Memoirs of Emma, lady Hamilton, the friend of Lord Nelson and the court of Naples; (6 page)

That promise was kept, and the man of the world sleeps by the daughter of heaven, re-united in the Pembrokeshire vault. A possibly adopted daughter — Cecilia—who is mentioned in the greetings of early correspondents, had died some seven years before.

Could any Calypso replace such pure devotion ? Yet Calypsos there had been already—among their number the divorced lady who became Margravine of Anspach, the " sweet little creature qui a I'honneur de me plaire," and whom he pitied; a " Madame Tschudy "; a " Lady A.," contrasted by Greville in 1785 with Emma; and, perhaps platonically, those gifted artists Diana Beauclerk, once Lady Bolingbroke, and Mrs. Darner, who was to sculpture one of the two busts of Nelson done from the life. In England as well as Naples flirtation was the order of the day. Yet about Sir William there must have been a charm of demeanour, a calm of ease and good nature, and a certain worldly unselfishness which could fasten such spiritual love more surely than the love profane. He was a sincere worshipper of beauty, both in art and nature; while Goethe himself respected his discriminating taste. He was a Stoic-Epicurean, a " philosopher." His confession of faith and outlook upon existence are well outlined in a letter to Emma of 1792 which deserves attention. " My study of antiquities has kept me in constant thought of the perpetual fluctuation of everything. The whole art is, really, to live all the days of our life; and not, with anxious care, disturb the sweetest hour that life affords—which is,

the present. Admire the Creator, and all His works to us incomprehensible; and do all the good you can upon earth; and take the chance of eternity without dismay."

Absent since 1778, he came over at the close of 1782 to bury his wife. It is just possible that even then he may have caught a flying glimpse of the girl whom he was to style two years later " the fair tea-maker of Edgware Row." Greville, of course, was punctual in condolence: " You have no idea how shocked I was. . . . Yet when I consider the long period of her indisposition and the weakness of her frame, I ought to have been prepared to hear it. I am glad that her last illness was not attended with extraordinary suffering, and I know you so well that I am sure you will think with affection and regret, as often as the blank which must be felt after 25 years society shall call her to your memory, and it will not be a small consolation that to the last you shew'd that kindness and attention to her which she deserved. / have often quoted you for that conduct which few have goodness of heart or principle to imitate." He had hoped to hasten to his dearest Hamilton's side in the crisis of affliction, but his brother's affairs, the troubles of trusteeships, and the bequest by Lord Sea forth of a rare cameo, alas! intervened, and therefore he could not come. So Mount Vesuvius-Hamilton hurried to Mahomet-Greville, and doubtless, after a little virtu and more business, returned for the autumn season at Naples and his winter sport at Caserta.

But meanwhile Greville grew ruffled and out-at-elbows. He was once more member for his family borough. He needed larger emolument, yet the coalition was on the wane. For a brief interval it returned, and Greville breathed again, pocketing a small promotion in the general scramble for office. In 1783, how-

ever, the great Pitt entered on his long reign, and Grev-ille's heart sank once more. His post, however, was confirmed, despite his conscientious disapproval of reforms for England and for Ireland, and new India bills in the interval. Still, his tastes were so various that even now he pondered if, after all, an heiress of ton (none of your parvenues} were not the only way out; and, pending decision, he went on collecting crystals, exchanging pictures of saints, and lecturing Emma on the convenances —perhaps the least extravagant and most edifying pastime of all. Every August he toured in Warwickshire after his own, and to Milford and Pembrokeshire after his uncle's affairs (for Milford was being " developed "); nor was he the man to begrudge his eleve a few weeks' change in the dull season during his absence. In 1784 she was to require it more than usual, for sea-baths had been ordered, while her first thought was then to be for her " little Emma," now being tended at Hawarden.

In the early summer of this very year Sir William Hamilton had reappeared as widower, and crossed the threshold of Edgware Row to the flurry, doubtless, of the little handmaidens, whose successors, " Molly Dring" and " Nelly Gray," were so regularly paid their scanty wages, as registered in the surviving accounts.

The courtly connoisseur was enraptured. Never had he beheld anything more Greek, any one more naturally accomplished, more uncommon. What an old slyboots had this young nephew been these last two years, to have concealed this hidden treasure while he detailed everything else in his letters ! The demure rogue, then, was a suburban amateur with a vengeance! The antiquarian-Apollo, carrying with him a new work on Etruscan vases, and a new tract on volcanic phenomena, flattered himself that here were volcanoes

and vases indeed. Here were Melpomene and Thalia, and Terpsichore and Euterpe and Venus, all combined and breathing. Did he not boast the secret of perpetual youth? After all, he was only fifty-four, and he looked ten years younger than his age. He would at least make the solemn youngster jealous. Not that he was covetous; his interest was that of a father, a collector, an uncle. The mere lack of a ring debarred him from being her uncle in reality. " My uncle," she should call him.

Greville's amusement was not quite unclouded; he laughed, but laughed uneasily. To begin with, he believed himself his uncle's heir, but as yet 'twas " not so nominated in the bond." Sir William might well remarry. There was Lord Middleton's second daughter in Portman Square, a twenty thousand pounder, weighing on the scales, a fish claimed by Greville's own rod. But with others, the Court of Naples, an alliance with a widower kinsman of the Hamiltons, the Athols, the Abercorns, and the Grahams, enriched too by recent death, were solidities that might well outweigh his paltry pittance of six hundred a year. And if the widower re-married?—As for Emma, it was of course absurd to consider her. She adored her Greville, and should uncle William choose to play light father in this little farce, he could raise no objection.

Emma herself felt flattered that one so celebrated and learned should deign to be just a nice new friend. He was so amiable and attentive; so discerning of her gifts; so witty too, and full of anecdote. This was no musty scholar, but a good-natured man of the very wide world, far wider than her pent-in corner of it. Indeed, he was a " dear." And then he laughed so heartily when she mimicked Greville's buckram brother, or that rich young coxcomb Willoughby, who

had wooed her in vain already; no giddy youths for her. Was not her own matchless Greville a man of accomplishments, a bachelor of arts and sciences, a master of sentences? The uncle was worthy of the nephew, and so she was " his oblidged humble servant, or affectionate " niece " Emma," whichever he " liked the best."

And in her heart of hearts already lurked a little scheme. Her child, the child to whom Greville had been so suddenly, so gently kind, and after which she yearned, was with her grandmother. After she had taken the tiny companion to Parkgate, and bathed it there, why should not her divinity permit the mother to bring it home for good to Edgware Row? It would form a new and touching tie between them. The plan must not be broached till she could report on " little Emma's " progress, but surely then he would not have the heart to deny her.

Some evidence allows the guess that she had confided her desire to Sir William, and that he had favoured and forwarded her suit with Greville.

And so she left the smoke and turmoil, hopeful and trustful. Mother and child would at length be reunited under purer skies and by the wide expanse of sea. All the mother within her stirred and called aloud; her heart was ready to " break " at the summons. Fatherly Sir William saw her off as proxy for her absent Greville, whom he was to join, the happy man. " Tell Sir William everything you can," she wrote immediately, " and tell him I am sorry our situation prevented me from giving him a kiss, . . . but I will give him one, and entreat it if he will accept it. Ask him how I looked, and let him say something kind to me when you write."—" Pray, my dear Greville, do lett me come home as soon as you can;

. . . indeed I have no pleasure or happiness. I wish I could not think on you; but if I was the greatest lady in the world, I should not be happy from you; so don't lett me stay long."

Her first Parkgate letters, in the form of diaries, speak for themselves. After she had fetched away little Emma " Hart" from her grandmother's at Hawarden, she stopped at Chester. She had fixed on Abergele, but it proved too distant, fashionable, and dear. "High Lake" (Hoylake) was too uncomfortable; it had " only 3 houses," and not one of them " fit for a Christian." With her " poor Emma " she had bidden farewell to all her friends; she had taken her from " a good home "; she hoped she would prove worthy of his " goodness to her, and to her mother." Her recipe-book had been forgotten;—" parting with you made me so unhappy."—" My dear Greville, don't be angry, but I gave my granmother 5 guineas, for she had laid some [money] out on her, and I would not take her awhay shabbily. But Emma shall pay you. . . . My dear Greville, I wish I was with you. God bless you!"

By mid-June she was installed " in the house of a Laidy, whose husband is at sea. She and her gran-mother live together, and we board with her at present. . . . The price is high, but they don't lodge anybody without boarding; and as it is comfortable, decent, and quiet, I thought it wou'd not ruin us, till I could have your oppionon, which I hope to have freely and without restraint, as, believe me, you will give it to one who will allways be happy to follow it, lett it be what it will; as I am sure you wou'd not lead me wrong. And though my little temper may have been sometimes high, believe me, I have allways thought you right in the end when I have come to reason. I bathe, and find the water very soult. Here is a good

many laidys batheing, but I have no society with them, as it is best not. So pray, my dearest Greville, write soon, and tell me what to do, as I will do just what you think proper; and tell me what to do with the child. For she is a great romp, and I can hardly master her. . . . She is tall, [has] good eys and brows, and as to lashes, she will be passible; but she has overgrown all her cloaths. I am makeing and mending all as I can for her. . . . Pray, my dear Greville, do lett me come home, as soon as you can; for I am all most brokenhearted being from you. . . . You don't know how much I love you, and your behaiver to me, when we parted, was so kind, Greville, I don't know what to do. ..." And her next epistle seems to echo under circumstances far removed the voice of the first Lady Hamilton:—" How teadous does the time pass awhay till I hear from you. Endead I should be miserable if I did not recollect on what happy terms we parted— parted, yess, but to meet again with tenfould happiness. . . . Would you think it, Greville ? Emma—the wild, unthinking Emma, is a grave, thoughtful phylosopher. 'Tis true, Greville, and I will convince you I am, when I see you. But how I am runing on. I say nothing abbout this guidy, wild girl of mine. What shall we do with her, Greville ? . . . Wou'd you believe, on Sat-tarday we had a little quarel, . . . and I did slap her on her hands, and when she came to kiss me and make it up, I took her on my lap and cried. Pray, do you blame me or not? Pray tell me. Oh, Greville, you don't know how I love her. Endead I do. When she comes and looks in my face and calls me ' mother' cndead I then truly am a mother, for all the mother's feelings rise at once, and tels me I am or ought to be a mother, for she lias a ivright to my protection; and she shall have it as long as I can, and I will do all in my power to prevent her falling into the error her

poor miserable mother fell into. But why do I say miserable? Am not I happy abbove any of my sex, at least in my situation ? Does not Greville love me, or at least like me? Does not he protect me? Does not he provide for me ? Is not he a father to my child ? Why do I call myself miserable? No, it was a mistake, and I will be happy, chearful and kind, and do all my poor abbility will lett me, to return the fatherly goodness and protection he has shewn. Again, my dear Greville, the recollection of past scenes brings tears in my eyes. But the[y] are tears of happiness. To think of your goodness is too much. But once for all, Greville, I will be grateful. Adue. It is near bathing time, and I must lay down my pen, and I won't finish till I see when the post comes, whether there is a letter. He comes in abbout one o'clock. I hope to have a letter to-day. ... I am in hopes I shall be very well. . . . But, Greville, I am oblidged to give a shilling a day for the bathing horse and whoman, and twopence a day for the dress. It is a great expense, and it fretts me when I think of it. ... At any rate it is better than paying the docter. But wright your oppinion truly, and tell me what to do. Emma is crying because I won't come and bathe. So Greville, adue till after I have dipt. May God bless you, my dearest Greville, and believe me, faithfully, affectionately, and truly yours only." —" And no letter from my dear Greville. Why, my dearest G., what is the reason you don't wright? You promised to wright before I left Hawarden. . . . Give my dear kind love and compliments to Pliney, 1 and tell him I put you under his care, and he must be answereble for you to me, wen I see him. . . . Say everything you can to him for me, and tell him I shall always think on him with gratitude, and remember him with pleasure, and shall allways 1 Sir W. Hamilton.

regret loesing [h]is good comppany. Tell him I wish him every happiness this world can afford him, and that I will pray for him and bless him as long as I live. . . . Pray, my dear Greville, lett me come home soon. I have been 3 weeks, and if I stay a fortnight longer, that will be 5 weeks, you know; and then the expense is above 2 guineas a week with washing . . . and everything. . . ." " With what impatience do I sett down to wright till I see the postman. But sure I shall have a letter to-day. Can you, Greville—no, you can't —have forgot your poor Emma allready ? Tho' I am but a few weeks absent from you, my heart will not one moment leave you. I am allways thinking of you, and cou'd allmost fancy I hear you, see you; . . . don't you remember how you promised? Don't you recollect what you said at parting? how you shou'd be happy to see me again?"