicking the musicians out; but the late duke of Cumberland, who could hardly contain himself, interposed. The company were thrown into great confusion. 'Shame! Shame!' resounded from all parts, and Heidegger once more flew in a violent rage to that part of the theatre facing the gallery. Here the duke of Montagu, artfully addressing himself to him, told him, 'the king was in a violent passion; that his best way was to go instantly and make an apology, for certainly the music were mad, and afterwards to discharge them.' Almost at the same instant, he ordered the false Heidegger to do the same. The scene now became truly comic in the circle before the king. Heidegger had no sooner made a genteel apology for the insolence of his musicians, but the false Heidegger advanced, and, in a plaintive tone, cried out, 'Indeed, Sire, it was not my fault, but that devil's in my likeness.' Poor Heidegger turned round, stared, staggered, grew pale, and could not utter a word. The duke then humanely whispered in his ear the sum of his plot, and the counterfeit was ordered to take off his mask. Here ended the frolick; but Heidegger swore he would never attend any public amusement, if that witch the wax-work woman did not break the mould, and melt down the mask before his face.[10]
"Being once at supper with a large company, when a question was debated, which nationalist of Europe, had the greatest ingenuity; to the surprise of all present, he claimed that character for the Swiss, and appealed to himself for the truth of it. 'I was born a Swiss, said he, 'and came to England without a farthing, where I have found means to gain 5000 l. a year, and to spend it. Now I defy the most able Englishman to go to Switzerland, and either to gain that income, or to spend it there.' He died Sept. 4, 1749, at the advanced age of 96 years, at his house at Richmond in Surrey, where he was buried. He left behind him one natural daughter, Miss Pappet, who was married Sept. 2, 1750, to Captain (afterwards Sir Peter) Denis.[11] Part of this lady's fortune was a house at the north west corner of Queen-square, Ormond-street, which Sir Peter afterwards sold to the late Dr. Campbell, and purchased a seat in Kent, pleasantly situated near Westram, then called Valence, but now (by its present proprietor, the earl of Hillsborough) Hill Park."
[1] In this print our artist has likewise imitated the manner of Callot.
[2] See [N° 48], among the prints of uncertain date.
[3] See Sir John Hawkins's History of Music, Vol. V. p. 142. He is twice noticed under this title in the "Tatler," Nos. 12. and 18.; and in Mr. Duncombe's "Collection of Letters of several eminent Persons deceased," is a humourous dedication of Mr. Hughes's "Vision of Chaucer," to "the Swiss Count."
[4] There was another opera of the same name, by Peter Motteux, in 1719.