66 the duke. And whatever people may say, | [Frederick Hervey, Earl of Bristol and and though so much admired, she has no Bishop of Derry] "who has an income of cicisbeo, though now so much the ton." four or five and twenty thousand a year, Even her most virulent enemies admitted that the sin then called "gallantry" could not be laid at her door. William Coombe, whose unscrupulous pen was employed to lash and lecture her in many satires, while taunting her with the melancholy which alternated with her gaiety, telling her that she is young, gay, fortunate, and miserable, that "sorrow has perched on her toilette," and that "the altar of vanity has received the tribute of her tears," adds for her comfort that excellent principles presided over her education, that she has never made a jest of religion, and that" of all the virtues which once possessed an interest in her, chastity alone refuses to abandon her." Surr, in his "Winter in London," also says: "Though dissipated in her mode of life, never did holy nun carry to a vestal grave a heart more true to her monastic vows than was the Duchess of Belgrave to those she had taken at the altar." Rumor, however, connected with the name of the Duchess of Devonshire another scandal -- ingeniously concocted but incredibly absurd. Several children found a home in Devonshire House, besides the duchess's two daughters, Lady Georgiana and Lady Harriet Cavendish (afterwards Countess of Carlisle and Vis countess Granville respectively), and her son the Marquis of Hartington. Her niece, Lady Caroline Ponsonby, was there for a time; there also, on the outbreak of the French Revolution, were sent the children of the Duc de Gramont, to receive, says Raikes, "an entirely English education." One of the sisters married first General Davidoff, and secondly General Sebastiani, with whom she returned to England in 1835 as ambassadress. The other sister became Countess of Tankerville. George IV. gave a commission in the roth Light Dragoons to the young count, who became Duc de Guiche, and married Count d'Orsay's sister. At Devonshire House resided also a daughter of the duke's, whose mother, according to Peter Cunningham, was "a Miss Spencer." In those days the bend-sinister was no bar to a young lady's prospects. Most great families had these scions, treated, such was the laxity or charity of the times, in the same manner as their legal sons and daughters. Domesticated with the Devonshire family was Lady Elizabeth Foster, of whom Walpole bitterly said: "Though the daughter of an earl in lawn sleeves' he suffers her from indigence to accept £300 a year as governess to a natural child." Lady Elizabeth was described by Gibbon as so alluring that no man could withstand her, and if she chose to beckon the lord chancellor from the woolsack in full sight of the world he could not resist obedience." According to others, she continued "to her dying day most fascinating, but accused of gallantries and intrigues of all descriptions." The duchess's family looked coldly on the close intimacy between her and Lady Elizabeth, whose influence they considered mischievous. Fanny Burney, when visiting Bath after her emancipation from the royal household, was treated with much kindness by the Dowager-Countess Spencer. "I knew she was here," writes Miss Burney in her diary, “with her unhappy daughter, Lady Duncannon " (afterwards Besborough) “and her more celebrated other daughter the Duchess of Devonshire." The conflict between "little Burney's" resolute Toryism, and the interest she could not avoid feeling in this interesting family, is shown in her account of a visit to the dowager-countess. A birthday fête for one of the Cavendish children was the occa sion. I inquired for the young Marquis of Hartington [she says]. Lady Spencer told me they has a house of his own near the duke's, and a never trusted him from the upper walks. He carriage entirely to himself. But you will see the necessity of these appropriations when remind you he is now fourteen months old. Lady Presently followed two ladies. Spencer, with a manner warmly announcing pleasure, said, “Duchess of Devonshire, Miss Burney." Then slightly, and as if unavoidably, added "Lady Elizabeth Foster." I did not find so much beauty in the duchess as I expected, but far more of manner, politeness, and gentle quiet. She seems by nature to possess the highest spirits, but appeared not happy. She looked oppressed with care. There is in her face, especially when she speaks, a sweet good-nature and openness that announce her endowed with a character intended wholly for honesty, fairness, and good purposes. She conversed in so soberly-sensible a manner as I had imagined incompatible with her powers. We talked over my tour, Bath waters, and the king's illness — a tender subject, considering her heading the Regency squadron. . . . She was extremely well-bred in all she said herself. When the duchess returned the visit, Miss Burney found her far more easy and lively in her spirits, and consequently far more lovely in her person. Vivacity is so much her characteristic that her beauty dies away without it. I now saw how her fame for personal charms had been obtained; her smile is so singularly sweet that not the most rigid critic could deny its justice. It has certainly been singular that the first visit I should make after leaving the queen should be to the head of the opposition public! Some of Miss Burney's friends were "in dismay" at her acquaintance with the duchess and Lady Elizabeth, and "will," she adds, “believe no good of them." Gibbon had become extremely intimate with those ladies when they visited Switzerland, and actively corresponded with both after their return to England. Writing to Lady Elizabeth, he dwells regret fully on their happy days at Le Petit Ouchy, and the rambles which had lost their charm in losing such companionship; and he speaks of the duchess with enthusiasm. Lady Elizabeth had apparently compared her to one of Guido's archangels, for he says: the duchess, although the story is told with varying details and much circumstantiality. Lady Charlotte Campbell even goes so far as to describe its revelation to the sixth duke, at Rome, in 1815. He appeared to have an aversion to his step-mother [Lady Elizabeth Foster then Duchess of Devonshire], and when she hung over him and kissed his forehead, turned away as if touched by a basilisk. But after his visits to her at Rome his manner changed, and he' evinced pleasure in her society and affection for her person. It was said this change was wrought by the duchess declaring to him that he was her own child. Many are the fair and noble who have vainly aspired to become duke is only suffered by the rightful heir to Duchess of [Devonshire]. enjoy the title and estates for his lifetime, in order not to disgrace the family by an exposure of the truth. Rumor says the This romance of real life she adds, 66 was once dramatized under the title of 'The False Friends,' and that by a friend of the family." If the The Duchess Georgiana retained her diadem as 66 'empress of fashion" (Walpole's phrase) far beyond the average length of reign in so unstable a kingdom. With good-humored sarcasm the old wit of Strawberry Hill writes to Lady Ossory, "I have had no gout this summer. Duchess of Devonshire has, I suppose the ladies of her court will recall their chins, and thrust out a shoe wadded with flannel." To the same correspondent he describes the absurd length to which ladies were ready to carry their "sincerest flat You may if you please be belle comme une ange, but I do not like your comparison of the archangel. Those of Milton, with whom I am better acquainted at present than with Guido's, are all masculine figures with great swords by their sides and six wings folding round them. The heathen goddesses would please me as little. Your friend is less severe than Minerva, more decent than Venus, less cold than Diana, and not so great a vixen as the ox-eyed Juno. To express that ineffable mixture of grace, sweetness, and dignity, a new race of beings must be invented, and I am a mere prose nar-tery." rator of matter-of-fact. On prétend that certain invisible machines of which one heard much a year or two ago, and which were said to be constructed of cork and worn somewhere or other behind, are now to be transplanted somewhere or other before, in imitation of the Duchess of Devonshire, as all under-jaws advanced upon the same prin ciple. This letter proves Gibbon's belief in the genuine attachment between the duchess and Lady Elizabeth. Even a philosopher would scarcely expect to ingratiate himself with a lady by encomiums on her rival. But unquestionably the situation was somewhat peculiar. While the husband was reported to be deeply in love with Lady Elizabeth, she was the close confidante and constant companion of the wife. This very Parisian state of affairs should have satisfied the liveliest imaginations; but rumor proceeded to account for one marvel by a greater marvel still. The bond uniting these remarkable women, it said, was no less iniquitous than an exchange of children the Marquis of Hartington being the supposed son of Lady Elizabeth. A cardinal difficulty in the way of this scandal is that no one attempts to account for the third daughter, who on the ex- * Conversations with Northcote, pp. 346, 347 (ed. change" theory must have been born to 1871). 66 But the longest reign comes to an end at last, and though the duchess's supremacy survived her youth and beauty, the time came when youth, beauty, and supremacy all vanished. Hazlitt gives one painful glimpse of her in her decadence.* After saying that a great beauty who outlives her charms is more to be pitied than a great actor who outlives his stage triumphs, Northcote added: I remember once being struck with seeing the Duchess of Devonshire, the same that Sir Joshua painted, and who was a miracle of beauty when young, and followed by crowds wherever she went. I was coming out of Mrs. W.'s, and on the landing-place there she was, standing by herself and calling over the banisters for her servant. If she had been as she once was, a thousand admirers would have flown to her assistance. But her face was painted over like a mask, and there was hardly any appearance of life left but the restless motion of her eyes. Life itself was soon to leave her. After a very brief illness she died at Devonshire House in March 1806. Thackeray tells us that when the Prince Regent heard of it, he said, "Then we have lost the bestbred woman in England." "And the kindest heart," added Charles Fox. She was buried in the family vault in Derby Church, and Lady Besborough, visiting it in order to lay a wreath of flowers on her sister's coffin, fainted away on the stone steps. 66 "PIPES! ready?" From Temple Bar. A LITTLE STORY. I. FRIDAY. Pipes, I say! Are you A young gentleman, armed with all the aplomb of his thirteen summers, stands, legs well apart, hands in both pockets, looking eagerly up at an open bow-window. It is very hot to-day, hot even for Little Shrimpton-on-sea; the white chalk road dazzles the eyes; the tiled fronts of Bellevue Terrace vie with the glittering blue waves out there in reflecting the fire of noontide; little dogs sit with their tongues out, in mournful anticipation of the muzzle which a sad experience tells them such weather must bring in its train; but this handsome young obstruction in his white flannels, his straw hat on the very back of his curly yellow head, his sunburnt, greyeyed face lit up with expectation, does not seem to care much for heat, or dust, or glare, or indeed anything, except an answer to his summons. "Pipes! Pipes, I say!" he sings out again. "Hello!" sings out, in response, a shrill but tuneful treble; and a figure, which has evidently been in hiding for the last two minutes beneath the window-sill, bursts into view like some feminine, or rather girlish, Jack-in-the-box. "Don't see why you should call me Pipes,' Chewnie. You don't kick up any noise, yourself, do you?" Five months after the death of the duchess, Fox in his last illness was taken to Chiswick House for change of air. The bed-chamber he occupied adjoined the bright_Italian saloon, rich with gems of art. Every time his own door opened, says Jesse, some object in that noble apartment recalled the duchess to his memory. 'Everything in Chiswick House was eloquent of the graceful tastes and accomplishments of its late mistress." When reminded of her, 66 a shade of melancholy would steal across Mr. Fox's countenance," says his secretary, Trotter, who, leaving the dying statesman's bedside one night for a breath of air, found himself in the duchess's dressing room. Everything, he adds, remained as she had left it. The music-book still open notes lying scattered about - books not restored to their places - a chair as if she had just risen from it, and every mark of a recent inhabitant in the elegant apartment." Fox died at Chiswick House in A winsome face it is, though, that looks September 1806, and it is a strange coin- at him so mischievously, and yet so lov cidence that sixteen years afterwards Can-ingly, from above the ink-stained holland ning died in the same room. 66 The duke continued constant to the rub. ber and boiled mackerel at Brookes's alternating with a broiled blade-bone of mutton, according to the season — which he had always preferred to his wife's splendid banquets. He also had in his youth indulged in a little verse-writing; he was the authority in his club when any dispute arose as to a line of Horace or a passage in Tacitus or Livy; and "to know Shakespeare as well as the Duke of Devonshire" passed into a proverb. Delivering herself of this satirical rejoinder, Miss Ethel Maynard, with a badly used Ollendorff in one hand, and a well-bitten pen in the other, leans out of the window, and makes at her visitor that untranslatable thing called a moue. pinafore. Whether it be the avalanche of brown hair that she throws back with such grace every now and then, or the deep-lashed hazel eyes that gleam now so malicious, and now glisten so sympathetic, there is beauty in the child past explaining. And, for all that she can boast of eleven years full told, the chief charm of her loveliness lies in her ignorance thereof. "Shut up, Pipes," grins the boy, shaking his fist at her; "but, look here, I say, haven't you done yet?" "Oh, Chewnie," she answers mourn-gers, grasping one of the long blades of fully; I've only got three sentences dried grass from the vase on the mantelmore; but I can't remember that horrid piece. The grass descends stealthily French." until it touches Ethel's cheek. She brushes away an imaginary fly, and continues, "You're not past No. 10, are you?" he inquires with anxiety. Wish I was," she sighs; "this is Lesson 8." "Go and fetch your book - somewhat patronizingly "I'll help you. I'm into 50, you know." With an exclamation of combined relief and gratitude, Ethel flies back into the room, and returns promptly with a much be-blotted and be-thumbed exercise-book, which, in dangerous proximity to an inkstand she places upon the sill. "Now, Chewnie; go on, there's a boy! 'I have the penknife of my father,' what's that?" "I say, Chewnie; ploom means feather, not pen!" she objects. White flannels looks at her sadly but firmly. "My dear Pipes," he says, "you're thinking of English. I'm telling you what it is in French!" Utterly discomfited by the superior information and judicial manner of her auxiliary, Ethel bends down her pretty head well to the right, and scribbles vigorously. "Ready? now for the last: Then give me the book of my uncle.' Allor donny mor" --a pause, during which he hastily turns over several pages, and seeks for a word-"Allor donny mor ler livver der mon nonkel! There Pipes!" and he shuts the book triumphantly. "Livver der mon nonkel," she repeats hesitatingly. "But I say, Chewnie, it's very much like English, isn't it?" Both Chewnie and Pipes have been too absorbed in their linguistic experiments to notice the advent of a little pale, towzlehaired face in the window. Gradually a small thin arm has come into view, at the end of which are perceptible five tiny fin The face disappears, with Ethel after it; and Chewnie, who caught sight of the offender a moment before his pupil, and is now in convulsions of laughter, is aware of nothing but the sounds of a furious helter-skelter combination of pursuit and escape, within; a slamming of the schoolroom door, and the reappearance of Pipes at the window, vowing vengeance, out of breath, and too lovely in her disorder for the heart of boyhood to withstand, until his attention is arrested by the accents of a severe reprimand from the doorstep. "How often must I tell you, Bertie, that I cannot allow you to disturb the children like this during lesson-time? I leave the room for a moment to give some orders, and I come back to find Lottie flying along the passage like a mad thing, and Ethel wasting her time with you at the window. I really shall have to speak to Mr. Marston." As the Rev. Theophilus Marston is Bertie Montresor's pastor and master, and moreover is entrusted with the sole charge of that promising youth during Colonel Montresor's absence in India, the threat fulminated by the angular lady in black silk up there should by rights utterly cow, abash, and confound the guilty cause of such grave insubordination." Nothing daunted, however, by the stern aspect of his rebuker, Chewnie is up the steps in a couple of bounds; and, clasping one thin arm in both his hands, and leaning his curly head against the sable shoulder, he says caressingly, "Dear Miss Palkin, Ethel has finished her work; and I'd only been there a minute or two; and we're both very sorry; and you will let us go out for a walk this afternoon, won't you, Miss Palkin?" The heart of the worthy dame, whose pleasure as well as duty it is to supply the place of their lost mother to the two girls, would be harder than the nether millstone if she could resist the pleading of that "I have a good mind to she be gins. "Well, but Ethel and Lottie haven't had their dinner yet." "Oh, I can walk up and down, Miss Palkin." gentle voice. And it isn't, as testifies an | Indeed, her opinions on this subject are so amused smile that is spreading over her determined, that she has gone the length face. of adding a title to the name which must of necessity define its gender. A reference to the history of Mexico results but in the production, on her part, of various uncanny signs and symptoms of facial unbelief; and the only resource which is left you for the covering of your retreat is an ironical comment upon the suddenness of the promotion which has been conferred upon the personage in question. For it is but lately that the Queen of Sheba is not all in all to Chimpans. "And pray how is it you are out so early, sir?" she inquires. 66 "Why," he answers in some confusion, "the army-fellows at Marston's are always so long over lunch, and Thoffy —I mean Mr. Marston-never says grace till we've all done; and I was afraid Ethel would have gone out, and so us. As Chimpans involuntary turns round to look at the fallen favorite who reposes, impossibly recumbent, in the corner, Chewnie catches sight of Montezuma, resplendent, as befits her new dignity, in a crimson satin dress and a green silk cloak. She is lying well back in the high chair, slightly flattened, it is true, by Chimpans's co-operation thereof, but otherwise perfectly satisfied with herself, if one is to judge by her haughtily delineated eyebrows, and her scornfully pucked-out red lips. "So you went without, you silly boy," she laughs. "Never mind, you may come in if you like, and have some dinner with But only an hour's walk, mind!" Lottie, alias Chimpans, who has been engaged during the above recorded conversation in distorting her elfin features into a series of grimaces, each one more hideous than its predecessor, with the praiseworthy object of making Chewnie burst out laughing; and Ethel, who has been telegraphing to the same young "Look here, Chimpans," says the boy, gentleman to ask himself to dinner, and is with a wink at Ethel; "you bring them now indulging in vigorous but silent ap- both out for a walk this afternoon, and plause and a dance of triumph, have only we'll execute the Queen of Sheba for bejust time to resume their normal appearing so naughty, and Lady Montezuma ance, as Miss Palkin turns to lead the way shall look on!" into the dining-room. "All right, Chewnie," says the owner of the two rivals. Herbert Montresor, Esquire, sits down with a flush of pleasure on his handsome "I say, Chimpans," breaks in Ethel; face; and, after he has proved his ac-"you mustn't call him 'Chewnie.' It's quaintance with the manners and customs only me that's got the right—" of society by pouring out a glass of sherry for his hostess from her own particular decanter, and treated himself to a deep draught of the beer which is served in his honor, looks about him for a subject of conversation. As usual he finds Chimpans patiently waiting to catch his eye with one of her own tightly closed, and her mouth screwed up into her ear. With a stifled giggle, and in the hope of turning her thoughts from such vanities into a less incurably demented phase of volition, he proceeds to notice the absence of a favored guest. "Where's the Queen of Sheba, Chimpans?" he asks. "Oh, she's in disgrace," answers his vis-à-vis; "she got jealous of Lady Montezuma, so I put her in the corner." It may here be parenthetically remarked that nothing, as yet, has ever succeeded, nor in all probability ever will succeed, in persuading Chimpans that Montezuma is a masculine and not a feminine cognomen. "Ethel!" interrupts Miss Palkin, reproachfully. "To call him anything but Bertie!" continues the culprit, heedless of everything but the audacity of any other creature in the world, except her royal self, presuming to address her pet companion by the pet name she has given him. For the most part the words and works of childhood are mysterious, and too deep for the understanding of us grown folk; but there is a tradition that in the remoter ages of their friendship, first cemented some six long months ago, Bertie severely chastised a big fisher-lad who was for depriving Ethel of the produce of an afternoon's patient angling at the picr-head, and in the course of the battle displayed such unexpected strength and sagacity that, inspired by a portrait of the celebrated elephant of Exeter 'Change on the wall of her bedroom, she transferred its name to her protector, as a species of decoration, or recognition of valor. Not that Bertie |