Anne, Countess of Winchelsea (a title she inherited on the death of a relative later in her life, 1661-1720) is a fascinating and accomplished figures whose life straddles a number of different political phases in British history, and who had to navigate the competing allegiances between them, finding herself sometimes in and sometimes out of favour. Born at the start of the Restoration of Charles the Second, her childhood was unstable. The youngers of three daughters from Sir William Kingsmill and his wife Anne Haslewood, the death of her father when she was only five months old, and her mother when only three meant that she was brought up initially by her paternal grandmother, Lady Kingsmill, near Charing Cross in London. Lady Kingsmill’s death in 1670 meant that she was then cared for by her uncle. In 1682 she served as a lady in waiting at the Palace of St James. It was here that she met Heneage Finch, who she married in 1684.
As committed Catholics, politics soon came to interrupt what proved to be a long, happy and successful marriage. With the deposition of James the Second in 1688, and the arrival of William and Mary, the demand for Oaths of Allegiance to the new protestant monarchs caused Anne and her husband to go into internal exile. This did not prevent Heneage being accused of being a Jacobin separatist in 1690. From this date, Anne and her husband sought refuge in the countryside of Kent, at the estate in Eastwell close to Ashford. Here, on and off, they remained till her death in 1720. The arrival of Queen Anne in 1702 meant there was a relaxation in the political environment, and Anne was able to live more in London. But on that monarch’s death in 1714, and the succession to the throne of the protestant George of Hanover, once more a cloud appeared over the couple’s fortunes. Anne died in 1720 in London and was buried at the church in Eastwell.
From 1690 Finch had produced poetry. Much of it was characterised by use of Augustan poetic conventions being devised at the time, but also by the subject of depression, social justice and, perhaps most strikingly, a desire for gender equality. `The Spleen’ stands alongside Gerald Manley Hopkin’s great dark sonnets about despair almost two centuries later as a powerful description of mental anguish. While writing initially anonymously, she developed a keen following after the only collection published in her lifetime, the `Miscellany Poems on Several Occasions, Written by a Lady’ in 1713. After her death, however, other collections appeared, and she was mentioned approvingly by figures as august as William Wordsworth, and, in the 20th century, Virginia Woolf.
The Eastwell that Finch knew and lived in has long gone. That had dated from its construction by Thomas Moyles in the 16th century. A larger mansion was built in its place at the end of the 18th century. That too was consumed by fire in the 1920s. A smaller, but still significant, property was built, though in parts looking almost like a much older Tudor mansion, in 1927. This today operates as a hotel and spa. As for Eastwell church close by, it was tragically bombed during the Second World War, and stands today as a ruin. Some of its fine tombs were moved to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London where they can still be viewed. Perhaps the strongest link to Finch this landscape offers is the calm, and relatively unchanged rural setting that still exists in the parklands, wood and fields around the Eastwell estate.
A representative work by Finch, and one explicitly linked to her many years in Kent, is `Tunbridge A Prodigy’ written around 1706. It is worth comparing this to the poem similarly written `To Tunbridge’ from a little earlier (1675) by the scandalous Earl of Rochester John Wilmot (see entry for him). The two could not be more different in their outlook and content, despite the similarity in their title.
FRAGMENT AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS
For He, that made, must new create us,
Ere Seneca, or Epictetus,
With all their serious Admonitions,
Can, for the Spleen, prove good Physicians.
The Heart’s unruly Palpitation
Will not be laid by a Quotation ;
Nor will the Spirits move the lighter
For the most celebrated Writer.
Sweats, Swoonings, and convulsive Motions
Will not be cur’d by Words, and Notions.
Then live, old Brown! with thy Chalybeats,
Which keep us from becoming Idiots.
At Tunbridge let us still be Drinking,
Though ’tis th’ Antipodes to Thinking:
Such Hurry, whilst the Spirit’s flying,
Such Stupefaction, when ’tis dying:
Yet these, and not sententious Papers,
Must brighten Life, and cure the Vapours, &c.
THE PRODIGY
A poem written at Tunbridge wells Anno 1706, on the admiration that many expressed at a Gentleman’s being in love, and their endeavours to dissuade him from it, with some advice to the young Ladies, how to maintain] their natural prerogative
Protect the State, and let Old England thrive,
Keep all crown’d heads this wondrous year alive;
Preserve our palaces from wind and flame,
Safe be our fleets, and be the Scotchmen tame;
Avert, kind fate, whate’er th’ event might prove,
For here’s a prodigy, a man in love!
Wasted and pale, he languishes in sight,
And spends in am’rous verse the sleepless night;
While happier youths, with colder spirits born,
View the distress with pity or with scorn,
And maids so long unus’d to be ador’d
Think it portends the pestilence or sword.
How chang’d is Britain to the blooming fair,
Whom now the men no longer make their care;
But of indifference arrogantly boast,
And scarce the wine gets down some famous toast!
Not so (as still declare their works) it prov’d
When Spencer, Sydney, and when Waller lov’d,
Who with soft numbers wing’d successful darts,
Nor thought the passion lessning to their parts;
Then let such patterns countenance his fire,
Whom love and verse do now afresh inspire,
‘Gainst all who blame or at the fate admire;
And learn the nymphs, how to regain their sway,
And make this stubborn sex once more obey;
Call back the fugitives by modest pride,
And let them fear sometimes to be deny’d;
Stay ’till their courtship may deserve that name,
And take not ev’ry look for love and flame;
To mercenary ends no charms imploy,
Nor stake their smiles against some rafled toy:
For every fop lay not th’ insnaring train,
Nor lose the worthy to allure the vain.
Keep at due distance all attempts of bliss,
Nor let too near a whisper seem a kiss.
Be not the constant partner of a swain,
Except his long address that favor gain;
Nor be transported when some trifle’s view.
Directs his giddy choice to fix on you.
Amend whatever may your charms disgrace,
And trust not wholly to a conquering face,
Nor be your motions rude, coquet or wild,
Shuffling or lame, as if in nursing spoil’ d:
Slight not th’ advantage of a graceful mein,
Tho’ Paris gave the prize to beauty’s Queen,
When Juno mov’d, Venus could scarce be seen:
And if to fashions past you can’t submit,
Pretend at least to some degree of wit;
The men who fear now with it to accost
Still love the name, tho’ you’ve the habit lost.
Assert your pow’r in early days begun,
Born to undo, be not yourselves undone,
Contemn’ d, and cheap, as easy to be won.
If thus, like Sov’reigns you maintain your ground,
The rebells at your feet will soon be found;
And when with wise authority you move,
No new surprise, no prodigy will prove,
To see one man, or the whole race in love.