“The church, in the meanwhile, it must be confessed,” she writes, “was in a deplorable condition,—the Earls of Rochester, Jersey, and Nottingham, and the Whigs, coming into favour.” Great were the exertions used to reanimate the party, and also to resume the great measure against non-conformists. “But it happened,” says the Duchess, “that my Lord Marlborough, in the summer before the Parliament met, gained the battle of Blenheim. This was an unfortunate accident; and, by the visible dissatisfaction of some people on the news of it, one would have imagined that, instead of beating the French, he had beat the church.” It might be supposed that, from this cool and almost flippant mention of an event in which her warmest affections ought to have been interested, the Duchess was an indifferent witness of those stirring and important scenes in which John Duke of Marlborough played a conspicuous part, and in which all Europe, figuratively speaking, participated. But, whatever were her failings, the unpardonable fault of not appreciating _him_; of not sharing in his lofty hopes nor suffering in his anxieties; of not prizing his safety, of not being elevated with an honest pride at his success,—so great a deficiency in all that is healthy in moral or intellectual condition, could not be imputed to this haughty and capricious, but not heartless, woman. Yet, notwithstanding this vindication of the Duchess’s character, she had parted from her husband (will it be believed?) in anger. Amid the dangers and difficulties to which Marlborough was exposed, he carried with him the remembrance of other annoyances, which, whilst it neither abated his ardour nor weakened his exertions for the great cause, added to the pressure of a mind overcharged, and of faculties overtasked, a sense of chagrin which must have aggravated every other care.