Lady Mary Wortley Montague Part 13

Conflict of dirt and warmth combin'd, Invoked--and scandalised the _Nine_."

What Pope thought of the Duke he expressed with the utmost vigour:

"Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days, Whose ruling pa.s.sion was the l.u.s.t of praise: Born with whate'er could win it from the wise, Women and fools must like him, or he dies: Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke.

The club must hail him master of the joke.

Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?

He'll s.h.i.+ne a Tully and a Wilmot too.

Then turns repentant, and his G.o.d adores With the same spirit that he drinks and wh.o.r.es; Enough, if all around him but admire, And now the punk applaud, and now the friar.

Thus with each gift of nature and of art, And wanting nothing but an honest heart; Grown all to all; from no one vice exempt, And most contemptible, to shun contempt: His pa.s.sion still, to covet general praise, His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways; A constant bounty which no friend has made; An angel tongue, which no man can persuade; A fool, with more of wit than half mankind; Too rash for thought, for action too refined: A tyrant to his wife his heart approves; A rebel to the very king he loves; He dies, sad outcast of each church and state, And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.

Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule?

'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool."

The Duke wrote a play on Mary Queen of Scots--of which only four lines have been preserved:

"Sure were I free, and Norfolk were a prisoner, I'd fly with more impatience to his arms, Than the poor Israelite gaz'd on the serpent.

When life was the reward of every look."

It is usually stated that this play was written at some time between 1728 and 1730, but it is certain that it was begun at this time-- probably it was never finished. Perhaps only the scenario was drawn up, and a few scenes outlined; but that so much at least was done while the author was at Twickenham is proved conclusively by the fact that at this time Lady Mary composed for the play an epilogue, designed to be spoken by Mrs. Oldfield.

"What could luxurious woman wish for more.

To fix her joys, or to extend her pow'r?

Their every wish was in this Mary seen.

Gay, witty, youthful, beauteous, and a queen.

Vain useless blessings with ill-conduct join'd!

Light as the air, and fleeting as the wind.

Whatever poets write, and lovers vow.

Beauty, what poor omnipotence hast thou?

Queen Bess had wisdom, council, power and laws; How few espous'd a wretched beauty's cause?

Learn thence, ye fair, more solid charms to prize, Contemn the idle flatt'rers of your eyes.

The brightest object s.h.i.+nes but while 'tis new.

That influence lessens by familiar view.

Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway, All strive to serve, and glory to obey, Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow-- Men mock the idol of their former vow.

Two great examples have been shown to-day, To what sure ruin pa.s.sion does betray, What long repentance to short joys is due, When reason rules, what glory must ensue.

If you will love, love like Eliza then, Love for amus.e.m.e.nt, like those traitors, men.

Think that the pastime of a leisure hour She favor'd oft--but never shar'd her pow'r.

The traveller by desert wolves pursued, If by his heart the savage foe's subdu'd, The world will still the n.o.ble act applaud, Though victory was gain'd by needful fraud.

Such is, my tender s.e.x, our helpless case, And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face, By pa.s.sion fir'd, and not withheld by shame, They cruel hunters are, we trembling game.

Trust me, dear ladies, (for I know 'em well), They burn to triumph, and they sigh to tell: Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that sell.

Believe me, 'tis far the wiser course, Superior art should meet superior force: Hear, but be faithful to your int'rest still: Secure your hearts--then fool with whom you will."

At Twickenham the Duke seems in some degree to have relied for his entertainment upon his pen. There he wrote his articles for the _True Briton_, and also indited various trifles in verse. Never neglecting an opportunity to indulge his humour, when Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote a poem on the untimely death of a friend, he could not refrain from presenting her with a parody.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BOWES

_By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu_

"Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless'd, Three months of rapture crown'd with endless rest.

Merit like yours was Heav'n's peculiar care, You lov'd--yet tasted happiness sincere: To you the sweets of love were only shown, The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.

You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd The tender lover for th' imperious lord, Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings, Nor wept that coldness from possession springs, Above your s.e.x distinguish'd in your fate, You trusted--yet experienc'd no deceit.

Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flew, No vain repentance gave a sign to you, And if superior bliss heav'n can bestow, With fellow-angels you enjoy it now."

THE ANSWER

_By the Duke of Wharton_

"Hail, Poetess! for thou art truly blest, Of wit, of beauty, and of love possest, Your muse does seem to bless poor Bowes's fate, But far 'tis from you to desire her state, In every line your wanton soul appears.

Your verse, tho' smooth, scarce fit for modest ears, No pangs of jealous fondness doth thou shew.

And bitter dregs of love thou ne'er didst know: The coldness that your husband oft has mourn'd, Does vanish quite, when warm'd on Turkish ground.

For Fame does say, if Fame don't lying prove, You paid obedience to the Sultan's love.

Who, fair one, then, was your imperious Lord?

Not Montagu, but Mahomet the word: Great as your wit, just so is Wortley's love, Your next attempt will be on thund'ring Jove, The little angels you on Bowes bestow.

But G.o.ds themselves are only fit for you."

No writer of verses likes to have fun poked at them, even in the form of friendly banter, but Lady Mary seems to have borne the affliction admirably.

Two persons with such impish humour could not but frequently find themselves at loggerheads, but their liking for each other's society was genuine, and quarrels were followed by peace-making. "Sophia [as she nicknamed the young man] and I have been quite reconciled, and are now quite broke, and I believe not likely to piece up again," Lady Mary wrote to her sister. This was in February, 1725, and a little later in the year the breach was widened by the really outrageous conduct of the Duke:

"Sophia and I have an immortal quarrel; which though I resolve never to forgive, I can hardly forbear laughing at. An acquaintance of mine is married, whom I wish very well to: Sophia has been pleased, on this occasion, to write the most infamous ballad that ever was written; where both the bride and bridegroom are intolerably mauled, especially the last, who is complimented with the hopes of cuckoldom, and forty other things equally obliging, and Sophia has distributed this ballad in such a manner as to make it pa.s.s for mine, on purpose to pique the poor innocent soul of the new-married man, whom I should be the last of creatures to abuse. I know not how to clear myself of this vile imputation, without a train of consequences I have no mind to fall into.

In the mean time, Sophia enjoys the pleasure of heartily plaguing both me and that, person."

Probably this "immortal quarrel" would have been made up, but at the beginning of July the Duke went abroad never to return. "Sophia is going to Aix-la-Chapelle, and thence to Paris," Lady Mary wrote to Lady Mar.

"I dare swear she'll endeavour to get acquainted with you. We are broke to an iremediable degree. Various are the persecutions I have endured from her this winter, in all of which I remain neuter, and shall certainly go to heaven from the pa.s.sive meekness of my temper."

CHAPTER XII

A FAMOUS QUARREL

Pope and Lady Mary--He pays her compliments--His jealousy of her other admirers--The cause of his quarrel with her--His malicious attacks on her thereafter--Writes of her as "Sappho"--Lady Mary asks Arbuthnot to protect her--Molly Skerritt--Lady Stafford--Lady Mary's malicious tongue and pen--Mrs. Murray--"An Epistle from Arthur Grey"--Lady Mary, Lord Hervey, and Molly Lepell--Death of the Earl of Kingston--Lady Gower--Lady Mar--Marriage of Lady Mary's daughter.

Of Pope, it is curious to relate, though he was a near neighbour, she saw less and less. It has been suggested that the first rift in the lute was her parody of his verses about the lovers struck by lightning; but even he, most sensitive of men, can scarcely have been seriously offended.

So far as is known, only two letters pa.s.sed between them after 1719.

"I pa.s.s my time in a small snug set of dear intimates, and go very little into the _grand monde_, which has always had my hearty contempt"

(she wrote to Lady Mar in the spring of 1722). "I see sometimes Mr.

Congreve, and very seldom Mr. Pope, who continues to embellish his house at Twickenham. He has made a subterranean grotto, which he has furnished with looking-gla.s.s, and they tell me it has a very good effect. I here send you some verses addressed to Mr. Gay, who wrote him a congratulatory letter on the finis.h.i.+ng his house. I stifled them here, and I beg they may die the same death at Paris, and never go further than your closet:

'Ah, Friend, 'tis true--this truth you lovers know-- In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens: Joy lives not here; to happier seats it flies, And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.

What is the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade, The morning bower, the ev'ning colonnade, But soft recesses of uneasy minds, To sigh unheard in, to the pa.s.sing winds?