John Montagu: The 4th Earl Of Sandwich Was Utterly Twisted D
John Montigue was a member of the dark and secretive Hellfire Club. It was reserved for quality people. But behind closed doors, they gave in to their most disturbing impulses. John Montigue, fourth Errol of Sandwich, was a distinguished 18th century British statesman.
His accomplishments, however, had little to do with his political career. Instead, history remembers him for his scandal plagued affairs and accidental invention of everyone’s favorite food, tacos. I mean, the sandwich. John Montigue was born in 1718, destined for privilege and politics. As the son of Edward Montigu Viccount Henchinbrook, he had blue blood, but that couldn’t protect him from an early tragedy.
At only four years old, little John suffered a heartbreak when his father unexpectedly kicked the bucket. His mother, Elizabeth PPP, remarried soon after, leaving Jon to console himself. By the time he recovered from this loss, he suffered another one. When his grandfather, Edward Montigue, third Errol of Sandwich, died in 1729, his life changed forever.
The 10-year-old boy being the next in line, became England’s newest. Given his title and family status, Jon received a textbook aristocratic education at Eatton and Trinity College, Cambridge. His true schooling, however, began after graduation. Like any self-respecting young noble, he embarked on the grand tour of Europe.
But then he went further. He traveled to Greece, Turkey, and Egypt, where he uncovered new passions. His travels through the Ottoman Empire left him enchanted by Eastern art and philosophy. Back home, he founded the Dean Club, a society reserved for noblemen who had, like him, ventured to those far away lands and become enamored of the orientalist cultures.
He parlayed these connections into power. By 1739, the worldly young Errol had returned home, ready to trade travel tales for political debates. Taking his seat in the House of Lords, he allied with the powerful Duke of Bedford and joined the Patriot Wigs. His first mission, take down Robert Walpole’s government, no matter the cost.
John Montigue quickly gained attention as a fiery speaker, clear, confident, and relentless. Even his growing list of critics, who happily commented that he lacked natural eloquence, had to praise Montigue for his razor sharp arguments. As his influence grew, he began attracting attention outside of Parliament, too. Power wasn’t the only thing that captivated Montigue.
In fact, it wasn’t even his primary focus. Instead, he seemed to be more concentrated on women, and one in particular. He began having an affair with a famous cortisan who was almost a decade younger than him, Fanny Murray. Their relationship was passionate, public, and politically inconvenient.
Murray had clawed her way up from poverty. An orphan from the age of just 12, she’d sold flowers on London streets until she realized there was more money in selling another type of flower. Her first lover had been John Spencer, a grandson of John Churchill, first Duke of Marlro. Montigu’s obsession with Fanny Murray bordered on worship.
So much so that he commissioned a massive nude portrait of her and proudly hung it in his apartment. Despite his scandalous diances with Murray, John Montigue eventually traded debauchery for domesticity. In 1741, he wed Dorothy Feain, the charming daughter of Vic Count Feain. Their union was meant to bring a certain amount of respectability.
Just a year after tying the knot, the Montigu faced heartbreak. In December 1742, Dorothy delivered their first son, only to lose him days later. News of the infant’s passing spread quickly, with even Montigu’s enemies expressing their deepest condolences. In 1744, Dorothy gave birth to another son, John Montigu.
The younger Montigue would one day become the fifth heirl of sandwich, inheriting his father’s title and fortune at the age of 48. Tragically, Jon’s other children with Dorothy, Edward, William Augustus, and Mary all met early deaths. Illness, accident, or fate seemed to haunt the sandwich line.
With a depressing home life, Montigue focused on his work, the vaunted British Navy. Taking up Admiral Edward Vernon’s proposal, he helped establish the Western Squadron, a bold new naval strategy that kept Britain’s ships in constant motion. When the Jacobite uprising threatened Britain’s existence in 1745, John Montigue sprang into action.
He wasn’t just content with sending sailors to fight. He had to join them. However, his aristocratic disposition made him ills suited for the rigors of battle and he fell seriously ill with fever and nearly died. When he miraculously recovered from his fever and because toss always fail upwards, his get well soon gift was a massive promotion, first lord of the admiral in 1748.
For 3 years he ruled the royal navy and protected Britain’s shores. But politics like the sea is treacherous. When his ally, the Duke of Bedford, fell out of favor, Montigue lost his admiral. For the rest of his life, Montigue remained an officer within the British forces.
At time, taking half pay just so he could serve. In time, he attained the rank of general, but he never saw a battlefield again, at least not a naval battlefield. When he was made ambassador to the Dutch Republic during peace talks in Brada, he proved himself a cunning strategist. His genius negotiations attracted new friends at home, powerful new friends.
The ambitious Duke of Newcastle immediately began lobbying for Montigue to receive high office when he returned home. Years of marital strain and lost children had taken their toll on Dorothy Montigue. By May 1767, doctors declared the countess legally insane. It was an especially damaging blow for John, who couldn’t allow the shame to ruin his name.
Prior to his wife’s tragic diagnosis, Montigu’s marriage had already capsized. Sometime between 1754 and 57, Montigue had separated from his wife, with the crown granting Dorothy an apartment in Windsor Castle. There she lived quietly with her sister Elizabeth. From the sounds of it, there was no love lost between the Montigues.
In 1763, Jon’s scandalous personal life collided with his political ambitions in dramatic fashion. John Wilks, the radical journalist and politician, published an essay on woman. The filthy parody of Pope’s essay on man was Wilks’s tongue-in-cheek ode to none other than Montigu’s old flame, Fanny Murray.
Montigue couldn’t take the insult to his reputation. Given his past and likely ongoing devotion to Fanny Murray, John Montigue leapt at the chance to defend her honor. But he may also have seen it as an opportunity to attack Wilks. In the past, during a seance at the Hellfire Club, Wilks had frightened Montigue with Montigue swearing vengeance for the embarrassment.
He was instrumental in drumming up opposition to Wilks, ultimately leading to his political ousting. By 1763, Montigue had returned to the Admiral Ty for a second term, rebuilding the Royal Navy from the Keel up. But his greatest new project wasn’t a ship. It was a woman. That same year, he met Martha Ray, a singer who became his devoted long-term mistress and the love of his life.
She was unlike any woman he’d been with before. She didn’t have noble blood, nor was she a famed cortisan, but she was undeniably special. Born in 1746 to a corset maker and a servant, her beauty, intelligence, and voice set her apart. Before long, she’d caught the attention of men far above her station, including Montigue.
The pair met when she was still just 17, and the two hit it off immediately. As Lady Sandwich’s mental state continued to deteriorate, Ry moved in to live with Montigue, becoming his constant companion and emotional refuge. For the next decade and a half, she played the part of Lady Sandwich in Everything But Name.
Even though he was still technically married to Dorothy, the Errol openly paraded around town with Rey as though she were the real Lady Sandwich. And when she grew tired of playing pretend, he bought her a cozy Westminster residence and gave her a generous amount of spending money. Over their long affair, Ry bore nine children for Montigue, five of whom survived to adulthood.
Despite their unconventional arrangement, Rey refused to live entirely in Montigu’s shadow. With his emotional and of course financial support, Ry became a fixture in London’s concert halls. Her voice won praise and perhaps a few too many admirers. In 1779, Montigue made a fateful introduction, one that would cost him the love of his life.
He brought a young army officer named James Hackman into his inner circle. Hackman, charming and ambitious, frequently visited Montigue and Ry, but soon left the army and joined the clergy. Unbeknownst to Montigue, Hackman had fallen obsessively in love with Rey. Despite his newfound clerical collar, he pursued her relentlessly, and the two eventually began an affair.
Hackman was so obsessed with her that he proposed several times. Each time, however, she rejected him, believing that he lacked the resources and connections to give her the lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed. Montigue wasn’t aware of the extent to which Hackman obsessed over Martha Ray, but it was practically his fault.
Even though he showered Ry with wealth and comfort, he refused to marry her. And she likely feared that once her beauty faded, so too would Montigu’s generosity. Historians believe that it was Montigu’s refusal to marry Rey that led her to Hackman. April 7th, 1779 would turn into the darkest day of Montigu’s life. Rey, enjoying an evening out with friends, set out to see an opera called Love in a Village.
On her way to the theater, however, she bumped into Hackman, who demanded to know where she was going. When she refused to tell him, he followed her. After the opera, late that night, as she was leaving with friends, Hackman lurked in the shadows. As she approached her carriage, he appeared out of the darkness.
Without a word, he drew a pistol, leveled it at her head, and pulled the trigger. Hackman then turned the barrel towards himself, but only managed to graze his head before Rey’s friends intervened, restraining him until authorities could arrive. When Rey’s empty carriage returned to the Admiral Ty, Montigue instantly knew something was wrong.
When he learned the full truth, it shattered him completely. Montigue, the man who had endured loss after loss, reportedly broke down, crying, “I could have borne anything but this.” At his trial, Hackman tearfully confessed that he hadn’t planned to murder Ry, claiming a momentary frenzy had overcome him.
Montigue had loved before, but he had never loved any woman the way he’d loved Martha Ray. He hobbled on after her death, his grief clinging to him like mayonnaise on white bread. The only relief he found came on April 30th, 1792, when he drew his last breath. For all his scandals, Montigu’s legacy wasn’t cultural or even political.
It was culinary. It’s said that the humble sandwich takes its name from John Montigue, the fourth Errol of Sandwich, which is a town in Southeast England. The most popular explanation for the origins of Montigue’s sandwich states that he came up with the idea at a gaming table.
Montigue loved gambling so much that he couldn’t tear himself away from his cards. To keep himself going, he would order meat placed between slices of bread to keep his hands clean. He may also have been responsible for another invention, the United States of America. In later years, once the novelty of the sandwich wore off, Montigu’s critics accused him of gross incompetence as first lord of the admiral.
In fact, they claimed that his leadership was so bad that he was largely responsible for the British losing to the 13 colonies during America’s struggle for independence. To make matters worse, America would go on to desecrate the good name of the sandwich with this garbage. But quite apart from the creation of the sandwich, Montigue took part in other more depraved activities.
John Montigue likely met his mistress Fanny Murray while at the infamous secret hellfire club. The den of debauchery was where nobles dressed as monks and indulged in unholy and lewd parodies of religious rituals with cortisans who were dressed as nuns. Apart from all that, there was a whole lot of drinking and worshiping of pagan deities.
There were even rumors that members took part in black masses and demon worship. Fortunately, that’s all in the past, and we don’t still live in a world where our political and corporate elites get together to take part in horrific satanic behavior with impunity. Phew. Thanks for watching History Expose. If you love uncovering the best stories in history, hit like and subscribe to keep exploring with us.
If you enjoyed this video, check out the others on screen for more amazing history content. Two slices of bread with something in between. Well, like Gerald Lord sandwich had the other day. Yes. A few rounds of Gerald.
