A thousand thanks for the promise of my grandfather’s letters; but the book will be all spoilt, by being edited by young men. First, they are totally ignorant of the politics of my grandfather’s age; secondly, of the style of the language used at that period; and absolutely ignorant of his secret reasons and intentions, and the real, or apparent footing he was upon with many people, friends and foes. I know all that from my grandmother, who was his secretary, and, Coutts used to say, the cleverest man of her time, in politics, business, &c. Even the late Lord Chatham, his son, had but an imperfect idea of all that took place; for he was either absent, or, when not so, taken up by dissipation; for no man was ever more admired or sought after. Pringle’s father, I suppose, is dead, and this is the son—Harriet Elliott’s son. At twenty, she married an officer, nearly fifty, I should think * * but who was, I believe, a very honourable, respectable man.
Do not keep reproaching yourself about leaving me; it did not depend on you to stay: also, do not put into your head that you have the seeds of the malady you named to me. * * * * I hope to hear that you are better.
H. L. S.
I have written a sad, stupid letter, but I have no news—shut up.
This was the last letter I ever received from her ladyship. She died in June following, Ἄταφος, ἄκλαυτος, ἄφιλος, ἀνυμεναιος[42] everybody being in ignorance of her approaching end, except the servants immediately about her. She had no Frank or European near her, and Lunardi, who was coming out to her from Leghorn, reached Beyrout unfortunately too late. “The news[43] of her death was conveyed to Beyrout in a few hours, and the English consul, Mr. Moore, and the Rev. Mr. Thomson, an American missionary, went to Jôon, to bury her. Her emaciated corpse was interred in the same grave where the body of Captain Loustaunau had been placed, some years before, in her own garden: this was according to her desire, expressed to Logmagi before her death.” Reports were spread that her furniture, plate, and other valuables, had been plundered, and much stress was laid on the circumstance that not even her watch was found: but she had no watch, and only a dozen and a half of silver spoons and forks. Fatôom, it is said, died two days before her mistress.
I have now brought this melancholy, but, I hope, not uninteresting, narrative to a conclusion. Upon a review of the incidents detailed in these pages—the vicissitudes of an extraordinary life, beginning in pomp and power, and closing in pecuniary difficulties and neglect—the reader can scarcely fail to be touched with profound sympathy at the altered fortunes of a remarkable woman, even if nothing else in the history of Lady Hester Stanhope should awaken his emotions. No lady of her age and station ever underwent such afflicting changes.
In early life she enjoyed the entire confidence of her uncle, Mr. Pitt; and many of the secret functions of government, most of the important measures of his administration, much of the patronage vested in the office which he filled, and the complete control of his domestic establishment, either passed through her hands or was directly influenced by her counsels. During this eventful period, her clear insight into human nature enabled her frequently to thwart the intrigues and expose the designs of interested men, who swarmed about the avenues of the court and the cabinet. But it was not possible for one, endued with a courageous spirit and integrity like hers, to engage in such conspicuous scenes without exciting the bitterest animosities; and accordingly we find that, while she was openly hostile to some and maintained a less evident but persevering resistance to others, dealing out affronts where she thought them likely to tell with effect, or foiling subtile machinations on the one hand by counterplots artfully combined on the other, she raised up a host of enemies for herself, who only waited a fit opportunity to take their full revenge. In the assertion of that fearless rectitude which despises personal consequences, she overlooked the dangers which were growing up around her. Forgetting, as is usual, in the delirium of power, the uncertainty of all human greatness, the wheel of fortune went round, and, by the premature death of Mr. Pitt, she was precipitated, at once and irrecoverably, from the pinnacle of ambition into comparative obscurity, and was destined to wear out her existence in solitude and exile.
But her virtues were sterling, and gave a sort of lustre to her fall. She carried with her into exile and in adversity the same stern consistency and the same high principles which had all along regulated her conduct. Incapable of abasing herself by meanness, she was sustained in her reverses by the fortitude which she derived from a clear conscience. If in her exaltation she had been bold, proud, and uncompromising, she had likewise shown herself disinterested and generous, firm in her convictions, insensible to the allurements of flattery or wealth, just, self-devoted, an open foe, a grateful friend, and a kind and most affectionate relative:—qualities which ennoble even where nobility is not. Caressed by royalty, surrounded by sycophants, a theme for the illustrations of poetry and painting, she resisted all those blandishments so alluring and so difficult to withstand, and has not left behind her one single memorial of any of the weaknesses incidental to human vanity under circumstances of such powerful temptation. No prince led her in his train; no mercenary laureat succeeded in bribing her by his praises; and no portrait of her person, attractive as it might have been in the bloom of her youth and beauty, is, as far as I have means of knowing, in existence. The good old king extolled her, Mr. Pitt confided in her, the aristocratic party toadied her, republicans admired her, and ladies envied her. Never was an elevation so dazzling, or a fall so clouded by the gloom of disappointment and neglect.