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Strange Pages from Family Papers

<hr /> <h3>CHAPTER XII.ToC</h3> <h3>ROMANCE OF DISGUISE.</h3> <div class="centered"> <table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poem chapter 1"> <tr> <td> Pisanio to Imogen: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience: fear and niceness— The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman its pretty self, into a waggish courage: Ready in gibes, quick answered, saucy, and As quarrelsome as the weasel; nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek Exposing it—but, Oh! the harder heart! Alack! no remedy! to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims. </td> </tr> <tr> <td class="titlepoem">"Cymbeline," Act III., Sc. 4. </td> </tr> </table></div> That a woman, under any circumstances, should dismiss her proper apparel, it has been remarked, "may well appear to us as something like a phenomenon." Yet instances are far from uncommon, the motive being originated in a variety of circumstances. A young lady, it may be, falls in love, and, to gain her end, assumes male attire so that she may escape detection, as in the case of a girl, who, giving her affections to a sailor, and not being able to follow him in her natural and recognised character, put on jacket and trousers, and became, to all appearance, a brother of his mess. In other cases, a pure masculinity of character "seems to lead women to take on the guise of men. Apparently feeling themselves misplaced in, and misrepresented by, the female dress, they take up with that of men simply that they may be allowed to employ themselves in those manly avocations for which their taste and nature are fitted." In Caulfield's "Portraits of Remarkable Persons," we find a portrait of Anne Mills, styled the female sailor, who is represented as standing on what appears to be the end of a pier and holding in one hand a human head, while the other bears a sword, the instrument doubtless with which the decapitation was effected. In the year 1740, she was serving on board the Maidstone, a frigate, and in an action between that vessel and the enemy, she exhibited such desperate and daring valour as to be particularly noticed by the whole crew. But her motives for assuming the male habit do not seem to have transpired.[43] A far more exciting career was that of Mary Anne Talbot, the youngest of sixteen illegitimate children, whom her mother bore to one of the heads of the noble house of Talbot. She was born on February 2nd, 1778, and educated under the eye of a married sister, at whose death she was committed to the care of a gentleman named Sucker, "who treated her with great severity, and who appears to have taken advantage of her friendless situation in order to transfer her, for the vilest of purposes, to the hands of a Captain Bowen, whom he directed her to look upon as her future guardian." Although barely fourteen years old, Captain Bowen made her his mistress; and, on being ordered to join his regiment at St. Domingo, he compelled the girl to go with him in the disguise of a footboy and under the name of John Taylor. But Captain Bowen had scarcely reached St. Domingo when he was remanded with his regiment to Europe to join the Duke of York's Flanders Expedition. And this time she was made to enrol herself as a drummer in the corps. She was in several skirmishes, being wounded once by a ball which struck one of her ribs, and another time by a sabre stroke on the side. At Valenciennes, however, Captain Bowen was killed; and, finding among his effects several letters relating to herself, which proved that she had been cruelly defrauded of money left to her, she resolved to leave the regiment, and to return, if possible, to England. Accordingly she set out attired as a sailor boy, and eventually hired herself to the Commander of a French lugger, which turned out to be a privateer. But when the vessel fell in with some of Lord Howe's vessels in the Channel, she refused to fight against her countrymen, "notwithstanding all the blows and menaces the French captain could use." The privateer was taken, and our heroine was carried before Lord Howe, to whom she told candidly all that had happened to her—keeping her sex a secret. Mary Anne Talbot, or John Taylor, was next placed on board the Brunswick, where she witnessed Lord Howe's great victory of the 1st June, and was actively engaged in it. But she was seriously wounded, "her left leg being struck a little above the knee by a musket-ball, and broken, and severely smashed lower down by a grape shot." On reaching England she was conveyed to Haslar Hospital, where she remained four months, no suspicion having ever been entertained of her being a woman. But she was no sooner out of the hospital than, retaining her disguise, she entered a small man-of-war—the Vesuvius, which was captured by two French ships, when she was sent to the prisons of Dunkirk. Here she was incarcerated for eighteen months, but, having been discovered planning an escape with a young midshipman, she was confined in a pitch-dark dungeon for eleven weeks, on a diet of bread and water. An exchange of prisoners set her at liberty, and, hearing accidentally an American merchant captain inquiring in the streets of Dunkirk for a lad to go to New York as ship's steward she offered her services, and was accepted. Accordingly, in August, 1796, she sailed with Captain Field, and, on arriving at Rhode Island, she resided with the Captain's family. But here another kind of adventure was to befall her—for a niece of Captain Field's fell deeply in love with her, even going so far as to propose marriage. On leaving Rhode Island, the young lady had such alarming fits that, after sailing two miles, Mary Anne Talbot was called back by a boat, and compelled to promise a speedy return to the enamoured young lady. On reaching England, she was one day on shore with some of her comrades when she was seized by a press-gang, and finding there was no other way of getting off than by revealing her sex, she did so, her story creating a great sensation. From this time she never went to sea again, and soon afterwards lived in service with a bookseller, Mr. Kirby, who wrote her memoir.[44] And the late Colonel Fred Burnaby has recorded the history of a singular case, the facts of which came under his notice when he was with Don Carlos during the Carlist rising of the year 1874: "A discovery was made a few days ago that a woman was serving in the Royalists' ranks, dressed in a soldier's uniform. She was found out in the following manner. The priest of the village to where she belonged happening to pass through a town where the regiment was quartered, and chancing to see her, was struck by the likeness she bore to one of his parishioners. "You must be Andalicia Bravo," he remarked. "No, I am her brother," was the reply. The Cure's suspicions were aroused, and at his suggestion, an inquiry was made, when it was discovered that the youthful soldier had no right to the masculine vestments she wore. Don Carlos, who was told of the affair, desired that she should be sent as a nurse to the hospital of Durango, and, when he visited the establishment, presented the fair Amazon with a military cross of merit. The poor girl was delighted with the decoration, and besought the "King" to allow her to return to the regiment, as she said she was more accustomed to inflicting wounds than to healing them. In fact, she so implored to be permitted to serve once more as a soldier, that at last, Don Carlos, to extricate himself from the difficulty, said, "No, I cannot allow you to join a regiment of men; but when I form a battalion of women, I promise, upon my honour, that you shall be named the Colonel." "It will never happen," said the girl, and she burst into tears as the King left the hospital. At Haddon Hall may still be seen "Dorothy Vernon's Door," whence the heiress of Haddon stole out one moonlight night to join her lover. The story generally told is that, while her elder sister, the affianced bride of Sir Thomas Stanley, second son of the Earl of Derby, was made much of in her recognised attachment, Dorothy, on the other hand, was not only kept in the background, but every obstacle was thrown in her way against a connection she had formed with John Manners, son of the Earl of Rutland. But "something of the wild bird," it is said, "was noticed in Dorothy, and she was closely watched, kept almost a prisoner, and could only beat her wings against the bars that confined her." This kind of surveillance went on for some time, but did not check the young lady's infatuation for her lover, and it was not long before the young couple contrived to see one another. Disguised as a woodman, John Manners lurked of a day in the woods round Haddon for several weeks, obtaining now and then a stolen glance, a hurried word, or a pressure of the hand from the fair Dorothy. At length, however, an opportunity arrived which enabled Dorothy to carry out the plan which had been suggested to her by John Manners. It so happened that a grand ball was given at Haddon Hall, to celebrate the approaching marriage of the elder daughter, and, whilst a throng of guests filled the ball-room, where the stringed minstrels played old dances in the Minstrels' Gallery, and the horns blew low, everyone being too busy with his own interests and pleasures to attend to those of another, the young Miss Dorothy stole away unobserved from the ball-room, "passed out of the door, which is now one of the most interesting parts of this historic pile of buildings, and crossed the terrace to where, at the "ladies' steps," she could dimly discern figures hiding in the shadow of the trees. Another moment, and she was in her lover's arms. Horses were waiting, and Dorothy was soon riding away with her lover through the moonlight, and was married on the following morning. This story, which has been gracefully told by Eliza Meteyard under the title of "The Love Steps of Dorothy Vernon," has always been regarded as one of the most romantic and pleasant episodes in the history of Haddon Hall. Through Dorothy's marriage, the estate of Haddon passed from the family of Vernon to that of Manners, and a branch of the house of Rutland was transferred to the county of Derby." <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG border="0" src="images/imagep214.jpg" width-obs="355" height-obs="550" alt="Dorothy Vernon and the Woodman." /> Dorothy Vernon and the Woodman. ToList </div> But love has always been an inducement, in one form or another for disguise, and a romantic story is told of Sir John Bolle, of Thorpe Hall, in Lincolnshire, who distinguished himself at Cadiz, in the year 1596. Among the prisoners taken at this memorable seige, was "a fair captive of great beauty, high rank, and immense wealth," and who was the peculiar charge of Sir John Bolle. She soon became deeply enamoured of her gallant captor, and "in his courteous company was all her joy," her infatuation being so great that she entreated him to allow her to accompany him to England disguised as his page. But Sir John had a wife at home, and replied—to quote the version of the story given in Dr. Percy's "Relics of Ancient English Poetry":— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Courteous lady, leave this fancy, Here comes all that breeds the strife; I in England have already A sweet woman to my wife. I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain, Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain." </div> </div> Thereupon the fair lady determined to retire to a convent, admiring the gallant soldier all the more for his faithful devotion to his wife. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "O happy is that woman That enjoys so true a friend! Many happy days God send her! Of my suit I make an end, On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence. </div> <div class="stanza"> "I will spend my days in prayer, Love and all her laws defy; In a nunnery will I shroud me, Far from any company. But ere my prayers have an end be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss." </div> </div> But, before forsaking the world, she transmitted to her unconscious rival in England her jewels and valuable knicknacks, including her own portrait drawn in green—a circumstance which obtained for the original the designation of the "Green Lady," and Thorpe Hall has long been said to be haunted by the lady in green, who has been in the habit of appearing beneath a particular tree close to the mansion. A story, which has been gracefully told in one of Moore's Irish Melodies, relates to Henry Cecil, Earl of Exeter, who early in life fell in love with the rich heiress of the Vernons of Hanbury. A marriage was eventually arranged, but this union proved a complete failure, and terminated in a divorce. Thereupon young Cecil, distrustful of the conventionalities of society, and to prevent any one of the fair sex marrying him on account of his position, resolved "on laying aside the artificial attractions of his rank, and seeking some country maiden who would wed him from disinterested motives of affection." Accordingly he took up his abode at a small inn in a retired Shropshire village, but even here his movements created suspicion, "some maintaining that he was connected with smugglers or gamesters, while all agreed that dishonesty or fraud was the cause of the mystery of the 'London gentleman's' proceedings." Annoyed at the rude molestations to which he was daily, more or less, exposed, he quitted the inn and removed to a farm-house in the neighbourhood, where he remained for two years, in the course of which time he purchased some land, and commenced building himself a house: But the landlord of the cottage where he lived had a beautiful daughter of about seventeen years, to whom young Cecil became so deeply attached that, in spite of her humble birth, and simple education, he resolved to make her his wife, taking an early opportunity of informing her parents of his resolve. The matter came as a surprise to the farmer and his wife, and all the more so because they had always regarded Mr. Cecil as far too grand a person to entertain such an idea. "Marry our daughter?" exclaimed the good wife, in amazement. "What, to a fine gentleman! No, indeed!" "Yes, marry her," added the husband, "he shall marry her, for she likes him. Has he not house and land, too, and plenty of money to keep her?" So the rustic beauty was married, and it was not long afterwards that her husband found it necessary to repair to town on account of the Earl of Exeter's death. Setting out, as the young bride thought, on a pleasure trip, they stopped in the course of their journey at several noblemen's seats, where, to her astonishment, Cecil was welcomed in the most friendly manner. At last they reached Burleigh, in Northamptonshire—the home of the Cecils. And on driving up to the house, Cecil unconcernedly asked his wife, "whether she would like to be at home there?" "Oh, yes," she excitedly exclaimed; "it is, indeed, a lovely spot, exceeding all I have seen, and making me almost envy its possessor." "Then," said the young earl, "it is yours." The whole affair seemed like a fairy tale to the bewildered girl, and who, but herself, could describe the feelings she experienced at the acclamations of joy and welcome which awaited her in her magnificent home. But it was no dream, and as soon as the young earl had arranged his affairs, he returned to Shropshire, threw off his disguise, and revealed his rank to his wife's parents, assigning to them the house he had built, with a settlement of £700 per annum. "But," writes Sir Bernard Burke, "if report speak truly, the narrative must have a melancholy end. Her ladyship, unaccustomed to the exalted sphere in which she moved, chilled by its formalities, and depressed in her own esteem, survived only a few years her extraordinary elevation, and sank into an early grave," although Moore has given a brighter picture of this sad close to a pretty romance. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she blessed her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toiled through wind and rain Till William at length in sadness said, "We must seek our fortunes on other plains"; Then sighing she left her lowly shed. </div> <div class="stanza"> They roam'd a long and weary way, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day They see a proud castle among the trees. "To night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there; The wind blows cold, the hour is late"; So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Now welcome, Lady!" exclaimed the youth; "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." She believed him wild, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William the stranger woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss in those lordly groves Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. </div> </div> But one of the most extraordinary instances of disguise was that of the Chevalier d'Eon, who was born in the year 1728, and was an excellent scholar, soldier, and political intriguer. In the service of Louis XV., he went to Russia in female attire, obtained employment as the female reader to the Czarina Elizabeth, under which disguise he carried on political and semi-political negotiations with wonderful success. In the year 1762, he appeared in England as Secretary of the Embassy to the Duke of Nivernois, and when Louis XVI. granted him a pension and he went over to Versailles to return thanks for the favour, Marie Antoinette is said to have insisted on his assuming women's attire. Accordingly, to gratify this foolish whim, D'Eon is reported to have one day swept into the royal presence attired like a duchess, which character he supported to the great delight of the royal spectators. In the year 1794, he returned to this country, and, being here after the Revolution was accomplished, his name was placed in the fatal list of emigrés, and he was deprived of his pension. The English Government, however, gave him an allowance of £200 a year; and in his old days he turned his fencing capabilities to account, for he occasionally appeared in matches with the Chevalier de St. George, and permanently reassumed female attire. This eccentric character was the subject of much speculation in his lifetime, and, curious to say, in the year 1771, it was proved to the satisfaction of a jury, on a trial before Lord Chief Justice Mansfield, that the Chevalier was of the female sex. The case in question arose from a wager between Hayes, a surgeon, and Jacques, an underwriter, the latter having bound himself, on receiving a premium, to pay the former a certain sum whenever the fact was established that D'Eon was a woman. One of the witnesses was Morande, an infamous Frenchman, who gave such testimony that no human being could doubt the fact of D'Eon being of the female sex, and two French medical men gave equally conclusive evidence. The result of this absurd trial was that the jury returned a verdict for the plaintiff, with £702 damages.[45] But all doubt was cleared away when D'Eon died, in the year 1810, for, an examination of the body being made, it was publicly declared that the Chevalier was an old man. Walpole collected some facts about this remarkable man, and writes: "The Due de Choiseul believed it was a woman. After the death of Louis XV., D'Eon had leave to go to France, on which the young Comte de Guerchy went to M. de Vergennes, Secretary of State, and gave him notice that the moment D'Eon landed at Calais he, Guerchy, would cut his throat, or D'Eon should his; on which Vergennes told the Count that D'Eon was certainly a woman. Louis XV. corresponded with D'Eon, and when the Duc de Choiseul had sent a vessel, which lay six months in the Thames, to trepan and bring off D'Eon, the king wrote a letter with his own hand to give him warning of the vessel." Like the Chevalier D'Eon, a certain individual named Russell, a native of Streatham, adopted the guise and habits of the opposite sex, and so skilfully did he keep up the deception that it was not known till after his death. It appears from Streatham Register that he was buried on April 14, 1772, the subjoined memorandum being affixed to the entry: "This person was always known under the guise or habit of a woman, and answered to the name of Elizabeth, as registered in this parish, November 21, 1669, but on death proved to be a man. It also appears from the registers of Streatham Parish, that his father, John Russell, had three daughters, and two sons—William, born in 1668, and Thomas in 1672; and there is very little doubt that the above person, who was also commonly known as Betsy the Doctress, was one of these sons." It is said that when he assumed the garb of the softer sex he also took the name of his sister Elizabeth, who, very likely, either died in infancy, or settled at a distance; but, under this name, he applied, about two years before his death, for a certificate of his baptism. Early in life, he associated with the gypsies, and became the companion of the famous Bampfylde Moore Carew. Later on in life he resided at Chipstead, in Kent, and there catered for the miscellaneous wants of the villagers. He also visited most parts of the continent as a stroller and a vagabond, and sometimes in the company of a man who passed for his husband, he moved about from one place to another, changing his "maiden" name to that of his companion, at whose death he passed as his widow, being generally known by the familiar name of Bet Page. According to Lysons, in the course of his wanderings he attached himself to itinerant quacks, learned their remedies, practised their calling, his knowledge, coupled with his great experience, gaining for him the reputation of being "a most infallible doctress." He also went in for astrology, and made a considerable sum of money, but was so extravagant that when he died his worldly goods were not valued at half-a-sovereign. About a year before his death he returned to his native parish, his great age bringing him into much notoriety; but his death was very sudden, and great was the surprise on all sides when it became known that he was a man. In life this strange character was a general favourite, and Mr. Thrale was wont to have him in his kitchen at Streatham Park, while Dr. Johnson, who considered him a shrewd person, held long conversations with him. To prevent the discovery of his sex he used to wear a cloth tied under his chin, and a large pair of nippers, found in his pocket after death, are supposed to have been the instruments with which he was in the habit of removing the tell-tale hairs from his face.[46] In some instances, as in times of political intrigue and commotion, disguise has been resorted to as a means of escape and concealment of personal identity, one of the most romantic and remarkable cases on record being that of Lord Clifford, popularly known as the "shepherd lad." It appears that Lady Clifford, apprehensive lest the life of her son, seven years of age, might be sacrificed in vengeance for the blood of the youthful Earl of Rutland, whom Lord Clifford had murdered in cold blood at the termination of the battle of Sandal, placed him in the keeping of a shepherd who had married one of her inferior servants—an attendant on the boy's nurse. His name and parentage laid aside, the young boy was brought up among the moors and hills as one of the shepherd's own children. On reaching the age of fourteen, a rumour somehow spread to the Court that the son of "the black-faced Clifford," as his father had been called, was living in concealment in Yorkshire. His mother, naturally alarmed, had the boy immediately removed to the vicinity of the village of Threlkeld, amidst the Cumberland hills, where she had sometimes the opportunity of seeing him. But, strange to say it is doubtful whether Lady Clifford made known her relationship to him, or whether, indeed, the "shepherd lord" had any distinct idea of his lofty lineage. It is generally supposed, however, that there was a complete separation between mother and child—a tradition which was accepted by Wordsworth, with whom the story of the shepherd boy was an especial favourite. In his "Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle," the poet thus prettily describes the shepherd boy's curious career:— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carroch's side, a shepherd boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass, Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be he who hither came In secret, like a smothered flame? O'er whom such thankful tears were shed For shelter, and a poor man's bread! God loves the child; and God hath willed That those dear words should be fulfilled, The lady's words, when forced away, The last she to her babe did say, 'My own, my own, thy fellow guest I may not be; but rest thee, rest, For lowly shepherd's life is best.'" </div> </div> Many items of traditionary lore still linger about the Cumberland hills respecting the young lord who grew up "as hardy as the heath on which he vegetated, and as ignorant as the rude herds which bounded over it." But the following description of young Clifford in his disguise, and of his employment, as given by Wordsworth, probably gives the most reliable traditionary account respecting him that prevailed in the district where he spent his lonely youth:— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "His garb is humble, ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien; Among the shepherd grooms no mate Hath he, a child of strength and state! Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, And a cheerful company, That learned of him submissive ways; And comforted his private days. To his side the fallow deer Came, and rested without fear; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty; And both the undying fish that swim, Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him, The pair were servants to his eye In their immortality; They moved about in open sight, To and fro, for his delight. He knew the rocks which angels haunt On the mountains visitant, He hath kenned them taking wing; And the caves where fairies sing He hath entered; and been told By voices how men lived of old." </div> </div> But one of the first acts of Henry VII., on his accession to the throne was to restore young Clifford to his birthright, and to all the possessions that his distinguished sire had won. There are few authentic facts, however, recorded concerning him; for it seems that as soon as he had emerged from the hiding-place where he had been brought up in ignorance of his rank, finding himself more illiterate than was usual, even in an illiterate age, he retired to a tower, which he built in a beautiful and sequestered forest, where, under the direction of the monks of Bolton Abbey, he gave himself up to the forbidden studies of alchemy and astrology. His descendant Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, describes him as "a plain man, who lived for the most part a country life, and came seldom either to Court or London, excepting when called to Parliament, on which occasion he behaved himself like a wise and good English nobleman." He was twice married, and was succeeded by his son, called Wild Henry Clifford, from the irregularities of his youth. And we may cite the case of Matthew Hale, who, on one occasion was instrumental to justice being done through himself appearing in disguise, and supporting the wronged party. It is related that the younger of two brothers had endeavoured to deprive the elder of an estate of £500 a year by suborning witnesses to declare that he died in a foreign land. But appearing in Court in the guise of a miller, Sir Matthew Hale was chosen the twelfth juryman to sit on this cause. As soon as the clerk of the juryman had sworn in the juryman, a short dexterous fellow came into their apartment, and slipped ten gold pieces into the hands of eleven of the jury, giving the miller only five, while the judge was generally supposed to be bribed with a large sum. At the conclusion of the case, the judge summed up the evidence in favour of the younger brother, and the jury were about to give their verdict, when the supposed miller stood up, and addressed the court. To the surprise of all present, he spoke with energetic and manly eloquence, "unravelled the sophistry to the very bottom, proved the fact of bribery, shewed the elder brother's title to the estate from the contradictory evidence of the witnesses," and in short, he gained a complete victory in favour of truth and justice. <h4>FOOTNOTES:</h4> <div class="footnote">[43] See "Annual Register," 1813, 1835, and 1842, for similar cases. </div> <div class="footnote">[44] See Notes and Queries, 6th Series, X., passim, for "Women on board ships in action"; and "Chambers's Pocket Miscellany," "Disguised Females, 1853." </div> <div class="footnote">[45] See "Dictionary of National Biography," xiv., 485. </div> <div class="footnote">[46] Arnold's "History of Streatham," 1866, 164-166. An extraordinary case of concealment of sex is recorded in the "Annual Register," under Jan. 23, 1833. An inquiry was instituted by order of the Home Secretary relative to the death of "a person who had been known for years by the name of Eliza Edwards," but who turned out to be a man. </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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