condolence : " You have no idea how shocked I was.
. . . Yet when I consider the long period of her in-
disposition 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 suffer-
ing, 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, re-
turned 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 coali-
tion was on the wane. For a brief interval it returned,
and Greville breathed again, pocketing a small promo-
tion in the general scramble for office. In 1783, how-
50 EMMA, LADY HAMILTON
ever, the great Pitt entered on his long reign, and Greville's heart sank once more. His post, however, was
confirmed, despite his conscientious disapproval of re-
forms 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
EMMA, LADY HAMILTON 51
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 per-
petual 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 be-
lieved 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 daugh-
ter 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 out-
weigh 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 ob-
jection.
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
52 EMMA, LADY HAMILTON
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 Grev-
ille.
And so she left the smoke and turmoil, hopeful and
trustful. Mother and child would at length be re-
united 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, m
y dear
Greville, do lett me come home as soon as you can;
EMMA, LADY HAMILTON 53
. . . 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 uncom-
fortable; 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
54 EMMA, LADY HAMILTON
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 ; an d 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 broken-
hearted 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
EMMA, LADY HAMILTON 55
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 mis-
take, 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 cry-
ing because I won't come and bathe. So Greville, adue
till after I have dipt. May God bless you, my dear-
est 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 compli-
ments 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.
56 EMMA, LADY 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?"
A belated answer arrived at last; Emma was very
grateful. But this was not the letter for which she
looked. What she wanted was om
niscience's per-
mission for " little Emma " to share their home, to let her be a mother indeed. After a week two " scold-ing " notes were his reply. " Little Emma " in Edgware Row was not on Greville's books at all. He
would charge himself with her nurture elsewhere, but
the child must be surrendered; he certainly knew how
to " play " his " trout." Emma meekly kissed her master's rod. Greville being Providence, resignation
was wisdom as well as duty. She was not allowed
to remain a mother :
" I was very happy, my dearest Greville, to hear
from you as your other letter vex'd me; you scolded
me so. But it is over, and I forgive you. . . . You
don't know, my dearest Greville, what a pleasure I
have to think that my poor Emma will be comfortable
and happy . . . and if she does but turn out well,
EMMA, LADY HAMILTON $7
what a happyness it will be. And I hope she will for
your sake. I will teach her to pray for you as long
as she lives; and if she is not grateful and good it
won't be my fault. But what you say is very true : a
bad disposition may be made good by good example,
and Greville wou'd not put her anywheer to have a bad
one. I come into your whay athinking ; hollidays spoils
children. It takes there attention of[f] from there
scool, it gives them a bad habbit. When they have
been a month and goes back this does not pleas them,
and that is not wright, and the[y] do nothing but
think when the[y] shall go back again. Now Emma
will never expect what she never had. But I won't
think. All my happiness now is Greville, and to
think that he loves me. ... I have said all I have to
say about Emma, yet only she gives her duty. ... I
have no society with anybody but the mistress of the
house, and her mother and sister. The latter is a
very genteel yong lady, good-nattured, and does every-
thing to pleas me. But still I wou'd rather be at
home, if you was there. I follow the old saying, home
is home though 'tis ever so homely. . . . PS. . . .
I bathe Emma, and she is very well and grows. Her
hair will grow very well on her forehead, and I don't
think her nose will be very snub. Her eys is blue and
pretty. But she don't speak through her nose, but she
speaks countryfied, but she will forget it. We squable
sometimes; still she is fond of me, and endead I love
Full text of Memoirs of Emma, lady Hamilton, the friend of Lord Nelson and the court of Naples; Page 6
