NO one knows to-day with whom the idea of having an English fête-champêtre at The Oaks upon the occasion of the marriage of the young Lord Stanley to Lady Betty Hamilton originated. The secret was well kept; and it can be easily understood that in case of this innovation proving a fiasco, no one would show any particular desire to accept the responsibility of having started the idea. But turning out as it did, a great success, it might have been expected that many notable persons would lay claim to be regarded as its parents. A considerable number of distinguished people had something to do with it, and any one of them had certainly sufficient imagination, backed up by an acquaintance with some of the exquisite pieces of MM. Watteau and Fragonard, to suggest the possibility of perfecting such an enterprise even in an English June. It was the most diligent letter-writer of that age of letter-writing who had referred to the “summer setting in with its customary severity,” so that the trifling of the month of June with the assumption of the poets who have rhymed of its sunshine with rapture, was not an experience that was reserved for the century that followed. But in spite of this, the idea of a fête-champêtre, after the most approved French traditions, in an English demesne found favour in the eyes of Lord Stanley and his advisers, and the latter were determined that, whatever price might have to be paid for it, they would not run the chance of being blamed for carrying it out in a niggardly spirit.

The young Lord Stanley had as many advisers as any young nobleman with a large immediate allowance and prospects of a splendid inheritance may hope to secure. There was his fiancée's mother, now the Duchess of Argyll, who was never disposed to frown down an undertaking that would place a member of one of her families in the forefront of the battle of the beauties for the most desirable parti of the year.


The Duchess had both taste and imagination, so that people called her an Irishwoman, although she was born in England. Then there was Mr. George Selwyn, who said witty things occasionally and never missed a hanging. He was fully qualified to prompt a wealthy companion as to the best means to become notorious for a day. There was also young Mr. Conway, the gentleman who originated the diverting spectacle when Mrs. Baddeley and Mrs. Abington were escorted to the Pantheon. Any one of these, to say nothing of Lady Betty herself, who had some love for display, might have been inclined to trust an English June so far as to believe an al fresco entertainment on a splendid scale quite possible.

On the whole, however, one is inclined to believe that it was Colonel Burgoyne who was responsible for the whole scheme at The Oaks. In addition to having become Lord Stanley's uncle by running away with his father's sister, he was a budding dramatist, and as such must have perceived his opportunity for exploiting himself at the expense of some one else—the dream of every budding dramatist. There is every likelihood that it was this highly accomplished and successful “gentleman-adventurer” who brought Lord Stanley up to the point of embarking upon his design for an entertainment such as had never been seen in England before—an entertainment that should include the production of a masque devised by Colonel Burgoyne and entitled The Maid of The Oaks. The fête came off, and it was pronounced the most brilliant success of the year 1774.

Lord Stanley was a very interesting young man; that is to say, he was a young man in whom no inconsiderable number of persons—mainly of the opposite sex—were greatly interested. Of this fact he seems to have been fully aware. A good many people—mainly of the opposite sex—felt very strongly on the subject of his marrying: it was quite time that he married, they said. His grandfather, the Earl of Derby, was eighty-four years of age, and it would be absurd to believe that he could live much longer. Lord Stanley being his heir, it was agreed that it was the young man's duty not to procrastinate in the matter of marriage. It is always understood that a patriarchal nobleman sings “Nunc dimittis” when he holds in his arms the second in direct succession to the title, and this happy consummation could, in the case of the aged Lord Derby, only be realised by the marriage of Lord Stanley.

He was small in stature, and extremely plain of countenance; still this did not prevent his name from being coupled with that of several notable—but not too notable—young women of his acquaintance. But as it was well known that he was greatly interested in the stage, it was thought that, perhaps, he might not be so complaisant as his best friends hoped to find him in regard to marrying. An ardent interest in the progress of the drama, especially in its lighter forms, has been known to turn a young man's attention from marriage, when it does not do what is far worse—turn his attention to it with too great zest. Before long, however, it became apparent that his lordship recognised in what direction his duty lay. There was a young lady connected with the Ducal House of Bedford—a niece of that old Duchess who played so conspicuous a part in the social and political history of the middle of the eighteenth century—and to her Lord Stanley became devoted. But just when every one assumed that the matter was settled, no one thinking it possible that the young lady would be mad enough to refuse such a parti, the news came that she had done so; and before people had done discussing how very eccentric were the Bedford connections, the announcement was made that Lord Stanley was to marry Lady Betty Hamilton, the beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother, the Duchess of Argyll.

There is in existence a letter written by the Duchess to Sir William Hamilton, in which she hints that Lord Stanley was an old suitor for the hand of her daughter. “Lady Betty might have taken the name of Stanley long ago if she had chose it,” she wrote, adding: “A very sincere attachment on his side has at last produced the same on hers.” This being so, it would perhaps be unsafe to assume that Lord Stanley proposed to Lady Betty out of pique at having been rejected by the other lady, though one might be disposed to take this view of the engagement.

The alternative view is that Lady Betty had been advised by her accomplished mother that if she played her cards well there was no reason why she should not so attract Lord Stanley as to lead him to be a suitor for her hand, and that the girl at last came to see that the idea was worth her consideration. Her portrait, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds in the year of her marriage, shows her to have been a graceful, girlish young creature; but her beauty could never have been comparable with that of her mother at the same age, or with that of her aunt, Lady Coventry, whom it is certain she closely resembled in character. Her mother, in her letter to Sir William Hamilton, apologises in a way for her liveliness, assuring him that such a disposition was not incompatible with serious thought upon occasions; and this gives us a hint that the reputation for vivacity which she always enjoyed was closely akin to that which made the life of Lady Coventry so very serious.

This was the young lady in whose honour the first English fête champêtre was organised. To be more exact, or to get more into touch with the view of the Derby family, perhaps one should say that the fête was set on foot in consideration of the honour the young lady was doing herself in becoming a member of the great house of Stanley. Different people look at a question of honour from different standpoints. Probably Colonel Burgoyne, although a member of the Derby family by marriage, left honour out of the question altogether, and only thought of his masque being produced at his nephew's expense.

And produced the masque was, and on a scale as expensive as the most ambitious author could desire. It was described, with comments, by all the great letter-writers of the time. Walpole has his leer and his sneer at its expense (literally). It was to cost no less than £5000, he said, and he ventured to suppose that in order to account for this enormous outlay Lord Stanley had bought up all the orange trees near London—no particular extravagance one would fancy—and that the hay-cocks would be of straw-coloured riband. George Selwyn thought it far from diverting. The Dowager Lady Gower affirmed that “all the world was there,” only she makes an exception of her relations the Bedfords—she called them “the Bloomsbury lot”—and said that the Duchess would not let any of them go because Her Grace thought that Lord Stanley should have taken his recent rejection by Her Grace's niece more to heart. Lady Betty's stepfather, the Duke of Argyll, said that the whole day was so long and fatiguing that only Lady Betty could have stood it all.

But did Lady Betty stand it all? It was rumoured in the best-informed circles that she had broken off the match the next day; and when one becomes acquainted with the programme of the day's doings one cannot but acknowledge that the rumour was plausible. She probably made an attempt in this direction; but on her fiancé's promising never to repeat the offence, withdrew her resolution.

The famous brothers Adam, whose genius was equally ready to build an Adelphi or to design a fanlight, had been commissioned to plan an entertainment on the most approved French models and to carry it out on the noblest scale, taking care, of course, that the central idea should be the masque of The Maid of The Oaks, and these large-minded artists accepted the order without demur. The pseudo-classical feeling entered, largely through the influence of the Adams, into every form of art at this period, though the famous brothers cannot be accused of originating the movement. Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his most charming ladies in the costume of Greeks, and Angelica Kauffmann depicted many of her early English episodes with the personages clad in togas which seemed greatly beyond their control. But for that matter every battle piece up to the date of Benjamin West's “Death of Wolfe” showed the combatants in classical armour; and Dr. Johnson was more than usually loud in his protests against the suggestion that a sculptor should put his statues of modern men into modern clothing.

But the Adams were wise enough to refrain from issuing any order as to the costume to be worn by the shepherds and shepherdesses who were to roam the mead at The Oaks, Epsom, upon the occasion of this fête champêtre; and they were also wise enough to distrust the constancy of an English June. The result was (1) a charming medley of costume, though the pseudo-pastoral peasants, farmers, gardeners, and shepherds were in the majority, and (2) the most interesting part of the entertainments took place indoors, the octagonal hall lending itself nobly—when improved by Messrs. Adam—to the show. The “transparencies” which constituted so important a part of the ordinary birthday celebrations of the time, took the form of painted windows, and, later, of a device showing two of the conventional torches of Hymen in full blaze, supporting a shield with the Oak of the Hamiltons' crest and the usual “gules.”

This design occupied the place of the “set piece” which winds up a modern display of fireworks and sets the band playing “God save the King.” It could not have been brought on until the morning sunlight was flooding the landscape outside; for supper was not served until half-past eleven, and the company had to witness the representation of an intolerably long masque—the second of the day—after supper, with a procession of Druids, fauns, cupids, and nymphs, all in suitable, but it is to be hoped not traditional, costume.

The entertainment began quite early in the afternoon, when there was a long procession of shepherds and shepherdesses through the lanes to where a pastoral play was produced and syllabub drunk under the trees. But this was only an hors d'ouvre; it was not Colonel Burgoyne's masterpiece. This was not produced in the open air. Only when further refreshments had been served and evening was closing in did the guests, who had been sauntering through the sylvan scenes, repair to the great hall, which they found superbly decorated and, in fact, remodelled, for colonnades after the type of those in the pictures of Claude had been built around the great ballroom, the shafts being festooned with roses, and the drapery of crimson satin with heavy gold fringes. There were not enough windows to make excuses for so much drapery, but this was no insuperable obstacle to the artful designers; they so disposed of the material as to make it appear that it was the legitimate hanging for six windows.

For the procession through the colonnades the young host changed his costume and his fiancée changed hers. He had appeared as Rubens and she as Rubens' wife, from the well-known picture. But now she was dressed as Iphigenia. They led the first minuet before supper, and it was thought that they looked very fine. No one who has seen the two pictures of the scene, for which Zucchi was commissioned, can question this judgment. Lady Betty's portrait in one of these panels makes her even more beautiful than she appears on Sir Joshua's canvas.

With a display of fireworks of a detonating and discomposing type—the explosion, it was said, affected the nerves of nearly all the guests—and the illumination of the “transparency” already alluded to, this memorable fête came to no premature conclusion. Every one was bored to death by so much festivity coming all at once. The idea of twelve hours of masques and minuets is enough to make one's blood run cold. Its realisation may have had this effect upon the heroine of the day, hence the rumour that she found she had had enough of the Derby family to last her for the rest of her life without marrying the young heir. Unfortunately, however, if this was the case, she failed to justify the accuracy of the report; and she was married to Lord Stanley on the 23rd of the same month.

The union of Maria Gunning with the Earl of Coventry was a miserable one, but this of her niece and Lord Stanley was infinitely worse. Lady Betty soon found out that she had made a mistake in marrying a man so incapable of appreciating her charm of manner as was Lord Stanley. The likelihood is that if she had married any other man she would have made the same discovery. The vivacity for which her mother apologised to Sir William Hamilton was, after her marriage, much more apparent than the thoughtfulness which the Duchess assured her correspondent was one of her daughter's traits. She showed herself to be appallingly vivacious upon more than one occasion. Just at that time there was a vivacious “set” in Lady Betty's world, and every member of it seemed striving for leadership. Few of the ladies knew exactly where the border line lay between vivacity and indiscretion. If Lady Betty was one of the better informed on this delicate question of delimitation, all that can be said is that she overstepped the line upon several occasions. It is not to be thought that her lightness ever bordered into actual vice, but it rarely fell short of being indiscreet.

She was always being talked about—always having curious escapades, none of them quite compromising, but all calculated to make the judicious grieve. But it is one thing to be subjected to the censure of the judicious and quite another to come before a judicial authority, and it is pretty certain that if Lady Derby—her husband succeeded to the title two years after his marriage—had incriminated herself, she would have been forced to defend a divorce suit.

It is, however, likewise certain that for some time she kept hovering like a butterfly about the portals of the Court, and a good deal of the bloom was blown off her wings by the breath of rumour. She had accepted the devotion of the Duke of Dorset, and, considering the number of eyes that were upon her and the devotion of His Grace, this was a very dangerous thing to do. They were constantly seen together and at all hours. This was in the second year of her marriage, but even in the first her desire to achieve notoriety by some means made itself apparent. But her escapade that was most talked about was really not worthy of the gossip of a Gower. She was at a ball at the house of Mrs. Onslow in St. James's Square, and her chair not arriving in good time to take her back to Grosvenor Square, it was suggested by Lord Lindsay and Mr. Storer that they should borrow Mrs. Onslow's chair and carry her between them to her home. She agreed to this gallant proposal, and off they set together. The young men bore her to her very door in spite of the fact that they had met her own chair soon after they had left Mrs. Onslow's porch.

There was surely not much of an escapade in this transaction. The truth was probably that the chair did not arrive owing to the condition of the bearers, and when the young gentlemen met it they refused to jeopardise the safety of the lady by transferring her from Mrs. Onslow's chair to her own.

Rumour, however, was only too anxious to put the worst construction upon every act of the merry Countess, and it was doubtless because of this, and of her own knowledge of her daughter's thoughtlessness, that the Duchess of Argyll appeared upon the scene and endeavoured by her presence and advice to avert the catastrophe that seemed imminent. The Duchess insisted on accompanying her to every entertainment, and succeeded in keeping a watchful eye on her, though the Duke, who was at Inveraray, and was doubtless tired of hearing of the vivacity of his stepdaughter, wrote rather peremptorily for Her Grace to return to Scotland. She did not obey the summons, the fact being that she was devoted to this daughter of hers, who must have daily reminded her of her own sister Maria, to whom she had been so deeply attached. *

     * It was said that she had refused the offer of the Duke of
     Bridgewater, because of his suggestion that she should break
     off all intercourse with Lady Coventry.

Seeing, however, that she could not continue to look after this lively young matron, and being well aware of the fact that Lord Derby would never consent to live with her again, the Duchess could do no more than condone the separation which was inevitable. The deed was drawn up in 1779, five years after Lady Betty had been so inauspiciously bored by the fête champêtre.


In the meantime there was a good deal of talk about the Earl of Derby himself. A young nobleman who takes a lively, or even a grave, interest in the personnel of the theatre is occasionally made the subject of vulgar gossip. Lord Derby had a reputation as an amateur actor, and he seemed to think that it would be increased by association with professional actresses. It is doubtful if he was justified in his views on this delicate question. At any rate, rightly or wrongly, on his estrangement from his wife, but two years before the final separation, he showed a greater devotion than ever to dramatic performances and dramatic performers. His uncle by marriage, now General Burgoyne, had written a play that turned out an extraordinary success. This was The Heiress, and it had received extravagant praise in many influential quarters. It was while it was still being talked of in society that a company of distinguished amateurs undertook to produce it at Richmond House, in Whitehall Place. In order that the representation might be as perfect as possible, the Duchess of Richmond engaged the actress who had taken the chief part in the original production, to superintend the rehearsals of her amateurs. Miss Farren was a young person of considerable beauty, and more even than an actress's share of discretion. She was in George Colman's company at the Haymarket, and was rapidly taking the place of Mrs. Abington in the affections of playgoers. She was the daughter of a surgeon in a small way—he may have been one of the barber surgeons of the eighteenth century. Marrying an actress (also in a small way), he adopted the stage as a profession, and became a strolling actor-manager, whenever he got the chance, and died before his drinking habits had quite demoralised his family.

Mrs. Farren was a wise woman—wise enough to know that she was a bad actress, but that there were possibilities in her two daughters. It was after only a brief season of probation that Colman engaged one of the girls to do small parts, promoting her in an emergency to be a “principal.” Miss Farren proved herself capable of making the most of her opportunity, and the result was that within a year she was taking Mrs. Abington's parts in the best comedies.

Her mother was sensible enough to perceive that there was room in the best society for an actress of ability as well as respectability—up to that time the two qualities had seldom been found associated—and Mrs. Farren was right. No whisper had ever been heard against the young lady, and a judicious introduction or two brought her into many drawing-rooms of those leaders of society who were also respectable, and this was of advantage to her not only socially, but professionally. Horace Walpole was able to write of her: “In distinction of manner and refinement she excelled Mrs. Abington, who could never go beyond Lady Teazle, which is a second-rate character.” Again, in a letter to Lady Ossory, he ascribed the ability of Miss Farren to the fact that she was accustomed to mingle with the best society.

This theory of Walpole's has been frequently controverted since his day, and now no one will venture to assert that there is really anything in it, although it sounds plausible enough. Miss Farren had, however, ample opportunity of studying “the real thing” and of profiting by her study. She found herself on the most intimate footing with duchesses—not of the baser sort like her of Ancaster, or of the eccentric sort like her of Bedford, but of the most exalted. The Duchess of Richmond and the Duchess of Leinster were among her friends, and thus it was that her appearance at the rehearsals of The Heiress of Whitehall Place was not wholly professional. Upon this occasion she met Lord Derby and also Charles James Fox, the latter having accepted the rather onerous duties of stage manager. Before any of the performers were letter perfect in their dialogue, Miss Farren had captured the hearts of both these men. Having some of the qualities necessary to success as a statesman, including caution and an instinct as to the right moment to retire from a contest that must end in some one being made a fool of, Mr. Fox soon withdrew from a position of rivalry with Lord Derby. It was rumoured by the malicious, who had at heart the maintenance of the good name of Miss Farren, that Mr. Fox had been dismissed by the lady with great indignation on his making a proposition to her that did not quite meet her views in regard to the ceremony of marriage. Miss Farren they asserted to be a paragon of virtue, and so she undoubtedly was. Her virtue was of the most ostentatious type. She would never admit a gentleman to an audience unless some witness of her virtue was present. She accepted the devotion of Lord Derby, but gave him to understand quite plainly that so long as his wife was alive she could only agree to be his fiancée. Truly a very dragon of virtue was Miss Farren!

The Earl, previous to his meeting the actress, had been a dutiful if not a very devoted husband. But as soon as he fell in love with this paragon of virtue he became careless, and made no attempt to restrain his wife in her thoughtless behaviour. He allowed her to go her own way, and he went his way. His way led him almost every evening to the green room at the Haymarket and Drury Lane, where Miss Farren was to be found. The estrangement between himself and his wife that resulted in the final separation was the result not of his infatuation for the actress, but of her virtuous acceptance of him as her moral lover. She took care never to compromise herself with him or any one else, but she did not mind taking the man away from his wife and home in order that she might be accredited with occupying an absolutely unique position in the annals of the English stage.

If Miss Farren had been a little less virtuous and a little more human she would run a better chance of obtaining the sympathy of such people as are capable of differentiating between a woman's virtue and the virtues of womankind. She seemed to think that the sole duty of a woman is to be discreet in regard to herself—to give no one a chance of pointings finger of scorn at her; and it really seemed as if this was also the creed of the noble people with whom she associated. Every one seemed to be so paralysed by her propriety as to be incapable of perceiving how contemptible a part she was playing. An honest woman, with the instincts of goodness and with some sense of her duty, would, the moment a married man offers her his devotion, send him pretty quickly about his business. The most elementary sense of duty must suggest the adoption of such a course of treatment in regard to an illicit admirer. But Miss Farren had no such sense. She met the philandering of her lover with smiles and a virtuous handshake. She accepted his offer of an adoring friendship for the present with a reversion of the position of Countess of Derby on the death of the existing holder of the title and its appurtenances; and people held her up, and continue to hold her up, as an example of all that is virtuous and amiable in life!

She was also commended for her patience, as Lord Derby was for his constancy. They had both great need of these qualities, for the unhappy barrier to their union showed no signs of getting out of their way, either by death or divorce. She became strangely discreet, taking, in fact, a leaf out of Miss Farren's book of deportment, and never giving her husband a chance of freeing himself from the tie that bound him nominally to her. It must have been very gratifying to the actress to perceive how effective was the example she set to the Countess in regard to the adherence to the path of rectitude.

What was the exact impression produced upon Lord Derby by all this decorum it would be difficult to say. He may have been pleased to discover that he was married to a lady to whom his honour was more precious than he had any reason or any right to believe it to be. But assuredly a less placid gentleman would have found himself wishing now and again that—well, that matters had arranged themselves differently.

The years went by without bringing about a more satisfactory modus vivendi than was in existence when Lord Derby originally offered his heart and hand (the latter when it should become vacant) to the actress. Lady Derby was in wretched health, but still showed no more inclination to die than does a chronic invalid. Miss Farren continued to drive her splendid chariot, with its coachmen on the hammer-cloth and its footmen clinging on to the straps behind, down to the stage-door of the theatre, and to fill the house every night that she played. Her popularity seemed to grow with years, and she appeared in a wide range of characters, making her audiences accept as correct her reading of every part, though the best critics—Walpole was about the worst—of her art had a good deal to say that was not quite favourable to her style. Only once, however, did she make a flagrant error on the stage, and this was when she was misguided enough to put on men's garments in representing the part of Tracy Lovell in Colman's play, The Suicide.

By this unhappy exhibition which she made of herself she disillusioned those of her admirers who fancied that she was a model of grace from the sole of her feet to the crown of her head. She never repeated this performance. Had she done so in Lord Derby's presence, his constancy would have been put to a severer test than any to which he had been previously subjected. The best judges of what constitutes grace in a woman were unanimous in their advice to the lady never to forsake the friendly habiliments which she was accustomed to wear, and never to allow her emulation of the perpetually chaste goddess to lead her to adopt even for an hour the convenient garb in which she went a-hunting.

And while his fiancée was moving from triumph to triumph, putting every other actress in the shade, the Earl of Derby was putting on flesh. But as his flesh became more visible so did his faith. He was a model of fidelity. His name was never associated with the name of any other lady—not even that of his wife—during his long years of probation, and twenty years form a rather protracted period for a man to wait in order to marry an actress. It was not to be wondered if the spectacle of the devoted young peer waiting for the beautiful girl in the green room, which was allowed to the habitués of that fascinating apartment during the earlier years of this strange attachment, produced quite a different effect upon people from that which was the result of witnessing a somewhat obese, elderly gentleman panting along by the side of a chaste lady of forty. Nor was it remarkable that, on seeing one day by the side of Miss Farren, a gallant young man whose walk and bearing suggested to elderly spectators a rejuvenated Lord Stanley, they should rub their eyes and ask what miracle was this that time and true love had wrought.

The only miracle that time had wrought was to make the son of the Earl of Derby twenty-one years of age and rather interested in the personnel of green rooms. He had been introduced to Miss Farren by his father; but to his honour be it said, he made no attempt to take his father's place in regard to the lady, except as her escort to her house in Green Street. The gossip that suggested such a possibility was just what one might expect to find in one of Walpole's letters.

At last the shameful, if virtuous, devotion of twenty years was rewarded by the announcement of the death of the wretched Countess whose desertion dated from the day her husband met the actress. Miss Farren, with that extraordinary bad taste which characterised every period of her intimacy with Lord Derby, took an ostentatious farewell of the stage, and proved by the faltering of her voice, her emotion, and her final outburst in tears, that time had not diminished from the arts of her art. Of course, there was a scene of intense emotion in the theatre, which was increased when King led her forward and Wroughton spoke a rhymed and stagey farewell in her presence. Four of its lines were these:

But ah! this night adieu the joyous mien,

When Mirth's lov'd fav'rite quits the mimic scene,

Startled Thalia would th'assent refuse,

But Truth and Virtue sued and won the Muse.

Truth and Virtue—these were the patrons of the compact by which Miss Farren waited for twenty years for the death of the wife of the man whom she had promised to marry—when she could.

The scene in the green room when the actress came off the stage was an unqualified success. Tears flowed freely, making channels as they meandered down the paint; sobs came from the actresses who hoped to get a chance of doing some of her parts now that she had left the stage; and Miss Farren herself showed that she knew what were the elements of a proper climax, by fainting with a shriek, in the midst of which she made an exit supported by all the actors who were not already supporting some of the hysterical ladies in the background. They all deserved to have their salaries raised. The whole scene was a triumph—of art.

The exact chronology of the crisis is worth noting. Lady Derby died on March 4th, and was buried on April 2nd. On April 8th Miss Farren took her farewell of the stage, and on May 1st she was married to the Earl of Derby. A satisfactory explanation of the indecent delay in the celebration of the marriage was forthcoming: his lordship had been suffering from an attack of gout.

But if no one ventured to cast an aspersion upon his character or to accuse him of shilly-shallying in regard to the postponement of his nuptials until his wife had been nearly a whole month in her grave, there was a good deal of funny gossip set loose when, after a honeymoon of two days, the Earl and the Countess returned to London. This also was satisfactorily explained: the Countess was devoted to her mother!

The marriage proved a very happy one, and thirty-two years passed before the Countess died. Her husband survived her by five years. He died in 1834, fifty-seven years after his first meeting with the actress, and forty-seven since he instituted “The Derby” race meeting, winning the first cup by his horse Sir Peter Teazle.

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