Part 2

Hanger, now in the possession of a competence, made little change in his manner of living, and though death did not claim him until 31st March 1824, at the age of seventy-three, he never again went into general society. At the time of his succession to the peerage he was residing, and during the last years of his life he continued to reside, at Somers Town, whence he would occasionally wander, shillelagh in hand, to the “Sol Arms,” in Tottenham Court Road, to smoke a pipe. This has been so often repeated, to the exclusion of almost any other particulars of his life, that the comparatively few people who have heard of Hanger think of him as a public-house loafer; but this was far from being the case, for if he went sometimes to the “Sol Arms” he would also go to Dr Wolcot to converse with the veteran satirist, or to Nollekens, the sculptor; or he would ride on his grey pony so far as Budd & Calkin’s, the booksellers in Pall Mall, where, leaving his horse in charge of a boy--for he never took a groom with him--he would sit on the counter, talking with the shopkeepers and their customers.

Nor was Hanger illiterate, as were so many of the associates of his early years, and he wrote very readable letters; but his intelligence does not rest only on his correspondence, for he was an industrious writer on military subjects. Reference has already been made to his autobiography, which appeared in 1801 under the title of “The Life, Adventures, and Opinions of Colonel George Hanger”; but though it was stated on the title-page that the volumes were “Written by Himself,” it has since transpired that they were compiled from his papers and suggestions by William Combe, the author of “The Tours of Dr Syntax.” It is an unpleasant work, and deals frankly with subjects tacitly avoided by present-day writers; but it is not without value, for it contains, besides excellent descriptions of debtors’ prisons and the rogueries of attorneys at the end of the eighteenth century, common-sense views on social subjects--views much in advance of the general opinions of the day--and a frank avowal of hatred of hypocrisy. This last quality induced Hanger maliciously to relate a story of a dissenter who kept a huxter’s shop, where a great variety of articles were sold, and was heard to say to his shopman, “John, have you watered the rum?” “Yes.” “Have you sanded the brown sugar?” “Yes.” “Have you wetted the tobacco?” “Yes.” “Then come in to prayers.” The “Memoirs” will perhaps best be remembered for Hanger’s famous prophecy that “one of these days the northern and southern Powers [of the United States] will fight as vigorously against each other as they have both united to do against the British.”

It is, however, not as a soldier, a pamphleteer, or a seer that Hanger has come down to posterity; and while some may recall that in 1772 he distinguished himself by being one of the gentlemen who, with drawn swords, forced a passage for the entry of Mrs Baddeley into the Pantheon, and eight and thirty years later rode on his grey palfrey in the procession formed in honour of the release of Sir Francis Burdett, it is for his eccentricities and his humour that he is remembered. Nollekens has related how one day he overheard Lord Coleraine inquire of the old apple-woman at the corner of Portland Road, evidently an old acquaintance, who was packing up her fruit, “What are you about, mother?” “Why, my Lord, I am going home to tea.” “Oh! don’t baulk trade. Leave your things on the table as they are; I will mind shop till you return”; and the peer seated himself in the old woman’s wooden chair, and waited until the meal was over, when he solemnly handed her his takings, threepence halfpenny.

Although Cyrus Redding declared that Hanger was well known in his day for an original humour which spared neither friend nor foe, and although Hanger could sneer at those who accepted the invitations to dinner that Pitt was in the habit of sending to refractory members of his party--“The rat-trap is set again,” he would say when he heard of such dinner-parties: “is the bait _plaice_ or paper?”--there were many who found themselves in a position to praise Hanger’s generosity. We have it on the authority of Westmacott--and there can be no surer tribute than this, since Westmacott would far rather have said a cruel than a kind thing--that Hanger never forgot a friend or ignored an acquaintance because he had fallen upon evil days. When an out-at-elbows baronet came to see him, Hanger received him heartily, insisted upon his remaining as his guest for some time, and, summoning his servants, addressed them characteristically: “Behold this man, ye varlets! Never mind me while he is here; neglect me if ye will, but look upon him as your master; obey him in all things; the house, the grounds, the game, the gardens, all are at his command; let his will be done; make him but welcome, and I care not for the rest.” For his kind heart much may be forgiven Hanger; and who could be angry with a man who possessed so keen a sense of humour as is revealed in this story? Late one night he went into his bedroom at an inn, and found it occupied. The opening of the door awoke an irate Irishman, the occupier, who inquired in no measured terms: “What the devil do you want here, sir? I shall have satisfaction for the affront. My name is Johnson.” Aroused by the clamour, a wizen-faced woman by Johnson’s side raised her head from the pillow. “Mrs Johnson, I presume?” said Hanger dryly, bowing to the lady.

Sir Lumley St George Skeffington had at least more claim to distinction than most of his brother fops, though it was their habit to sneer at him, especially after Byron had given them the cue. Born on 23rd March 1771, Lumley was educated at Henry Newcome’s school at Hackney, where he showed some taste for composition and poetry, and took part in the dramatic performances for which that institution had been noted for above a century. On one occasion there he delivered an epilogue written by George Keate, the subject of which was the folly of vanity; but the lad did not take the lesson to heart, for so soon as he was his own master he set up as a leader of fashion. At an early age he began to be talked about, and such notoriety was the _open sesame_ to Carlton House. The Prince of Wales condescended to discuss costume with the young man, who, thus encouraged, was spurred to fresh efforts, and acquired fame as the inventor of a new colour, known during his lifetime as Skeffington brown. Indeed, Skeffington, who was vain of his personal appearance--though, it must be confessed, without much reason--dressed in the most foppish manner; and as an example may be given a description of his costume at the Court held in honour of the King’s birthday in 1794: “A brown spotted silk coat and breeches, with a white silk waistcoat richly embroidered with silver, stones, and shades of silk; the design was large baskets of silver and stones, filled with bouquets of roses, jonquilles, etc., the _ensemble_ producing a beautiful and splendid effect.”

Though elated at being recognised as a _beau_, Skeffington did not desert his first love, and he mixed much in theatrical society, and became on intimate terms with many of the leading actors, including Joseph Munden, John Kemble, Mrs Siddons, and T. P. Cooke. He was an inveterate “first-nighter,” and would flit from theatre to theatre during the evening; but he was not content to be a hanger-on to the fringe of the dramatic profession, and desired to be a prominent member of the _coterie_. He had abandoned any idea of following up his youthful successes as an actor, but he had so early as 1792, at the age of one and twenty, made his bow as an author, with a prologue to James Plumptre’s comedy, _The Coventry Act_, performed at the latter’s private theatre at Norwich.

Spurred by the praise bestowed upon this trifle, he penned complimentary verses to pretty actresses; but after a time he aspired to greater distinction, and endeavoured to secure literary laurels by the composition of several plays. His _Word of Honour_, a comedy in five acts, was produced at Covent Garden Theatre in 1802, and in the following year his _High Road to Marriage_ was staged at Drury Lane; but neither of these had any sort of success, and it was not until _The Sleeping Beauty_ was performed at Drury Lane, in December 1805, that the author could look upon his efforts with any pride.

To judge from a contemporary account, _The Sleeping Beauty_, with music by Addison, was an agreeable, albeit an over-rated, entertainment of the nature of an extravaganza. “Mr Skeffington,” we are told, “has not confined himself to the track of probability; but, giving the rein to his imagination, has boldly ventured into the boundless region of necromancy and fairy adventure. The valorous days of Chivalry are brought to our recollection, and the tales which warmed the breasts of youth with martial ardour are again rendered agreeable to the mind that is not so fastidious as to turn with fancied superiority from the pleasing delusion. The ladies in particular would be accused of ingratitude were they to look coldly upon the Muse of Mr Skeffington, who had put into the mouths of his two enamoured knights speeches and panegyrics upon the sex, which would not discredit the effusions of Oroondates, or any other hero of romance.”

The book of the play was never printed, but the song, duets, and choruses of this “grand legendary melodrama” were published, and so it is possible to form some opinion of the merits of this production of the author, who is described by a writer in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_ as “the celebrated Mr Skeffington ... a gentleman of classic genius, [who] it is well known figures high in the most fashionable circles.” It is to be feared that Skeffington’s fame as a man of fashion threw a glamour upon this critic, for to modern eyes the “classic genius” is nowhere in evidence, although the verses certainly do not compare unfavourably with the drivel offered by the so-called lyric writers whose effusions figure in the musical comedies of to-day.

Unexpectedly, however, _The Sleeping Beauty_ achieved immortality, though not an immortality of the pleasantest kind, for the piece attracted the attention of Byron, who pilloried it in his “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers”:

“In grim array though Lewis’ spectres rise, Still Skeffington and Goose[4] divide the prize: And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays, Renown’d alike; whose genius ne’er confines Her flight to garnish Greenwood’s gay designs; Nor sleeps with ‘sleeping beauties,’ but anon In five facetious acts come thundering on, While poor John Bull, bewilder’d with the scene, Stares, wond’ring what the devil it can mean; But as some hands applaud--a venal few-- Rather than sleep, John Bull applauds it too.”

[4] Dibdin’s _Mother Goose_, which ran for a hundred nights at Covent Garden.

For years before this satire appeared Skeffington was a personage in society, and if his plays secured him undying notoriety at the hands of the satirist, his costume was to produce the same result by the attention drawn to it by Gillray, who represented him, in 1799, as “Half Natural,” in a Jean de Bry coat, all sleeves and padding, and in the following year in a second caricature as dancing, below which is the legend: “So Skiffy skipt on, with his wonted grace.” In these days, indeed, his appearance offered a very distinct mark for the caricaturist. Imagine a tall, spare man, with large features, sharp, sallow face, and dark curly hair and whiskers, arrayed in the glory of a dark blue coat with gilt buttons, yellow waistcoat, with cord inexpressibles, large bunches of white ribbons at the knees, and short top-boots! But in latter years Skeffington went even further, for he distinguished himself by wearing a _vieux-rose_ satin suit, and a wig, and rouging his cheeks and blacking his eyebrows and eyelashes, until he looked like a French doll; while the air in his vicinity was made noxious by the strong perfumes with which he drenched himself. Horace Smith summed him up as “an admirable specimen of the florid Gothic,” and Moore lampooned him in Letter VIII. of _The Twopenny Post Bag_, from “Colonel Th-m-s to Sk-ff-ngt-n, Esq.”:

“Come to our _fête_, and bring with thee Thy newest best embroidery, Come to our _fête_, and show again That pea-green coat, thou pink of men, Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it; When Brummell’s self enquired: ‘Who made it?’

Oh! come (if haply ’tis thy week For looking pale) with paly cheek; Though more we love thy roseate days, When the rich rouge pot pours its blaze Full o’er thy face, and amply spread, Tips even thy whisker-tops with red-- Like the last tints of dying day That o’er some darkling grove delay. Put all thy wardrobe’s glories on, And yield in frogs and fringe to none But the great Regent’s self alone.”

Skeffington’s success with _The Sleeping Beauty_ occurred at the time when he was most prominent in society. “I have had a long and very pleasant walk to-day with Mr Ilingworth in Kensington Gardens, and saw all the extreme crowd there about three o’clock, and between that and four,” Lord Kenyon wrote to his wife on 1st June 1806. “The most conspicuous figure was Mr Skeffington, with Miss Duncan leaning on his arm. He is so great an author that all which is done is thought correct, and not open to scandal. To be sure, they looked rather a comical pair, she with only a cap on, and he with his curious whiskers and sharp, sallow face.”

Gradually, however, as time changed, Skeffington was left behind in the race, and was no longer regarded as a leader of fashion, and at the same time he was not fortunate enough to win further success as a dramatist, for his _Mysterious Bride_ in 1808, his _Bombastes Furioso_ played at the Haymarket in 1810, and his _Lose no Time_, performed three years later at Drury Lane, were each and all dire failures.

In January 1815 Sir William Skeffington died, and Lumley succeeded to the baronetcy. Sir William, however, had embarrassed his estates, and Lumley, to save his father from distress, had generously consented to cut the entail, and so had deprived himself of a considerable fortune. The comparatively small amount of money that now came to him had been forestalled, and he was compelled to seek refuge for several years within the rules of the King’s Bench Prison. Eventually, though he failed in the attempt to regain an interest in the estates of his maternal family, the Hubbards, at Rotherhithe, he came into possession of an estate worth about eight hundred pounds a year; but when he came again upon the town his old friends showed a marked disposition to avoid him; and when one day Alvanley was asked who was that solitary, magnificently attired person, “It is a second edition of _The Sleeping Beauty_,” he replied wittily; “bound in calf, richly gilt, and illustrated by many cuts.”

Skeffington now resided quietly in Southwark, where he still entertained members of the theatrical profession, but no longer the leaders of the calling, only the members of the adjacent Surrey Theatre. Henry Vizetelly met him towards the end of his life, and described him as “a quiet, courteous, aristocratic-looking old gentleman, an ancient fop who affected the fashions of a past generation, and wore false hair and rouged his cheeks,” who had, he might have added, a large fund of _histoires divertissants_ with which to regale his visitors.

He outlived all his brother dandies, but to the end would wander in the fashionable streets, recalling the glories of his early manhood, attracting attention in his long-waisted coat, the skirts of which descended to his heels, but recognised by none of the generation that had succeeded his own. In other circles, however, he found listeners interested in his stories of the palmy days of Carlton House, when he was one of the leaders of fashion in society and prominent in the _coulisses_. He died, unmarried, in his eightieth year, and attributed his long life to the fact that he did not stir out of doors in the cold, damp winter months, but moved from room to room so as never to remain in vitiated air.

In conclusion it must be pointed out that Skeffington’s popularity was largely contributed to by his good humour and vivacity, and by the fact that in an age when wit spared nobody he was never known to say an unkind word of anyone; nor was the reason for this, as was said of another _beau_, that he never spoke of anyone but himself. “As to his manners, the suffrages of the most polished circles of this kingdom have pronounced him one of the best bred men of the present times, blending at once the decorum of what is called the _vieille cour_ with the careless gracefulness of the modern school; he seems to do everything by chance, but it is such a chance as study could not improve,” so ran a character sketch of the dandy in _The Monthly Review_ for 1806. “In short, whenever he trifles it is with elegance, and whenever occasion calls for energy he is warm, spirited, animated.” He had, however, his share of the _nonchalance_ affected by the fashionable folk of his day, and the story is told that when, on a visit to a gentleman in Leicester, he was disturbed in the night with the information that the adjoining house was in flames, his sole comment was that this was “a great bore”; and when with difficulty he had been induced to move quickly enough to escape into the street, there, standing in his nightdress, bareheaded and with his hair in papers, he called out, “What are these horrid creatures about with so much filthy water, that I cannot step without wetting my slippers?”

Some Exquisites of the Regency

When Almack’s Club, composed of all the travelled young men who wore long curls and spying-glasses, was in 1778 absorbed by Brooks’s, the day of the Macaronis was past. Then, as Wraxall records, Charles James Fox and his friends, who might be said to lead the Town, affecting a style of neglect about their persons and manifesting a contempt of all the usages hitherto established, first threw a sort of discredit on dress. “Fox lodged in St James’s Street, and as soon as he rose, which was very late, had a _levée_ of his followers and of the members of the gambling club at Brooks’s--all his disciples,” Walpole wrote. “His bristly black person, and shagged breast quite open and rarely purified by any ablutions, was wrapped in a foul linen nightgown, and his bushy hair dishevelled. In these cynic weeds, and with epicurean good humour, did he dictate his politics, and in this school did the heir of the Crown attend his lessons and imbibe them.”

The young Prince of Wales might study statecraft under Fox; but in the matter of dress he fell in line with the new race of _beaux_, bucks, or, to use a word that came into general use at this time, dandies. The most famous of the latter were Lord Petersham, Lord Foley, Lord Hertford (immortalised by Thackeray in “Vanity Fair” as the Marquis of Steyne, and by Disraeli in “Coningsby” as Lord Monmouth), the Duke of Argyll, Lord Worcester, Henry Pierrepoint, Henry de Ros, Colonel Dawson Darner, Daniel Mackinnon, Lord Dudley and Ward, Hervey Ashton, Gronow the memoirist, Sir Lumley Skeffington, and Brummell.

These exquisites were disinclined to yield the palm even to an heir-apparent with limitless resources. The Prince of Wales, however, contrived to hold his own. At his first appearance in society he created a sensation. He wore a new shoe-buckle! This was his own invention, and differed from all previous articles of the same kind, insomuch as it was an inch long and five inches broad, reaching almost to the ground on either side of the foot! This was good for an introduction to the polite world, but it was not until he attended his first Court ball that he did himself full justice. Then his magnificence was such that the arbiters of fashion were compelled reluctantly to admit that a powerful rival had come upon the scene. A contemporary was so powerfully impressed by the splendour of the Prince’s costume that he placed on record a description: “His coat was pink silk, with white cuffs; his waistcoat white silk, embroidered with various coloured foil, and adorned with a profusion of French paste; and his hat was ornamented with two rows of steel beads, five thousand in number, with a button and loop of the same metal, and cocked in a new military style.”

The laurels won in early youth he retained all the days of his life. Expense was no object to him, and, indeed, it must be confessed he spent money in many worse ways than on his clothes. Batchelor, his valet, who entered his service after the death of the Duke of York, said that a plain coat, from its repeated alterations and the consequent journeys from London to Windsor to Davison the tailor, would often cost three hundred pounds before it met with his approbation! George had a mania for hoarding, and at his death all the coats, vests, breeches, boots, and other articles of attire which had graced his person during half-a-century were found in his wardrobe. It is said he carried the catalogue in his head, and could call for any costume he had ever worn. His executors, Lord Gifford and Sir William Knighton, discovered in the pockets of his coats, besides innumerable women’s love letters, locks of hair, and other trifles of his usually discreditable amours, no less than five hundred pocket-books, each containing small forgotten sums of money, amounting in all to ten thousand pounds! His clothes sold for fifteen thousand pounds; they cost probably ten times that amount.