Part 15
The Duke and Duchess of Somerset lived in the house in the Strand, which continued to be called Northumberland House, as there had long been a _Somerset_ House a little more to the east. Anthony Henley once annoyed the above duke and showed his own ill-manners by addressing a letter ‘to the Duke of Somerset, over against the trunk-shop at Charing Cross.’ The duchess was hardly more respectful when speaking of her suburban mansion, Sion House, Brentford. ‘It’s a hobbledehoy place,’ she said; ‘neither town nor country.’ Of this union came a son, Algernon Seymour, who in 1748 succeeded his father as Duke of Somerset, and in 1749 was created Earl of Northumberland, for a particular reason. He had no sons. His daughter Elizabeth had encouraged the homage of a handsome young fellow of that day, named Smithson. She was told Hugh Smithson had spoken in terms of admiration of her beauty, and she laughingly asked why he did not say as much to herself. Smithson was the son of ‘an apothecary,’ according to the envious, but, in truth, the father had been a physician, and earned a baronetcy, and was of the good old nobility, the landowners, with an estate, still possessed by the family, at Stanwick, in Yorkshire. Hugh Smithson married this Elizabeth Percy, and the earldom of Northumberland, conferred on her father, was to go to her husband, and afterwards to the eldest male heir of this marriage, failing which the dignity was to remain with Elizabeth and her heirs male by any other marriage.
It is at this point that the present line of Smithson-Percys begins. Of the couple who may be called its founders so many severe things have been said, that we may infer that their exalted fortunes and best qualities gave umbrage to persons of small minds or strong prejudices. Walpole’s remark, that in the earl’s lord-lieutenancy in Ireland ‘their vice-majesties scattered pearls and diamonds about the streets,’ is good testimony to their royal liberality. Their taste may not have been unexceptionable, but there was no touch of meanness in it. In 1758 they gave a supper at Northumberland House to Lady Yarmouth, George II.’s old mistress. The chief ornamental piece on the supper table represented a grand _chasse_ at Herrenhausen, at which there was a carriage drawn by six horses, in which was seated an august person wearing a blue ribbon, with a lady at his side. This was not unaptly called ‘the apotheosis of concubinage.’ Of the celebrated countess notices vary. Her delicacy, elegance, and refinement are vouched for by some; her coarseness and vulgarity are asserted by others. When Queen Charlotte came to England, Lady Northumberland was made one of the ladies of the queen’s bed-chamber. Lady Townshend justified it to people who felt or feigned surprise, by remarking, ‘Surely nothing could be more proper. The queen does not understand English, and can anything be more necessary than that she should learn the vulgar tongue?’ One of the countess’s familiar terms for conviviality was ‘junkitaceous,’ but ladies of equal rank had also little slang words of their own, called things by the very plainest names, and spelt _physician_ with an ‘f.’
There is ample testimony on record that the great countess never hesitated at a jest on the score of its coarseness. The earl was distinguished rather for his pomposity than vulgarity, though a vulgar sentiment marked some of both his sayings and doings. For example, when Lord March visited him at Alnwick Castle, the Earl of Northumberland received him at the gates with this queer sort of welcome: ‘I believe, my lord, this is the first time that ever a Douglas and a Percy met here in friendship.’ The censor who said, ‘Think of this from a Smithson to a true Douglas,’ had ample ground for the exclamation. George III. raised the earl and countess to the rank of duke and duchess in 1766. All the earls of older creation were ruffled and angry at the advancement; but the honour had its drawback. The King would not allow the title to descend to an heir by any other wife but the one then alive, who was the true representative of the Percy line.
The old Northumberland House festivals were right royal things in their way. There was, on the other hand, many a snug, or unceremonious, or eccentric party given there. Perhaps the most splendid was that given in honour of the King of Denmark in 1768. His majesty was fairly bewildered with the splendour. There was in the court what was called ‘a pantheon,’ illuminated by 4,000 lamps. The King, as he sat down to supper, at the table to which he had expressly invited twenty guests out of the hundreds assembled, said to the duke, ‘How did you contrive to light it all in time?’ ‘I had two hundred lamplighters,’ replied the duke. ‘That was a stretch,’ wrote candid Mrs. Delany; ‘a dozen could have done the business;’ which was true.
The duchess, who in early life was, in delicacy of form, like one of the Graces, became, in her more mature years, fatter than if the whole three had been rolled into one in her person. With obesity came ‘an exposition to sleep,’ as Bottom has it. At ‘drawing-rooms’ she no sooner sank on a sofa than she was deep in slumber; but while she was awake she would make jokes that were laughed at and censured the next day all over London. Her Grace would sit at a window in Covent Garden, and be _hail fellow well met_ with every one of a mob of tipsy and not too cleanly-spoken electors. On these occasions it was said she ‘signalised herself with intrepidity.’ She could bend, too, with cleverness to the humours of more hostile mobs; and when the Wilkes rioters besieged the ducal mansion, she and the duke appeared at a window, did salutation to their masters, and performed homage to the demagogue by drinking his health in ale.
Horace Walpole affected to ridicule the ability of the duchess as a verse writer. At Lady Miller’s at Batheaston some rhyming words were given out to the company, and anyone who could, was required to add lines to them so as to make sense with the rhymes furnished for the end of each line. This sort of dancing in fetters was called _bouts rimés_. ‘On my faith,’ cried Walpole, in 1775, ‘there are _bouts rimés_ on a buttered muffin by her Grace the Duchess of Northumberland.’ It may be questioned whether anybody could have surmounted the difficulty more cleverly than her Grace. For example:
The pen which I now take and brandish, Has long lain useless in my standish. Know, every maid, from her own patten To her who shines in glossy satin, That could they now prepare an oglio From best receipt of book in folio, Ever so fine, for all their puffing, I should prefer a butter’d muffin; A muffin, Jove himself might feast on, If eaten with Miller, at Batheaston.
To return to the house itself. There is no doubt that no mansion of such pretensions and containing such treasures has been so thoroughly kept from the vulgar eye. There is one exception, however, to this remark. The Duke (Algernon) who was alive at the period of the first Exhibition threw open the house in the Strand to the public without reserve. The public, without being ungrateful, thought it rather a gloomy residence. Shut in and darkened as it now is by surrounding buildings--canopied as it now is by clouds of London smoke--it is less cheerful and airy than the Tower, where the Wizard Earl studied in his prison room, or counted the turns he made when pacing his prison yard. The Duke last referred to was in his youth at Algiers under Exmouth, and in his later years a Lord of the Admiralty. As Lord Prudhoe, he was a traveller in far-away countries, and he had the faculty of seeing what he saw, for which many travellers, though they have eyes, are not qualified. At the pleasant Smithsonian house at Stanwick, when he was a bachelor, his household was rather remarkable for the plainness of the female servants. Satirical people used to say the youngest of them was a grandmother. Others, more charitable or scandalous, asserted that Lord Prudhoe was looked upon as a father by many in the country round, who would have been puzzled where else to look for one. It was his elder brother Hugh (whom Lord Prudhoe succeeded) who represented England as Ambassador Extraordinary at the coronation of Charles X. at Rheims. Paris was lost in admiration at the splendour of this embassy, and never since has the _hôtel_ in the Rue de Bac possessed such a gathering of royal and noble personages as at the _fêtes_ given there by the Duke of Northumberland. His sister, Lady Glenlyon, then resided in a portion of the fine house in the Rue de Bourbon, owned and in part occupied by the rough but cheery old warrior, the Comte de Lobau. When that lady was Lady Emily Percy, she was married to the eccentric Lord James Murray, afterwards Lord Glenlyon. The bridegroom was rather of an oblivious turn of mind, and it is said that when the wedding morn arrived, his servant had some difficulty in persuading him that it was the day on which he had to get up and be married.
There remains only to be remarked, that as the Percy line has been often represented only by an heiress, there have not been wanting individuals who boasted of male heirship.
Two years after the death of Joscelin Percy in 1670, who died the last male heir of the line, leaving an only child, a daughter, who married the Duke of Somerset, there appeared, supported by the Earl of Anglesea, a most impudent claimant (as next male heir) in the person of James Percy, an Irish trunkmaker. This individual professed to be a descendant of Sir Ingram Percy, who was in the ‘Pilgrimage of Grace,’ and was brother of the sixth earl. The claim was proved to be unfounded; but it may have rested on an _illegitimate_ foundation. As the pretender continued to call himself Earl of Northumberland, Elizabeth, daughter of Joscelin, ‘took the law’ of him. Ultimately he was condemned to be taken into the four law courts in Westminster Hall, with a paper pinned to his breast, bearing these words: ‘The foolish and impudent pretender to the earldom of Northumberland.’
In the succeeding century, the well-known Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dromore, believed himself to be the true male representative of the ancient line of Percy. He built no claims on such belief; but the belief was not only confirmed by genealogists, it was admitted by the second heiress Elizabeth, who married Hugh Smithson. Dr. Percy so far asserted his blood as to let it boil over in wrath against Pennant when the latter described Alnwick Castle in these disparaging words: ‘At Alnwick no remains of chivalry are perceptible; no respectable train of attendants; the furniture and gardens are inconsistent; and nothing, except the numbers of unindustrious poor at the castle gate, excited any one idea of its former circumstances.’
‘Duke and Duchess of Charing Cross,’ or ‘their majesties of Middlesex,’ were the mock titles which Horace Walpole flung at the ducal couple of his day who resided at Northumberland House, London, or at Sion House, Brentford. Walpole accepted and satirised the hospitality of the London house, and he almost hated the ducal host and hostess at Sion, because they seemed to overshadow his mimic feudal state at Strawberry! After all, neither early nor late circumstance connected with Northumberland House is confined to memories of the inmates. Ben Jonson comes out upon us from Hartshorn Lane with more majesty than any of the earls; and greatness has sprung from neighbouring shops, and has flourished as gloriously as any of which Percy can boast. Half a century ago, there was a long low house, a single storey high, the ground floor of which was a saddler’s shop. It was on the west side of the old Golden Cross, and nearly opposite Northumberland House. The worthy saddler founded a noble line. Of four sons, three were distinguished as Sir David, Sir Frederick, and Sir George. Two of the workmen became Lord Mayors of London; and an attorney’s clerk, who used to go in at night and chat with the men, married the granddaughter of a king and became Lord Chancellor.
_LEICESTER FIELDS._
In the reign of James I. there was an open space of ground north of what is now called Leicester Square (which by some old persons is still called Leicester Fields), and which was to the London soldiers and civilians of that day very much what Wormwood Scrubs is to the military and their admirers of the present time. Prince Henry exercised his artillery there, and it continued to be a general military exercise-ground far into the reign of Charles I. People trooped joyfully over the lammas land paths to witness the favourite spectacle. The greatest delight was excited by charges of cavalry against lines or masses of dummies, through which the gallant warriors and steeds plunged and battled--thus teaching them not to stop short at an impediment, but to dash right through it.
In 1631 there were unmistakable signs that this land was going to be built over, and people were aghast at the pace at which London was growing. Business-like men were measuring and staking; the report was that the land had been given to Sydney, Earl of Leicester. Too soon the builders got possession, and the holiday folk with military proclivities no longer enjoyed their old ecstasy of accompanying the soldiery to Paggington’s tune of
My masters and friends and good people, draw near.
Why Sydney was allowed to establish himself on the lammas land no one can tell. All that we know is, that Lord Carlisle wrote from Nonsuch, in August 1631, to Attorney-General Heath, informing him that it was the king’s pleasure that Mr. Attorney should prepare a licence to the Earl of Leicester to build upon a piece of ground called Swan Close, in St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, a house convenient for his habitation.’
The popular idea of Earl of Leicester is Elizabeth’s Robert Dudley. Well, that earl had a sister, Mary, who married Sir Henry Sydney, of Penshurst. This couple had a son, whom they called Robert, and whom King James created at successive periods Baron Sydney, Viscount Lisle, and Earl of Leicester. And this Earl Robert had a son who, in 1626, succeeded to the earldom, and to him King Charles, in 1631, gave Swan Close and some other part of the lammas land, whereon he erected the once famous Leicester House.
This last Robert was the father of the famous and rather shabby patriot, Algernon Sydney, also of the handsome Henry. He is still more famous as having for daughter Dorothy, the ‘Sacharissa’ with whom Waller pretended to be in love, and he gave his family name to Sydney Alley. When, some few years later, the Earl of Salisbury (Viscount Cranbourn) built a house in the neighbourhood, he partly copied the other earl’s example, and called the road which led to his mansion Cranbourn Alley.
The lammas land thus given away was land which was open to the poor after Lammastide. Peter Cunningham quotes two entries from the St. Martin’s rate-books to this effect: ‘To received of the Honble. Earle of Leicester for ye Lamas of the ground that adjoins the Military Wall, 3_l._’ The ‘military wall’ was the boundary of the Wormwood Scrubs of that day. The Earl also had to pay ‘for the lamas of the ground whereon his house and garden are, and the field that is before his house, near to Swan Close.’ The field before his house is now Leicester Square, ‘but Swan Close,’ says Peter, ‘is quite unknown.’ Lord Carlisle’s letter in the State Paper Office states that the house was to be built ‘_upon_ Swan Close.’
It was a palatial mansion, that old Leicester House. It half filled the northern side of the present square, on the eastern half of that side. Its noble gardens extended beyond the present Lisle Street. At first that street reached only to the garden wall of Leicester House. When the garden itself disappeared the street was lengthened. It was a street full of ‘quality,’ and foreign ambassadors thought themselves lodged in a way not to dishonour their masters if they could only secure a mansion in Lisle Street.
Noble as the mansion was, Robert Sydney Earl of Leicester is the only earl of his line who lived in it, and his absences were many and of long continuance. He was a thrifty man, and long before he died, in 1677, he let the house to very responsible tenants. One of these was Colbert. If the ordinary run of ambassadors were proud to be quartered in Lisle Street, the proper place for the representative of ‘_L’Etat c’est moi_,’ and for the leader of civilisation, was the palace in Leicester Fields; and there France established herself, and there and in the neighbourhood, in hotels, cafés, restaurants, _charcutiers_, _commissionnaires_, refugees, and highly-coloured ladies, she has been ever since.
Colbert probably the more highly approved of the house as it had been dwelt in already by a queen. On February 7, 1662, the only queen that ever lived in Drury Lane--the Queen of Bohemia (daughter of James I.)--removed from Drury House and its pleasant gardens, now occupied by houses and streets, at the side of the Olympic Theatre, to Leicester House. Drury House was the residence of Lord Craven, to whom it was popularly said that the widowed queen had been privately married. Her occupancy of Leicester House was not a long one, for the queen died there on the 12th of the same month.
Six years later, in 1668,the French ambassador, Colbert, occupied Leicester House. Pepys relates how he left a joyous dinner early, on October 21, to join Lord Brouncker, the president, and other members of the Royal Society, in paying a formal return visit to Colbert; but the party had started before Pepys arrived at the Society’s rooms. The little man hastened after them; but they were ‘gone in’ and ‘up,’ and Pepys was too late to be admitted. His wife, perhaps, was not sorry, for he took her to Cow Lane; ‘and there,’ he says, ‘I showed her the coach which I pitch on, and she is out of herself for joy almost.’
It is easy to guess why the Royal Society honoured themselves by honouring Colbert. The great Frenchman was something more than a mere Marquis de Segnelai. Who remembers M. le Marquis? Who does not know Colbert--the pupil of Mazarin, the astute politician, the sharp finance-minister, the patron--nay, the pilot--of the arts and sciences in France? The builder of the French Royal Observatory, and the founder of the Academies of Painting and Sculpture and of the Sciences in France, was just the man to pay the first visit to the Royal Society. Leicester House was nobly tenanted by Colbert, and nobly frequented by the men of taste and of talent whom he gathered about him beneath its splendid roof.
The house fell into other hands, and men who were extremely opposite to philosophers were admitted within its walls _with_ philosophers, who were expected to admire their handiwork. In October 1672, the grave Evelyn called at Leicester House to take leave of Lady Sunderland, who was about to set out for Paris, where Lord Sunderland was the English ambassador. My lady made Evelyn stay to dinner, and afterwards sent for Richardson, the famous fire-eater. A few years ago a company of Orientals, black and white, exhibited certain feats, but they were too repulsive (generally) to attract. What the members of this company did was done two hundred years ago in Leicester Square by Richardson alone. ‘He devoured,’ says Evelyn, ‘brimstone on glowing coals before us, chewing and swallowing them; he melted a large glass and eat it quite up; then, taking a live coal on his tongue, he put on it a raw oyster, the coal was blowed on with bellows till it flamed and sparkled in his mouth, and so remained till the oyster gaped and was quite boiled. Then he melted pitch and wax with sulphur, which he drank down as it flamed. I saw it flaming in his mouth a good while. He also took up a thick piece of iron, such as laundresses use to put in their smoothing-boxes, when it was fiery hot, held it between his teeth, then in his hands, and threw it about like a stone; but this I observed, that he cared not to hold very long. Then he stood on a small pot, and bending his body, took a glowing iron in his mouth from between his feet, without touching the pot or ground with his hands; with divers other prodigious feats.’ Such was the singular sort of entertainment provided by a lady for a gentleman after dinner in the seventeenth century and beneath the roof of Leicester House.
Meanwhile Little France increased and flourished in and about the neighbourhood, and ‘foreigners of distinction’ were to be found airing their nobility in Leicester Square and the Haymarket--almost country places both.