Chapter XXVI
. Mr. Warrington is at the White Horse Tavern, where are Lords Chesterfield and March:
'"My Lord Chesterfield's deuce is deuce ace," says my Lord March. "His Lordship can't keep away from the cards, or dice."
'"My Lord March has not one, but several devils. He loves gambling, he loves horse-racing, he loves betting, he loves drinking, he loves eating, he loves money, he loves women, and you have fallen into bad company, Mr. Warrington, when you lighted upon his Lordship. He will play you for every acre you have in Virginia."
'"With the greatest pleasure in life, Mr. Warrington!" interposes my Lord.
'"And for all your tobacco, and for all your spices, and for all your slaves, and for all your oxen and asses."
* * * * *
'"Unfortunately, my Lord, the tobacco, and the slaves, and the asses, and the oxen, are not mine, as yet. I am just of age, and my mother--scarce twenty years older--has quite as good chance of long life as I have."
'"I will bet that you survive her. I will pay you a sum now, against four times the sum to be paid at her death. I will set a fair sum over this table against the reversion of your estate in Virginia at the old lady's departure."'
Certainly, it is pleasant to turn from such companions of Florizel's to another, whose only fault was his conviviality. I mean Captain Charles Morris, punch-maker and bard to the Beefsteak Society, where he met with the Prince, at his admission into the society, in 1785; and the author of the 'Clubs of London' thus describes him:
[Illustration: CAPTAIN MORRIS.]
'But Charles Morris--can anyone think of the Beefsteaks without including thy revered image in the picture? The faculties of man are not equal to an abstraction so metaphysical. For many, many years, during which several of man's autumnal generations have fallen, he has been faithful to his post. He is the bard of the Society, who, in the person of this, her favourite disciple, may still boast _non caret vate sacro_, fortune has not yet struck this old deer of the forest. You should have seen him, as was his wont at the period I am speaking of, making the Society's punch, his ancient and rightful office. It was pleasing to see him at his laboratory at the side board, stocked with the varied products that enter into the composition of that nectareous mixture; then, smacking an elementary glass, or two, and giving a significant nod, the fiat of its excellence; and what could exceed the extasy with which he filled the glasses that thronged round the bowl; joying over its mantling beauties with an artist's pride, and distributing the fascinating draught
'"That flames and dances in its crystal bound."'
Morris's songs, which after his death were published in two volumes, under the title of 'Lyra Urbanica,' rendered him a welcome guest at Carlton House and the Pavilion; and, strange to say, he enjoyed the favour and countenance of Florizel, both as Prince and King, until the death of his royal patron.
We have a very good portrait of Captain Morris, dated July 1, 1789, with the lines:
'When the fancy stirring Bowl Wakes its World of pleasure, Glowing Visions gild my Soul, And Life's an endless treasure.'
These were some of the more notorious of the Prince's intimates at that time; some of the minor ones may be mentioned later on.
We hear very little of the Prince at Brighton in 1791. He went there, for the season, on June 13, and he soon had his old set round him. I can only find one record of their doings, and that is in the _Sussex Weekly Advertiser_ of September 26: 'Between six and seven o'clock, on Monday morning last, the Prince, accompanied by Sir John Lade, in his curricle, drove through this town, on a shooting excursion, to Haremere, an estate belonging to Sir John; but no day ever proved more unfavourable to the sport, for the gamekeeper who attended on the occasion, with all his diligence, was unable to spring more than one solitary bird. About seven in the evening his Royal Highness returned here, and, after taking fresh horses, which were in readiness at the White Hart, proceeded on to Brighton.
'Lady Lade and the Barrys had the honour to be of the party. Her Ladyship, in rallying the Prince and Sir John, on their bad success, observed she thought even an object as large as a goose, might, with great safety, come in their way; but was, soon after, convinced of her error, by being presented with a goose, which the Prince and Sir John had shot in a neighbouring pond. The joke was accompanied with great pleasantry; and the farmer, who owned the goose, had the benefit of it, by receiving a handsome present from the Royal purse.'
In 1792 the Prince went down to Brighton earlier than usual--in April--and his regiment was quartered there for the defence of the coast; things on the Continent were very disturbed, and war with France broke out the next year. We read in the _Sussex Weekly Advertiser_ of May 21: 'On Friday the 10th Regiment of Light Dragoons had a grand field day, in honour of the Prince; after which, his Royal Highness honoured the officers with his company to dinner, at the Old Ship tavern; and, the next morning, set out for town. The Prince is expected at Brighton this day, previous to the grand review of his regiment to-morrow, by Gen. Lascelles, on the Downs, near that place. On Friday next, the above regiment is to have another field day, in review order, at which the Duke and Duchess of York are expected to be present.'
The French Revolution was seething, and prudent people were leaving France. We read in the same newspaper: 'There has been, lately, a great importation of _French Emigrants_ to Brighthelmstone. Last Wednesday, twelve of them, seemingly persons of distinction, passed through this town, in four post chaises, on their route to Dover, in order to embark there for Brussels. Another cargo of the same quality, has also been smuggled in an open boat to Bulverhithe,[66] on our coast, likewise on their way to the ex-Princes.'
_En passant_, let me just give one anecdote of the manners and customs of Brighton at this time _re_ smuggling (_Sussex Weekly Advertiser_, August 27, 1792): 'On Wednesday last, a smuggling cutter, having been closely chased at sea, in order to lighten her lading, threw 300 tubs of spirits overboard, and, by means thereof, escaped her pursuers. The Brighton fishermen seeing many of the tubs float on a very rough sea before that town, swam out at the hazard of their lives and saved some of them. Two Revenue officers, who looked on while these hardy sons of Neptune buffeted the angry waves for the sake of their favourite grog, endeavoured to seize the fruits of their labour. But, one of them, in pursuing a woman, who had received a tub from her husband, or brother, fell down the bank and broke one of his legs, in a manner that the bone appeared through his stocking. The other, having gone down on the beach, in order more effectually to intercept his prey, was hustled by the crowd off one of the groins, and broke three of his ribs in the fall. Honest Jack, seeing his foes thus disabled, secured every tub that fell in his way, and in his dripping jacket, drank confusion to Excise.'
On August 27 Florizel gave a fête to celebrate his birthday, and this is a contemporary account of it (_Sussex Weekly Advertiser_, September 3): 'At the Prince's fête on Brighton Level, last Monday, no fewer than four thousand persons were supposed to have attended; the majority to feast their eyes, while the others feasted more substantially on a fine ox, with a proportionate quantity of bread and strong beer prepared for the occasion. The ox was taken from the fire about 3 o'clock, and very skilfully dissected by Mr. Russel, at the bottom of a large pit, while the spectators and expectants stood, in theatric gradation, on its sloping sides. The day proved very favourable to this rustic festivity. His Royal Highness's guests were very accommodating and good humoured to each other, until the strong beer began to operate. The Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert looked on for a considerable time with great good humour, and had the satisfaction of hearing that no accident nor injury occurred in so large a concourse, except a few blackeyes and bloody noses, at the close of the evening.'
The French Revolution grew apace. On August 10 the Royal Swiss Guards were cut to pieces and 5,000 persons massacred. On August 26 there was a decree of the National Assembly against the priests, and 40,000 of them were exiled. From September 2 to 5 there was a fearful massacre in Paris; the prisons were broken open, and 1,200 persons, including 100 priests, were slain.
Of these priests Charlotte Smith speaks in her poem called 'The Emigrants':
'SCENE--_On the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of Brighthelmstone, in Sussex_.
'TIME--_A morning in November, 1792_.
* * * * *
'Behold, in witness of this mournful truth, A group approach me, whose dejected looks, Sad Heralds of distress! proclaim them Men, Banish'd for ever, and for Conscience' sake, From their distracted Country, whence the name Of Freedom misapplied, and much abus'd By lawless Anarchy, has driven them far To wander; with the prejudice they learn'd From Bigotry (the Tut'ress of the blind), Thro' the wide World unshelter'd; their sole hope, That German spoilers, thro' that pleasant land May carry wide the desolating scourge Of War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men, Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate: And, as disconsolate and sad ye hang Upon the barrier of the rock, and seem To murmur your despondence, waiting long Some fortunate reverse that never comes; Methinks, in each expressive face, I see Discriminated anguish; there droops one, Who in a moping cloister long consum'd This life inactive, to obtain a better, And thought that meagre abstinence, to wake From his hard pallet with the midnight bell, To live on eleemosynary bread, And to renounce God's works, would please that God. And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd, The pity, strangers give to his distress; Because these strangers are, by his dark creed, Condemn'd as Heretics--and, with sick heart, Regrets his pious prison, and his beads,' etc.[67]
FOOTNOTES:
[64] Gillray caricatured him (May, 1792) in 'Le Cochon et ses deux Petites,' where, holding a tumbler of wine in his hand, he is toying with two very fleshly ladies.
[65] 'The Clubs of London,' etc.; London, 1828, 8vo., vol. ii. p. 27.
[66] One mile from St. Leonards Station, and two miles west of Hastings. It is supposed to be the landing-place of Julius Cæsar.
[67] 'The Emigrants: a Poem,' by Charlotte Smith; London, 1793, 4to., p. 7.
[Illustration: Decorative panel]
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