Part 13 (2/2)
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?
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