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Two hundred years ago
vagrant swine were as common in the streets of all the capitals of Europe
as dogs are to-day. [Lord Gardenstone, a well-known Scottish judge,
became so attached to a pig of his acquaintance that he allowed it to
sleep at the foot of his bed. When the animal grew too big for this
sleeping-place it used to retire for the night on the heap of clothes
which the judge had just removed, thereby, as Lord Gardenstone pleasantly
remarked, keeping them nice and warm until it was time to put them on
again in the morning.] If you had been alive then and had chanced to
be passing down the High Street of Edinburgh on a certain spring morning
of the year 1760, you would not have been much astonished at seeing a
number of these unalluring animals wandering in and out of the narrow
alleys and wynds that debouch upon the main thoroughfares of the city,
performing with rough and ready efficiency the duties which are now
relegated to the street scavengers. But you would certainly have been
given cause for surprise – if you were still young enough to be surprised
at anything – had you met an exceptionally good-looking girl riding
astride on the back of one of these pigs, which her sister, another
equally pretty child, was violently belabouring with a broom-handle. Such,
however, was the spectacle that presented itself to the wondering gaze of
an old gentleman who was on his way to pay an afternoon call upon Lady
Maxwell of Monreith in Hyndford’s Close. Later on, the elderly visitor was
much scandalised to learn that the two girls who were amusing themselves
in this peculiar fashion were none other than Lady Maxwell’s own
daughters. He would no doubt have been still further shocked had he been
able to look forward into the future and realise that the pretty girl who
was beating the pig with such vigour would one day become the famous Lady
Wallace, while her sister who sat the animal with such unladylike skill,
was eventually destined to make a name for herself in the history of the
world as Jane, the beautiful and witty Duchess of Gordon.
In the whole annals of the
scheming and intrigue which played so sordid and important a part in the
political history of the eighteenth century, there is probably no figure
which stands out so clearly as that of Jane, Duchess of Gordon. Few women
have occupied a more conspicuous position on the political stage of
England; none have succeeded in putting such advantages of birth and
station as they possessed to better use, for the purpose of securing the
aggrandisement of their own family and the advancement of the party with
which they had chosen to cast in their lot.
“Jenny of Monreith,” as she
was generally called, was the second and loveliest daughter of Sir William
Maxwell, and was born in Edinburgh, about the year 1749. Hyndford’s Close
was a narrow, gloomy back-street of Edinburgh, and the house which Lady
Maxwell and her daughters inhabited was thoroughly in keeping with the
squalid surroundings of the neighbourhood. To reach the dining-room it was
necessary to traverse a dark passage and pass by the open door of the
kitchen, so that guests were made aware on arrival of the nature of the
viands which were being prepared for them. In this same passage the finer
garments of the Maxwell family were usually exposed, after washing, to dry
on a screen; while the coarser articles of dress, such as petticoats, were
hung decently out of sight at a back window. “so very easy and familiar
were the manners of the great in those times” (we read in Chambers’s
Traditions of Edinburgh) “that Miss Betty, afterwards Lady Wallace,
used to be sent with the tea-kettle across the street to the Fountain
Well, for water to tea.” This was the atmosphere in which the Maxwell
girls were brought up; so it is not perhaps to be wondered at if their
natural high spirits occasionally found an outlet in such a pastime as
that of riding the neighbours’ swine along the High Street.
“The Scotch may be compared
to a tulip planted in dung,” said Oliver Goldsmith. “You may see a
well-dressed duchess issuing from a dirty close.” And the poet might well
have brought Jane Maxwell forward as a typical example. Of the two
sisters, she was perhaps the greater hoyden, the more boisterous and wild,
the least controlled, as she was certainly the more intelligent and
beautiful. The propriety of her juvenile manners might indeed be open to
unfavourable criticism, but no fault could certainly be found with her
qualities of body or of mind. We need only recall the supreme part she
played in the political arena of her time, and the unfailing wit of her
conversation, to admit the justice of her claim to be called “the
cleverest woman of her day.” We have but to look at the famous portrait
painted by Romney, [This picture was long attributed to Sir Joshua
Reynolds, but in 1882, when it was exhibited at Burlington House, the
hanging committee recognised and catalogued it as the work of Romney. Nine
years later it was sold by the duchess’s great grand-nephew, Sir Herbert
Maxwell, to Mr. Wertheimer, for 5,500 guineas.] when she was
six-and-twenty, to appreciate the exquisite beauty of outline and
colouring which caused her to be popularly known as “the flower of
Galloway” and to be continually surrounded by a host of admirers.
That Jane Maxwell was
extraordinarily beautiful and witty there is no doubt, but the more
captious among her contemporaries have declared that she lacked one of the
most essential parts of beauty. As in girlhood she seems to have possessed
all the characteristics of a romping schoolboy, so in later life she is
said to have lacked feminine delicacy, both in face and mind. And if she
possessed more wit than her great rival the Duchess of Devonshire and the
other eminent women of her time, she was certainly much coarser than they
either dared or desired to be. With her brothers and sisters she shared
the privilege of inheriting a measure of the blunt, rough character of her
father, a typical specimen of the shrewd, old-fashioned Scottish laird.
Dean Ramsay tells a story of a certain Monday visit paid by Jane’s
brother, Sir William Maxwell, to the Earl of Galloway, when that nobleman
had been newly appointed Lord-Lieutenant of the county. “I am very glad to
have seen you,” said Lord Galloway to his departing guests, “but you are
not perhaps aware that I have a day of my own for receiving. I set apart
Friday for seeing my county friends, and shall always be glad to see you
on that day whenever you will honour me with a call.” “My lord,” replied
Sir William with some asperity, “I ken but ae Lord wha hae a day o’ his
ain, and, God forgi’e me, I dinna keep that day; and d----- me if I’ll
keep yours!”
It was not to be imagined
that so pretty and accomplished a girl as Jane Maxwell would be long
allowed to remain unmarried. While still in her teens she became engaged
to a young officer in the army. But her lover was suddenly ordered abroad
with his regiment, and, after a brief absence, the report of his death
reached the ears of his fiancée. She thereupon allowed herself to accept
the heart and hand of a more eligible suitor, and in her eighteenth year
married Alexander, fourth Duke of Gordon, who was desperately in love with
her. It is said that while on her honeymoon she received a letter from her
soldier lover stating, no doubt, that the report of his death had been
“grossly exaggerated” and that he was returning home to claim his bride.
On receipt of this news the duchess swooned away and was found in an
unconscious condition in the garden by her husband, who read the fatal
letter and thus learnt for the first time that he only occupied a
secondary position in his wife’s affections.
The Duke of Gordon was one
of the handsomest noblemen of his time, but quite unsuited both by
temperament and character to be the husband of so ambitious and energetic
a woman as Jane Maxwell. He has been described as being the “greatest
subject in Britain, not from the extent of his rent-roll, but from a much
more valuable property, the number of people whom Providence had put under
his government and protection.” But neither the size of his rent-roll nor
the number of his dependants could prevent him from experiencing the
hardships of a severe financial crisis, from which his fortunes were with
difficulty extricated.
The duke and duchess were,
indeed, an ill-matched couple – he finding his pleasure in country
pursuits and field-sports, and taking little interest in public affairs;
she reserving all the energies of her nature for political purposes, an
active and determined partisan, in whom and round whom all the intrigues
of the Whig party centred and revolved. A horse, a hound, a gun: these
satisfied the simple needs of the duke. Worldly ambition, love of power, a
passion to succeed: these alone meant life and happiness to the duchess.
Small wonder, then, that two persons who possessed such divergent
interests and tastes should fail to find much in common.
The duchess may very
probably have been lacking in some of the wifely virtues of sympathy and
tolerance. But as a mother she affords a truly noble example of
self-sacrifice and maternal solicitude. She had two sons and five
daughters, and, in her efforts to provide suitable husbands for the
latter, deemed no exertion too severe, no sacrifice too great. As a
successful matchmaker she is probably unique in our national history. The
devoted and designing mothers of the present day, who compose that
pathetic human dado which lines the wall of every ballroom, and strive
with such infinite toil and patience to secure satisfactory matches for
their unmarried daughters, might well follow her example, even if they did
not care to emulate all her peculiar methods. In the fulfilment of her
purpose she left no stone unturned; her pertinacy overcame every
difficulty; her zeal swept aside all obstacles. Barriers, as George
Meredith says, are for those who cannot fly; and Duchess Jane had always
soared high. No eligible young man was safe from her clutches until he had
got married. She bestowed infinite pains upon the education of her
daughters, but none of them inherited a tithe of her mother’s intelligence
or beauty, and the dowry with which the duke was able to provide them was
an insignificant one. Nevertheless, they all contrived to marry well – to
use a term which implies matrimonial success from a purely worldly point
of view – a result which they owed entirely to the indefatigable labours
of the duchess. She is probably the only instance in history of a mother
who has allied three of her five daughters in marriage to English dukes,
and the fourth to a marquis. [Charlotte married the Duke of Richmond,
Susan the Duke of Bedford, and Louisa the Marquis Cornwallis.]
A typical example of the
lengths to which she condescended in the pursuit of these objects is given
by Samuel Rogers, the poet, who declared that he could vouch for the truth
of the story, having had it from the duchess’s own lips. Lord Brome, the
eldest son of Lord Cornwallis, fell in love with her Grace’s daughter
Louisa, and a marriage was arranged between them. At the last moment,
however, Lord Cornwallis tried to break off the match, on the plea that
there was madness in the Duke of Gordon’s family. The duchess thereupon
proceeded to interview Lord Cornwallis, and assured him that, while she
thoroughly respected his reason for disapproving of the marriage, he might
set his mind at rest upon the question of a possible taint of insanity, as
there was “not a drop of Gordon blood in Louisa’s body!” Lord Cornwallis
appears to have been satisfied with this statement, and in due course the
marriage took place. Thus readily did the duchess sacrifice her honour on
the altar of her daughter’s happiness. Again, another daughter, Georgiana,
became engaged to the Duke of Bedford, but her fiancé died before the
marriage could be celebrated. The duchess did not despair. Bidding
Georgiana array herself in widow’s weeds, a dress that was particularly
becoming to her, she sent for the Duke of Bedford’s brother and heir to
comfort the girl. The young man found the fair one clad in black and
looking so bewitching in her distress that he at once fell passionately in
love with her, and eventually married her.
The duchess’s struggles to
provide her daughters with suitable husbands were not always crowned with
success. She occasionally suffered rebuffs which might have disheartened a
less dauntless mother, but which only inspired her to still more strenuous
efforts. She entertained at one time a project of marrying her eldest
daughter, Lady Charlotte Lennox, to Pitt, and would take her to drive to
Wimbledon whenever she knew the Prime Minister to be there. This scheme
was frustrated by Henry Dundas, Pitt’s intimate friend and trusted
lieutenant, who did not wish his Chief to make such a connection. With all
the guile of an astute politician, Dundas devised the expedient of
pretending to be about to offer his own hand and heart to the Lady
Charlotte, a project which he confided to Pitt. His object was easily and
immediately attained. Pitt at once ceased his attentions, and withdrew
from the field in favour of his rival, an example which the latter
speedily followed as soon as he had gained his point. Perhaps the duchess
recalled this incident when she remarked contemptuously to Dundas one
night, as the guests were leaving an assembly in London, “Mr. Dundas, you
are used to speak in public; will you call my servant?”
In 1802 she was accused of
having taken her youngest daughter, Lady Georgiana, to Paris, in an
attempt to secure Eugène Beauharnais as a son-in-law. Here again she did
not meet with the success to which she aspired, and the fact that on her
return she was reported as saying that she hoped to see Bonaparte
“breakfast in Ireland, dine in London, and sup at Gordon Castle,” did not
enhance her popularity.
On one other occasion her
designs met with failure. William Beckford, the eccentric author of
Vathek, who lived at Fonthill, was reputed to be a man of enormous
wealth. What more upon earth could be desired by a managing mother for her
daughter? The duchess determined to pay a surprise visit to Fonthill to
judge for herself as to the suitability of such a man for the post of
son-in-law. Beckford, however, made up his mind to outwit her, and having
received a hint as to the date of her arrival, resolved to give her what
he calls a “useful lesson.” By his commands Fonthill was put in order for
her reception, and arrangements for her welcome were made upon a lavish
and extensive scale. This done, says Beckford in his Memoirs, “I ordered
my mayor-domo to say on the duchess’s arrival that it was
unfortunate – everything being arranged for her Grace’s reception, Mr.
Beckford had shut himself up on a sudden, a way he had at times, and that
it was more than his place was worth to disturb him, as his master only
appeared when he pleased, forbidding interruption, even if the king came
to Fonthill.” [The Memoirs of William Beckford, pp. 337-9. (1859.)]
The duchess, though somewhat surprised at Beckford’s apparent
peculiarities, accepted the situation calmly. She expressed herself as
much gratified by her mode of reception and by the luxury of the house,
and was all the more anxious to see her host. “Perhaps Mr. Beckford will
be visible tomorrow?” was her daily consolation. But to-morrow came, and
to-morrow, and the day after, and still no Mr. Beckford! The duchess
remained seven or eight days, magnificently entertained, and then went
away without ever having seen the owner of Fonthill. He meanwhile sat in
his study, surrounded by a number of new books, recently arrived from
London, and chuckled to himself at the thought of his solitary guest and
her complete discomfiture. The duchess was naturally indignant at the
treatment she had received at the hands of her unwilling host, and
subsequently took every opportunity of heaping contumely upon his head.
She must indeed have rejoiced when in later life he was reduced to such
financial straits that he was forced to sell all the pictures and works of
art which had adorned Fonthill on the occasion of her famous visit.
Beckford’s ideas of hospitality were always somewhat strange, as may be
gathered from the fact that when Samuel Rogers went to stay at Fonthill,
the poet was informed that neither his servant nor his horses could be
admitted, but that his host’s steeds and domestics should be placed at his
entire disposal. But the visit of the Duchess of Gordon was the only
occasion upon which he played the part of absentee host so thoroughly and
with such malevolence.
In a volume of Public
Characters, published in 1799, there is a quaint description of the
beautiful duchess and of the effect she produced upon society. From this
we learn that she had the power of making “all persons who came within the
sphere of her action” pleased with themselves, a faculty that implies the
possession of the most consummate tact. “She was eminently distinguished
for her engaging deportment, for being the life and soul of elegant
parties, especially those met for festive amusement, for her agility and
grace in the performance of those exercises which display beauty and
symmetry on the one hand, and for the gaiety, spirit, and brilliancy of
humour which so agreeably set off acute and vigorous understanding on the
other.” The author of this curious biographical work remembers being at an
inn at Blair one evening with a party of county gentlemen who had recently
been staying at the Duke of Athol’s mansion close by, where they had been
fellow-guests of the Duchess of Gordon. Her charms, her beauty, her
accomplishments, even her manners, were the theme of universal praise “for
several hours,” and “were renewed with equal warmth in the morning.”
Conversing with the youngest member of the company, whom he knew to be
possessed of “vigorous talents and punctilious discernment,” “Pray,
Charles,” said the chronicler, “what appears to you to be her Grace’s
secret for enrapturing your father and all our worthy friends?” The reply
of the talented and discerning Charles must be given in full: “Careful
forbearance of her display of superiority in rank, in the distribution of
her attention,” said he; “no marked consideration of that diversity in
other, when met together at the same table; and giving every one an
opportunity of speaking on a subject on which she supposed he could speak
well.” (I feel sure that Charles supposed he could speak well on any
subject.) “Not all her engaging qualifications,” continued this youthful
prig, “made such an impression on my father as the conversation in which
he was enabled to bring forward his favourite opinions on planting trees
and potatoes, as most beneficial to gentlemen and the poor. His good
neighbour was no less captivated by her Grace’s discourse with him on
sheep-farms.” It is disappointing to think that we must be kept in
perpetual ignorance of the duchess’s views of the same conversation. But
one cannot help admiring the tact which enabled her to discuss such
tedious subjects as the rotation of crops or the conduct of sheep-farms
with the worthy squire and his good neighbour, without displaying any
signs of the weariness which such topics must inevitably have produced in
the mind of such a sprightly and intelligent woman of the world. That she
was not invariably so tolerant of bores is well known. The frankness of
her expressed sentiments was not always agreeable to her hearers, for she
made a practice of what is called “speaking out her mind,” a euphemism
adopted by candid friends to describe that essentially personal criticism,
punctuated by what are known as “home truths,” which is always so very
hard to bear. Even the author of Public Characters admits that the
duchess did not ever suffer fools gladly, but could be severe at times,
and records an occasion on which she abused a “well-known peripatetic, and
exposed his conduct in so humorous and strong satire that it is said she
almost recalled to his recollection that there is such a feeling as shame
in the human mind.” I cannot help wishing that the author had given us
some hint as to the nature and humour of the satire, or, for the matter of
that, had explained to us what on earth is a “peripatetic,” and why he
should be incapable of shame. On these questions, however, he maintains a
discreet if irritating silence.
The secret of the duchess’s
great success lay not so much in her with and beauty – “she is
beautiful indeed,” wrote Mrs. Delany, “very natural and good-humour’d,
but her very broad Scotch accent does not seem to belong to the
very great delicacy of her appearance” [The Autobiography and
Correspondence of Mrs. Delany, vol. v. p.215] – as in her
determinations to succeed at all hazards. “Any contest I shall rise
in – never fall, I assure you,” [An Autobiographical Chapter in the Life
of Jane, Duchess of Gordon.] she once wrote to Francis Farquharson, an
intimate friend and adviser of the Gordon family; and from this sentence
one can gain the key to her whole character. She was determined,
masterful, undaunted. “I have been acquainted with David Hume and William
Pitt,” she used to say, “and therefore I am not afraid to converse with
anybody;” [Recollections of the Table Talk of Samuel Rogers, p.143.]
and converse she did, freely and fluently, though not always in a language
that was understood by her listeners. “Rax me a spaul o’ that bubbly
jock,” she once observed at dinner to a flustered Englishman who was
carving a turkey and at the same time boasting somewhat prematurely of his
intimate knowledge of the Scottish vernacular.
Her energy and vitality
were a source of constant wonder to her friends. Horace Walpole gives in
one of his letters a description of her daily life, and relates how she
“first went to Handel’s music in the Abbey; she then clambered over the
benches and went to Hastings’ trial in the Hall; after dinner to the play;
then to Lady Lucan’s assembly; after that to Ranelagh, and returned to
Mrs. Hobart’s faro-table; gave a ball herself in the evening of that
morning, into which she must have got a good way; and set out for Scotland
the next day.” [The Letters of Horace Walpole, vol. ix. P.318.]
Hercules himself, as Walpole remarks, could not in the same time have
achieved a quarter of her labours. |
