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Title: Biographical Catalogue of the Portraits at Panshanger, the Seat of Earl Cowper, K.G.
Author: Boyle, Mary Louisa
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Biographical Catalogue of the Portraits at Panshanger, the Seat of Earl Cowper, K.G." ***
[Illustration:
ARISE ✤ PRAY ✤ WORK
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BIOGRAPHICAL CATALOGUE
OF THE PORTRAITS AT PANSHANGER
THE SEAT OF EARL COWPER, K.G.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
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BIOGRAPHICAL
CATALOGUE
OF THE PORTRAITS
AT PANSHANGER
THE SEAT OF
EARL COWPER, K.G.
✿
‘_A true delineation, even of the smallest
man, and his scene of pilgrimage through
life, is capable of interesting the
greatest man; for all men are to an
unspeakable degree brothers, each man’s
life a strange emblem of every man’s, and
human portraits faithfully drawn are, of
all pictures, the welcomest on human
walls._’ CARLYLE.
_LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK_
1885.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
TO
FRANCIS LORD COWPER
AND
KATRINE CECILIA HIS WIFE,
The Light of her Home,
THESE PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY
MARY LOUISA BOYLE.
MICHAELMAS 1885.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
PREFACE
In the Biographical Sketches contained in this volume, I have pursued
the same system as in my two former Catalogues, of the Galleries of
Hinchingbrook and Longleat,—devoting especial attention to the immediate
members, or to personages in any way connected with the family in
question. In the historical characters, I have purposely made the
details of public and official life (which are elsewhere recorded)
subservient to those of a private and domestic nature, although it is
obvious that in some cases the two cannot be disentangled. In fact, I
have preferred painting my portraits in the costume worn at home, rather
than in robes of office and suits of armour. I have refrained from
mentioning the innumerable authorities to which I have had recourse, in
the British Museum and other Public and Private Libraries, from a dread
of adding to the weight of a volume already, I fear, too bulky. For help
in my labours, I am indebted to the noble owner of Panshanger himself,
for the able papers on Charles James Fox, Lord Melbourne, and the
brothers De Witt,—while the author of that delightful memoir, ‘Fifty
Years of my Life,’ so well known to the reading public, contributed the
interesting sketch of his ancestor, the first Earl of Albemarle.
The good services of Mr. Elliot Stock procured me the assistance of
Monsieur Charles Rueles, the learned Keeper of Manuscripts in the Royal
Library at Brussels, when at a loss for information regarding the
Marquez de Leganes, a commander little spoken of by English writers. On
the kindness of friends my impaired sight has compelled me to rely for
details of dress and descriptions of many of the portraits, and, on this
account, my especial thanks are due to a fair member of the Cowper
family. In other respects, the work, it may be ‘a poor thing, is mine
own,’ and, although in some respects arduous and difficult, I have found
it on the whole an undoubted labour of love.
M. L. B.
MICHAELMAS 1885.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
GALLERY.
[Illustration]
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GALLERY.
-------
_No. 1._
HENRI DE LA TOUR D’AUVERGNE, VICOMTE DE TURENNE.
_Equestrian Portrait, full size. Mounted on a dappled charger. Buff
jerkin. Ruff. Embroidered sleeves. White scarf. Plumed hat._
BORN 1611, KILLED IN ACTION 1675.
BY REMBRANDT.
HE was the second son of the Duke de Bouillon, by Elizabeth of Nassau,
daughter of William the Silent and Charlotte de Montpensier. De Bouillon
was attached in early life to Henry the Fourth, King of France and
Navarre, who spoke of him as ‘my lieutenant, my friend, and comrade.’
The Duke was a soldier, diplomat, politician, and man of letters; and,
moreover, founder of the Academy at Sedan, which became the resort of
all the youthful nobility and chivalry of Europe.
The Duke was one of the chief leaders of the Calvinistic party, and in
their tenets he brought up his two sons, the Prince de Sedan and the
Vicomte de Turenne. When the education of the elder was completed, he
went to Holland to learn the art of war, under his uncle Maurice, Prince
of Orange, while Henry continued his studies at home. In early childhood
his constitution was far from robust, which inclined the Duke to destine
him for some civil employment; but the little Vicomte had set his whole
heart on being a soldier, and he was resolved to prove to his father
that the decision he had come to was ill-founded. He took, in
consequence, rather an ingenious method of manifesting his health and
strength. One evening the boy contrived to elude the vigilance of his
governor, who spent hours of anxious search, and never discovered the
truant till the next morning, on the ramparts of the town. On the
carriage of a cannon, where he had passed the whole night, lay the
little fellow, smiling in his calm sleep over the dreams which had
visited his iron pillow,—visions, in all probability, of the daring
exploits of some of his beloved heroes of antiquity, or some brilliant
foretaste of his own future glory. But a still more characteristic
anecdote is told of Turenne’s boyhood. He took great delight in
lecturing, as it were, to a group of admiring listeners, on the merits
of his favourite historian, Quintus Curtius, or the mighty deeds of
Alexander the Great. In such moments his eye would kindle, his whole
face brighten, and he would overcome that hesitation of speech under
which he laboured in calmer moments. One eventful day an officer (of
mature years), who was in the company, ventured to speak disparagingly
of Henry’s favourite historian, and even to question his veracity! This
was too much for the impetuous boy; he waxed wroth, and answered the
attack with indignation, to the infinite amusement of his mother, who
was present. She made a sign to the officer to prosecute the argument,
till the Vicomte de Turenne, with all the offended dignity of his ten
years, left the room in a towering passion, and the same evening
challenged the officer to mortal combat. The ‘cartel’ was carried to the
Duchess, who was much delighted with this early development of her son’s
military ardour. The challenge was of course accepted, the place of
rendezvous settled, and thither the small hero hastened the next
morning, ‘his soul in arms, and eager for the fray.’ To his surprise he
found his mother on the ground, and the officer by her side, while on
the green turf at their feet was spread a goodly banquet. The Duchess
advanced with a smile, and embracing her son told him she had come to
act as second to his antagonist, but that they must first breakfast,
upon which the three sat down, together with the gentlemen of the hunt,
who were also there assembled, and during the repast, as may easily be
believed, peace was concluded, the honour of the young firebrand
appeased, and an exhilarating gallop put an end to all discord.
Henry was only twelve when his father died; he remained a year longer at
home, during which time he showed a far greater taste for athletic and
military exercises than for sedentary studies; above all, he delighted
in horsemanship, and the more unmanageable the steed, the more willingly
would Henry mount it. Hearing that the Comte de Roussy (afterwards his
brother-in-law) had brought a charger from Paris that was considered
wild and vicious, he never rested till he had it saddled, and leaped on
its back, in spite of the expostulations of the whole household. In a
short time the juvenile Alexander returned from his triumphant ride,
having tamed the modern Bucephalus! When thirteen, the Duchess sent him
to join his brother at the Court of the Stadtholder; Maurice received
him graciously, but insisted on his entering the army as a private
soldier. The Prince died a very short time after Turenne’s arrival in
Holland, but the youth had already imbibed those lessons of military
tactics, and that reverence for discipline, which, added to his own
talents and aptitude for the service, stood him in good stead his life
long. Henry Frederic, Maurice’s successor as Stadtholder and
commander-in-chief, continued his protection to Turenne, and gave him
the command of a regiment of infantry, which soon became a model of
discipline. Under his uncle’s auspices, the young soldier now commenced
active service; in 1629 he distinguished himself more especially at the
siege of Bois-le-Duc, a fortress known as La Pucelle de Brabant.
It is not our intention to make a list of the military exploits of this
great man, whose campaigns in Lorraine, Italy, Germany, etc., would fill
many volumes, and indeed form part of the history of France, or rather
of Europe. While his brilliant victories, his skilful retreats, and, for
the most part, his successful diplomatic negotiations, established his
lasting fame, we shall only enumerate those which are necessary to a
narrative of this nature. In the early days of which we are now
speaking, Turenne’s valour and thirst for enterprise were so remarkable
that Prince Henry Frederic deemed it advisable to reprimand the young
soldier for his rashness, with (it may be conceived) but ill-concealed
admiration for his prowess. The Prince said one day to some officers who
were standing near him, ‘If I mistake not, Turenne will one day rival
our greatest captains in fame and glory.’ Turenne remained five years in
the service of Holland, when his mother, who had been engaged in
political negotiations with France, sent him to that country, where the
King and his Prime Minister, Cardinal Richelieu, received him most
graciously, and gave him the command of a regiment of foot in the French
army. At the siege of La Motte he mounted the walls in person, and
carried the bastion, for which he was rewarded with the bâton of a
field-marshal—a grade only second to that of Marshal of France,—being an
honour almost unheard of for a young man of three-and-twenty. His
humanity was equal to his valour. During the privations and hardships of
the retreat from Mayence in 1635, the Marshal exerted himself to the
utmost to alleviate suffering. He caused many of the valuable contents
of his own baggage-wagons to be thrown away, in order to provide room
for the weary and wounded; he shared his own provisions with the common
soldiers, consoling and helping all those who were in need, without
distinction of rank or nationality. Never slackening for one moment in
his military duties, which he pursued with untiring zeal, at the siege
of Saverne, foremost, as usual, in mounting the breach, his arm was
struck by a musket-ball, and for some time it was believed amputation
must ensue. The recovery was slow and tedious, but long before it was
complete the Marshal had resumed his duties.
In 1638 he became a lieutenant-general, on being sent to the relief of
Duke Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar, with whom an alliance had been formed by
France. In 1646 he returned to Paris, to the Court, where the Prime
Minister, Cardinal Mazarin, whose recognition of his great services had
hitherto been but lukewarm, was loud in his commendation, and offered
him the Duchy of Château Thierry, and the hand of one of his beautiful
and well-dowered nieces; but Turenne refused all these offers, from the
conviction that some of the conditions therein involved would prove
prejudicial to the interests of his brother, the Duke de Bouillon, to
whom he was warmly attached. He was defeated by the Comte de Mercy, in
command of the Bavarians at Mariendal, but made a most skilful retreat,
and by the side of the Prince de Condé took his revenge at the battle of
Nordlingen, where Mercy was routed, and received his death-wound. This
brave general was buried near the place where he fell, and his tomb bore
this inscription: _Sta, Viator, Heroem Calcas_. Turenne then marched to
join the Swedish General Wrangel, the friend and comrade of the great
Gustavus Adolphus, in Hesse, and was preparing for fresh warfare when
the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia gave peace to Central Europe,
concluding the Thirty Years War. A most flattering letter to the Vicomte
de Turenne was written by the Elector of Mayence, the Duke of
Würtemberg, and many other Princes and Ambassadors, attributing this
happy event as much to his military exploits as to the efforts of the
Plenipotentiaries.
France did not long enjoy the blessings of peace for civil war was now
about to shed its baneful influence over the land. Anne of Austria, the
Queen-Mother and Regent (during Louis the Fourteenth’s minority), was
almost entirely under the influence of her Prime Minister, Cardinal
Mazarin, who was very unpopular with the Parliament and the greater part
of the French nation. The successes of the English Parliamentarian
troops over those of the Royalists, and the downfall of the Monarchy,
had given a strong impetus to the anti-Court party in France, and a
faction was formed, well known in history as the ‘Fronde.’
This nickname was given to the party who were opposed to the policy of
the Queen-Regent, Anne of Austria, and her favourite and adviser,
Cardinal de Mazarin, whose measures they condemned as unjust and
oppressive. One of the principal adherents was the Cardinal de Retz, or
Coadjutor, as he was called, a turbulent and intriguing spirit; but it
soon numbered among its members the most important and noble names in
France. The designation of _Frondeurs_ was given by a contemporary
writer, from the word _Fronde_,—_Anglicè_, a sling. He likened the
malcontents to boys who went about the streets slinging stones, till put
to flight by the appearance of any officer of the law. By degrees the
faction assumed a much more imposing form, and though the name remained,
it had certainly lost its significance. Discontent increased every day,
the people clamoured for redress of grievances, and deputations flocked
to Parliament to entreat the interference of the members against the
oppressions of the Court. The Parliament was divided into three
different factions,—the Frondeurs aforesaid, the Mazarinists, who
supported the Cardinal, and the Modérés, who blamed the _ultra_ views of
both parties. Three members in particular rose up as champions of the
oppressed, and so incensed the Queen by their seditious language, that
she caused them to be arrested. This was the signal for open revolt:
shops were closed, streets blocked, barricades formed, and the liberty
of ‘the fathers of the people,’ as they were called, loudly and
insolently demanded. Anne of Austria showed courage and determination,
arguing that compliance would be a fatal admission of weakness; but the
Duke of Orleans and the Cardinal, alarmed for their own safety and
property, overruled her decision. The captives were released, and the
Court departed hastily to St. Germains, a step which was designated as
‘l’enlèvement du Roi.’ The popular party was triumphant, and the
Cardinal de Retz, considering it a favourable opportunity, exerted
himself to gain proselytes, and the malcontents soon numbered among
their adherents such men as the Dukes de Bouillon, de Lorraine, de
Beaufort, de Longueville, de la Rochefoucauld, and the Prince de Conti,
brother of the great Condé, with many others. They were also rich in
noble female partisans, ‘les héroines de la Fronde.’ Beauty, birth, and
talent swelled the list of the fair conspirators,—Mademoiselle de
Montpensier, ‘la grande demoiselle,’ as she was called,—the Duchesses de
Chevreuse and de Bouillon, the Princess Palatine, and last, but least in
no sense of the word, the Duchesse de Longueville. When Anne of Austria
deserted her post at Paris, a rival in power, a superior in youth and
beauty, reigned for a time paramount in her stead,—the charming despot
of an elective monarchy.
Anne Généviève de Bourbon was at one time so nearly connected with the
fortunes of Turenne that we are tempted to give some details respecting
her eventful life. Her father was Henry, Prince de Condé (or ‘Monsieur
le Prince,’ as the head of that illustrious house was always called),
her mother the beautiful Charlotte de Montmorency, daughter of the Grand
Connétable of that name. They were both imprisoned in the Château de
Vincennes, where their daughter was born in the year 1618. Mademoiselle
de Bourbon was educated at the Convent of the Carmelites, where she
showed a decided bias towards the vocation of a recluse, and a
corresponding aversion to the idea of a life at Court, or in the great
world. A very short experience, however, of admiration and success
entirely changed her views, and she became one of the most lovely
_précieuses_ of the Hôtel Rambouillet. The cynosure of all eyes, a crowd
of suitors clustered round her, none of whom found favour in the sight
of her parents, till the Duc de Longueville presented himself. He was
her senior by many years, and still under the influence of a former
mistress, the Duchesse de Montbazon; but he came of an illustrious
family, and was not far removed from the rank of a prince of the
blood-royal; and Mademoiselle de Bourbon had the paternal commands laid
upon her to receive him as her bridegroom. At first she showed the
greatest possible repugnance to the marriage, but there was no
alternative; and she walked to the altar, radiant in beauty, and
gorgeously attired, assuming a cheerfulness of demeanour which belied
the feelings of her heart. From that time forward the young Duchess gave
herself up to a system of cold-blooded coquetry, which had most
disastrous results. We quote an eloquent description from the pages of
her biographer, Ville Flore: ‘Un an s’était à peine écoulé, que la
blanche robe de la jeune mariée avait déjà des táches de sang, et que
sans même avoir donné son cœur elle faisait naître involontairement la
plus tragique querelle, oû Coligny perissait à la fleur de l’âge par la
main d’un de ces Guises, auquel elle avoit été un moment destinée.
Prélude sinistre des orages qui l’attendaient.’ Adorers crowded round
her, poets sang her praises, novels were written of which she was the
peerless heroine, and still Généviève de Longueville proceeded on her
triumphal march, careless and fancy-free, making conquest after
conquest, creating cabals and jealousies that became political
feuds,—the Court now taking part against, now with, the beautiful syren.
‘Mais on ne badine pas éternellement avec l’amour.’
M. de Masillac (or as we will call him by his better-known title, the
Duc de la Rochefoucauld, to which he shortly succeeded), who had once
been loved, and was now hated, by Anne of Austria, laid siege to the
fortress which had held out so long, and carried the heart of the
Duchesse de Longueville by storm. Witty, handsome, cynical, reserved,
and self-contained, with a reputation already established for valour and
intellect, La Rochefoucauld soon gained a complete ascendency over this
daughter of the proud house of Condé.
He was a man who, for the most part, practised what he preached and
expounded in his world-famed ‘Maxims,’ and whose character, drawn by his
own pen, showed how the head preponderated over the heart in his
composition. That he admired the Duchess there can be no doubt:—
‘Pour mériter son cœur,
Pour plaire à ses beaux yeux,
J’ai fait la guerre aux rois,
Je l’aurais fait aux dieux.’
But his first advances were unquestionably made in cold blood, and it
was in the hope of gaining proselytes to the cause of the Fronde that he
desired the alliance and co-operation of this beautiful woman. Touched
and flattered by the simulated passion of so remarkable a man, the
Duchess gave herself up, heart and soul, to her lover, obedient to his
every wish, submissive to his every direction. She forgot her pride of
birth and position, her marriage vows, and the tender affection which
had hitherto bound her to her elder brother. Let us hear how the man for
whom she made such sacrifices speaks of her in the early days of their
_liaison_: ‘Ses belles qualités étaient moins brillantes à cause d’une
tâche qui ne s’est jamais vue en une princesse de ce mérite, qui est,
que bien loin de donner la loi à ceux qui avaient une particulière
adoration pour elle, elle se transformait si fort dans leurs sentimens
qu’elle ne reconnaissait point les siens propres.’ And so he despised
the very quality for which he had wooed her,—a palpable moral!
Madame de Motteville testifies that ambition had little part in Madame
de Longueville’s proceedings. She was only ambitious for her lover,—‘qui
étoit peut-être plus intéressé qu’il n’était tendre.’ Among her
proselytes she gained over her younger brother to the cause; her husband
also was nothing loath to join the Fronde. But La Rochefoucauld, when he
thought to win the great Condé through the medium of his sister, had
reckoned without his host. Madame de Longueville used all her powers of
persuasion, vainly appealing to the tender memories of home and
childhood, but Condé was implacable. He upbraided his sister with her
dishonour, expressed his aversion to La Rochefoucauld, and joined the
Court at St. Germains, where he assumed the command of the troops that
had remained faithful to the King, and shortly afterwards marched upon
Paris to attack the Frondeurs, who had named his brother, the Prince de
Conti, their ‘Generalissimo.’ Now the Duchesse de Longueville had
excused herself from joining her mother, the Princesse de Condé, who was
at St. Germains in attendance on the Queen, on the plea of her
approaching confinement. But the delicacy of her situation did not
prevent her acting under the orders of her despotic lover. She shared
all the perils and hardships of her friends the Frondeurs, assisted at
the parades and reviews of the troops and the civic guard, took part in
all the military discussions, and in fact transformed the Hôtel de
Longueville into a barrack.
In this state of strife and discord both sides concurred in the
advisability of gaining over Marshal Turenne to their interests, and he,
being now in command of the French army in Germany, received the most
flattering letters from the Queen and her Minister. Mazarin was profuse
in his offers of civil and military aggrandisement; renewing the
proposal of an alliance with his richly-dowered niece at the same time
that he complained to Turenne of the disloyalty of his brother, the Duc
de Bouillon.
The Marshal’s answer was manly and straightforward to all these
flattering advances. He wrote respectfully indeed, but said this was not
a moment for men to think of their own personal advancement. He
regretted the disaffection of his brother, and deeply deplored the
troubles that reigned in France; he stigmatised the blockade of Paris as
a most dangerous step, declined with courteous thanks the offer of the
matrimonial alliance on the score of difference of religion, and told
his Eminence plainly that, if he continued to oppress the people, he
(Turenne) could no longer hold out to him the hand of friendship;
moreover, that on his return to France, at the head of his troops
(according to orders from headquarters), he was resolved neither to
favour the revolt of Parliament nor the injustice of the Minister. It
was reserved for the seductive arts of a syren to lead the hero astray
from the straight path he had chalked out for himself.
The Duchesse de Longueville had already made a deep impression on the
proverbially susceptible heart of the Vicomte de Turenne. About the time
of the signing of the Treaty of Westphalia, when she joined her husband
at Münster, the hero had on that occasion held a review of all the
troops under his command to do honour to the beautiful sister of his
former brother in arms, the Prince de Condé.
But to return to the time of which we are treating: the Marshal
assembled his soldiers, and made them a formal address, in which he
expressed his regret at the state of affairs in France, and assured them
that on their return he would use all his influence to persuade the King
to go back to Paris, and to take measures for checking the
maladministration of the Cardinal. He would also use his best endeavours
to obtain the pay (with considerable arrears) that was owing to the
troops, both French and auxiliary; and, not content with spoken words,
he published a manifesto to the same effect. The Regency, indignant at
Turenne’s independent manner of proceeding, and confident that they
could not reckon on his co-operation, caused him to be superseded in his
command; and to reconcile the soldiers (with whom he was very popular)
to this step, they sent them out considerable sums of money. Turenne
calmly resigned his post, exhorted the men to loyalty and obedience, and
repaired with some friends and followers to Holland, there to await more
peaceful times. Before long the Court and the malcontents came to terms
by what was called the Peace of Ruel. Deputies from both sides met and
negotiated, an amnesty was proclaimed, posts and governments were
offered to the chief Frondeurs, and concessions of all kinds served out,
as sops to the disaffected.
The wily Cardinal knew his world. Turenne had little ambition, in the
common acceptation of the word, no greed of gold or worldly advancement,
as to office, or the like; but his pride of birth was a ruling passion,
and dearly did he love anything that tended to the glorification of his
family.
To his brother, as head of the house, he paid a species of obedience, as
to a suzerain,—a line of conduct he pursued towards his nephew, though
still a youth, on succeeding to the title. All these things considered,
it is not to be wondered at that Turenne was delighted when he received
the news that patents had been granted to himself and his brother (with
other concessions to the elder), entitling them and their descendants to
the dignities and privileges of Princes of the blood-royal. He hastened
back to Paris, and was received by the Cardinal with outward signs of
welcome. But breakers were ahead. The peace was a hollow one, leaving
both parties in much the same condition: the Cardinal and the Parliament
each preserving authority as before,—the one over the Court, the other
over the people. The Prince de Condé was always at issue with the
Minister, whom he treated with ill-concealed contempt; and his Eminence,
wearied and perplexed by the exigencies and requirements of the great
man, and maddened by his sarcasms, plotted his ruin.
The Duchesse de Longueville, who watched all passing events with
vigilance, chose this opportunity to renew her overtures of
reconciliation to her brother; and she not only succeeded in so doing,
but persuaded Monsieur le Prince to give in a half-and-half adhesion to
the cause of the Fronde, in which party he had many friends, and perhaps
more enemies.
Among the most inveterate of the latter was the Cardinal de Retz, at
this moment on friendly terms with the Court; and it was by the joint
arrangement of the two Churchmen that a step was taken which rekindled
the torch of public discord. The Queen-Regent had also lately been much
incensed against the Prince de Condé, who had shown himself wanting in
respect and deference to her Majesty; and petty intrigues of all kinds
were at work against him.
On the 18th of January 1650, as the Princes of Condé, Conti, and the Duc
de Longueville entered the Royal Council-chamber, they were arrested,
and sent off without a moment’s delay to the Château de Vincennes. This
step caused a panic among their friends, who dispersed in all
directions. The Duchesse de Longueville left Paris by night with a large
escort, headed by her adorer, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, and repaired
to Normandy, to raise the inhabitants of the province against the King,
in which undertaking, however, she was unsuccessful. Turenne took his
way to Stenai, a stronghold belonging to the Prince de Condé, and openly
avowed his indignation at the imprisonment of the Princes.
‘On prétend’—we again quote his _Mémoires_—‘que l’amour pour la sœur eût
autant de part aux fausses démarches du vicomte que l’amitié pour le
frère.’ Be this as it may, he was soon joined by the Duchess; and in
answer to all the flattering missives sent him by the Cardinal, and the
offers of high military commands and the like, he declared his
determination not to return to his allegiance until the Princes were set
at liberty. He also wrote to the Queen, expostulating with her on the
step she had taken, and pointing out that such a man as the great Condé
was far more worthy her confidence, on account of his birth and
character, and the military services he had rendered his Sovereign, than
the Cardinal, who was an object of aversion to the country at
large,—arguments which had no effect on the Royal mind. It appears that
the Duchess was not as grateful to Turenne as he had hoped, her
_liaison_ with the Duc de la Rochefoucauld interfering with the
Marshal’s claim; but so great an adept in the arts of coquetry doubtless
knew how to keep her most valuable ally betwixt hope and despair for
some time. He had certainly transferred his loyalty from Queen Anne to
Queen Généviève, for the Duchess gave herself all the airs of a
sovereign—levying an army, publishing manifestoes, and even concluding
treaties. She sold her diamonds, an example which was followed by the
obedient Marshal, who disposed of his splendid silver plate in order to
raise troops. He collected together all those who adhered sufficiently
to the Princes to serve in their behalf, together with those over whom
he exercised a personal influence,—some of whom he received into the
citadel, and others he stationed round the walls of Stenai. These were
soon dispersed by the Royal troops, and Turenne, finding himself reduced
to straits, listened once more to the suggestions of his evil genius,
and under her auspices concluded a treaty with the Spaniards, in order
to obtain money and auxiliaries to assist in the deliverance of the
captives. The Marshal did not take a step so foreign to his nature
without regret, and indeed remorse, and the treaty was concluded with
many stringent conditions.
He again wrote to the Queen, pointing out to her the horrors of a war
which would be cruel, for that her son would be opposed to his subjects
on the one hand, and to her own brother on the other; but she paid no
heed to his advice. He therefore placed himself at the head of the
Spaniards, and commenced a march which was for a while successful,
besieging and carrying many places of importance.
But his foreign troops caused him great trouble and annoyance, refusing
to obey his commands, or to march on Vincennes. He was defeated with
great loss at the battle of Rhetel, in spite of his personal valour,
which never failed, and he felt this disaster acutely. It is related of
him that, some time afterwards, being asked by a flippant young officer
how it chanced that he lost the battles of Mariendal and Rhetel, he
replied with calm dignity, ‘By my own fault.’
Still bent on the deliverance of the Princes, Turenne was about to
proceed to Vincennes without the assistance of the Spaniards; but the
prisoners had been already removed elsewhere.
Hopes of peace began to dawn on the distracted country. The Ducs de la
Rochefoucauld and de Bouillon, the Princesse de Condé and her young son,
who had been leagued together against the Court, now tendered their
submission, and repaired to the Royal camp at Bourg in person, pledging
themselves in future not to take arms against the King. These proud
spirits carried their newly-born loyalty so far, that, on entering the
presence of their Majesties, they knelt down to solicit pardon.
‘La reine les reçut avec bonté, et le Cardinal Mazarin leur donna à
dîner.’ But the release of the Princes was not to be effected without
cabals and intrigues of all kinds. The Queen was hardly pressed on the
subject, and at length she was compelled to dismiss her Minister, and to
promise pardon to the captives. The Marshal de Grammont was named as the
bearer of the good tidings to Condé and his companions, but the Cardinal
stole a march on him, and contrived to appropriate all the honour of the
transaction, by forestalling De Grammont’s journey.
He repaired to Havre, where the Princes were now imprisoned, entered
their presence, and, offering them the hand of friendship, announced
to them that they were at liberty. They then dined together (for it
seemed a hobby of Mazarin’s to cement a reconciliation at the
banqueting-table), after which his Eminence departed for Cologne,
while the Princes took their way to Paris. Here they were received
with acclamations, and bonfires were lighted in honour of their
release,—a similar demonstration having been made the year before to
commemorate their imprisonment!
The Duke of Orleans, the Duc de Beaufort, the Cardinal de Retz himself,
were all loud in their professions of welcome and friendship, and there
was much embracing on the occasion. Turenne, on learning the news,
returned to Stenai, whence he wrote to the Prince de Condé, begging him
to use his newly-regained influence with the Court to bring about an
honourable peace with Spain.
Condé’s answer was eloquent of gratitude and friendship, and, in
accordance with the Marshal’s wish, a Parliamentary counsellor was sent
to Stenai with powers to negotiate. He was also bearer of a letter from
the King to the Vicomte de Turenne, wherein Louis offered a free pardon
to the Marshal, and all those who had taken arms with him against the
Crown, on condition they returned to their allegiance. The letter
concluded with these words: ‘J’ai la bonne volonté pour ce qui regarde
votre personne, et les intérêts de votre maison, et je prie Dieu, mon
cousin, qu’il vous ait en sa sainte et digne garde.—LOUIS.’
This was followed by the exchange that had so long been talked of,—the
town of Sedan for places of far greater importance, and many
advantageous concessions to the house of De Bouillon.
Turenne failed in his mediation between France and Spain, and having
found the King of the last-named country unreasonable in his demands, he
gave up the attempt and returned to Paris.
Discovering that it was the intention of the Princes to give him a
public reception, Turenne defeated their intentions by arriving a day
sooner than was expected, for he considered that it would be incongruous
to make a triumphal entry into the capital of the kingdom when he had so
lately been in arms against the Sovereign.
No sooner had he arrived than Condé made him overtures and propositions
of all kinds, and did all in his power to induce the Marshal to enter
into his political views, which were of a most ambitious character.
Turenne answered him firmly. He was now perfectly satisfied, he said,
and he only required, from the gratitude of Condé, that the troops who
had fought in his behalf should have good and healthy quarters for the
winter; for he never forgot to plead the cause of his soldiers. The
brothers Condé and Conti were soon again at issue with the Court, and
engaged in seditious warfare, while Cardinal Mazarin re-entered France
at the head of an armed force, upon which the Duke of Orleans once more
revolted from his allegiance. Turenne joined the King and Queen at
Saumur, where he was offered (and did not refuse, as many in his place
would have done) the command of the army, in conjunction with a Marshal
of very short standing, D’Hocquincourt. One of the Vicomte’s most daring
exploits took place at Gergeau, then in possession of the rebel forces,
the taking of which was owing to his own personal skill and courage, and
was reckoned so important, that, on his return, the Queen, in the
presence of the assembled Court, acknowledged that he had saved the
Monarchy! Every tongue was loud in his praise; and yet, in speaking of
the matter in a letter to his sister, the only allusion he makes to the
whole affair is in these words: ‘Il s’est passé quelque chose à Gergeau
qui n’est pas de grande considération.’ Later on, when the Prince de
Condé was approaching Gien (where the King held Court) with rapid
strides, after gaining considerable advantages over the Marshal
D’Hocquincourt, Turenne made head against him with a force vastly
inferior in numbers.
It was a moment of imminent peril for the Court: Cardinal Mazarin, who
had once more joined the King and Queen, watched the movements of the
two armies with great anxiety, constantly despatching couriers to learn
the last tidings; but Anne of Austria manifested her usual calm,
‘tranquille à sa toilette et à son dîner elle ne donnoit aucune marque
de crainte, quoique on avoit déjà commencé à défendre son appartement.’
Then came the welcome news that Turenne was victorious, and the Prince
de Condé in retreat. Another enthusiastic welcome awaited the Vicomte,
and again the Queen thanked him for having once more replaced the crown
on the head of her son.
Cardinal Mazarin wrote an elaborate account of the proceedings of the
memorable day, in which he blamed the Marshal D’Hocquincourt for having
withstood the advice of his noble colleague; but the generous-hearted
Turenne insisted on the passage being erased, ‘for,’ said he, ‘I am most
unwilling that any fresh mortification should be heaped on the man who
was already sufficiently distressed by several failures.’
Henrietta, Queen of England, was now residing in France, where she had
taken refuge during the Protectorate, and was joined by her sons, King
Charles and James, Duke of York, who, in those early days of his career,
was a soldier at heart. He had a profound admiration for Marshal
Turenne, whose camp he joined, and was present at many of the
engagements which took place at that time between the Royal and the
rebel army, Turenne always treating the exiled Prince with the utmost
consideration and kindness; and the Duke of York was more than once
employed as a mediator between the opposing armies. Turenne pursued the
Prince de Condé on his march towards Paris, coming up with him in the
Faubourg St. Antoine, close to the capital. The Cardinal was so
persistent in his desire that Turenne should here attack Monsieur le
Prince, and that the Royal troops should commence the attack, that he
overruled the Marshal’s wish to await the arrival of reinforcements. And
so it chanced that, from a neighbouring height, as from an amphitheatre,
the King, his Minister, and the whole Court, became spectators of one of
the bloodiest encounters that ever cursed a civil war.
‘Jamais,’ says the biographer of Turenne, ‘action ne fut disputée avec
une valeur plus continuée, et plus opiniâtre. Les deux généraux, tout
couverts de sang, et toujours exposés aux feux des mousquetaires, qui
tiroient de maison à droite et à gauche, combattirent souvent vis à vis
l’un d’autre, à la portée du pistolet. La fureur martiale de l’un, et le
sangfroid de l’autre, faisoient un contraste, dont le spectacle excitoit
l’admiration et la terreur.’
After many fluctuations on one part and the other, the Prince de Condé’s
army was hemmed in, and must have been cut to pieces had not the
Parisians, seeing his danger, opened the gates, and received the rebels
within their walls, while the cannon began playing on the Royal army, by
command of the King’s own cousin, Mademoiselle de Montpensier. So hot
was the fire, and so close the quarters, that Turenne was obliged to
abandon his desire of pursuing the enemy within the walls. Disorder and
tumult reigned in Paris, and a terrible massacre took place at the Hôtel
de Ville.
The Court, by the Marshal’s advice, repaired to Pontoise, and he himself
to Compiègne; and it was chiefly through his instrumentality that the
Spanish troops were at length obliged to evacuate France, and retreat to
Flanders. A sad affliction was in store for the hero about this time, in
the death of his brother, the Duc de Bouillon, to whom he was fondly
attached. But he was not a man to allow sorrow to interfere with duty.
The ill feeling that was still rife against the Cardinal Minister
continued to be used as a pretext for revolt and rebellion of all kinds.
Turenne went in person one day, and had a long and confidential
conversation with Mazarin, in which he pointed out, in the most emphatic
manner, that it was incumbent upon him (the Minister) to make at least a
temporary sacrifice for the good of the King, his master, and the
country in general. This, urged the Marshal, would be effected by his
absenting himself, for a time at least. His arguments prevailed. Mazarin
consented to leave France, but in so doing he made his own conditions.
The King (who was directed to say he ‘only gave in to the plan of
dismissing his faithful Minister in order to pacify his people’)
received a paper from the Cardinal, in which directions were drawn up
for his own conduct; and His Majesty was further instructed to place two
of his Eminence’s most devoted adherents at the head of affairs. After
this was done, Mazarin, strong in the conviction that the Queen would
soon recall him, took his way to Bouillon. But Condé and the Duc de
Lorraine still continued to harass the kingdom, and peace seemed still
far off; it was again by Turenne’s advice that the Court was induced to
proceed once more to Paris, where the Marshal assured Louis that the
Parisians, being wearied by the unsettled state of affairs, would gladly
welcome him. Accordingly the Court set out; but as the cortége
approached the Bois de Boulogne, they were met by a deputation, the
members of which pointed out in the most formidable colours the danger
which his Majesty would incur in entering Paris, where those
arch-rebels, the Duke of Orleans, and Mademoiselle de Montpensier, his
daughter, were caballing to incite the people against him. The royal
coach came to a stand-still, and Anne of Austria, with her accustomed
energy and promptness, made the ladies who were inside alight, and
summoning the Vicomte de Turenne, the Marshals De Villeroi, Du Plessis,
and others, she held an open-air council. Every one, with the exception
of Turenne, was of opinion that they had better retrace their steps. The
noble soldier spoke, as he always did, with firmness and judgment. He
did not believe, he said, in the friendship of men who could give such
pusillanimous advice; that the return of the Court would make them
despicable in the eyes of all, and would discourage the loyal, and give
fresh impetus to the plans of the disaffected. The Queen approved and
seconded him on every point, and the procession moved on once more. The
young King, at the head of his guards, rode in amid loud cries of ‘Vive
le Roi!’ and the acclamations of a huge concourse that accompanied him
to the gates of the Louvre. The next day the Duke of Orleans and his
daughter thought it advisable to leave Paris, and amicable relations
were entered into between the King and his Parliament. ‘L’ordre fût
bientôt rétabli dans la ville, et le calme qui succeda fit oublier les
troubles de la Fronde.’ The Prince de Condé alone refused to comply with
the conditions of the amnesty which was proclaimed, preferring, he said,
to suffer any loss rather than live in the same country with the
Cardinal, whose return was, of course, a matter of certainty; and he
chose the alternative of making a league with the Spaniards. Turenne
remained in Paris until he considered Louis to be safely reinstated on
the throne, and then he went again into the field at a time of year when
troops generally go into winter quarters. On parting from the King, he
promised to drive Condé and his allies out of France before the
expiration of the winter; and he redeemed his pledge.
The Prince de Condé was compelled to leave the country, and comparative
peace was restored in the interior of the kingdom; but peril, hardship,
and scarcity still pursued the Royal army, and exposed their noble
commander to dreadful straits, which were much aggravated by the
jealousy of his colleague, the Marshal de la Ferté. At the end of the
year 1652, the troops were ordered into winter quarters; and in the
commencement of the ensuing year the Vicomte de Turenne espoused a lady,
whose name, possessions, titles, and good qualities engross a large
space in the pages of the Marshal’s biography. Her merits are best
summed up in this one sentence: ‘She was worthy to be the wife of the
hero.’ Charlotte de Caumont was the daughter and heiress of Armand
Nompar de Caumont, Duc de la Force, Pair et Maréchal de
France,—beautiful, modest, rich, well educated, and, in short, possessed
of all those qualities which are generally the attributes of a
bride-elect.
The newly-married pair were not long allowed to enjoy their spell of
happiness, for the month of June once more saw the Marshal in the field,
and the old warfare recommenced between the King’s army and Condé and
his Spanish allies. The marches, counter-marches, attacks, sieges, and
retreats belong to the military annals of the time. Mazarin continued to
make fruitless overtures to Condé, who entangled himself more and more
with the Spaniards; but fell out with his other ally, the Duke of
Lorraine, whom he was instrumental in causing to be arrested and
imprisoned. The Prince de Conti did not follow his brother’s example,
and finding he reaped no advantage from being at variance with the
Court, he became reconciled to the King and the Cardinal Minister, whose
niece, Anna Maria de Martinozzi, he shortly afterwards married.
Turenne’s attack on the Spanish lines and Condé’s troops added so much
to his military fame that complimentary messages and letters from German
princes and European generals poured in on all sides. A characteristic
trait is told of the hero about this time, characteristic also of the
spite and jealousy of the Marshal de la Ferté. This general, finding one
of Turenne’s guards outside the camp, caused him to be severely beaten.
The man, covered with blood, sought the presence of his commanding
officer, and complained of his usage.
Turenne sent him back, under the escort of a lieutenant of the Guards,
with a message to De la Ferté, apologising for any want of respect the
man may have shown, as it must have been something very reprehensible to
cause so severe a punishment. The message was given in the presence of
the whole staff of officers, who were acquainted with the real state of
the case, and De la Ferté was betrayed into exclaiming aloud, ‘Cet homme
sera-t-il toujours sage, et moi toujours fou?’
In the month of August the Marshals D’Hocquincourt and De la Ferté
joined the King, and the Vicomte de Turenne remained in the undivided
command of the army. Towards the end of September he went back to Paris,
where he was again serviceable in negotiating affairs between the King
and the Parliament, but soon returned to active service. The Frondeurs
were dispersed or pardoned; the Duke of Orleans reconciled to his
brother; Cardinal de Retz, who had been imprisoned and escaped, had
sought refuge in Rome; but Turenne still pursued his path of glory and
of peril, gaining fresh laurels, even when unsuccessful in the literal
sense of the word. His despatches and private communications were
invariably marked by that modesty which is the true attribute of
greatness. After the famous siege of Dunkirk, he wrote to his wife: ‘Les
ennemis sont venus, ils out été battus, Dieu soit loué; j’ai été un peu
fatigué toute la journée; je vous donne le bon soir, et je vais me
coucher.’
This taking of Dunkirk was an affair of such importance, that it is said
Cardinal Mazarin wished to take the glory on himself of projecting and
planning the enterprise; and it is further stated that he endeavoured to
bribe the great general into bearing witness to the Minister’s share in
the matter, by a written document. It was wonderful that the Cardinal
should not by this time have learned better to understand the character
of the man with whom he had to deal. Turenne replied that Mazarin might
pride himself as much as he pleased on his knowledge of military
tactics, but for himself he would never bear testimony to a falsehood.
At the end of the year 1658 Turenne brought back his army to France, and
returned to Court, having routed the Spaniards, taken twelve towns of
importance, subdued large tracts of country, and garrisoned the places
he had annexed. The reverses of the Spanish arms inclined Philip IV. to
listen to terms, while Anne of Austria represented to the Cardinal that
peace would be a fit thank-offering to Heaven for the recovery of the
King, who had been dangerously ill. Mazarin himself was also in favour
of a treaty, as during all these campaigns he had never quite abandoned
a darling scheme for uniting the interests of the two nations by the
marriage of King Louis with Maria Theresa, Infanta of Spain. The moment
seemed propitious in every way,—Cromwell was dead, and England treating
with her exiled King for his return. Both Charles and his brother, the
Duke of York, were personally attached to France, and the latter, as we
have seen, had served in the French army under the great Turenne.
In November 1659 the Treaty of the Pyrenees was made, which had for its
basis the marriage of Louis with his cousin, Maria Theresa, and
contained numerous conditions, stipulations, exchanges of territory, and
the like, which were very advantageous to France. Cardinal Mazarin was
unsuccessful in his endeavours to make peace between Spain and Portugal,
which he desired; otherwise, matters were arranged to his satisfaction,
and the marriage fixed for the spring or early summer of the ensuing
year. Louis XIV., anxious to bestow some mark of special favour on
Marshal Turenne, offered to revive in his honour the dormant title of
Grand Connétable, the highest dignity which was in the power of the
Crown to bestow. But the acceptance of the office entailed a
renunciation of the Protestant religion, and Turenne was not the man to
sacrifice his faith to his worldly interest. The King, on hearing the
decision, invented a new title, ‘Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, fût
intitulé Maréchal Général, des Camps, et des armées du Roi.’
In the month of June, the Kings of France and Spain, attended by a
brilliant assemblage of princes, nobles, and officers, met on the Ile
des Faisans, formed by the river Bidassoa, which separates the two
kingdoms,—a small and insignificant place, suddenly transformed into a
theatre for the display of the magnificence and luxury in which the
Courts of both nations delighted. The young King of France, in the
flower of his age, handsome in form and features, and majestic in
bearing, the venerable King Philip IV., and Anne of Austria, sumptuous
in dress and imposing in manner. The brother and sister, who had not met
for nearly half a century, fell on each other’s neck and shed tears of
joy, though the tender affection thus manifested had not prevented them
from engaging for so long a space of time in bloody warfare. Perhaps the
most distinguished member of the French King’s Court was the Marshal
Turenne, who kept as much as was possible in the background, until
singled out by the King of Spain, who desired that he should be
presented. Gazing with eager scrutiny at the world-renowned soldier,
‘That is the man,’ he said, ‘who has caused me so many sleepless
nights.’ The Treaty of the Pyrenees produced a temporary lull in
European hostilities; but Spain and Portugal were still at issue, and
France involved in their quarrels.
In March 1661 died Cardinal Mazarin, who had been Prime Minister for
sixteen years, and the King assumed the reins of government, retaining
the heads of the Administration in office, but constantly consulting his
faithful friend, the Vicomte, on matters political as well as military;
and war being declared between England and Holland, France sided with
the latter country. The Vicomtesse de Turenne died the same year, to the
great sorrow of her husband. His biographer speaks of the noble lady in
high terms, ‘casting but one slur on her memory,—she clung to the
prejudices of her childhood, even though she had the advantage of
lengthened conferences with the most eminent divines of the Church of
Rome;’ _Anglicè_, she had remained steadfast in the Protestant faith.
Anne of Austria was no sooner dead than Louis XIV. once more declared
war with Spain and the Emperor of Germany, at the same time,
strengthening himself by fresh alliances with England, Holland, Sweden,
and other powers. He then announced to Turenne his intention to place
himself at the head of his army, and learn the art of war under the
auspices of that great commander. The rapid successful advances of the
French arms alarmed both England and Holland, and caused them to form a
defensive league with Sweden, under the name of The Triple Alliance, the
object of which was to arrest the encroachments of France.
A treaty between Spain and Portugal, by which the independence of the
last-named country was established, was shortly followed by the peace of
Aix-la-Chapelle, which compelled Louis to come to terms with Spain. The
enumeration of these diplomatic relations is essential to the details of
our biography.
Turenne had now leisure, although it did not last long, to turn his
thoughts seriously to a subject which for some time past had occupied
his mind. He had often, in his letters to his wife, expressed doubts and
scruples on points of religious faith, and it is supposed that he would
have embraced the Roman Catholic creed earlier, had he not feared, by so
doing, to afflict and distress the wife whom he loved so dearly. Be this
as it may, he now saw and conferred with the eloquent and learned Abbé
de Bossuet, afterwards Bishop of Meaux, and the result was that he
abjured the faith for which his house had fought and bled, and was
received into the Church of Rome. Unable as we are to join in the
exultation of the Marshal’s biographer on this point, we still coincide
with him in the belief that no hope of worldly advancement had any part
in Turenne’s change of creed. We are told that he became from that time
more rigid in his morals, more circumspect in his life, and, at all
events, the answer he made to his confessor deserves to be recorded. The
priest asked him whether he had fallen back into a fault, of which he
had repented. ‘Je n’ai jamais manqué de parole aux hommes, en
manquerais-je à Dieu?’
He went very little into society, and even showed an inclination towards
a monastic life, having a great desire to give himself up to the study
of theology; but the King, alarmed at the prospect of losing services
invaluable to the State, interfered to prevent him from taking this
step. Turenne now resided in Paris, surrounded by a small circle of
friends, keeping a frugal table, ‘where the conversation was far more
remarkable than the fare.’
About this time occurred an episode in his life which occasioned him
lasting regret. Louis XIV., feeling himself bound and crippled by the
conditions of the Triple Alliance, consulted with his Prime Minister
Louvois, and his faithful friend the Vicomte de Turenne, on the
possibility of detaching the King of England from his share in the
Treaty. Turenne was a constant visitor at the Court of the Duchess of
Orleans, sister of Charles II., and he now turned his thoughts towards
influencing that Princess to persuade her brother to secede from the
Alliance. Now Madame had a young and very beautiful lady-in-waiting, the
Marquise de Coëtquen, daughter of the Duke of Rohan-Chabot, who was a
great favourite with her royal mistress. Turenne thought it would serve
his purpose to win the confidence of the Duchess through the medium of
her lady, and, feeling a security in the disparity of years, paid Madame
de Coëtquen the most marked attention; while she, on her part, seemed to
ignore the difference of age, being highly flattered by the devotion of
so great a personage. A hero’s heart is proverbially susceptible (we
have already seen that Turenne was not exempt from such amiable
weaknesses); and he was accepted as a lover. The two were inseparable,
and the _liaison_ attracted the attention of the Duke of Orleans.
Jealous of his wife’s favour at Court, he imagined that some political
intrigue was being carried on, in which the Marquise and the Marshal
were implicated. He accordingly directed his favourite, the fascinating
Chevalier de Lorraine, to devote himself to Madame de Coëtquen, and
extract the secret from her. In order to please her younger adorer, the
lady wrung from the Marshal the details of the King’s conversation,
which she immediately imparted to the Chevalier.
The Duke of Orleans in a fury sought the Royal presence, and complained
to the King that every one was trusted with State secrets except
himself; but that he had ascertained without doubt that steps were being
taken to annul the Triple Alliance.
The King, indignant at the betrayal of his confidence, summoned Turenne
to his presence, and burst into violent complaints against Louvois,
‘For,’ said his Majesty, ‘you and he were the only persons to whom I
mentioned the subject.’ The Minister had always shown himself inimical
to Turenne, and never lost an opportunity of endeavouring to lower or
supplant him in the Royal favour, a circumstance of which the Marshal
was well aware; but he was in no way tempted to swerve from his
unwavering veracity. He exonerated the Minister, by taking the whole
blame on himself, and confessed that, in a moment of weakness, he had
divulged the King’s secret to Madame de Coëtquen.
‘A fellow-feeling makes one (sometimes) wondrous kind:’ the King,
perhaps reflecting he might have acted in the same manner in a similar
position, forgave his friend; but Turenne never forgave himself or the
lady, whom he never saw again. For himself, many years afterwards, when
the Chevalier de Lorraine jestingly inquired some particulars of the
affair, the Vicomte replied, ‘Commençons par éteindre les bougies.’
The Duchess of Orleans, as is well known, did undertake the mission to
her brother, in which she was successful; and shortly after her return
to France, she retired to St. Cloud, accompanied by several nobles;
among others the Vicomte de Turenne and the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. Her
sudden and mysterious death, generally believed to be the effect of
poison, in the bloom of life and beauty, threw a deep gloom over the
whole nation. Turenne, in particular, was profoundly affected by the
event, and again contemplated the idea of retirement from the world; but
France could not spare him, and he was soon once more in the field,
gaining fresh laurels. His last campaign was the crowning-point in his
glory, and in the beginning of the year 1675 he returned to Versailles,
his whole route one triumphal procession, flowers strewing his path,
acclamations and blessings attending him wherever he appeared. In the
whole of France no enemy was left, with the exception of such as were
prisoners; on his arrival at Versailles, he was embraced by the King,
and congratulated and made much of by all classes.
In the early summer of 1675, Turenne, at the head of the French army,
and the Count de Montecuculi, in command of the Imperialists, were
pitted against each other. Few periods in European history could have
been richer in names of distinguished military commanders,—the King of
France himself, the Prince of Orange, the Prince de Condé, the Elector
of Brandenburg, the Swedish General Wrangel, and above all, the two
heroes, Marshal Turenne and the Count de Montecuculi, who now disputed
with each other the passage of the Rhine. A paragraph in the life of the
former, from which we have so freely quoted, in speaking of the rival
generals, draws so good a parallel that we are tempted to transcribe it
verbatim:—
‘Les yeux de toute l’Europe furent fixés sur ces deux grands capitaines,
tous deux à peu près du même âge, qui avoient eu la même éducation,
formés par deux oncles rivaux, le Prince Maurice, et le Comte Ernest,
ils avoient porté le mousquet, avant que de parvenir à aucune grade, et
acquis par cinquante années de combats une expérience consommée dans
toutes les parties de l’art militaire. L’un et l’autre avoit reçu du
ciel un esprit supérieur, un jugement solide, et un sangfroid, qui dans
un général n’est pas moins nécessaire, que la prévoyance et la valeur.
Capitaines par étude, ils combattoient par principes, et ne donnoient
presque rien à la fortune. Adorés du soldat, l’amour pour le général
plutôt que l’obéissance due au souverain, paroissoit animer l’une et
l’autre armée. Ces deux généraux se connoissoient, s’estimoient, et se
craignoient mutuellement, ni l’un ni l’autre n’osoit attendre la
victoire des fautes de son ennemi, il falloit l’emporter, à force de
génie, et de science militaire.’
This last campaign was pronounced by an unquestionable authority to be
the _chef d’œuvre_ alike of Turenne and Montecuculi.
Their marches, countermarches, attacks and retreats, were worthy of
themselves and of each other; but Turenne was stronger and more active
than his rival, who often suffered from gout, which prevented his being
as much on horseback as he desired.
On the 27th of July the two armies drew up in order of battle not far
from the village of Salzbach, and the position seemed so advantageous
for the French troops that Turenne, contrary to his custom, expressed
himself most confidently as to the result. That morning, after hearing
Mass and partaking of the Holy Communion, the Marshal mounted his horse
and carefully reconnoitred the ground.
‘C’en est fait, je les tiens,’ he said to some by-standing officers.
‘Ils ne pourroient plus m’échapper; je vais recueillir les fruits d’une
si pénible campagne.’ The hero was indeed about to rest from his
labours, but not in the manner he anticipated. Observing a movement in
the enemy’s infantry, which he imagined denoted an intention to retreat,
he alighted from his charger, and sat down to rest under a large tree
and eat his breakfast; after which he again mounted, and rode up a small
eminence, forbidding his officers to follow him, and speaking with
well-simulated severity to his nephew, the Duc d’Elbeuf, ‘Pray do not
stick so close to me,’ he said; ‘you will cause me to be recognised.’
The youth’s life was very dear to him. The English general, Hamilton,
now came up, and begged him not to ‘ride up there, for they are firing
in that direction.’ Turenne smiled, and said, ‘Oh, I must not be killed
to-day,’ and passed on his way. He then met General St. Hilaire, who
asked his opinion of the spot at which he had stationed a battery.
Turenne reined back his horse a few paces in order to judge, when a
stray shot shattered St. Hilaire’s arm, and lodged in the middle of the
Marshal’s body. His favourite charger, ‘La Pie,’ wheeled round, and
galloped back to the point where he had left his company, then, halting
suddenly, the lifeless body of Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne fell into the
arms of his weeping soldiers. Twice he opened his eyes and moved his
lips, but never spoke again; while St. Hilaire thus addressed his son,
who was lamenting over his father’s sufferings: ‘Keep your tears,’ he
said, ‘for the great man whom we have this day lost.’ The consternation
of the spectators of this sad scene was indescribable; no one appeared
to have retained his presence of mind. Hamilton ordered a cloak to be
thrown over the body, and desired that the Marshal’s death should be
kept secret as long as possible, foreseeing the panic which would ensue
in the French army. But the news soon spread, and infused fresh vigour
into the enemy’s troops. The gallant and generous Montecuculi, on
hearing his great rival was no more, was much affected, and uttered
these memorable words (no insignificant or inappropriate epitaph), ‘Il
est mort! un homme qui faisoit honneur à l’homme.’ The intelligence
spread from rank to rank, and was at first received in dead silence,
broken after a few moments by sobs, and the loud cry, ‘Our father is
dead, and we are lost!’ Then they rushed in crowds to gaze on his dead
body, and called on their officers to lead them on to revenge his death.
But no one seemed willing to take the command. There was delay and
deliberation, till the soldiers again burst forth angrily, ‘Lâchez la
Pie, elle nous conduira.’
The Marshal’s death changed and reversed the plans of both armies. The
French began to retire, the Imperialists to advance, and on the 29th a
desperate battle took place, with considerable loss on both sides, after
which the French crossed the Rhine in retreat. So strong was their
belief, even to superstition, in the ruling star of Turenne, that some
soldiers were overheard to say, ‘If our father had been alive we should
not have been wounded.’
On their march to Paris, the troops paid funeral honours to their
beloved commander,—his nephews and brother officers with crape-bound
arms, the soldiers with muskets reversed, the voice of the officiating
priest often inaudible from the sobs and lamentations of the mourners.
The King was deeply affected, as we learn from Madame de Sévigné’s
touching letter to her daughter, and all the more so, that he received a
despatch from the Marshal, full of the most sanguine anticipations of
coming victory simultaneously with the account of his death. So deep a
sensation was produced at Court, that, marvellous to relate, a projected
fête that was to have taken place at Versailles was postponed, and a
courtier was on the point of fainting!
When the hero’s body reached Paris, the King ordered it to be placed in
the Chapel of St. Denis, usually allotted to the Royal family. It was
not only in the French capital that people of all classes came to swell
the funeral procession, artisans leaving their work unfinished for that
purpose, but all the way along the road from the Rhine country, marks of
honour and respect were paid, alike by friend and foe. The Court, the
Parliament, the University, the Municipality, all attended the Marshal’s
funeral, and the most celebrated divines vied with one another in
eulogising him from the pulpit. Père Mascaron, in his funeral oration,
says, ‘Au milieu du tumulte et du bruit des armes, les sentimens du
chrétien, accompagnoient, animoient, et perfectionnoient, en lui, ceux
du heros.’
In emergencies his decisions were prompt; where the matter did not press
he took time to consider. His military skill needs no encomium; to that
his whole life bore testimony. His early education had taught him to
revere discipline, and he consequently submitted willingly to those in
authority, except—as in the case of the Prime Minister Louvois, who
presumed to dictate to him on military tactics—when they interfered in
matters with which they were not competent to deal. The love his
soldiers bore him bordered upon worship, and he returned their
affection. Although a strict disciplinarian, he always tempered justice
with mercy; he shared the hardships of the men, and ministered to their
comforts, frequently paying out of his own privy purse the arrears which
he could not wring from the Government. His compassion to his prisoners
made him esteemed among his enemies; and he was most severe in the
prohibition of pillage. In one of his campaigns (we allude to it with
deep regret), his own troops, driven to terrible straits in the matter
of provisions, and burning with the desire to take reprisals for
cruelties practised on their countrymen, Turenne not only sanctioned,
but enforced, devastation and destruction in the Palatinate; so much so,
that the Elector wrote him a furious letter, terminating with a
challenge. His love of truth was proverbial; his simple word outweighed
the oaths of other men, and his own memoirs vouch for his modesty of
speech. When he alluded to a defeat, he used to say, ‘The battle I
lost;’ when to a victory, ‘The battle we gained.’ He was moral and
religious; he hated excess of any kind, and, with the exception of
occasional attacks of gout, his health was good to the end. In
appearance, Turenne was about the middle height, broad shoulders, bushy
eyebrows, and rather heavy features; simple but decent in dress.
In youth he had loved athletic exercises and military studies too well
to give his thoughts to other branches of learning; but as years passed
on, he became aware how necessary is general knowledge to a commander,
and he gave his mind to the study of history, geography, languages, etc.
He was not carried away by impulse, but calm in adversity as in
prosperity, unmoved by abuse or praise, he went like an arrow straight
to the mark. His pride was that of birth; his glory was in the honour of
his house, never in his own. He treated his brother as a sovereign, and
even yielded the _pas_ to his nephew, while he, the latter, was still a
child.
Numerous anecdotes are told of Turenne, which redound to his advantage.
An officer, wishing to ingratiate himself with the general, showed him a
way to obtain a large sum of money, and ‘no one be the wiser.’ ‘Thank
you,’ said Turenne coldly; ‘I have had plenty of such chances before
now, without taking advantage of them.’
Another time, the inhabitants of a certain town came to offer him a
considerable bribe if he would not pass through their district. ‘Keep
your money,’ was the reply; ‘you do not lie in my line of march.’
Walking one evening on the ramparts of a town, he was attacked by
several robbers, who insisted on his giving them a ring he habitually
wore. The Marshal calmly began to parley with them. ‘See, my friends,’
he said, ‘we will come to terms. If you will leave me in possession of
that trinket, I will promise you a hundred louis, which is considerably
above its value. I have not the money on my person, but if one of you
will come and claim it to-morrow, I will guarantee your safety.’
No one ever doubted the Marshal’s given word. The next morning,
surrounded by his staff, Turenne received the robbers’ messenger, and
giving him the money, dismissed him with courtesy, much to the surprise
and amusement of his officers, when made acquainted with the facts of
the case.
One day a servant of his household, coming behind him so quickly as not
to recognise the Marshal, dealt him a heavy blow; overcome with
confusion, the man apologised in the humblest terms, offering as an
excuse that he thought it was a fellow-servant. ‘Well,’ said his master,
smiling good-naturedly, though still smarting from the blow, ‘even if it
had been George, you need not have hit so hard.’
Turenne was mourned, not only by his countrymen and his allies, but his
very enemies showed the greatest respect for his memory. The spot where
he fell was left untouched, and the tree under which he had reposed
shortly before his death was held sacred by the peasants, and pointed
out by them to passers-by. Neither did it perish through decay, but was
carried off branch by branch as trophies, by soldiers of all nations. In
1781 the Cardinal de Rohan erected a monument to his memory at Salzbach,
which was repaired by Moreau in 1801, and about thirty years afterwards
a large pyramid of granite was raised on the spot.
Many and strange were the vicissitudes which befell the body of this
great man. It was placed (as we have said) in the Royal Chapel of St.
Denis, by order of Louis XIV., and when the tombs of the royal family
were desecrated in the Revolution of 1793, Turenne’s embalmed body was
so well preserved as to be an object of desire to the owner of a Museum
of Natural History. He gained permission to place it there, and it was
exhibited among the skeletons and fossils of animals for some time, and
then removed to an antiquarian museum for the edification of its
members. Buonaparte, who had a profound admiration for the memory of the
great soldier, caused the remains to be carried with much solemnity to
the Church of the Invalides, and there deposited, while the Marshal’s
heart, which had been placed in the Abbey of Cluny, was restored to his
family.
This splendid picture is said to be the only equestrian portrait extant
by Rembrandt. Its date has been given 1649-1650, when it is said in a
Life of the painter that Turenne passed a month in Holland, and this
picture was most probably painted. It was bought in 1740 by the Earl of
Grantham (father-in-law to the second Earl Cowper) from a private
collection at Amsterdam.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_No. 2._
THREE CHILDREN, ARCHDUCHESSES OF AUSTRIA.
_White quilted frocks. One child holds a bird. One is in a cradle with a
blue coverlet._
BY TITIAN.
------------------
_No. 3._
ANDREA VANNUCCHI DETTO DEL SARTO.
_Seated writing at a table, with striped cover. Black dress and cap._
BORN 1488, DIED 1530.
BY HIMSELF.
HE was the son of a tailor in Florence; and this trade, which is so
often (for one reason or another) spoken of derisively in England, has
surely gained to Italian ears a species of glorification, from the
sobriquet attached to this illustrious painter. When only seven years
old, the little Andrea was taken from the school where he received
instruction in reading and writing, and placed with a goldsmith in the
city. Even at that tender age his predilection for drawing, and even
designing, showed itself, and, in like manner, his aversion to handling
the mechanical instruments used in the handicraft. Indeed, the boy’s
drawings were so clever as to attract the attention of one Gian Barile,
a Florentine painter; so much so, that he did not rest until he had
secured Andrea for his own studio; and as old Vasari quaintly says, ‘No
sooner did the boy begin to exercise himself in the art of painting than
he acknowledged that Nature had created him for that employment.’ In a
very short space of time, Andrea, or Del Sarto, as he was called,
produced such excellent pieces of colour as to excite the admiration of
his master and all the artists in Florence, more especially Piero
Cosimo, whose works were much esteemed in the city, and who proceeded to
engage Andrea as his pupil. Nothing could be more diligent than the
young man proved himself, studying and copying the cartoons of Michel
Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci, etc., which were allotted the scholars as
models; and he surpassed all his fellow-workers in the studio and
academy, with one of whom, Francia Bigio, he soon formed an intimate
friendship. One day, working, as was their custom, side by side, the two
young men began to compare notes, with respect to the manner in which
they were treated by their respective masters; they had each complaints
to make; they were each discontented with their lot. After some little
discussion, they resolved to set up house, or rather to take a room,
together, which they accordingly did, in the Piazza del Grano. Here they
laboured diligently, painting chiefly sacred subjects for galleries,
churches, etc., both in oil and in fresco. There was at that time a
confraternity, ‘Detto del Scalzo,’ whose meetings were held in the Via
Larga. They were formed for the most part of the artificers of the city,
but included men of all classes, who met for charitable and religious
purposes; although not essentially a religious order, they took the name
of The Scalzo, from the fact that when they met in prayer, or to walk in
procession, they went barefoot. This company was most desirous that
Andrea del Sarto should adorn the walls of their court with paintings
from the life of their patron saint, St. John the Baptist. The company
was not very wealthy, neither was our painter grasping, whatever may
have been said of him later on, when subjected to a bad influence. He
cheerfully undertook the work for a small remuneration, and reaped his
reward, for these frescoes added so considerably to his fame that
innumerable orders came in from all sides. He now moved to better
quarters (in company with Francia Bigio), from the Piazza del Grano to a
house situated in the neighbourhood of the Annunziata, where he made
acquaintance with Jacopo Tatti, better known as the celebrated
Sansovino, in whose society and conversation Andrea took so much delight
that the two young enthusiasts in art became almost inseparable. Del
Sarto was now gaining a good income, and might have been happy in the
company of his friends, and the pursuit of his beloved art, but for a
false step which involved his whole life in ruin and disaster. In the
Via San Gallo lived a certain hatter, who had married Lucrezia
Bartolommeo de Fede, the daughter of indigent and ill-conditioned
parents. She was a young woman of exceeding beauty, violent and arrogant
by nature, exercising a tyrannical influence over her many admirers, of
whom Andrea was one of the most infatuated. Unfortunately for our
painter, the husband died suddenly, and nothing would content Del Sarto
but he would immediately espouse his inamorata. From the very beginning
of their married life she possessed such a mastery over him that he was
her slave in everything, and spent all his time and money on her and her
relations, neglecting, in consequence, his own aged parents, whom he had
hitherto supported. His friends shunned his society, his servants
quitted his service, so ungenial and unamiable was the behaviour of
Lucrezia.
The fame of Del Sarto’s great talent had reached the ears of Francis I.,
King of France, who gave him orders for pictures, and invited him to
Paris—a proposition which smiled upon Andrea; but he was detained in
Florence to assist in the splendid decorations of the city, in which all
the painters, sculptors, and architects were employed, to celebrate the
triumphal entry of Pope Leo X., of the house of Medici; and the
beautiful works of Andrea on this occasion inspired his Holiness with
unqualified admiration. The unworthy woman to whom he was united
interfered with his advancement in every way; although unable to throw
off the spell by which she bound him, he began to find her tyranny
irksome, and he listened to the advice of a friend, who bade him
separate from her for a season, and assert his independence. This was in
1518, when Francis I., having renewed his invitation to our painter to
enter his service, Del Sarto gladly accepted the money which had been
sent him for the journey, and proceeded to Paris, where the King
received him with every mark of distinction, and gave him a settled
salary, together with gifts and garments of most costly description.
Caressed and admired by the monarch and his whole Court, Andrea set to
work in high spirits, and began, as it were, a new life. Amongst other
pictures, he painted one of the King’s infant son, in rich
swaddling-clothes, which so delighted Francis that he gave the artist on
the spot three hundred dollars. This was a happy period in Andrea’s
life; he painted numerous portraits and historical and sacred pictures
for the King and his courtiers, and was much esteemed by all. These
halcyon days were not destined to be of long duration. He was occupied
in finishing a St. Jerome for the Queen-Mother when he received a letter
from his evil genius; in this epistle Lucrezia appealed to his
affection, his compassion, his duty as a husband, coaxing, menacing,
exciting his easily roused feelings, and working on them so strongly as
to make him seek the Royal presence and ask leave of absence, promising
to return shortly with his wife, and to bring with him some fine works
of painting and sculpture. He pledged his solemn word to this effect,
and the generous-hearted King furnished him with fresh funds for the
journey and the commission.
On his arrival in Florence, once more under the sway of his unworthy
wife, Andrea gave in to her every wish, and with the money that he had
made, and, it is also to be feared, the sums intrusted to him by the
French King, he built a house, and lavished large sums on Lucrezia and
her family, still to the detriment of his own parents. When the time of
his leave had expired, he made a feeble attempt to return to his duty,
but he could not withstand the prayers, tears, and expostulations of his
wife, and thus broke his plighted word, and relinquished his hopes of
honourable advancement in France. The King, exasperated at such conduct,
expressed himself in most indignant terms, and vowed he would never
harbour another painter from Florence. Thus was Andrea hurled from a
high and honourable estate by the wicked woman he had made his wife,—the
model for almost every picture he painted, sacred or secular, and whose
lineaments were so vividly impressed on his memory that he often
involuntarily reproduced them on canvas.
Leo X. had given a commission for the ornamentation and decoration of
the dome of the great hall at Poggi a Cajano, one of the Medicean villas
near Florence, to be executed in stucco and frescoes by the best
Florentine artists, and Andrea’s contribution on that occasion is
described in glowing terms by his admirer Vasari. It represented Cæsar
receiving the present of innumerable animals of every description, the
delineation of which, in their truth and variety, could not be
surpassed. He interspersed the birds and beasts with Oriental natives in
picturesque costume, and we quote Vasari’s words, ‘Altre belle fantasie,
lavorate in fresco divinissimamente.’ The choice of this subject was
supposed to convey an allusion to the menagerie of animals which had
been sent to Lorenzo the Magnificent some years before by an Eastern
potentate.
The works at Poggi a Cajano were stopped in consequence of the death of
Pope Leo, and Andrea’s fresco was afterwards finished by Bronzino. He
began bitterly to repent his ingratitude to the French King, and if he
had had the slightest hope of obtaining pardon, he would have risked
going to Paris. Several times he resolved to send some of his best
pictures to the French capital, with the chance of their meeting the
King’s eye, but the idea was relinquished. In 1523 the beautiful city of
Florence and its environs were visited by the plague, which caused a
terrible mortality; but in that country everything that happens seems to
tend to picturesque and poetical results, and all the world knows how
Boccaccio glorified that affliction by the production of his
_Decameron_.
Andrea, with his wife and daughter-in-law, her sister, and a child,
desirous of escaping from the infected neighbourhood, and at the same
time to continue his labours, gladly accepted an order from the nuns of
San Pier de Luco, of the Order of Camaldoli, to paint for them a Pieta
in their convent at Mugello. In consequence of these holy women
caressing and making much of the painter, his wife, and the whole
‘troop,’ he determined to stay on for some time in that place, and set
himself to work with great zeal and delight. Vasari’s descriptions of
the beauty and pathos of these paintings are most eloquent in their
old-world style of expression; we regret we have no space for extracts.
On his return to Florence, Del Sarto resumed his labours, and executed
orders without number, chiefly on sacred subjects. He was as skilful in
his copying as in his original paintings, and a curious anecdote is
given in illustration of this fact.
Frederick, the second Duke of Mantua, in his passage through Florence to
do homage to Pope Clement VII., saw the celebrated portrait of Pope Leo
X., with two Cardinals, the work of the immortal Raphael d’Urbino, with
which he was so much struck, as to excite in him an inordinate desire to
possess that splendid picture; and he made so urgent a request to his
Holiness that Clement knew not how to refuse him, but sent Ottaviano de
Medici, his kinsman, an order to send the painting to Mantua.
This command was received with dismay at Florence,—for was not that
portrait one of the glories of the city? In this strait Ottaviano sent
for Andrea, took counsel with him, and it was arranged between them that
Del Sarto should make an exact copy of this _capo d’ opera_ of Raphael,
which he executed with such skill in every respect,—not only as regarded
the excellence of the drawing and colouring, but also the reproduction
of certain little marks and after-touches and other details,—so much so
that, when completed, Ottaviano himself confessed he could scarcely
detect the original. The two conspirators were delighted with the
success of their scheme, and the Duke was in like manner delighted with
the picture when it was unpacked at Mantua. Giulio Romano, Raphael’s
disciple and own familiar friend, who was there at the time, never
doubted its authenticity for a moment. But there was a small bird of the
air that carried the matter, and this was young Giorgio Vasari, who had
been brought up in the household of the Medici, and who, when asked by
Giulio Romano if he did not think the portrait in question a splendid
work of Raphael, replied that it was indeed splendid, although not the
work of Raphael, but of Andrea del Sarto. ‘As if it were likely,’ said
Giulio, ‘that I should not recognise the painting! Why, I can see the
very touches I myself added to it.’ ‘For all that,’ persisted the youth,
‘this picture is from the hands of Del Sarto, and I saw him working at
it with my own eyes; and I will prove it to you. If you will look at the
back, you will see a mark which shows that it was executed in Florence.’
Giulio Romano turned the picture, and finding the mark which confirmed
Vasari’s words, he could only shrug his shoulders and acknowledge the
wonderful talent of the painter, who had made a perfect facsimile of one
of Raphael’s masterpieces.
Yet one more anecdote, to illustrate the admiration which Andrea’s works
inspired, and we have done.
At the siege of Florence, in 1529, the infuriated soldiery were sacking
the town, especially the sacred buildings. They had already destroyed
the church and belfry of San Salvi, and rushing into the convent,
undisciplined as they were, their attention was arrested by the fresco
of Andrea del Sarto’s Last Supper, by some esteemed the rival of
Leonardo’s Cenacolo at Milan. This divine painting had such an effect on
the minds of those rude men, excited as they were, that, after gazing on
it for a short time in reverence, they left the room in silence, thus
sparing that incomparable work for the wonder and reverence of upwards
of three centuries. After the siege was over, Andrea still cherished a
hope of some day regaining the favour of Francis I., and kept revolving
in his mind how to do so, when he was taken suddenly ill. Some soldiers
who had returned to Florence were said to have brought back the plague,
and food was supposed to have become infected. Whether or not Andrea’s
sickness were of this nature, it is certain he took to his bed, and gave
himself up for lost. His worthless wife fled in terror, leaving him to
die alone, without help or comfort. The brethren Del Scalzo, for whom he
had worked so assiduously, gave him burial, though with great haste and
little ceremony, and a monument was raised to him in the Annunziata by
one of his pupils, with a Latin epitaph, most eulogistic. Lucrezia del
Fede survived Andrea many years, and received payment after his death
for the works of that husband whose life she had helped to make
miserable. Her death took place in 1570.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_No. 4._
PORTRAIT OF AN ITALIAN LADY.
BY ANDREA DEL SARTO.
------------------
_No. 5._
PORTRAIT, SUPPOSED TO BE THAT OF THE FATTORE OF SAN MARCO, AT FLORENCE.
BY ANDREA DEL SARTO.
------------------
_No. 6._
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
_Nearly the same dress and attitude as the former Portrait._
BY HIMSELF.
------------------
_No. 7._
TOMMASO GUIDI, DETTO MASACCIO.
_Bright scarlet suit. Black cap._
BORN 1402, DIED 1443. DATES NOT VERY CERTAIN.
SON of Ser Giovanni Simone, da Castello di San Giovanni, in Val d’Arno.
From his earliest years he cared for nothing but art. Nature designed
him for a painter, and no other amusement or occupation had any charms
for Tommaso. He cared not for money, he did not study his appearance as
is the way with most youths, and from a certain recklessness and lack of
interest in his surroundings, he acquired for himself the epithet of
Masaccio,—most assuredly not from any bad quality that could be
discovered in him, for he was goodness itself. His masters were Masolino
de Panicale in painting, Ghiberti and Donatello in sculpture, and
Brunelleschi in perspective. Could the young aspirant have had more
illustrious teachers?
He worked assiduously, and received many commissions, chiefly for the
decoration of churches, both in Florence and Pisa, the excellence of
which gained him the friendship and patronage of Cosimo de Medici, who
was always ready to encourage merit in any branch, more especially in
the fine arts. When dark days fell on Florence, and Cosimo was exiled,
Masaccio determined to go to Rome and study the antique. The Pope gave
him many orders, and his paintings in Santa Maria Maggiore gained him
lasting fame, and called forth enthusiastic expressions of admiration
from Michel Angelo many years later. Masaccio was very fond of
introducing portraits into his pictures and frescoes, and in this church
he painted Pope Martin and the Emperor Sigismund II. He was busied over
the façade of San Giovanni, when, hearing his friend Cosimo had been
recalled to Florence, he lost no time in joining him. Cosimo gave him
orders innumerable, and the facility with which Masaccio executed them
was only equalled by their excellence. The notice which was taken of him
in high places, and the superiority of his talents, caused great
jealousy among his fellow-artists, but he worked on. In the church of
the Carmine he painted a procession of citizens repairing to the
consecration of the sacred building, introducing therein innumerable
portraits, amongst others his masters, Masolino, Brunelleschi,
Donatello, etc.,—all marvellous, says Vasari, in their truth and beauty.
Later on, in a painting of St. Peter paying tribute, he depicted his own
likeness, taken from the reflection in a looking-glass, which is
described as to the very life.
He was attacked by sudden illness in the midst of his successful career,
under which he soon succumbed, and was buried in the church of the
Carmine without an epitaph on the stone, but Annibal Caro wrote the
following in later years:—
‘Pinsi, e la mia Pittura, al ver, fu pari;
L’ atteggiai, l’ avvivai, le diedi il moto
Le diedi affetto. Insegni il Bonarroto
A tutti gli altri, e da me solo impari.’
------------------
_No. 8._
ALGERNON PERCY, EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.
_Black dress. White collar. Blue ribbon._
BORN 1602, DIED 1668.
BY VANDYCK.
THE third son of Henry Percy, ninth Earl of Northumberland, by Dorothy,
daughter of Walter Devereux, Earl of Sussex. Educated at Christ Church,
Oxford, under Robert Hughes, the celebrated mathematician, and in 1616
was one of the youthful Knights of the Bath at the creation of Charles,
Prince of Wales.
On the accession of that Prince to the Throne, he was called by writ to
the House of Peers (his father being then alive) as Baron Percy.
He afterwards, as Privy Councillor, attended the King to Scotland for
his coronation, having by that time succeeded to his father’s titles and
estates.
In 1636 he had the command of a noble fleet,—the largest, says Lodge,
since the death of Queen Elizabeth.
Lord Northumberland was much commended for his services in the
expedition against the Dutch fishery, making advantageous terms for the
King of England, after which he turned his time and thoughts to
reforming many abuses then prevalent in the Navy.
In 1637 he was named Lord High Admiral, and in 1639 commander of the
troops marching against the Scots, but was prevented—so he pleaded—from
joining the army by illness, when the real command devolved on the Earl
of Stafford. Clarendon says, ‘Lord Northumberland was chosen for
ornament.’ It appears by a letter to his brother-in-law (Lord Leicester)
that he had most gloomy forebodings as to the result of the enterprise,
which ‘it grieves my soul to be involved in.’ An incident occurred
shortly afterwards, which does not redound to the credit of the Earl of
Northumberland.
We will give an abridged account of Lord Clarendon’s version. Henry
Percy, a zealous Royalist, brother to the Earl of Northumberland, was on
his way to France, on the King’s service, just at the time that the
Commons had petitioned Charles to prohibit any of his servants leaving
England. Striving to embark, he was attacked and wounded by the people
of the Sussex coast, and narrowly escaped with his life to a place of
concealment, whence he wrote to his brother in a private and
confidential manner. Northumberland carried the letter to the House of
Commons (which had already voted an impeachment of high treason against
Henry Percy), and laid the document upon the table. Clarendon makes but
a lame defence for his conduct on the part of the elder brother, who
was, he said, ‘in great trouble how to send Henry in safety beyond seas,
when his wound was cured, he having taken shelter at Northumberland
House.’
But the end of the matter was, that Henry did escape from England, and
there was enmity between the brethren from that day forth. This was the
first time in which Northumberland ‘showed his defection from the King’s
cause, and Charles had been a good friend to him, and laden him with
bounties.’
He acted in direct opposition to the King’s commands, when he obeyed
those of the Parliament, to equip the Royal Navy, and to appoint the
Earl of Warwick Admiral of the Fleet.
In 1642 he resigned his commission of Lord High Admiral, and openly
abandoned his allegiance, siding with the Parliamentarians; and though
their faith was rather shaken in him on one occasion, he was too
valuable an ally to quarrel with.
Northumberland was appointed head of the Commissioners employed to
negotiate with the King, in the several treaties of Oxford, Uxbridge,
etc., and was intrusted with the custody of the Royal children, which he
retained until the King’s death. It would appear that he had at least
the grace to facilitate their interviews with their unhappy and loving
father, and that he cared for the wellbeing of his Royal wards. They
were subsequently committed to the guardianship of his sister, the
Countess of Leicester, and were removed to her Lord’s house of Penshurst
in Kent.
Words, in truth, Lord Northumberland used to prevent the execution of
the King, but his deeds had hastened the catastrophe. We are told he
‘detested the murder.’ Immediately after Charles’s death Northumberland
repaired to his seat at Petworth, in Sussex, where he remained until
1660, when he joined Monck in his exertions to bring about the
Restoration. He held no public office under Charles II., excepting the
Lord-Lieutenancies of Sussex and Northumberland. Clarendon, in a long
character of him, says: ‘His temper and reservedness in discourse got
him the reputation of a wise man. In his own family no one was ever more
absolutely obeyed, or had fewer idle words to answer for;’ and, alluding
to his defection from the Royal cause, ‘After he was first prevailed
upon not to do that which in honour and gratitude he was obliged to, he
was with the more facility led to concur in what in duty and fidelity he
ought not to have done, and so he concurred in all the counsels which
produced the Rebellion, and stayed with them to support it.’
He took great delight in his gardens and plantations at Petworth, where
he resided in the summer, but in the winter he was much in town,
attending to his Parliamentary duties. He had two wives: the first was
Lady Anne Cecil, daughter to Thomas, second Earl of Salisbury. On her
death we hear Lord Northumberland ‘is a very sad man, and his sister
(Lady Leicester) has gone to comfort him.’ By Lady Anne he had five
daughters. His second wife was the second daughter of Theophilus Howard,
second Earl of Suffolk, who brought him in Northumberland House in
London, originally called Northampton House. Sion House had been granted
by the Crown to the ninth Earl. Evelyn went to see it, and thought it
‘pretty, but the garden more celebrated than it deserved.’
By Lady Elizabeth Howard, who long survived her husband, he had an only
son and heir, and a daughter, who died unmarried. Algernon, Earl of
Northumberland, was buried at Petworth, in Sussex.
------------------
_No. 9._
SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK.
_Black dress. White collar._
BORN 1599, DIED 1641.
A HEAD BY HIMSELF.
A NATIVE of Antwerp, his father, a merchant in silk and woollen stuffs,
was himself a painter in glass, whose first wife, Cornelia Kerseboom,
dying without children, he married again one Maria Cuypers, by whom he
had a large family, Anthony being the seventh, a proverbially magic
number. The Vandycks were strenuous adherents of the Church of Rome, and
two of our painter’s sisters became nuns, while one of his brothers took
Holy Orders. Maria Vandyck was a skilful artist in embroidery, her works
being much admired, and she encouraged her boy’s taste for drawing, in
the rudiments of which he received instruction from his father. When
about ten years of age he was placed under the tuition of Henry van
Balen, a much-esteemed painter, who had studied in Italy. Here young
Vandyck remained some time, but he had fixed his heart on becoming the
pupil of his already famous fellow-citizen, Peter Paul Rubens; and that
desire was fulfilled. His remarkable talent and his untiring industry
made him a favourite both with master and scholars, when an incident
happened which brought the youth into prominent notice. It so chanced
that one afternoon, when Rubens was absent, that the students invaded
the sanctity of the private studio, and in the exuberance of animal
spirits began to indulge in some rough play. An unfinished Holy Family
stood on the easel, the colours not yet dry, and in the course of the
‘bear-fight’ one of his companions pushed Van Diepenbeke so heavily
against the precious canvas that the arm of the Magdalene and the head
of the Virgin were nearly effaced, and the colours all smudged. The
general consternation may be easily conceived; a council of war was
held, and the decision arrived at that the most skilful among the
students should endeavour to repair the mischief as best he could. Jan
van Hoeck proposed Vandyck for the work, and the choice was unanimously
approved, for in such a case there was no room for rivalry. Anthony set
to work in right earnest; there was not a moment to be lost. He had but
a few hours of daylight to complete his task, but he accomplished it
before nightfall. Early next morning the dreaded moment arrived. Rubens
entered his studio in order to examine the work of the preceding
evening, when he pronounced the memorable words, which seemed to bestow
a diploma on his young disciple,—‘Why, this looks better than it did
yesterday!’ Then, approaching nearer, he detected the traces of a
strange hand. Investigation and explanation followed, and Vandyck came
in for great praise from the lips of his loved master.
Idle tales have been told of the jealousy subsisting between these two
great painters, while, on the contrary, every recorded instance seems to
prove how close was their friendship. Rubens was most desirous that his
talented pupil should proceed to Italy to study the works of the great
masters, and extend his connection with the world, but in the meantime
Vandyck received an invitation to England. The first visit he paid to
our country was short and unsatisfactory; and there are so many
discrepancies in the accounts given of the work done at that period, and
his reasons for leaving somewhat abruptly, that we refrain from entering
on the subject. From England he proceeded to the Hague, where he painted
portraits of every class and denomination of person, commencing with the
whole family and Court of the Stadtholder, Henry Frederic, including
every member of the illustrious house of Nassau. Nobles, warriors,
statesmen, burghers, all vied for the honour of sitting to him.
In 1622 the news of his father’s illness recalled him to Antwerp. He
arrived just in time to receive that father’s last farewell, and listen
to his last injunctions. Franz Vandyck made his son promise to paint an
altar-piece for the chapel of the Dominican Sisters, who had nursed him
tenderly during his illness,—a pledge nobly redeemed by Anthony, though
the execution was postponed for a time. He then took leave of his
master, to whom he presented, at parting, three pictures, one of which
was the likeness of Rubens’s first wife.
Our painter now set his face towards Italy, but he did not get far on
his road without a hindrance. The story of the little episode we are
about to relate is so differently given, that we only pretend to offer
the most likely version.
At Brussels, where Vandyck tarried, the Infanta Isabella gave him a
commission to paint the mistress of her Highness’s favourite hounds, a
beautiful girl, by the name of Anna von Orphen. We are not told why a
maiden of lowly origin was chosen for a place, though not very exalted,
about Court, unless it were on account of her loveliness. But the
portrait was executed, and Anna appeared, surrounded by her pack, each
dog having its name duly inscribed on the canvas.
The picture is mentioned as being at the castle of Tervueren, near
Brussels, in 1763. Vandyck speedily fell a victim to the charms of the
lovely villager of Saventheim, and at her cottage he whiled away some
months, to the great indignation of Rubens, who continued to write and
expostulate with his former pupil, pointing out to him the value and
importance of the time he was losing. Vandyck, however, was not wholly
idle while at Saventheim; he painted (it is said at the instigation of
his mistress) two pictures: one a Holy Family, in which he introduced
likenesses of Anna and her family, and the other a St. Martin, being his
own portrait, riding a horse which Rubens had given him. The
last-mentioned painting was held in such high estimation by the
inhabitants of Saventheim, that on three separate occasions, at the
interval of many years, the peasantry rose _en masse_ to prevent the
treasure from being carried away, either by fraud or purchase.
At length Rubens hit on an expedient to extricate his friend from the
spells of his rustic Armida. He sent the Chevalier Nanni, who was _en
route_ for Italy, to urge on Vandyck the expediency of accompanying him
thither. The arguments chosen were successful; the lovers parted with
mutual regret. Poor Anna was left disconsolate, and Vandyck set forth on
a journey which was destined to be a triumphal progress. We have no
space to detail his residence at Venice, where he studied Titian and
Veronese, or his still longer sojourn at Genoa, where he became the
favourite guest of the proudest nobles of the proud city, in which
almost every palace is enriched by the works of the great Fleming,
chiefly consisting of portraits, with a sprinkling of sacred subjects.
This was the period when, as Vandyck afterwards confessed, he painted
for fame, and not alone for money. At Rome, where he remained several
years, the first order he undertook was the world-renowned portrait of
Cardinal Bentivoglio, which, when once seen, attracted crowds of sitters
to the studio, as at Genoa, including not only the nobility of the city,
but most of the visitors sojourning there at the time. A most curious
portrait of that period may now be seen at Petworth, representing Sir
Robert Shirley, who had come from the East on a mission to his Holiness,
representing him and his Persian wife both in Oriental costume. In the
Duke of Buccleuch’s invaluable collection of miniatures there is a most
eccentric effigy of this same lady, in the dress—or shall we say
undress?—of her country.
On leaving Rome, many writers say driven thence by the jealousy of
fellow-artists, especially among his own countrymen, Vandyck proceeded
_via_ Florence to visit the more northern cities of Italy, and after
paying a second visit to his favourite Genoa, he sailed with his friend,
the Chevalier Nanni, for Sicily, whither he had been invited by Prince
Philibert of Savoy, who sat to him, as did also the famous painter
Sofonisba Angusciola, celebrated alike for her talents and her romantic
adventures. This remarkable woman was in her ninety-second year, and
quite blind, but her mind was clear, and her love of art as keen as
ever; and Vandyck said he had learned more from the conversation of this
blind old lady than from all his former studies.
There is a charming portrait of her by her own hand, when young and
handsome, in the collection of Earl Spencer at Althorp. Vandyck was
driven from Sicily by the breaking out of the plague, and he once more
set out for Antwerp, which he reached about the end of 1626. In his
native city he at first shared the proverbial fate of the prophet in his
own country; he found few patrons, and many cavilled at the prices,
which were less than had been gladly paid him in Italy. Rubens came to
his rescue by buying every completed picture in his studio, and,
departing from Antwerp on diplomatic missions (from the Archduchess
Isabella) to Portugal and England, left his friend Vandyck the
undisputed master of the field.
His hands were now full. Orders from numerous religious fraternities in
the city and neighbourhood, anxious to enrich their several churches and
chapels, poured in on all sides, and the candidates for the honour of
sitting to the great painter were incalculable. Yet Vandyck’s cup was
mingled with gall, through the envy and jealousy of his fellow-artists,
who attacked and traduced him on all occasions. He paid another short
visit to England, where the Earl of Northumberland was his chief patron
and employer, and afterwards to Paris; but it was not till 1632 that he
listened to the persuasions of the Earl of Arundel (who many years
before had admired the early promise of Vandyck’s talent), and once more
went over to England. In consequence of the death of Buckingham, who
literally ‘brooked no rival near the throne,’ Lord Arundel was in high
favour with his Royal master, and King and subject were alike
enthusiastic worshippers of art.
Vandyck was received at Court with every mark of distinction. Charles I.
provided apartments for him, and in all respects treated him as a
personal friend, taking the greatest delight in his society. It was
supposed that his Majesty had even entertained the idea of building a
house expressly for his guest, since among the State papers, in the
handwriting of one of the officials, there is an entry, ‘Things to be
done: to speak with Inigo Jones concerning a house for Vandike.’
The painter was however well lodged at Blackfriars, and a pleasant
summer residence at Eltham was also allotted him. Indeed, wherever he
went, Anthony Vandyck was the centre of attraction, the cynosure of all
eyes. Pre-eminently handsome, brilliant in conversation, a good
linguist, an enlightened traveller, even without the crowning quality of
his splendid talent, the painter must assuredly have proved a shining
light in the refined and aristocratic circles of the English capital.
Courted in society, foremost in art, crowds resorted to his studio. The
King himself was not only his constant sitter, but often dropped down
the river in his royal barge as far as Blackfriars, to pass a pleasant
hour, and gossip of art and artists with his newly-created knight, Sir
Anthony Vandyck, to whom he had presented a valuable miniature of
himself, splendidly set with diamonds. Neither of their Majesties ever
appeared wearied of sitting for their portraits to their ‘Painter in
Ordinary,’ and few records of a sad life can be more touching than the
three heads (at Windsor Castle) of Henrietta Maria, in which Vandyck so
truthfully delineated the mental and physical changes wrought by grief
and misfortune.
Amongst Vandyck’s closest and most intimate friends may be reckoned the
Earl of Strafford, whose noble and characteristic countenance gazes
intently at us from the walls of so many dwelling-houses, and who was
said to have sat oftener to his artist friend than any one in England,
with the exception of Charles I. and his Queen. Sir Kenelm Digby was
another of Sir Anthony’s chosen companions, and the portraits of the
learned knight and his beautiful wife, Venetia Stanley, have become
familiar to us by the magic touches of Vandyck’s brush. On the sudden
and mysterious death of the ‘divine Venetia,’ her widower summoned the
great painter to portray, for the last time, that lovely countenance in
‘a calm unbroken sleep, that hath no awakening,’—a beautiful and
touching picture, which forms one of the gems of Lord Spencer’s
collection. Notwithstanding the number of his sitters, and the large
sums (by comparison) paid for his paintings, Sir Anthony was invariably
in pecuniary difficulties. Luxurious in his manner of living, splendid
even to ostentation in his dress and equipages, his hospitality was
boundless, his generosity to struggling members of his own profession
proverbial. Added to all his other expenses, there was invariably a
Margaret Lemon, or one of her class, ever ready to drain his purse. On
the subject of his monetary troubles, the noble knight was candid and
outspoken. One day the King and Lord Arundel were sitting in intimate
conversation with the painter in his studio at Blackfriars, when Charles
began a sorrowful dissertation on his own lack of money. Turning to Sir
Anthony, he said with a smile, ‘And you, Sir Knight, has it ever
happened to you to be at a loss where to turn for one or two thousand
pounds?’ ‘Sire,’ was the reply, ‘when a painter keeps an open house for
his friends, and an open purse for his mistresses, he is not unlikely to
have empty coffers.’ It was doubtless on account of these pecuniary
difficulties that Vandyck in his latter days painted in so hurried and
slovenly a manner, as might well have gained him the name of ‘Fa
Presto.’ He got into the habit of intrusting many of the details of his
paintings to the numerous scholars in his studio, and the similarity of
the shape and character of the hands in his portraits, which has so
often been remarked and marvelled at, may surely be accounted for by the
fact that he usually painted the hands from those of models of both
sexes retained by him for that purpose. Yet there were exceptions to
this rule, for Vandyck, who had beautifully formed hands of his own, was
a great admirer of that particular personal charm; and an amusing
anecdote is told of him, when he had a no less noble sitter than
Margaret de Bourbon, daughter to Henry IV. of France. The Royal lady,
after watching Vandyck for some time, ventured the question, why he gave
so much more attention to the painting of her hands than of her head, or
indeed any other detail of the picture. ‘It is, Madam,’ replied Sir
Anthony, with a sly smile, ‘that I anticipate a rich compensation from
those beautiful white hands.’
It would not have been difficult, by all accounts, for Vandyck to have
selected a bride from the noblest and most wealthy in the land, so
generally admired was he by the fair sex; but his friends, the King and
the Duke of Buckingham, had already arranged a suitable match, desirable
in every way, excepting that the lady was poor, a fact which seemed an
oversight in the circumstances, or rather in Vandyck’s circumstances.
Mary Ruthven was the granddaughter of the unfortunate Earl of Gowrie.
Her father, suspected of complicity in the so-called conspiracy, had in
consequence not only been imprisoned, but his property confiscated;
therefore the winsome lady’s dower consisted of goodness, beauty, and
gentle birth, but tocher the lassie had none, excepting a small portion
given her as Lady of the Queen’s Household. She was much esteemed at
Court. During his residence in England Vandyck had paid flying visits to
his native country, and we hear of him, in 1634, serving as Dean of the
Guild of St. Luke’s at Antwerp, which, be it remarked, is the date of
the magnificent portrait, in this same gallery of Panshanger, of John of
Nassau Siegen, and his family.
After his marriage he proceeded once more with his bride to his native
city, where they were received with every possible demonstration of
respect and affection. Sir Anthony, then, hearing that Louis XIII.
intended to have the walls of the Louvre adorned with paintings, after
the fashion of those by Rubens in the Luxembourg, went to Paris in hopes
of obtaining the order, but in this design he was frustrated, and,
disappointed and depressed, he returned to England. It was a dreary
time. His Royal and private friends were all involved in trouble and
perplexity, through the gathering of heavy clouds on the political
horizon. His friend Lord Strafford had perished on the scaffold; the
King was absent from London; the Queen had sought safety in France.
Vandyck’s spirits sank, and he gave himself up to a fatal and visionary
consolation.
In the pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, he became a professed
alchemist, and, as it was well said, ‘the gold he had gained by his
labours fast melted away in the crucible.’
He would stand for hours over a hot fire, which conduced not a little to
undermine his failing health; he grew haggard and wrinkled while still
in the prime of life. The King, on his return to England, hearing of his
friend’s illness, sent his own physician to minister to the patient,
holding out, it was said, a large sum of money in the event of a cure.
But human aid was unavailing; a severe attack of gout, combined with
other maladies, proved fatal, and on the 9th December 1641, the man who
by many has been esteemed the chief of the world’s portrait-painters
breathed his last. Followed by a large retinue of friends, he was buried
in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was but eight days before he died that a
daughter was born to him, and on the very date of his death there was an
entry in the register of St. Anne’s, Blackfriars, ‘Justiniana, daughter
of Sir Anthony Vandyck and his lady, baptized 9th December 1641.’
Whatever ignorance or mismanagement of money matters the great painter
had shown during his life, his last will was most praiseworthy and
considerate in all points, and he had waited until the birth of his
child to complete the same. There was not much to leave, but no one he
loved or esteemed was forgotten; wife, child, sisters, servants, were
all remembered; even the poor in the two parishes—that of his residence
and that of his burial—had a small sum dealt out to them. Sir Anthony
Vandyck’s widow married a Welsh baronet, Sir Robert Pryse, as his second
wife, but they had no children. Justiniana married Sir John Stepney of
Prendergast, Pembroke (their grandson was George Stepney, the poet), and
her second husband was Martin de Carbonell. She received a pension from
King Charles II.
------------------
_No. 10._
FRANÇOIS DUQUESNOY, DETTO IL FIAMMINGO, SCULPTOR.
_Green, red, and white slashed dress. Black cloak. White collar and
cuffs. He is sitting._
BORN 1594, DIED 1646.
BY NICHOLAS POUSSIN.
A NATIVE of Brussels, his father was his first master, and while quite
young he found a generous patron in the Archduke Albert of Austria. This
Prince gave the youth a pension to enable him to go to Rome, and study
the art of sculpture, for which he evinced a considerable talent. But
the Duke dying when Fiammingo (as he was called at Rome) was only
twenty-five, the young artist found himself in great poverty, and
obliged to work very hard to keep the wolf from the door. In the same
straits was at that moment the afterwards celebrated painter Nicholas
Poussin, and the two students became friends and companions, sharing a
scanty but common purse. The painter and the sculptor sympathised in
their love of art, but differed in their taste of subjects. Poussin’s
tendency was for the severe, Fiammingo’s for the tender; his admiration
for the works of Albano led him to the execution of childish forms in
every imaginable attitude of grace and beauty; these were seldom of
large dimension, but he modelled the ‘Putti’ for the high altar in St.
Peter’s, the Santa Susanna in the Church of Our Lady of Loretto, near
the Trajan Column, and a colossal St. Andrew, also in St. Peter’s.
Bernini, who was evidently jealous of Fiammingo’s talent and popularity,
said he was incapable of executing anything more than a gigantic boy,
but the admirers of pure art gave the palm to Fiammingo far and away
before the mannerist Bernini. Added to his ability, the Flemish sculptor
was a conscientious and indefatigable workman. He not only produced
statues, but made careful studies in detail of the human figure, the
hands and feet in particular; but in spite of his industry he never
extricated himself from poverty. In 1646 he meditated going to France,
where doubtless his faithful friend, Nicholas Poussin, would have
befriended him, but a cruel death awaited him in Rome. He was poisoned
by his own brother, Jerome Duquesnoy, himself a sculptor, who was
jealous of Fiammingo’s increasing fame. But the murderer did not escape
vengeance; found guilty of many crimes, he was (according to the
barbarous practice of the age) burned alive at Ghent. Of a gentle,
amiable disposition and winning manners, Fiammingo was much esteemed and
respected. Poussin and Albano were among his closest friends.
------------------
_No. 11._
THE WIFE OF CARLO DOLCE.
_Red dress. Brown cap. Holds a scroll and an olive branch._
BY CARLO DOLCE.
THIS painter was born in 1616, and died 1686. His heads of Madonnas,
female saints, and Herodias, are, for the most part, portraits of his
wife or daughter. Of the latter there is a head in a Florentine palace,
crowned with bay leaves, representing Poetry, which has more depth of
colouring and expression than is generally observable in the works of
this master.
------------------
_No. 12._
ELEANORA D’ESTE.
_Blue and pink cap. White dress. Red drapery. Pearl necklace. Chain and
pendant._
BORN 1537, DIED 1581.
BY PIERIN DEL VAGA.
SHE was the sister of Alfonso d’Este, the second Duke of Ferrara, but is
immortalised in history and fiction, prose and verse, as the object of
Torquato Tasso’s unfortunate passion. The story of his residence at her
a brother’s Court, and at that of Urbino, where her elder sister,
Lucrezia, was Duchess, has so often been told, and the details of his
relations with the two Princesses so ill authenticated and so variously
narrated, that we do no more than allude to the fact of the affection
which subsisted between them, although by many writers it is questioned
which of the two Princesses reigned supreme in the heart of the
Laureate, who was never wearied of singing the praises of both these
noble ladies.
This picture was bought in Italy by Emily, wife of the fifth Earl
Cowper, and given by her to her husband at the time he was occupied in
building the new picture gallery at Panshanger.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
LIBRARY.
[Illustration]
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LIBRARY.
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_No. 1._
EDMUND BURKE.
_Brown Coat. White Cravat. Powder._
BORN 1729 N.S., DIED 1797.
BY JACKSON _after_ REYNOLDS.
BORN at Dublin, the eldest of three sons, his father a solicitor in good
practice, his mother a Miss Nagle, of County Cork, a Roman Catholic,
whose family had been zealous adherents of James the Second. Edmund and
his brothers were brought up as Protestants, their father’s faith; his
only sister was educated according to her mother’s religion. Young Burke
went to school at Ballitore, about thirty miles from Dublin, under the
tutelage of one Shackleton, a Quaker, and native of Yorkshire, a good
man, and a good teacher, who endeared himself to his pupils, and of whom
Burke spoke in the highest terms of gratitude and affection, ‘who had,’
he said, ‘not only educated his mind, but also his heart.’ While still a
schoolboy, Edmund had formed a close friendship with young Shackleton,
his master’s son, and continued to correspond with him for many years on
all subjects, classical, social, religious. In 1743 he went to Trinity
College, Dublin, where, he confesses, his studies were very desultory.
‘They proceeded more from sallies of passion than preference for sound
reason, and, like all natural appetites that are violent for a season,
soon cooled.’ He thought it a humorous consideration to reflect into how
many madnesses he had fallen during the last two years. First, the
_furor Mathematicus_, then the _furor Classicus_, the _furor
Historicus_, the _furor Poeticus_; later on he would have added to his
list the _furor Politicus_.
Richard Shackleton, from whom he had parted with tears at Ballitore,
urges him, with tender admonitions, ‘to live according to the rules of
the Gospel.’ ‘I am desirous of doing so,’ was the answer to the friendly
little sermon, ‘but it is far easier to do so in the country than in a
town, especially in Trinity College, Dublin.’ Burke sends Richard a
poetical description of the manner in which he spends his day: how he
rises with the dawn and careers through fragrant gardens and meads, ‘mid
the promise of May, till hunger drives him home to breakfast; how he
goes down to the beach in the afternoon to sit upon the sea-wall and
watch the shipping, and the varying colours of the ocean in the glowing
sunset; and amid it all, how his thoughts travel back to the sparkling
river and pretty fir-woods of dear old Ballitore. He finds time,
however, almost every day, to spend at least three hours in the public
library, among the books, ‘the best way in the world for killing
thought.’ Assuredly far better than most methods used for that purpose.
‘I have read some history,’ he says, ‘and am endeavouring to make myself
acquainted in some degree with that of our own poor country.’
During his whole life Burke loved and compassionated and endeavoured to
serve his own unhappy island. His only contemporary of note at College
was the Sizar, Oliver Goldsmith, but they do not appear to have been
acquainted. In 1750, having taken his degree, Edmund went to London to
study the law in the Middle Temple; but that species of study did not
suit his taste, although he expresses his high respect for the same. He
was never called to the Bar; he preferred literature, courted the
society of authors, frequented the debating club in Covent Garden, and
was a great lover of the theatres.
His father, who was a hard man, and had never shown him much tenderness,
was very angry at Edmund’s neglect of legal studies, and either
withdrew, or curtailed, his son’s allowance so much as to make it
difficult for him to subsist in London. He was very fond of the country,
however, and used to go on walking expeditions, and spend a great part
of his summer in picturesque villages, reading and writing all the time,
in the companionship of William Burke, his friend and namesake. He
mentions his love for wandering in a letter to Richard Shackleton, when,
after apologising for a long silence, he says, ‘I may have broken all
rules, neglected all decorums, but I have never forgot a friend whose
good head and heart have made me esteem and love him.’ It was about the
year 1756 that Edmund Burke’s marriage took place, with the daughter of
Dr. Nugent, an Irish Roman Catholic, who had settled at Bath. We hear
that she was a gentle, amiable, and well-bred woman, and a Presbyterian
by creed. In this year Burke published _A Vindication of Natural
Society_, and his immortal essay on the Sublime and the Beautiful. The
_Vindication_ was written in the form of a letter to a noble Lord by a
late noble writer. It was intended to simulate the style of Lord
Bolingbroke, and was pronounced in that respect eminently successful, so
far as to deceive many expert critics. It was a satire on the opinions
of Lord Bolingbroke, lately deceased, whose posthumous works were now
attracting great attention in the literary world. Boswell is said to
have asked Johnson in after years whether he thought the _Vindication_
would be damaging to Burke in his political career. ‘No, sir,’ replied
the Doctor; ‘though it might perhaps be mentioned at an election.’
Burke himself appears to have had the same misgivings as Boswell, for,
on the eve of standing for Parliament, he thought it advisable to print
a second edition of the _Vindication_, with a preface, in which he
explained that the design of the work was ironical. When in London he
was not slow in forming friendships with all the eminent men of the day,
and amongst those with whom he became most intimate were Reynolds,
Garrick, and Samuel Johnson. He was one of the original members (as was
his father-in-law, Dr. Nugent) of the Literary Club; and so popular was
he at the Turk’s Head, that Sir John Hawkins, ‘that most unclubbable
man,’ was actually expelled from the chosen circle on account of an
attack he had made on Burke.
In 1758 he conceived the scheme of the _Annual Register_, and proposed
it to Dodsley, the great publisher of the day, who was so much pleased
with the notion that he immediately embarked in the undertaking, and
gave Burke £100 a year to contribute the ‘Survey of Events,’ which he
continued for many years. About the same time, the young author was
introduced to the man who is known to posterity as ‘Single-speech
Hamilton,’ on account of the brilliant success of his maiden speech,
which threw into the shade such orators as Pitt (afterwards Lord
Chatham), Grenville, and Fox, who all spoke on the same occasion. Horace
Walpole met Burke at Hamilton’s house in company with Garrick, and says
of him, ‘A young Irishman who wrote a book in the style of Bolingbroke,
which has been much admired. He is a sensible man, but has not worn off
his authorism, and thinks there is nothing so charming in the world as
writers, and to be one. He will know better some day.’
Mr. Hamilton went to Ireland, as private secretary to the Viceroy, Lord
Halifax, and Burke accompanied him. While there he busied himself in
inquiring into the grievances and causes of discontent, especially among
the Roman Catholic portion of the community. It was owing to his
liberal-minded views on the subject of Catholic Emancipation that a
false rumour was spread that Edmund Burke had gone over to his mother’s
creed, with many other reports equally untrue. Hamilton obtained for his
companion a pension of £300 a year from the Irish Treasury, which was at
first received with gratitude, but Burke would not accept the salary
unconditionally; he must have some of his time to himself for literary
labours; in fact, he could not barter his freedom. Hamilton was
offended. He wished to bind down the noble spirit for life to his own
personal service, or, as the writer himself expresses it, ‘to
circumscribe my hopes, to give up even the possibility of liberty, to
annihilate myself for ever.’ So the pension was given up, the connection
with Hamilton at an end, and Burke returned to England.
In 1765 Lord Rockingham replaced George Grenville as Prime Minister, and
appointed Edmund Burke his private secretary. This nomination caused
much surprise and displeasure in some quarters. The Duke of Newcastle
expostulated with the Premier, and denounced Burke as an Irish
adventurer, a Papist, a disguised Jesuit, with a false name, and what
not. Lord Rockingham put his secretary in possession of the charges
brought against him, all of which Burke denied, and answered indignantly
he would instantly vacate the post, as no possible consideration would
induce him to continue in relation with any man whose trust in him was
not entire. But Lord Rockingham had implicit trust in his noble-hearted
secretary, and would not accept his resignation; and for seventeen
years, that is, till Rockingham’s death, the friendship between these
two distinguished men was unbroken, the confidence unlimited. In
December, this same year, Burke was returned Member for the borough of
Wendover. His maiden speech, a few days after the opening of the session
in 1766, on American affairs, produced the profoundest sensation, and
Pitt (the elder) not only complimented the young Member himself, but
congratulated the Ministry on their acquisition. Dr. Johnson said, ‘No
man had ever gained more reputation on his first appearance.’ The second
and third speeches were even more successful, and it was universally
admitted that Burke’s eloquence carried the repeal of the American Stamp
Act, which measure was supported by Pitt, although in Opposition. The
Rockingham Ministry did not stand above twelve months, and made way for
what was termed the Grafton Administration, the Duke being, for a time
at least, nominal, and Lord Chatham real leader of the party. Burke
describes this Government as a piece of joinery, curiously indented and
whimsically dove-tailed; a piece of tesselated pavement, without cement,
unsafe to touch, insecure to stand on.
In 1769 he became the possessor of The Gregories, in the parishes of
Penn and Beaconsfield, in Buckinghamshire. He thus speaks of it to
Shackleton: ‘I have made a push with all I could collect, and the aid of
my friends, to cast a little root in this country. I have bought a
house, with an estate of about 600 acres, twenty-four miles from London:
it is very pleasant, and I propose, God willing, to become a farmer in
good earnest.’ He is sure his friend will approve of the acquisition,
when he knows it was once the property of Waller the poet. There is
always a large portion of the community who consider it incumbent on
them to inquire into, and animadvert upon, their neighbours’ affairs,
more especially their finances. The world was much exercised over the
chances of Burke’s ability to defray such an expense as the purchase of
an estate; but there seems little doubt that Lord Rockingham assisted
him materially, and at his death that kind friend desired that all
Edmund Burke’s bonds should be destroyed.
The Irishman did not belie his nationality with regard to money; it must
be confessed he was lavish, and it is said that from the day, in 1769,
when he applied to Garrick for the loan of £1000, till 1794, when he
received a pension from the Crown, he was never out of debt. But Burke’s
extravagance was far removed from selfishness; he never closed his ear
or his purse against the appeals of struggling talent or deserving
poverty, and was generous and compassionate in every relation of life.
In 1773, his only child, his ‘darling Dick,’ having left Westminster,
was entered student at Christchurch, Oxford, but he being considered too
young for College life, his father determined to send him to Auxerre to
study the French language. The youth was lodged in the house of the
Bishop of the diocese, a good prelate, who treated him with the utmost
kindness, which Richard’s father amply repaid, when, in after years, the
Bishop visited England as an exile and a pauper. Edmund Burke went to
Paris at the same time, not merely for the pleasure of making
acquaintance with the agreeable and distinguished members of society,
but for the purpose of investigating the causes of the revolutionary
movement, which was beginning by degrees to convulse the French nation.
He was presented to the Duchesse de Luxembourg, and to Madame du
Deffand, who laments that ‘the Englishman speaks French so badly, in
spite of which everybody likes him, and thinks he would be most
agreeable, if he could make himself understood’! What a strange position
for Edmund Burke; he was able, however, to follow French perfectly as a
listener, and was much delighted with hearing La Harpe’s tragedy of _Les
Barmecides_ read at the Duchess’s house. He became acquainted with the
Count de Broglie, one of the King’s confidential Ministers, and
Caraccioli, the Neapolitan Envoy, and many members of the _haute
noblesse_. Bent on weighing the balance of political opinion in Paris,
Burke did not confine his visits to the _salons_ of one faction or
another; he was a frequent guest at the house of Mademoiselle
d’Espinasse, the well-known writer of love-letters so ardent, that it
was feared they would consume the paper on which they were written! And
here he saw the man who inspired those tender epistles,—one Guibert, a
colonel in the Corsican Legion, who had lately written a book, which had
made a great noise in Paris, all the more that it had been suppressed by
the Government. Burke studied the men and their works, and drew his own
conclusions; he also, in common with all foreigners, went to Versailles,
and saw the old King, Louis Quinze, at Mass, in a pew, just above Madame
du Barry, and the Dauphin and his young bride dine in public with great
pomp: Marie Antoinette, who, ‘glittering like the morning star, full of
life, and joy, and splendour,’—that vision of beauty, indelibly stamped
on his memory, which suggested many ‘words that burn,’ and inspired many
an enthusiastic and eloquent appeal in behalf of the unfortunate French
Sovereigns. Madame du Deffand flattered herself that Burke had gone home
enamoured with the nation at large, but she was mistaken; he was never
blinded, as were so many of his countrymen, especially his own party, by
theoretical benefits of the French Revolution, but foresaw, in all their
terrible distinctness, the horrors and excesses of the impending Reign
of Terror. On his return to London, he renewed his acquaintance with all
the eminent men of the day. His friendship with Johnson and Reynolds
lasted till the death of both those loved companions; and Johnson, whose
opinions, especially on politics, were usually opposed to those of
Burke, used to say he did not grudge Edmund being the first man in the
House of Commons, for was not Edmund the first man everywhere? ‘Indeed,
he is a man, sir, that if you met him, for the first time, in the
street, when, overtaken by a drove of oxen, you both stepped aside for
five minutes’ shelter, from whom you could not part without saying,
“What an extraordinary man!”’
So extraordinary was Burke’s fame for eloquence, ability, and the
liberality of his views, that the important city of Bristol chose him
for their Member unsolicited. During the time he represented them, the
Bristolians, for the most part, were very proud of their brilliant M.P.,
but his popularity began to wane when he opposed war, and advocated, not
only Irish free-trade, but the Catholic Relief Bill. It would appear
that constituents, for the most part, aspire to a despotic rule over the
speeches and votes of their representatives, in proportion to the
democracy of their own opinions. Now Edmund Burke was in reality what
most politicians are in name only, independent, and some words of his
that bear on this subject deserve to be engraved in golden letters: ‘He
who sits in Parliament should speak the language of truth and sincerity,
should never be ready to take up or lay down any great political
question for the convenience of the hour; his duty is to support the
public good, not to form his opinions in order to get into, or remain
in, Parliament.’ He therefore sacrificed his seat at Bristol to his love
of independence; for although his constituents, after attacking and
maligning him, offered to re-elect him, Burke went down in person to
_decline the honour_, in a speech, the eloquence of which could only be
equalled by its dignity. He was then elected for Malton, the borough for
which Lord Rockingham had originally destined him, and for which he sat
until the close of his Parliamentary career. The Gordon Riots broke out
this year, and Burke’s house was one of the first doomed to destruction,
for ‘was he not the patron and promoter of Popery?’ The authorities
provided him with a garrison of sixteen soldiers, thus saving his
dwelling in Charles Street, St. James’s, from sharing the fate of Sir
George Savile’s (who had brought in the Catholic Relief Bill),—his house
being gutted, and the whole of the furniture converted into a bonfire.
Savile was a neighbour of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
In 1782 Lord Rockingham once more resumed the head of affairs, on the
resignation of Lord North, and Edmund Burke was appointed Paymaster of
the Forces. This had hitherto been a place of great emolument, but Burke
was not one to advocate reform in every department but his own—he who
had so lately urged economical reform in high places. He considered the
office overpaid, and cut it down, salary and profits, to the tune of
some thousands. His ‘dear Dick’ was made his father’s deputy, with a
stipend of £500 a year, and was shortly afterwards promoted to a better
post under Government. The death of Lord Rockingham broke up the party.
Burke resigned when Lord Shelburne came in, but resumed office under the
Coalition Ministry—Duke of Portland, Premier. In 1784, ‘the pilot that
weathered the storm,’ William Pitt, took the helm, and Burke retired
from official life for good; but he never slackened in his Parliamentary
labours, taking a lead in all the important business of the day, and,
above all, displaying the liveliest interest in Indian affairs. His name
is indissolubly connected with that of Warren Hastings, of whose
impeachment he was the principal mover; and during the weary
prolongation of the trial, he never rested from his attack on the
Governor-General, either by speech or writing. Suffice it to say, that,
on the opening of the trial, Edmund Burke made a speech which lasted
four days, and, at the conclusion of the proceedings, one which occupied
nine days, and was indeed a wonder, though it did not influence the
sentence, as Warren Hastings was acquitted.
In the meantime all Burke’s preconceived notions of displeasure at the
progress of the Revolution in France were more and more increased and
confirmed by the rapid strides which were being made towards the anarchy
he had foretold. One memorable day he rose in the House to speak on the
subject which absorbed and agitated his mind. He was worked up to a
pitch of excitement; he commented, with vehemence, on the encouragement
which Fox’s eulogiums had afforded the French Revolution, and went on to
say that, in speaking his mind, he was well aware he should this day
provoke enemies, and incur the loss of friends.
‘No! no!’ cried Fox, ‘there will be no loss of friends.’
Burke knew better; he knew what was in store for him. ‘But if my firm
and steady adherence to the British Constitution place me in such a
dilemma, I am ready to incur the risk, and my last words shall be, “Fly
from the French Constitution!” I have done my duty at the price of my
friend; our friendship is at an end.’
He was right in his prognostications; not only was there a breach
between him and Fox, who had been one of his most intimate friends, and
whom he henceforth met as a stranger, but the whole party kept aloof
from Burke. They accused him of having deserted his principles, and the
Whig newspapers were most violent in their abuse. He was annoyed and
grieved by these charges, but they did not influence his opinions or his
conduct. He sent his son to Coblenz, to communicate with the Royalist
exiles, but the mission was productive of no good. He published his
celebrated _Reflections on the French Revolution_, which converted some
readers to his way of thinking, and exasperated others; and he continued
to write pamphlet upon pamphlet on the same subject, waxing warmer and
warmer as he wrote, and urging interference on the English Government.
Miss Burney, who met him about this time, writes that ‘he is not well,
and much tormented by the state of political affairs. I wish you could
see this remarkable man when he is easy, happy, and with those whom he
cordially likes; but politics, even on his own side, must be carefully
excluded: on that theme his irritability is so terrible that it gives
immediately to his face the expression of a man who is defending himself
against murderers.’ The news of the French King’s execution produced a
profound sensation in England, and turned the current of feeling, for
the most part, in the direction to which Burke had so long, and vainly,
endeavoured to direct it.
We must not omit to record a strange episode in his Parliamentary life
that occurred on the bringing in of the Alien Bill, which imposed
certain pains and restrictions on foreigners coming to this country. Fox
had already spoken, when Edmund Burke rose to address the House, and it
was easy to perceive he was, if possible, more excited than usual. He
thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew forth a dagger with a tragic
gesture which would have done honour to his friend David Garrick; and
flinging the shining weapon on the floor of the House, called on all
present to keep all French principles from their heads, all French
daggers from their hearts;... to beware of the intrigues of murderous
atheists, and so forth; and he concluded by adjuring his audience to
listen to his warning, by all the blessings of time and the hopes of
eternity! This extraordinary proceeding, which is remembered in history
as ‘the dagger scene,’ produced, as may be imagined, different effects
on different hearers; there were some on whom it made a deep impression,
while there were others who accused the speaker of having imagined and
rehearsed a bit of melodrame. Rehearsal there was none. The facts were
these: Burke, on his way to the House of Commons, had been shown the
dagger in question, which had been sent over from France as a pattern
for a large order to be executed in this country.
He had announced his intention of retiring from public life as soon as
the trial of Warren Hastings should be brought to a conclusion; and when
at length it was so, he applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and his son
Richard was elected for his vacant seat.
Pitt proposed to confer a peerage on the man, for whom he had, in spite
of many opposite ways of thinking, a profound admiration, by the title
of Lord Beaconsfield; but a storm was fast gathering, which darkened the
remnant of Burke’s life, and hastened his end.
His only child, his idolised Richard, was attacked with sudden illness,
to which he succumbed. This young man’s handsome face, familiar to us
from the portraits by his father’s friend Reynolds, bore a sullen and
somewhat defiant expression, which inclines us to believe the general
verdict, that he was a man of ungovernable disposition. Two years before
his death he had been sent to Ireland on business by the Catholic
Committee, and while there, as also on his return to London, he had
proved himself totally unfit for the trust reposed in him. The character
given of Richard Burke by one who knew him well was as follows: ‘He is
by far the most impudent and opinionative fellow I have ever met.’ Yet
in his parents’ fond eyes he was faultless, and few things are more
pathetic than the father’s allusion to his heavy loss. ‘The storm has
gone over me,’ he says; ‘I lie like one of those old oaks that the late
hurricane has scattered round me; I am torn up by the roots; I am alone,
I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. I live in an inverted order:
those who should have been to me as posterity are in the place of my
ancestors.’
Both the King and Pitt (the Premier) were anxious to provide for the
great statesman’s declining days, and a considerable grant was assigned
him by the Crown. Acceptable as the relief from financial anxiety must
have been to the man, now advancing in years and bowed down by sorrow,
Burke was much disturbed that the question of the pension had not been
brought before Parliament. The sequel proved that his scruples were well
founded, for the Duke of Bedford and Lord Lauderdale made this stipend a
plea for attacking the Government, to which they were in opposition. But
Edmund Burke, says one of his latest biographers, ‘was not slow to
reply, and, in his letter to a noble Lord, made one of the most splendid
repartees in the English language.’
The ex-statesman in his retirement continued to write political tracts,
some of which were not published till after his death. He found his best
and truest consolation in the exercise of that charity and benevolence
in which his soul had ever delighted. He had established at Beaconsfield
a school for the orphans of those who had perished in the French
Revolution, or the children of poor emigrants; sixty boys in number; and
it is pleasant to learn how, in the society of the little ones he was
befriending, his cheerfulness returned; how the great man, the
distinguished orator, would join in their childish sports, roll with
them on the green turf, and convulse them with laughter by his ‘wretched
puns.’ The visits of some faithful friends at The Gregories gave him
also unfeigned pleasure, and he loved to speak with, or of, his old
associates. Alluding one day to Fox, he said, ‘Ah, that is a man made to
be loved!’ When he felt his end approaching he sent affectionate
messages to his absent friends, gave calm directions respecting his
worldly affairs, and enlarged sorrowfully on the melancholy state of the
country. Fox was much affected when he heard of the death of his former
friend, and proposed that he should be buried in Westminster Abbey. But
the will provided otherwise: ‘A small tablet or flagstone, in
Beaconsfield Churchyard, with a short and simple inscription. I say
this, because I know the partiality of some of my friends; but I have
had too much of noise and compliment in my life.’
Burke left all he possessed to his ‘entirely loved, faithful, and
affectionate wife, with whom I have lived so happily for many years.’
After mentioning several noblemen and gentlemen, whose friendship he
highly valued, and who all followed him to the grave, he adds, ‘If the
intimacy I have had with others has been broken off by political
difference on great questions, I hope they will forgive whatever of
general human frailty, or of my own particular infirmity, has entered
into that consideration; I heartily entreat their forgiveness.’
We insert this short extract, because we think this last of Burke’s
writings gives the best notion of his character, and because we consider
that the feelings which dictated these words are sublime, and their
expression beautiful. He does not forget to recommend his little
emigrants to the continued generosity and patronage of William Pitt and
other influential personages. Edmund Burke was very popular with women,
‘even,’ says the biographer from whom we have already quoted, ‘those who
were angry at his sympathy with American rebels, his unkind words about
the King (this was on the subject of economical reform), and his cruel
persecution of poor Warren Hastings.’ Meantime he contrived to captivate
such different characters as Hannah More, Elizabeth Carter, and Fanny
Burney, who met him at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s on Richmond Hill, and could
not find terms for her admiration of his noble air, commanding address,
clear, penetrating, sonorous voice, powerful, eloquent, copious
language; at home on every subject, she had never seen a more delightful
man. His features are familiar to us from the portraits of Sir Joshua
and Romney, who also painted him.
------------------
_No. 2._
CHARLES JAMES FOX.
_Blue coat. Buff waistcoat. Powder._
BORN 1749, DIED 1806.
BY JACKSON _after_ REYNOLDS.
CHARLES JAMES FOX, third son of the first Lord Holland, was born in
1749.
Lord Holland was the most able and unprincipled of the able and
unprincipled statesmen of the school of Walpole. In private life he
seems to have had something of the generous and sweet-tempered
disposition of his son Charles, towards whom he exhibited a boundless,
but not very judicious, affection. He spoilt him as a child. He gave him
so much money at Eton, as by example to inaugurate a new state of things
at that school, and he was constantly taking him away from his studies
at Oxford to indulge him prematurely in the dissipations of fashionable
life. He brought him into Parliament before he was of age, and
encouraged him from the first to take part in every important debate.
Such were the early circumstances of Charles Fox. His abilities at once
showed themselves to be of the very highest order, and exactly fitted
for the field in which they were to be displayed.
A power of close and rapid reasoning, combined with a strength and
passion which would have made even mere declamation effective, a slight
hesitation indeed in his cooler moments, but when he was excited a flow
of language almost too rapid and too copious, and altogether
inexhaustible, a miraculous quickness in perceiving at a glance the weak
points in the speech of an opponent, and a matchless dexterity in taking
advantage of them: these were the characteristics of his extraordinary
eloquence. In no age and no country could he have found an audience more
capable of appreciating his particular gifts than the House of Commons
of that period. On the other hand, no audience could have been more
ready to forgive the total absence of preparation, the occasional
repetition, the want of arrangement and the want of finish, which were
his faults, and which would have seemed very serious faults in the
Athenian Assembly or the Roman Senate.
His private life at the outset, and long afterwards, was stained by
dissipation of every kind. He entered Parliament with no fixed
principles. He was to the last unduly carried away by the spirit of
faction. But there was a goodness as well as a manliness in his nature,
and a justness in his judgment, which were apparent from the very first,
and which more and more asserted themselves till they threw his faults
entirely into the shade. He grew steadily in character and estimation,
till, at the time of his death, he was regarded by a large circle with
an idolatrous attachment, which no other statesman has ever inspired.
More than twenty years after there were people who could not mention his
name without tears in their eyes.
Fox at once took a prominent part in public life. He vehemently defended
the unconstitutional action of the Government against Wilkes, accepted
office, was turned out soon afterwards for speaking against the
Ministry, struck right and left for some time in an irregular manner,
and finally, at the age of six-and-twenty, settled down into steady and
vigorous Opposition to the war with our American colonists, which then
broke out.
This threw him into association with Burke, and with the Whigs, and his
stupendous Parliamentary abilities made him, before the end of the war,
virtually the leader of the Opposition in the House of Commons.
In 1782 Lord Rockingham came in on the question of acknowledging the
independence of America. Fox and Lord Shelburne were the Secretaries of
State. Jealousies and disputes arose between the two last, and when, in
a few months, Lord Rockingham died, open enmity was declared between
them. The King sent for Shelburne. Fox and his supporters formed a
coalition with the old war party, under Lord North. Shelburne had to
resign, and Fox, much to the disgust of the King, became master of the
situation, and with the Duke of Portland for nominal Prime Minister,
exercised complete power. All this seems to us who live in these days
very unprincipled, and though the politicians of that depraved period do
not seem to have been much shocked, the general public took a different
view, as was very shortly made evident.
At first Fox and North seemed to carry everything before them; but
retribution was at hand. The first great measure which they brought
forward was caused by the cruel and unprincipled conduct of the servants
of the East India Company. It was no less a scheme than to vest the
whole Government of India for four years in the hands of a Commission
appointed by Parliament, or, in other words, by the Ministers who
happened at the moment to be in power. A Bill to this effect passed the
House of Commons almost without opposition, but by the personal
influence of the King it was thrown out in the House of Lords, and Fox
and the other Ministers, though they commanded an immense majority in
the House of Commons, were immediately dismissed.
They must speedily have been restored to power, if the House of Commons
had really represented the feelings of the people; but this was not the
case, for public opinion, as I have said, had been thoroughly
scandalised by the unnatural coalition between two such completely
opposite parties as those of Fox and North. But in spite even of this
state of public opinion, it is very doubtful if the unexampled and
absolute personal ascendency which Fox had established in Parliament
would not have ensured his speedy return, if another most extraordinary
man had not appeared upon the scene.
This was William Pitt, at this time only twenty-three years of age. Pitt
had shortly before burst forth upon the world as a full-fledged orator
of the very highest order. He now assumed the lead of the Government in
the House of Commons; fought battle after battle, still defeated, but
steadily increasing his numbers, till he at last succeeded in arriving
within one of a majority. Then, and not till then, did he dissolve
Parliament, with so overwhelming a result, that he remained for many a
long year in complete though not unchallenged possession of supreme
power.
Fox now entered upon what was destined to be a long career of
opposition. He was the acknowledged leader of the Whig party in the
House of Commons. Supported by Burke and Sheridan and Windham, he waged
ceaseless and desperate war against the young Prime Minister. Never,
perhaps, in the whole course of our Parliamentary history was there a
brighter display of eloquence than at this period, though the speakers
were few in number, for this simple reason, that none but the very best
speakers could obtain a hearing. Pitt and Fox towered conspicuously
above these brilliant few.
This sketch would be far too long if I were to attempt to give any
account, however brief, of the subjects of discussion during the next
few years, nor will I pretend to say which of these great men was
oftenest in the right or in the wrong. Fox, however, certainly seems to
lay himself open to the charge that whatever Pitt brought forward he
steadily and systematically opposed.
I will now come to the beginning of the French Revolution. This
tremendous occurrence so completely filled the minds of all parties in
England as to cause every other subject to be forgotten. The first news
of the destruction of the Bastile seems to have been received on the
whole with satisfaction, for the tyranny and corruption of the _ancien
régime_ were well known, and justly reprobated in this country. But as
things went on, the upper classes began to become seriously alarmed. The
Tories, of course, led the way; and the brilliant and forcible pen of
Burke, the most richly gifted and learned statesman, though not the most
successful Parliamentary orator, among the Whigs, expressed and inflamed
the rising passion of the people. The execution of the King, and still
more that of the Queen, were received with an outburst of horror and
indignation. Then came the Reign of Terror. By this time there was a
wild panic among owners of property. The just hatred of the cruelty
which was daily being perpetrated rose to frenzy. The old national
animosity against France intensified the public fury. In short, the tide
of English feeling ran with such overwhelming force against everything
connected with the French Revolution, as to sweep away from power and
popularity every man who had in the smallest degree identified himself
with any of its principles. Fox had done this. At the outset he had
expressed his exultation, in his usual vehement manner, and afterwards,
when others had begun to stand aghast, he in the main adhered to his
opinion. Nobody inveighed more strongly against the Royal murders, and
the other atrocities, but he still clung to the belief that the ultimate
result would be good. He strongly opposed the interference of Europe,
and particularly of England, with the internal concerns of France. He
denied that there was any necessity for our going to war, and during the
war he continued on every possible occasion to urge the Government to
make peace. The opinion of later generations has, I think, on the whole,
decided that he was right, though people are still divided upon the
subject. But, be this as it may, it is impossible not to admire his
conduct during these years. His once proud and powerful party was
scattered to the winds. His ‘darling popularity,’ as Burke had formerly
called it, altogether disappeared. Friends of long standing became
estranged, and he was one who felt acutely the dissolution of
friendship. Still, however, he remained firm to his principles. Session
after session, though he stood almost alone, he continued to advocate
his views with such masterly ability as to extort the applause even of
his enemies. But at last, so hopeless did he find it to contend any more
against the stream, that, though he retained his seat, he almost ceased
to attend Parliament.
Fox now retired to his house at St. Ann’s Hill. He had become the most
domestic of men, and in company of the only woman he ever really loved,
and whom he soon afterwards married, he gave himself up to all the
pleasures of literary ease. In spite of the dissipation of his youth,
and the activity of his maturity, he had contrived to acquire a large
amount of information, and such was the constitution of his mind, that
whatever he learned he learned thoroughly. He was an accomplished and
accurate classical scholar, well acquainted with modern languages, and
well versed in the history and the poetry of all countries and all
times. His letters at this period to his nephew, Lord Holland, throw a
very pleasing light upon his pursuits and character, and enable us to a
certain extent to realise the fascination which he possessed in his
middle age for those who were just entering upon manhood. Every subject
is treated of in turn in the easiest and most spontaneous manner; Greek
and Latin authors are critically examined, and their corresponding
passages compared, or a canto of Ariosto is discussed, or a couplet from
one of Dryden’s plays is pointed out as capable of being happily quoted
in a speech on current politics. Nor are the deeper lessons of history
forgotten, nor the public events of the moment; and all this in the
simple and familiar language of a man of the world, frequently
illustrated by similes drawn from racing or other sport. So far is there
from being any touch of pedantry or condescension, that it seems as if
he was asking his nephew’s advice upon all these matters, rather than
giving any opinion of his own. It was at this time he wrote his book
upon the reign of James II. These years in which, as a public man, he
was almost totally eclipsed, were perhaps the happiest in his life. On
the rare occasions when he was persuaded by his few remaining political
friends to appear in Parliament, and to make a speech, he left home with
the most intense reluctance, and returned there with all the pleasure of
a schoolboy at the end of the half.
After the Peace of Amiens he went to Holland and France, and was
received everywhere with respect and admiration.
On the renewal of the war, his Parliamentary attendances became more
frequent. He gathered round him a gradually increasing body of devoted
personal adherents, drawn largely from the new generation. In his
vigorous denunciation of the manner in which the war was conducted, he
frequently found himself supported by the most extreme members of the
war party. Many of these, like Windham, had originally been Whigs, and
the remembrance of old friendship assisted in cementing the new
alliance. There seems also to have been at this time a growing feeling
that one who divided with Pitt, and with Pitt alone, the reputation of
being the ablest and most illustrious statesman of the day, should no
longer be excluded from the service of the State. On the death,
therefore, of his great rival, in 1806, when Lord Grenville became Prime
Minister, Fox was at once, and with general applause, made Secretary for
Foreign Affairs.
His efforts were immediately directed towards carrying out what had long
been his wish,—the making of an honourable peace. But he found that this
was no easy matter. It had suited the purpose of his political opponents
to represent him as being deficient in patriotism, and this charge has
been since repeated. There is nothing in his public speeches to justify
this odious accusation, and those passages in his private letters which
seem to lend some colour to it exult, it is quite true, in the victories
of the French arms, but only over the Austrians and the Prussians. He
writes with all the feelings of an Englishman at the news of the battle
of Trafalgar, though he cannot help lamenting that one of the effects of
that brilliant victory will be to confirm the Government in what he
considers a mistaken policy. But the chief answer to the charge which I
have mentioned may be found in his conduct, now that for the first time
he was installed in a responsible position. Notwithstanding his ardent
and avowed desire for peace, the French soon discovered that they had to
deal with a man who could be as tenacious as Pitt himself, when the real
interests and the honour of his country were concerned. Negotiations
were protracted, and he was not destined to effect his object.
But we are within sight of the end. Fox was still in what we should now
call middle age. He had long renounced the vices and excesses of his
youth. The factiousness and the ambition of later years were also
extinct. His intellect, without losing the smallest portion of its
power, had acquired a calm serenity. Never did he stand higher with the
public, and never was a statesman surrounded by a more faithful and
admiring band of supporters. It seemed as if at last his mighty talents
were to have free scope, and that his renown as an orator was to be
equalled by his success as a ruler of men. But it was not to be. Nature
cannot be overstrained with impunity, and he had tried his constitution
very severely in his earlier days. He was in bad health when he took
office, he was soon found to be suffering from dropsy, and he sank
rapidly. He died in September 1806, attended by his wife, his nephew,
and his niece, with all the affection due to such a man.
His vigorous mind was still unclouded, and he retained his high courage
and his sweet temper to the last.
C.
------------------
_No. 3._
CARDINAL DE RETZ.
_Cardinal’s robes. Red skull-cap._
BORN 1614, DIED 1679.
BY LE BRUN.
JEAN FRANÇOIS PAUL DE GONDI was born at Montmirail en Brie. His father,
Emmanuel de Gondi, served as General under Louis XIII., and subsequently
became a recluse at the Oratory of Notre Dame. The family was originally
Florentine, and the first who settled in France was Albert Gondi, son of
a Tuscan banker, who was Marshal of France under Catherine of Medicis.
It was easy to trace his Southern descent in the warm blood that raced
through the veins of Jean François de Gondi. Two members of the family
had already sat on the Archiepiscopal throne of Paris; Emmanuel destined
his son to be the third, and with that view he caused him to be educated
as a priest, under the auspices of Vincent de Paul, the pious confessor
of Anne of Austria. Assuredly the pupil did not follow in the master’s
footsteps. It was said of the two men by a contemporary, ‘Il en fit un
saint, comme les Jésuites firent de Voltaire un dévot.’ No vocation in
the world could have been less fitted for the wild, worldly, and
ambitious spirit of the young acolyte,—a fact which he vainly
endeavoured to force on his father’s mind by the irregularities of his
conduct. He not only indulged in every excess, but gloried in making his
behaviour known to the world: a duellist, he had already had two hostile
meetings, he spoke openly of his _affaires d’honneur_; a man of
gallantry, he boasted of his _affaires de cœur_,—indeed, among many
others, he relates how at one time he was on the point of carrying off
his beautiful cousin, Mademoiselle de Retz; a conspirator, he had gone
so far as to plot against the life of Richelieu. He had contrived to
incur the enmity of the Minister by crossing his path, both in love and
friendship, and they hated each other cordially. When only eighteen, De
Retz had shown his predilection for secret conspiracy by writing a
panegyric on the Genoese Fiesco. But with all these warring and
tumultuous propensities, he could not shuffle off the clerical habit
which weighed so heavily on his young shoulders. He took an abrupt
resolution, made a virtue of necessity, preached brilliant sermons,
wrote fervent homilies, became remarkable for his deeds of charity, and
paid court to the higher members of the Church,—and, crowning glory, he
invited a learned Protestant to a polemical conference, and brought him
home safely into the fold of Mother Church. This conversion made such a
noise in Paris as to reach the ears of the old King, Louis XIII., then
on his deathbed, who immediately named Gondi Coadjutor to his kinsman,
the Archbishop of Paris, a post that was usually a stepping-stone to the
Archiepiscopal See itself. Gondi now preached sermons, the eloquence of
which made him the theme of conversation, more especially the very
flowery discourse which he delivered on his first appearance at Court;
but his growing popularity among the citizens of Paris, during this time
of strife between the Parliament and the Regency, made him an object of
suspicion to the Queen. He lavished enormous sums of money in largesses
to the lower classes in Paris, which caused him to become too popular
with one party not to excite the fears of the other. Being one day
reproached for his prodigality, Gondi, who always took the ancient
Romans as his models, said flippantly, ‘Why should I not be in
debt?—Cæsar at my age owed six times as much as I do.’ In the growing
struggle between the popular party and the Court, he temporised and
coquetted with both. He refused to join the cabal of ‘Les Importans’
against Mazarin, the Prime Minister, whom he much disliked, and on the
breaking out of the revolt, on the day of the first barricades he
exerted himself to protect the Queen and her surroundings. Habited in
full pontificals, the Coadjutor mixed with the crowd, exhorted them to
respect the building of the Palais-Royal, and exposed himself so far as
to be thrown down and bruised by a stone, which was hurled at him. Yet,
when in the course of the evening he sought the Royal presence, in the
expectation of receiving thanks for his conduct, Anne’s reception was
cold and haughty. ‘Allez-vous reposer, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘vous avez
beaucoup travaillé.’
The slights put upon him by the Court, and a further offence given him
by the Queen, determined Gondi to co-operate with the opposite faction.
We have given a full account of the history of the Fronde in the notice
of Marshal Turenne, and shall therefore only allude to the personal
actions of Gondi, who became, if not at first the nominal leader,
assuredly the moving spirit, of the malcontents. He had expressed his
opinion some time before, that it required higher qualities to be leader
of a party faction than to be emperor of the universe, and he now
resolved to show his qualifications for that position. ‘Before noon
to-morrow,’ he said, ‘I _will_ be master of Paris.’
Now began that epoch of internal warfare in France, when the men of
action and strong will rose to the surface, without reference to the
honesty or morality of their characters. ‘Les troubles civils,’ says one
of the historians of the Fronde, ‘sont le règne des oiseaux de proie.’
The Regent and her Minister well knew how much they had to fear
throughout the wars of the Fronde, throughout the ups and downs of
popularity and hatred from such men as Gondi, who became in time both
Archbishop of Paris and Cardinal, and maintained for the most part his
political ascendency until the conclusion of the civil war in 1652, when
the Court returned to Paris. He was offered to go to Rome as Ambassador,
but hesitated and demurred and procrastinated, till Anne of Austria’s
old hatred broke out afresh, and he was arrested and conveyed, without
any resistance on the part of his good Parisians, to the Château de
Vincennes. Here he was treated with much severity, and could only gain
the favour of being transported to the ancient Castle of Nantes at the
price of some concessions in ecclesiastical matters. He contrived to
escape, through an ingenious contrivance, and to evade the vigilance of
the guards during one of his daily promenades on the ramparts, though he
ran great risks while dangling to a rope, which had been thrown over the
wall for his descent. Two young pages saw him, and cried loudly to the
soldiers above, but as the Cardinal’s good star would have it, there was
a great tumult going on below on the banks of the river. A bather was
drowning, and people were shouting and calling for help in all
directions, so that the boys’ feeble voices were unheard, or confounded
with the general uproar. The Cardinal had friends awaiting his descent
with horses, and they set forth at a furious pace, intending to make
their way to Paris. But the Cardinal’s horse was scared by the report of
a pistol which De Retz himself had fired on a supposed pursuer, and the
rider fell to the ground, dislocated his shoulder, and had to ride for
many leagues in tortures of pain. After passing several nights in misery
and apprehension, hiding in barns and outhouses, under piles of hay,
half suffocated, the fugitive contrived to reach the Spanish frontier,
whence after a short sojourn he repaired to Rome. He had a very good
reception, despite the rancour of the French Cardinals, and made himself
conspicuous at the Conclave by his eloquence, which was instrumental in
securing the election of Alexander VII. This smoothed the way for his
return to France, where the King received him well; but the firm spirit
of De Retz was not broken, and he withstood to the uttermost the
endeavours, both of Louis and Mazarin, to make him resign his
Archbishopric. However, he was at length persuaded to exchange it for
the Abbey of St. Denis. The rest of his life, we are told by some of his
biographers, was passed in retirement, piety, and charitable deeds. By
some we are also told that his humility was so great that he offered to
resign the Scarlet Hat, of which he was unworthy; but other writers are
sceptical enough to doubt his good faith in this transaction, and to
whisper that while he tendered his resignation to the King, he sent
secret petitions to the Pope to refuse this offer. One thing is certain:
the Cardinal became economical, and paid to the uttermost farthing the
enormous debts which he had contracted. In his latter days he found
amusement in the compilation of his own memoirs, which are characterised
by extreme candour; and he found consolation in the society and
friendship of Madame de Sévigné. In her charming Letters this admirable
writer praises the tired man of the world for his charming conversation,
his elevation of character, and his mild and peaceable disposition.
Surely it must be acknowledged that our Frondeur had reformed! She
speaks of his constant visits. ‘Nous tâchons,’ she says, ‘d’amuser notre
bon Cardinal; Corneille lui a lu une pièce qui sera jouée dans quelque
temps, et qui fait souvenir des anciennes. Molière lui lira, samedi
Trissotin, qui est une fort plaisante chose. Despréaux lui donnera son
lutrin, et sa poétique. Voilà tout ce qu’on peut faire pour son
service.’ He died in Paris at the Hôtel Lesdiguierés in 1679. Madame de
Sévigné, writing on the subject to her daughter, says, ‘Cette mort est
encore plus funeste, que tu ne saurais le penser.’ ‘These ambiguous
words,’ observes a French writer, ‘were considered very mysterious at
the time, but the easy solution appears to be that the Cardinal had,
unknown to Madame de Grignan herself, stated or hinted at the fact that
he intended to make that lady his heir, a circumstance of which her
mother was cognisant.’
De Retz at one time not only aimed at superseding his enemy, Cardinal de
Mazarin, in his post at the Councils, but also in the affections of the
Queen-Regent, a project in which he was utterly foiled. Voltaire,
speaking of his Autobiography, says it is written with an air of
grandeur, an impetuosity, and an inequality of genius, which form a
perfect portrait of the man; it might be added,—with an audacious
candour, from which many writers of their own memoirs would have shrunk.
------------------
_No. 4._
THOMAS HOBBES.
_Black gown. Grizzly hair._
BORN 1588, DIED 1679.
BORN at Westport, an outlying parish of Malmesbury, of which his father
was the Vicar,—‘a man who cared not for learning, having never, as
Aubrey tells us, ‘tasted the sweetness of it.’ Thomas Hobbes’s advent
into the world was premature, in consequence of his mother’s terror,
caused by the rumours of the impending invasion of the Spanish Armada.
One of his biographers truly remarks, ‘The philosopher was not in such a
hurry to leave as to enter the world, since he lived to attain his
ninety-second year.’ In a Latin poem, written when he was past eighty,
he terms himself, ‘Fear’s twin,’ alluding to his mother’s fright, and
says, ‘That is the reason, methinks, why I so detest my country’s foes,
being a lover of the Muses, and of peace, and pleasant friends.’
He began authorship while still a schoolboy at Malmesbury, by
translating the _Medea_ of Euripides into Latin verse.
He is described as a playful boy enough, but with a spice of
contemplative melancholy, ‘who would get himself into a corner, and
learn his lessons presently.’ His chief amusements consisted in
‘catching jackdaws with cunningly-devised traps, and strolling into
booksellers’ and stationers’ shops, in order to gape at maps or charts.’
A generous uncle sent him to Oxford, where he was regular in his studies
and in his habits, at a time when, as he tells us in the _Leviathan_,
drinking, smoking, and gambling were the order of the day at Oxford.
The Principal of his College, Magdalen Hall, recommended the young
student to the notice of Lord Cavendish of Hardwicke (afterwards the
first Earl of Devonshire), who appointed him tutor to his eldest son;
and thus began a friendship with that noble family which endured for
upwards of seventy years, even to the end of Hobbes’s long life. Tutor
and pupil were of the same age, nineteen years, and together they made
the grand tour of France, Germany, and Italy, reaping great advantages
from the opportunities thus afforded them. As to Hobbes, he cultivated
the society and conversation of all the men of eminence in the countries
through which they passed, ‘at a time,’ says a recent writer, ‘when the
spirit of inquiry was rife in Western Europe.’ He mastered modern
languages, and laid the foundation of friendships which stood him in
good stead in after life. On his return he devoted himself more than
ever to the study of the Classics, translating and commenting on the
Greek and Latin poets of antiquity, so that his works began to attract
considerable attention. He resided with the Cavendish family, both in
the country and in London, and greatly utilised the resources of the
library at Chatsworth; while in London he frequented the society of such
men as Lord Bacon, Ben Jonson, Lord Falkland, Herbert of Cherbury, and
others.
King James I., who was a match-maker, brought about a marriage between
young Lord Cavendish (Hobbes’s pupil) and the only daughter of his
favourite, Lord Bruce of Kinloss, in Scotland. The King gave her a good
portion, and induced Lord Devonshire to make a handsome settlement on
her; but the excellent qualities of this remarkable woman would have
made Christian Bruce a desirable alliance for any family in England,
even had she not been so well endowed. She was a competent and superior
lady, as her after life proved. But heavy clouds were gathering over the
house of Cavendish. In 1626 died William, first Earl of Devonshire, son
of the celebrated Bess of Hardwicke, and in 1628 his son, the second
Earl. Hobbes mourned them both sincerely, but especially the last
mentioned, his dear lord, friend, and pupil; in a letter to whose son
and successor, after speaking in the highest terms of the deceased, and
enumerating his many virtues and endowments, he goes on to say, ‘What he
took in by study, he by judgment digested, and turned into wisdom and
ability, wherewith to benefit his country.’
This was in every respect a severe loss to Hobbes. The establishment at
Chatsworth was broken up, and the widowed Countess was left in great
pecuniary difficulties. Her son (who was of tender age) had his estates
charged with thirty lawsuits, ‘which, by the cunning of her adversaries,
were made as perplexed as possible; yet she so managed, with diligence
and resolution, as to go through them all with satisfaction.’
One day King Charles said jestingly to her, ‘Madam, you have all my
judges at your disposal.’
In 1628, Hobbes published his translation of Thucydides, which attracted
great attention, and brought down on the author many severe attacks. In
an opening dissertation on the life and works of the Greek historian,
Hobbes endeavoured, by the example of the Athenian, to warn his
countrymen against the evils of democracy, at a moment when political
strife was raging and the Monarchy in danger. For Hobbes was a zealous
Royalist, and believed that the cause of the King was in essentials the
cause of law and order. Thrown for a while on his own resources, he
accepted the post of travelling tutor to the son of a country gentleman,
with whom he went on the Continent, residing chiefly at Paris, where he
took up mathematics as a new study. It was not long, however, before the
widowed Countess of Devonshire recalled the friend of her father-in-law,
the tutor of her husband, to occupy the same position in the family, and
superintend the education of her sons, the young Earl and her beloved
Charles, the gallant soldier who closed his short and noble career by
dying for his King on the field of Gainsborough.
In 1634 old memories were recalled and old habits resumed by Hobbes
taking his youthful charge over very much the same ground as he had
travelled with his first pupil some years before, ‘making the longest
stay in Paris for all the politer parts of breeding,’ having during his
sojourn in Italy inspired the admiration and gained the friendship of
Cosimo de Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, and paid a visit at Pisa to the
illustrious Galileo,—‘for I also,’ says Hobbes of himself, ‘am now
numbered among the philosophers.’
In Paris, where Richelieu was in the zenith of his power, and had just
founded the Academy, Hobbes fraternised, as was his wont, with all the
learned men, and was on the most intimate terms with every one in any
way remarkable for culture, whether in literature, science, or
philosophy. In 1637 Lord Devonshire with his governor went back to
England, where he found that his mother had taken advantage of his
absence to restore order into his estates, which she now gave up to him,
free and unencumbered of debt, and his beautiful homes well furnished to
receive him.
England was in a most perturbed state on the travellers’ return.
Hampden’s trial, the insurrection of the Scots, the violence of
Parliament, all presaged the impending downfall of the Monarchy.
Hobbes’s natural bias, as we have already said in a former page, was in
favour of the Royal cause, a sentiment which was naturally fostered by
the Cavendishes, who were one and all zealous Royalists; their hearts,
lives, and fortunes, were ever at the service of the Throne. And so it
came to pass that our philosopher raised his voice and wielded his pen
in support of the King, until, as the saying goes, the country was too
hot to hold him, and he fled. He thus speaks of his own reasons for
taking this step:—
‘On the meeting of the second Parliament, when they proceeded fiercely
against those who had written or preached in defence of regal power, Mr.
Hobbes, doubting how they would use him, went over into France, the
first of all that fled, and there continued eleven years.’ Here he made
a short friendship and quicker quarrel with the celebrated Des Cartes;
here, when once brought to the brink of the grave, whatever his
religious opinions were, he resisted the endeavours of an Italian friend
to gain him over to the Roman Catholic faith; here, his health
re-established, he published manifold works,—philosophical, theological,
and polemical,—which attracted great attention, and his fame spread so
far and wide that it was said people came from great distances even to
gaze on the portrait of Mr. Thomas Hobbes.
Public favour was very much divided, and some of those who could not
deny his eloquence and brilliancy of style inveighed against the
heterodoxy of his tenets. While in Paris, he gave instructions in
different branches of learning, especially mathematics, to the Prince of
Wales, afterwards Charles II., who was then in exile; and his
intercourse with the Prince, and the intimacy which he formed with many
of the English Royalists then residing in Paris, helped to foster
Hobbes’s hatred of the popular party in England.
John Evelyn, in his Diary, says, ‘I went to see Mr. Hobbes, the great
philosopher of Malmesbury, at Paris, with whom I had been much
acquainted. From his window we saw the whole procession and glorious
cavalcade of the young French monarch, Lewis XIV., passing to
Parliament, when first he took the kingly government upon him, he being
fourteen years of age, and out of the Queen’s pupilage. The King’s
aydes, the Queen-Mother, and the King’s light horse all in rich habits,
with trumpets, in blue velvet and gold; the Swiss in black velvet
toques, headed by two gallant cavaliers in habits of scarlet satin,
after their country fashion, which is very fantastick.
The Kinge himself looked like a young Apollo. He was mounted on an
Isabella barb, with a houssing of crosses of the Order of the Holy
Ghost, and _semée fleurs-de-lys_, stiffly covered with rich embroidery.
He went almost the whole way with his hat in his hand, saluting the
ladys and acclamators, who had filled the windows with their beauty, and
the aire with “Vive le Roy!”’
In 1651 Hobbes wrote the book so indissolubly connected with his name,
_Leviathan_. When this work was first circulated in Paris, he found
himself the object of aversion to every class. To readers of every way
of thinking, there were passages at which to cavil and take objection.
Indeed, Hobbes was warned that from the priesthood his life was in
danger; and he once more sought safety in flight. He returned to
England, where he published the obnoxious volume, and took up his abode
in London for some time, in Fetter Lane, made his submission to the
Council of State, and busied himself with literary labours, English and
Latin. The winter of 1659 he spent with his friends at Chatsworth, and
in 1660 came up to London with them to Little Salisbury House. One day,
soon after the Restoration, the King was passing through the Strand,
when he perceived his old master standing at the gate of Lord
Devonshire’s house. The Royal coach was stopped, Charles doffed his hat
most graciously, and inquired after Mr. Hobbes’s health, who was
summoned to the Palace before a week was over, and found himself sitting
for his portrait by Royal command. We are told that the king of limners,
Mr. Cooper, was much delighted with Mr. Hobbes’s pleasant conversation,
and that his Majesty delighted in his wit and repartees. The Merry
Monarch’s courtiers would ‘bayte’ Mr. Hobbes, so much so that when he
appeared the King would often cry, ‘Here comes the bear to be bayted.’
But the philosopher knew how to take his own part, and his answers were
always full of wit and drollery, but usually evasive, from fear of
giving offence. The King granted him an annual pension of £100 a year,
but refused his petition of a grant of land to found a free school at
Malmesbury.
He continued his controversial writings, which brought down upon him
attacks from all quarters. The publication of his works was prohibited
in England, which determined him to bring out a complete edition of them
at Amsterdam. The cry against him continued, and an undergraduate at
Cambridge venturing to support some of his most daring theories, was
summarily expelled the University, while Adam Hood, who had affixed a
panegyric on the philosopher to the commencement of the Antiquities of
Oxford, was compelled to suppress half his compliments. Hobbes retired
into the country, translated Homer into English, wrote the
_Philosophical Decameron_, and the _Civil Wars in England_, which he
dedicated to the King, with a petition to be allowed to publish it.
Charles was much displeased with the book, and gave him a flat denial.
During the panic which was caused by the plague and fire of London, a
Bill was brought into Parliament for the suppression of all atheistical
writings, and a committee formed to inquire into any work suspected of
promulgating such doctrines. Public attention was directed towards
_Leviathan_, and many people believed that the greater number of the
Bishops would willingly have roasted the old philosopher alive; at all
events, Hobbes was much alarmed, being in terror of the whole Bench,
more especially of the Bishop of Ely, whom he had offended. He
accordingly burned a great portion of his papers, and took his departure
for Chatsworth.
It was well for Hobbes, that, disappointed and thwarted in many ways, he
had so peaceful and beautiful a haven wherein to anchor. Lord Devonshire
allowed his old tutor to live under his roof in ease and plenty,
claiming no service of any kind in return for so much hospitality.
Neither the Earl nor his wife subscribed in any way to Hobbes’s
opinions, but often expressed their abhorrence of his principles, both
in politics and religion, sometimes avoiding mention of his name, or
excusing him in some measure by saying he was a humorist, and there was
no accounting for him.
But they were uniformly kind to the old man, in spite of it all. Hobbes
divided his time and thoughts between attention to his health and to his
studies. The morning he dedicated to the first consideration—climbing
the nearest hill as soon as he got up; or, if the weather were bad,
taking hard exercise in the house as soon as he had finished his
breakfast,—after which meal he would make a circuit of the apartments,
and visit my lord, my lady, the children, and any distinguished
strangers that might be there, conversing for a short time with all of
them.
Towards the end of his life he read few books, preferring, he said, ‘to
digest what he had already fed upon;’ ‘besides,’ he remarked, laughing,
‘if I were to read as much as most men do, I should be as ignorant as
they.’ In company he was free in discourse, but could not brook
contradiction, then he was short and peevish; indeed it was usual, on
admitting strangers, to warn them not to vex the old man by differing
from him in argument. Hobbes, by his own testimony, was of a timid
nature. Kennet, the biographer of the Cavendishes, from whose amusing
volume we have drawn largely, says, ‘It is not trampling on the ashes of
the late Mr. Hobbes to say he was a coward. He was constantly under
apprehension of messengers to arrest him, and that they would enter
Chatsworth or Hardwicke by force, and compel Lord Devonshire to give him
up.’
Under the pressure of these fears he wrote an Apology for himself and
his writings, in which he affirmed that the doctrines at which exception
had been taken were not so much his opinions as his suppositions, a
delicate distinction enough. In his latter days Hobbes made an open
profession of religion, and frequented service in the chapel, often
partaking of the Holy Communion. If any one in conversation questioned
his belief, he would invariably allude to these practices, and refer the
speaker to the chaplain, who would bear testimony to his orthodoxy. Some
people thought this chapel-going was the result of his wish to conform
to the rules of the household, as he never went to a parish church, and
always turned his back on the sermon, ‘for,’ said he, ‘they can teach me
nothing that I do not know.’ He had a perfect terror of being left to
himself in an empty house, and would always accompany the family from
Chatsworth to Hardwicke and back, however weak and ill he might be. On
the last occasion he journeyed to Hardwicke on a feather bed in a coach,
and the exertion at so advanced an age hastened his death. He could not
endure the thought of dying, and had a new coat made when on his
deathbed, which, he hoped, would last him three years, and then he would
have another. He questioned the physician at last whether his disease
were curable, and on being told he might hope for alleviation, but no
cure—a fact which his science and philosophy might surely have told him
at ninety-two years of age—he said, ‘Then I hope I shall find a hole to
creep out of the world.’
They were his last words, and were somewhat ambiguous, as ‘Hardwicke
Hall, more glass than wall,’ could not well be described as a ‘hole,’
with its lordly gallery, its noble staircase, and its historical
memories of Mary Queen of Scots, and Arabella Stuart. Many of Hobbes’s
most remarkable writings are preserved there in manuscript.
Our philosopher upheld the expediency of making use of an evil
instrument in an emergency, and said, ‘If I had fallen into a well, and
the devil let down his leg, I would willingly lay hold of his cloven
foot to haul myself up by.’ He amused himself by making his friends
write provisional epitaphs for him, only one of which satisfied
him,—‘This is the true philosopher’s stone.’ Hobbes continued studying
and translating to the end of his life; but Pope considered his
rendering of the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ ‘too mean for criticism.’
Although not very strong in youth, Hobbes enjoyed excellent health on
gaining middle age. He was six feet high, of a fresh and ruddy
complexion, yellowish moustache, which turned up naturally after the
Cavalier fashion; with a tip, or ‘King Charles,’ under his lip, being
otherwise close shaven. He did not affect to look severe, considering
‘heaviness of countenance no sign of God’s favour, and a cheerful,
charitable, upright behaviour a better sign of religion than the zealous
maintaining of controverted opinions.’ He had always a book of ‘Prick
Songs’ lying on the table, and at night, when every one in the house was
asleep, he would sing aloud,—not because he had a good voice, but for
the benefit of his lungs. Thomas Hobbes appears to have been too much of
a philosopher to have fallen at any time under the spell of beauty; at
least we can find no mention in his _Memoirs_ of even a passing
subjugation to female charms. Lord Clarendon speaks of him as ‘one of
the most ancient acquaintance I have in the world, whom I have ever
esteemed, not only for his eminent parts of learning, but as a man of
probity, and one whose life has been free from scandal.’
------------------
_No. 5._
ABRAHAM COWLEY.
_Dark dress, long flowing hair._
BORN 1618, DIED 1667.
BY MRS. BEALE.
THE posthumous son of a small London tradesman, his mother, although in
straitened circumstances, resolved to give her boy the best education in
her power; and she was rewarded by living to see him rise to eminence
and distinction. Little Abraham one day, sitting in the window seat in
his mother’s home, found a volume of Spenser’s _Faëry Queen_ lying
there. He opened the book, and was soon absorbed in the contents,
‘sucking the sweet honey of those inspired lines.’ He read, and re-read,
and, as Dr. Johnson tersely expresses it, became ‘irrecoverably a poet.’
His mother contrived to get him a nomination on the foundation at
Westminster School, where he soon became remarkable for his powers of
versification. At ten years old he wrote the _Tragical History of
Pyramus and Thisbe_, and soon afterwards _Constantia and Philetus_, and
before he was fifteen a volume of his poems was actually published. In
1636 he went to the University of Cambridge, where, without neglecting
his studies, he continued his poetical pursuits, and wrote a play called
_Love’s Riddle_, which he dedicated to Sir Kenelm Digby (the fashionable
patron of the day), as also a Latin comedy, inscribed to the Master of
his College. Cowley was expelled from Cambridge on account of his
adherence to the King’s party, and took shelter at St. John’s College,
Oxford. A satire which he wrote about this time, entitled _The Puritan
and the Papist_, gained him the favour of the Royalists, and especially
of Lord Falkland, who made him known and welcomed at Court. When Queen
Henrietta Maria went to France, Cowley followed her fortunes, and,
becoming Secretary to Lord Jermyn, was employed in correspondence of the
most confidential nature, such as communications between the Royalists
in England and those in France, and private letters between King Charles
I. and his Queen. He was indefatigable in his labours, and would cipher
and decipher far into the night, yet finding time for poetical
compositions in the midst of such arduous work. He produced an amorous
drama, entitled _The Mistress_, for he considered that no man was worthy
of the name of poet till he had paid his tribute to Love.
In 1656 he went over on a mission to England, to inquire and report on
the political state of affairs; but the Parliamentarians were on his
track, and he was thrown into prison, and only set free on the payment
of a considerable ransom, which was generously advanced by a friend. He
became a Doctor of Medicine at Oxford, but does not appear to have
practised in that capacity, though in the early days of the Royal
Society, just founded at Oxford, and not yet translated to London, the
poet figured as ‘Dr. Cowley.’ He made a pilgrimage to Kent, and in the
fair fields of ‘England’s garden’ he studied botany, and gathered
materials which led to the composition of several Latin poems treating
of trees, herbs, and flowers, and their peculiar qualities.
Cowley was destined to great mortification and disappointment at the
Restoration, being scarcely noticed by the King. It is supposed that a
faction had been formed against him, by which his hopes of obtaining the
Mastership of the Savoy, that had been promised him both by Charles II.
and his father before him, were frustrated. The ill success of his
comedy, _The Guardian_, when put upon the stage, was another source of
mortification. There was a spiteful rumour set about, that the drama was
intended as a satire on the Royalists, and the author was so
discomfited, hearing of its failure, that Dryden said he did not receive
the news with the calmness becoming so great a man. He wrote an Ode, in
which he designated himself as the ‘melancholy Cowley,’ and this
production brought down upon him a host of squibs and lampoons, on the
dejected ‘Savoy-missing Cowley,’ and the like. Disgusted with the outer
world, our poet languished for the retirement of a country life, and
settled at Chertsey, in Surrey. His friends the Earls of Arlington and
St. Albans (whom he had served when Lord Jermyn) procured him an office
which brought in a certain salary, ‘but,’ says Johnson, ‘he did not live
long to enjoy the pleasure, or suffer the weariness, of solitude.’
He died at Chertsey in 1667. He was the author of numerous works, which
are little read at the present day, although the name of Abraham Cowley
ranks high in literature. He was at the University with Milton, but the
two poets differed as much in the quality of their writings as in the
bias of their political views. The Duke of Buckingham, on hearing the
news of Cowley’s death, said he had not left behind him as honest a man
in England. He erected a monument to the poet’s memory in Westminster
Abbey. We find in John Evelyn’s Diary: ‘I heard the sad news of the
death of Abraham Cowley, that incomparable poet and virtuous man, Aug.
1667.—Went to Cowley’s funerall, whose corpse lay at Wallingford House,
and was thence conveyed to Westminster Abbey in a hearse with six
horses, and all decency. Neere a hundred coaches of noblemen and persons
of qualitie following; among these all the witts of the towne, divers
bishops and cleargymen. He was interred neere Geoffrey Chaucer and
Spenser. A goodly monument is since erected to his memorie.’ Sir William
Cowper was much attached to Cowley, and had his portrait painted
especially for his own gallery.
------------------
_No. 6._
JAMES NORTHCOTE, R.A.
_Dark dress. White hair._
BORN 1746, DIED 1831.
BY HIMSELF.
THE son of a watchmaker, he was born at Plymouth, and, like his
illustrious fellow-townsman, showed an early enthusiasm for art, and a
distaste for any other occupation. But his father was prudent, and bound
his son apprentice to himself, allowing him no money, and discouraging
in every possible manner the boy’s artistic tendencies. They were too
strong to be repressed. Young James gave all his spare time to the study
of drawing, and, having scraped together five guineas, he doubled the
sum by the sale of a print of the new assembly rooms and bathing-place
at Plymouth, from one of his own Indian ink sketches. Armed with this
large fortune, he plotted a secret journey to London with his elder
brother Samuel; his only confidants being Dr. Mudge and a Mr. Tolcher,
both Plymouth men, and friends of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the newly-elected
President of the Royal Academy, to whom they gave James letters of
introduction. The brothers set forth on their pilgrimage one fine May
morning, being Whit-Sunday; and the younger tells us that when they
arrived on the hill and looked homewards, Samuel felt some regret—James
nothing but satisfaction.
The travellers performed the whole of the journey on foot, with a rare
lift on the top of a stage-coach; sleeping wherever they could: in small
ale-houses, by the wayside, sometimes in haylofts, and even under
hedgerows. The new President received the young aspirant with the
greatest kindness, and installed him in his own house. Samuel Northcote
soon returned home, but James wrote to a friend in Devonshire, in
raptures with his new domicile. ‘The house,’ he says, ‘is to me a
paradise; all the family behave with the greatest kindness, especially
Sir Joshua’s two pupils. Miss Reynolds has promised to show me her
paintings, for she paints very fine, both history and portraits. Sir
Joshua is so much occupied that I seldom see him; but, when I find him
at liberty, I will ask his advice for future guidance, and whether there
will be any chance of my eventually gaining a subsistence in London, by
portrait-painting.’ The master soon found out that his new pupil was
earnest and industrious, and it was arranged that Northcote should
remain in the President’s service for five years. The hall in which he
worked was adjacent to his master’s sitting-room, and he was both amused
and edified by overhearing the conversations of such men as Burke,
Johnson, Garrick, etc. He worked diligently, copying Sir Joshua’s
pictures, studying the human form—drapery, etc.,—persuading the
housemaids to sit to him, and working as a student at the Academy. He
tells an amusing incident of Reynolds’s favourite macaw, which had a
violent hatred for one of the maid-servants in the house, whom Northcote
had painted. It flew furiously at the portrait, pecking the face with
its beak. We might be inclined to suspect the artist of inventing this
implied compliment to his own handiwork, were we not also assured that
Sir Joshua tried the experiment of putting the portrait in view of the
bird, who invariably swooped down on the painted enemy. The maid’s
crime, we believe, consisted in cleaning out the cage.
Northcote began to exhibit on his own account in 1774, and became
eventually A.R.A. and R.A. Samuel Northcote met Sir Joshua on one of his
visits to Plymouth, at the house of their common friend, Dr. Mudge, and
writes to his brother to tell him the President had spoken of him in
very satisfactory terms. When the five years’ apprenticeship was nearly
over, Northcote took leave of his master. He gives rather a tedious
account of the interview, in which he announced his determination, but
ends the paragraph by saying ‘it was of course impossible to leave a
house, where he had received so much kindness, without regret; it is a
melancholy reflection, even at this moment, when one considers the
ravages a few short years have made in that unparalleled society which
shone at his table, now all gone.’
On leaving London, our painter went into Devonshire, made some money by
his portraits, and then proceeded to Italy alone, ignorant, as he was,
of one word of the language. He spent his time in copying the Italian
masters, more especially the works of Titian; returned from Rome to
England _via_ Flanders, and again had recourse to portrait-painting,
first in his native county, and afterwards in London, where he settled.
About this time the scheme for the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery was
started, making a great sensation, and Northcote gained much κυδος for
his contributions to that work, more especially ‘The Princes in the
Tower,’ which furnished Chantry with the idea for his beautiful and
touching monument in Lichfield Cathedral. Northcote took great delight
in this work, as his bias had always led him to historical and fancy
subjects. His sacred pictures were not much admired, and his plagiarism
of Hogarth, which was a species of parody on the great works of that
great man, gained him no popularity. An answer of his amused Sir Joshua
much, on one occasion. When the President asked him how it chanced that
the Prince of Wales so often mentioned him, ‘I was not aware you even
knew him?’ ‘Well,’ replied James, ‘I know very little of him, or he of
me; it is only his bragging way.’
His conversations were sufficiently esteemed to be recorded by Hazlitt,
his friend and constant companion. By nature Northcote was intelligent,
energetic, and industrious; he triumphed over the disadvantages of an
imperfect education, and knew how to benefit by his opportunities. We
have never read his Life of Sir Joshua, but by the numerous extracts
which Leslie and Taylor give us, it would appear he was scarcely a
worthy biographer of so great a man. He resided for nearly half a
century in Argyll Street, London, his sister keeping his house, and died
there in his eighty-sixth year, leaving a good fortune, the product of
his labours.
------------------
_No. 7._
SIR WILLIAM COWPER, FIRST BARONET.
_Black dress. White collar. Pointed beard. Moustaches._
BORN 1582, DIED 1664.
BY CORNELIUS JANSEN.
DESCENDED from Robert Cowper, who, in the reign of Henry V., in
consideration of his good services, received the sum of _sixpence a day_
for life out of the King’s rents in the county of North Hants. William
Cowper, in the reign of Henry VIII., married Margaret, daughter of
Thomas Spencer, of St. Peter’s, Cornhill, and this lady’s maiden name
has been perpetuated in the Cowper family to the present day.
Sir William, of whom we are treating, was grandson of the above, and
eldest surviving son of John Cowper and Elizabeth Ironside of Lincoln,
his wife, who had five sons and four daughters. William succeeded his
father, and was seated at Ratling Court, in Kent. He was created a
Baronet of Nova Scotia, afterwards of England, and subsequently knighted
by King Charles I. at Theobalds. He was also appointed Collector of
Imposts on strangers in the Port of London; and when the civil war
began, being a zealous Royalist, he was imprisoned in Ely House,
Holborn, together with his eldest son. But, says Collins, Sir William
outlived all his troubles, and went to dwell at his castle at Hertford,
where he gained the hearts of his neighbours by the cordiality of his
manners and his generous hospitality, while his name was beloved in the
country round for the Christian acts of charity and kindness in which he
took delight. Neither was it the formal dispensation of alms alone, for
Sir William loved to visit and comfort his poorer neighbours in their
own dwellings. He married Martha, daughter of John Masters, of East
Langdon, county Kent, and sister to Sir Edward Masters, Knight, by whom
he had six sons and three daughters. Sir William was buried in the
cloister of St. Michael’s, Cornhill, beside his parents, who lie there
beneath ‘a goodly monument.’
Cornelius Jansen, who painted Sir William’s portrait, and that of his
son John, was a well-known Flemish painter, who resided for many years
in London, and afterwards in Kent, near Ratling Court, where many
gentlemen in the neighbourhood sat to him.
------------------
_No. 8._
JOHN COWPER.
_Black dress. White shirt. Long brown hair._
BY CORNELIUS JANSEN.
HE was the eldest son of Sir William Cowper, first Baronet, by the
sister of Sir Edward Masters, Knight. He was entered at Lincoln’s Inn as
a law student, and married Martha, daughter of John Hewkley of London,
merchant, by whom he had one son, William, who succeeded his
grandfather, and a daughter, who died young. John Cowper was a staunch
Royalist, and shared his father’s captivity on that account. He died
during his imprisonment. The following letter, addressed to him, in the
year 1634, when on the point of starting for his travels, appears to us
worthy of insertion, from the manliness and rectitude of its counsels,
enhanced by the quaint diction which marked the period:—
_Feb. 25, 1634._—A remembrance to my Son, John Cowper, at his
going towards y^e Parts beyond y^e Seas.
You must remember how, that from your Birth to this day, I have
taken care for your Education. And you have hitherto been within
my Eye, and under Tutors, and Governours, and that now, You,
alone, Launch forth into y^e World by your Self, to be steered
and governed. Many Storms, and Rubbs, many fair and pleasing
Baits, shall you meet withal, Company most infectious and
dangerous, so that your Cheif Safety must be y^e Protection of
God Almighty, whom you must daily importune to direct your
wayes, as hitherto I doubt not but you have done, Else your
Carriage and course of Life had not been so commendable.
If this Golden time of your Youth be spent unprofitably, y^e
whole Harvest of your Life will be Weeds: if well husbanded, it
will yeild you a profitable return in y^e whole Course of your
Life.
The time you remain there I would have Spent as followeth,—
1. Dayly Praying to Almighty God for his Blessing on you.
2. To endeavour to attain y^e French and Italian Tongues.
3. To mend your Writing and learn Arithmetick.
As for Horsemanship, and other qualities of a Gentleman, a
smatch would doe well.
And having attained to knowledge, if you doe not alwayes
remember, both in discourse and Pashion, not to be transported
with hast, But to Think before What you intend to speak, and
then treatably to deliver it, with a distinct and Audable
Voice, all your labor and pains is Lost. For altho you have
indifferently well reformed it, yet it is Defective, and care
yet may Perfect you in your speech.
Your Loving Father, careful of your Good,
W. COWPER.
To my Son, John Cowper.
------------------
_No. 9._
SIR WILLIAM COWPER, SECOND BARONET.
_Light brown coat. White cravat._
BY SIR PETER LELY.
THE son of John Cowper, by Martha Hewkley, succeeded to the baronetcy
and estates on the death of his grandfather, served in the last two
Parliaments of Charles II., as Member for Hertford; and, in 1680,
presented reasons (with many other Members of both Houses) for the
indictment of James, Duke of York, for not coming to church. After the
Revolution, he again sat for Hertford in three different Parliaments.
His wife was Sarah, daughter of Sir Samuel Holled, by whom he left two
sons,—William, first Earl Cowper, Lord Chancellor, and Spencer.
------------------
_No. 10._
SPENCER COWPER.
_Tawny coat. Loose cravat._
DIED 1728.
HE was the second son of Sir William Cowper, second Baronet, by the
daughter of Sir Samuel Holled, consequently the brother of William,
afterwards the first Lord Cowper; and we have alluded, in the life of
the Chancellor, to the deep attachment which subsisted between these
two brothers. They were educated at the same school, selected the same
profession, and, when travelling the same Circuit, almost invariably
inhabited the same lodgings.
Sir William Cowper and his eldest son and namesake had both been
returned in 1695 for Hertford, after a sharp contest, for the Tory
element, though in the minority, was strong in that borough. Among the
most zealous of their supporters was one Stout, a Quaker by creed, a
maltster by trade; and he had been most instrumental in furthering the
election of father and son. At all events, so thought Sir William, who
did not discontinue his friendly relations with the widow and only
daughter of Samuel Stout after the good Quaker’s death. The two ladies
were frequently invited to Sir William’s London house in Hatton
Garden, and the visit occasionally returned at Mrs. Stout’s residence
in the town of Hertford. Moreover, Mistress Sarah, to whom her father
had left a good fortune, employed Spencer Cowper as her man of
business, and consulted him in all her financial concerns.
Unfortunately it soon became painfully evident to all concerned that
this beautiful, imaginative, and essentially excitable girl had formed
a deep attachment for the young lawyer, already the husband of another
woman.
‘But he, like an honest man,’ says Lord Macaulay, ‘took no advantage
of her unhappy state of mind.’ A frightful catastrophe, however, was
impending. On the 14th March 1699, the day after the opening of the
Spring Assizes, the town and neighbourhood of Hertford were thrown
into a state of excitement and consternation by the news that the body
of Sarah Stout had been found in the waters of the Priory river, which
flows through that town. Suspicion fell on Spencer Cowper, on the poor
plea that he was the last reported to have been in her company; but
his defence was so clear and satisfactory on the inquest, that a
verdict of suicide while in a state of temporary insanity was
recorded. William Cowper was not attending the Assizes, his
Parliamentary duties detaining him in London, but Spencer finished the
Circuit, in company with the judges, heavy-hearted indeed at the sad
fate of his pretty friend, but with no misgiving on his own account.
He little dreamed of the mischief which was hatching by the political
adversaries of the Cowper interest. A rumour was carefully promulgated
that Spencer had presumed on his intimacy with the fair Quaker, and
that Sarah had drowned herself to conceal her disgrace. But this
charge was proved to be unfounded. The next step taken by those who
wished to render the name of Cowper obnoxious in Hertford, was to
revive the cry of ‘Murder’ against Spencer, on the plea that the
position in which the body had been found precluded the possibility of
the girl having thrown herself into the water. Two ‘accomplices’ were
carefully ferreted out, in the persons of two attorneys, who had come
down to Hertford the day before the sad event; but these gentlemen
were left at large on bail, while the man, whose father and brother at
that moment represented Hertford, was thrown into prison for months,
to await the Summer Assizes.
The distress of his parents, and of the brother who dearly loved him,
may be well imagined, more especially as they were keenly alive to all
the adverse influences which were at work. When the eventful day of
the trial at length arrived, the town of Hertford—it might wellnigh be
said the whole of England,—was divided in favour of the Cowpers and
the Stouts; for so unwilling were the Quakers to let the imputation of
suicide rest on the memory of one of their members, that they most
earnestly desired to shift the blame on the young barrister, or, as he
afterwards said at his trial, to risk bringing three innocent men to
the gallows. We have good authority for affirming that the most
ignorant and densest of judges, Baron Hatsel by name, sat on the bench
that day, and that the prosecution was remarkable for the malignity
with which it was conducted. Their winning card, as they believed, was
the statement that the position in which the corpse had been found
floating, proved that the girl must have been murdered before she had
been thrown into the water. Medical evidence was brought forward by
the prosecution in support of this theory, as also that of two or
three sailors, who were put into the box. On the side of the defendant
appeared names which still live in medical annals,—William Cowper
(although no kinsman of his namesake), the most celebrated anatomist
then in England, and Samuel Garth, the great London physician and
rival of Hans Sloane. After what Macaulay terms ‘the superstitious
testimony of the forecastle,’ Baron Hatsel asked Dr. Garth what he
could say in reply. ‘My Lord,’ answered the physician drily, ‘I say
they are mistaken. I could find seamen in abundance who would swear
that they have known whistling raise the wind.’
This charge was disposed of; the body had drifted down to the
mill-dam, where it was discovered entangled and supported by stakes,
only a portion of the petticoat being visible. But the evidence of a
maid-servant of Mistress Stout produced great excitement in Court. She
told how the young barrister had arrived at the house of her mistress
the night before the poor girl’s death; of how he had dined with the
two ladies; how she had gone upstairs to prepare his bed, as he was
invited to sleep, leaving the young people together, her mistress
having retired early; how, when upstairs, she heard the house-door
slam, and, going down to the parlour, found it empty. At first she was
not alarmed, thinking Mistress Sarah had gone out for a stroll with
Mr. Cowper, and would soon be back; but as time went on, she became
very uneasy, and went and told her mistress. The two women sat up all
night watching and listening, but had not liked to take any further
steps, out of regard for Sarah’s reputation. They never saw her again
till she was brought up from the river drowned. Then followed the
ridiculous investigation of Cowper’s ‘accomplices,’ as they were
termed—two attorneys and a scrivener, who had come down from London
under very suspicious circumstances, _i.e._ to attend the Assizes; how
they were all in a room together shortly after eleven o’clock, very
wet, and in a great perspiration, and had been overheard to say,
‘Mistress Stout had behaved ill to her lover, but her courting days
would soon be over,’ to which communication was added the astounding
fact, that a piece of rope had been found in a cupboard adjoining the
sitting-room.
It was fortunate for Spencer Cowper, who was not allowed the
assistance of counsel, that his legal education, joined to a sense of
conscious innocence, made his defence comparatively easy to him; but
the task, on all accounts, must have been most distasteful and
repugnant to a man of his character and position. He rose with
dignity, and evinced great skill and decision of purpose in the manner
in which he cross-examined the witnesses, and exposed the motives of
sectarian and political animosity, which had been employed to weaken
the interest of Sir William Cowper and his eldest son. So far his
arguments were unhesitating,—he was now to be put to a harder test. He
assured the Court that he deeply deplored the course he was compelled
to take, but four lives were at stake, and he must, however
reluctantly, violate the confidence of the dead. He brought many
witnesses to substantiate the fact of the young Quaker having
cherished a fatal passion for him, although she knew him to be
married. When last in London, she had written to announce her
intention of visiting him at his chambers in the Temple, to prevent
which William Cowper had purposely said in her hearing that Spencer
had gone into the country on business. Disappointed of this
opportunity, Sarah wrote to invite him to stay at her mother’s house
at Hertford during the Spring Assizes, which invitation he declined,
having secured lodgings in the town. He also produced letters in which
the poor girl said, ‘I am glad you have not quite forgotten there is
such a person as myself,’ and, after hinting at what seemed
unkindness, she begs him ‘so to order your affairs as to be here as
soon as you can, which cannot be sooner than you are welcome.’
In another and later letter she was less ambiguous in her expressions:
‘Come life, come death,’ she says desperately, ‘I am resolved never to
desert you.’ He further asserted that the continual rebuffs she
received threw her into a state of melancholy, and that she often
spoke of her intention to destroy herself. The prisoner continued,
that on the first day of the Assizes he went first to his lodgings,
but, unwilling to mortify Sarah, afterwards to her mother’s house, and
stayed dinner; went out, and returned to supper; but when the maid had
gone upstairs, and he was alone with the girl, although he declined
detailing the conversation which ensued between them, he gave the
judge and jury to understand that it was from consideration for her
character that he left the house, which he did alone, and returned to
his lodgings in the Market Place.
The next morning the news of the terrible event reached him. His
brother William and his wife both testified to the state of
despondency into which Sarah had lately fallen, and her frequent
allusions to approaching death. As regarded ‘the accomplices,’ they
gave good reasons for their coming to Hertford, and, for himself, he
had never had any communication with them. The judge summed up in a
vacillating and illogical manner, confessing that he was rather faint,
and was sensible he had omitted many things, but could repeat no more
of the evidence. The half-hour which it took the jury to deliberate
must have seemed interminable to those members of Cowper’s family,
already nearly maddened by suspense—above all, to the brother who sat
near him, and followed the details of the trial with breathless
interest. The jury returned, and, when the foreman answered the awful
question, the prisoner was the one individual in Court who manifested
the least emotion as the words ‘Not guilty’ echoed through the
building, and all but the enemies and slanderers acknowledged the
justice of the verdict. A feeble attempt was made to bring all the
four accused men to a fresh trial, by what was then called an ‘appeal
to murder,’ and there were various hearings on the subject by men of
the highest standing in the law, William Cowper, on these occasions,
being counsel for his brother. The proceedings, however, were quashed.
Some scurrilous writings were published, in hopes of setting the tide
of public opinion against Spencer, but they were soon forgotten. He
pursued his profession, in which he rose to eminence; but it may
easily be conjectured that, when presiding at a trial for murder,
Judge Cowper must have felt, even more than the generality of his
colleagues, the responsibility of his position, from an intimate and
personal sympathy with the feelings of an accused prisoner; and he was
remarked for his merciful tendencies. On the accession of George I.,
he was named Attorney-General to the Prince of Wales, was one of the
managers on the trial of Dr. Sacheverell for high treason, and
successively Chief-Justice of Chester, Chancellor of the Duchy of
Lancaster, Serjeant-at-Law, and Judge of the Court of Common Pleas. He
also sat in Parliament for Truro, and his sister-in-law, Lady Cowper,
tells us that in 1714 the King gave M. Robethon (one of his favourite
German Ministers) the grant of Clerk of the Parliament after the death
of Mr. Johnson, who then held it, for any one he liked to name. ‘M.
Robethon let my brother Cowper have it in reversion for his sons for
£1800.’
By his wife, Pennington, daughter of John Goodere, Esq., Spencer had
three sons,—William, John, and Ashley. The official appointments above
alluded to were held in succession by the family for several years. He
had also a daughter, Judith, known as a poetess, married to
Lieut.-Colonel Madan. Spencer Cowper died at his chambers in Lincoln’s
Inn Fields, in 1728, and was buried at Hertingfordbury, where an
elaborate monument is erected to his memory. He was grandfather to
William Cowper the poet.
------------------
_No. 11._
WILLIAM, FIRST EARL COWPER, FIRST LORD CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN.
_Full length. In Chancellor’s robes. Flowing wig. Chair._
BORN 1664, DIED 1723.
BY RICHARDSON.
HE was the eldest son of Sir William Cowper, the second Baronet, by
Sarah, daughter of Sir Samuel Holled, merchant, of London, and was
born at Hertford Castle. He went to school at St. Albans, and seems to
have been of a most docile disposition, to judge by a letter written
to his mother when only eight years old. He says: ‘I thank you for my
bow and arrows, which I shall never use but when my master gives us
leave to play. I shall hereafter take more care of my spelling and
writing, even without ruled lines.’
His childish letters were written in a fair hand, giving promise of
the beautiful writing for which the future Lord Chancellor was famed,
and were addressed with much punctilio, ‘These for my ever honoured
mother, the Lady Cowper, at her house in the Charter-House Yard,
London.’
The boy took great pains, not only with his writing, but with his
style, so much so as to cause a suspicion in his mother’s mind that
one of the epistles was dictated by an usher, an insinuation which the
young student repelled with some asperity. It seems doubtful whether
he ever went to a public school, and certainly he never entered a
University; but at eighteen he became a Templar, giving himself up
rather to pleasure than study in these first years of a London life.
He formed a connection with a Miss Culling of Hertingfordbury, by whom
he had two children. This _liaison_ was much talked of, and by many it
was reported he had married her, a circumstance which caused him much
annoyance at a later period. In 1686 he became attached to one
Mistress Judith Booth, wise and beautiful, but poor withal, in
consequence of which his family opposed the marriage. His father was
in the prime of life, and had other children to provide for; but, in
spite of all opposition, the wedding took place, and the young husband
became studious and steady from the pressure of domestic
responsibility. He writes an amusing letter to his wife, describing
his maiden motion in the Court of King’s Bench, and tells her that he
was blamed for not interweaving enough ‘May it please your Lordships’
and the like urbanities in his speech, adding, ‘but I will amend in
future, and you shall find me begin to practise extraordinary
civilities on your sweet self.’
The precepts and example of Sir William Cowper had instilled
principles of political liberality in the young lawyer’s mind which
made him regard with disapprobation and anger many of Charles II.’s
(public) proceedings, towards the latter part of his reign, and still
more so those of his successor, added to which considerations the
Cowper family were rigid Protestants; and thus it came about that when
the Prince of Orange landed in England, the brothers William and
Spencer hastily raised a small body of volunteers, and set forth, with
more than a score of young gentlemen of the same political tendencies,
to join William.
In a diary he sent to his wife, Cowper gives an amusing description of
how he fell in with the Prince at Wallingford, at a small inn, where
he saw him ‘dine with a great variety of meats, sauces, and
sweetmeats, which, it seems, is part of the fatigue we admire so much
in great generals!’
He travelled with the Prince to Windsor, where they were received with
unfeigned pleasure; and he speaks of the new face of the Court, ‘where
there is nothing of the usual affectation of terror, but extreme
civility to all sorts of people, and country women admitted to see the
Prince dine.’ He does not mention a circumstance which befell in this
journey; but his daughter, Lady Sarah, who had the particulars from
her uncle Spencer, proudly records an instance of her father’s
gallantry:—On the bridge at Oxford, the small regiment of
Hertfordshire volunteers found one of the arches broken down, and an
officer, with three files of musketeers, who presented arms, and asked
who they were for. There was a silence, as the volunteers did not know
to which side their questioners belonged. ‘But my father,’ says Lady
Sarah, ‘was quite unconcerned, and, spurring his horse forward, he
flung up his hat, crying, “The Prince of Orange,” which was answered
by a shout, for they were all of the same mind.’
When the new King no longer required his services, Cowper resumed his
profession with diligence and zeal. He writes to his wife to express
his regret at not being able to stay with her in the country; but, had
he done so, he would throw himself out of the little business he had.
Another time he writes from Kingston, giving an account of his having
achieved a journey through the Sussex ways (which are ruinous beyond
imagination) without hurt. ‘I vow ’tis a melancholy consideration that
mankind should inhabit such a heap of dirt.’
Lord Campbell tells us, writing from Abinger Hall in 1845, ‘that it is
a still common expression in that part of Surrey, that those who live
on the south side of Leith Hill are in the dirt.’ Cowper contrasts the
damp undrained tracts of Sussex with the fine champaign country of
Surrey, dry and dusty, ‘as if you had shifted in a few hours from
winter to mid-summer.’
The lawyer was rising gradually to great estimation in his profession,
and his friend Lord Chancellor Sommers suggested to him to go
into Parliament, believing he would be most serviceable to the Whig
party. When the elections took place in 1695, the Whigs were in the
ascendant, and both Sir William Cowper and his eldest son were
returned for Hertford, the Quakers being their chief supporters.
Young Cowper’s maiden speech gave promise (afterwards well fulfilled)
of his qualifications as a debater. He was in great favour at Court,
and, being raised to the rank of King’s Counsel, distinguished himself
by his eloquence in the prosecution of more than one State prisoner.
During the trial of Lord Mohun, for the murder of Richard Coote,
Cowper received a tribute for the clearness and excellence of his
voice, a quality for which, in after times, he became proverbial.
Several of the Lords, whose patience was being sorely tried by the
confused, indistinct tones in which the Solicitor-General summed up,
moved that some one with a good voice, ‘particularly Mr. Cowper,’
should be heard,—a great compliment to the gentleman, although the
motion was overruled. The Cowper family, and Sir William’s eldest son
in particular, seemed in the good graces of fortune, until the
untoward event occurred which threw all those who bore the name into
distress and perplexity, being, namely, the charge of murder against
Spencer Cowper, as already recorded in our notice of his life. He and
his brother were much attached, were members of the same profession,
and travelled the same Circuit—in fact, were almost inseparable
companions.
The justice of Spencer Cowper’s acquittal was unquestionable, yet the
popular feeling ran so high in the town and neighbourhood, especially
among the community of which the unfortunate girl was a member, that
it was clear to every one that no candidate bearing the name of Cowper
would be successful at the next election. Sir William indeed retired
from Parliamentary life altogether, and his eldest son having failed
in his canvass for Totness, in Devon (for which place he had stood by
the wish and advice of his friend and patron, Lord Sommers), he
was fain to take refuge in the close borough of Berealstone, which he
represented until intrusted with the Great Seal. William III. died,
and Queen Anne reigned in his stead, ascending the throne with
feelings most inimical to the Whig party. Affairs did not look
promising for William Cowper, all the more so as Lord Sommers
had fallen into great disfavour; but he weathered the storm, and when
the general election in 1705 resulted in a majority for the Whigs, the
Great Seal of England was transferred from the hands of Sir Nathan
Wright to those of William Cowper. He had for some time been looked
upon as leader in the House of Commons, where his agreeable manners
and graceful address had made him personally popular. As in the case
of his brother, slander had been busy with his name, and the report
that he had married two wives (of which circumstance hereafter) had
been widely circulated. But he had powerful friends at Court in the
Duchess of Marlborough and Lord Treasurer Godolphin; and her Majesty
listened to their recommendations and her own bias in his favour, and
William Cowper kissed hands at Kensington Palace on his appointment as
Lord Keeper of the Great Seal.
‘The youngest Lord Keeper,’ says his daughter, Lady Sarah (he was in
his forty-first year), ‘on record.’ ‘He looked very young, and wearing
his own hair made him appear more so, which the Queen observing,
obliged him to cut it off, remarking, it would be said she had given
the Seals to a boy.’
It was about this time he contracted his second marriage; he had
sorely mourned for the death of his wife Judith, and her child, but
the charms of a fair client had made a deep impression on his heart.
Mary, daughter of John Clavering, Esq. of Chopwell, county Durham (a
gentleman of Tory principles), was handsome, as we see from Kneller’s
portrait—sensible, and intelligent, as we gather from her charming
diary.
The marriage was at first kept secret, which seems unaccountable, as
the lady was well born, well bred, and of great personal charms. But
she herself gives us a clue to the mystery. The Lord Keeper was still
young, very handsome, in a high position, with every prospect of
advancement, and the eyes of many a Court beauty were turned on him as
a desirable match. We have enlarged on all the intrigues that were
carried on to prevent his union with his ‘dear rogue’ (as he fondly
calls her in one of his letters) in the notice of Lady Cowper; suffice
it to say that the sequel proved how excellent had been his choice.
But he did not allow domestic happiness to interfere with official
duties. He set himself, with the advice of Lord Sommers, to
bring about reforms on many points in the Court of Chancery, and,
above all, he took a step which met with the highest approbation among
all but the few, who aspired to the dignity he had already attained;
he abolished the custom of New Year’s gifts. For many years it had
been expected of every person connected with the Court of Chancery to
present the Lord Keeper or Lord Chancellor with gifts of provisions
and wine. But latterly money had been substituted for these minor
donations, and hundreds, and sometimes thousands, had been presented
to the great official on the 1st of January.
Lady Cowper tells us a laughable story of Lord Chancellor Nottingham
(who spoke with a lisp). He used to stand by his table on New Year’s
Day, for the better reception of the moneys, and every time he laid a
fresh sum on the table he cried aloud, ‘O tyrant cuthtom!’
But before the advent of the year 1706, the Lord Keeper had it
intimated to all those whom it might concern that the practice was
abolished, having first, as (he considered) in duty bound, apprised
the Prime Minister, Lord Godolphin, of his intention. In spite of his
prohibition, some gifts appeared on the day in question, which were
refused. He says in his Diary: ‘New Year’s gifts turned back. I pray
God it do me more good than hurt.’
Now Lord Campbell, while praising the Lord Keeper’s magnanimity,
accuses him of wanting the courage of his opinions; and, finding he
had raised a storm amongst all the heads of all the departments that
had benefited by this ‘tyrant custom’ of present-giving, implied he
had done it in part unintentionally. If this be so, we know at least,
and that from his wife’s diary, that on his second assumption of
office, he adhered to his determination; for,—as to the people who
presented these gifts, ‘it looked like insinuating themselves into the
favour of the Court; and if it was not bribery, it looked too like
it.’
Of the Lord Keeper’s disinterestedness in money matters, and his
liberality, especially where men of talent were concerned, there can
be no doubt. Colley Cibber tells us that when Sir Richard Steele’s
patent as Governor of the Theatre Royal passed the Great Seal, Lord
Cowper steadily refused all fees.
‘Cowper managed the Court of Chancery with impartial justice and great
despatch, and was very useful in the House of Lords in the promotion
of business.’ So far Burnet’s testimony. He was chosen one of the
Lords Commissioners for England on the occasion of the Union with
Scotland, and, being next in rank to the Archbishop of Canterbury (who
did not attend), he occupied a most prominent post at the daily
conferences. Lord Campbell tells us that, by his insight into
character, and his conciliatory manners, he succeeded wonderfully in
soothing Caledonian pride and in quieting Presbyterian jealousy. He
regained his seat at Hertford in spite (as he thought, at least) of
Lord Harley’s machinations; for between him and that Minister there
was no love lost, although Harley had an exalted opinion of the Lord
Keeper’s abilities. He was at this time in the Queen’s confidence, who
sent for him one day to her closet, in order to consult him on the
choice of a Chief Baron for Ireland. ‘I observed it was difficult to
find a fit man; but it was obviously the interest of England to send
over as many magistrates as it was possible from hence, being the best
means to preserve the dependency of that country on England.’ The
Queen said she understood that they had a mind to be independent if
they could, but that they should not. Verily ‘l’histoire se rêpête de
jour en jour.’ He was now raised to the peerage as Baron Cowper of
Wingham, county Kent, and was deputed to offer the thanks of
Parliament to his friend, the Duke of Marlborough, for his late
victory at Ramilies.
The Act of Union appointed there should be one Great Seal for the
United Kingdom, although a Seal should still be kept in Scotland for
things appertaining to private right, and Lord Cowper was declared by
the Queen in Council to be the first Lord Chancellor of Great Britain.
This was in May 1707. In the general election of 1708 the Whigs gained
a decided majority, and Cowper’s enemy, Harley, retired; while his
friend, Lord Sommers, was made President of the Council. Shortly
after the famous trial of Dr. Sacheverell, at which the Lord
Chancellor presided, the Whig Ministry resigned, and the Tories
returned to power. Every endeavour was made by Harley and the Queen
herself to induce Lord Cowper to retain office. He was subjected to
the greatest importunity, in spite of his repeated refusals, and his
repugnance ‘to survive his colleagues.’
He was actually followed down to Cole Green, ‘my place in
Hertfordshire (where I had gone to visit my wife, who had lately lain
in),’ by emissaries of the new Minister, and when he waited on her
Majesty to resign the Seal in person, the Queen persisted in her
refusal to receive it, and forced Lord Cowper to ‘take it away and
think the matter over till the morrow.’ He returned unaltered in his
decision, and Lord Campbell, from whom we quote so largely, says ‘he
withdrew from her presence, carrying with him, what was far more
precious than this badge of office, the consciousness of having acted
honourably.’ Lord Cowper now sought quiet in his country house, but
even here he was assailed by Swift’s abuse, and subjected to stormy
visits from the Duchess of Marlborough, who came there more especially
to vent her spleen by abuse of Queen Anne. Now Lord Cowper had opposed
the Duke of Marlborough on more than one point when he considered his
ambition overweening, but he was sincerely attached both to him and to
his wife, and when the Duke and Duchess were attacked, their faithful
friend raised his voice and pen in behalf of these ex-favourites. Lord
Sommers was growing infirm, and Lord Cowper now led the
Opposition in the House of Lords, where the Queen said she hoped he
would still serve her. He replied he would act in the same manner as
he would have done had he continued in the same office, to which her
kindness had appointed him; and he kept his word.
He strove hard to deter his Royal mistress from what many in that day
considered an unconstitutional proceeding, namely the creation of
Peers for the special purpose of carrying a measure or strengthening a
party—at least, so we gather from the Queen’s remark, ‘He was pleased
to say to me he considered the House of Lords full enough!’ in spite
of which remark twelve new peers of Tory tendencies took their seats a
few days afterwards, who were facetiously asked if they would vote by
their foreman. Lord Cowper never let an opportunity pass of paying a
tribute to his aged friend, Lord Sommers; and we find a
well-timed and two-sided compliment to Sir Isaac Newton, appointed by
that nobleman to the Mastership of the Mint. Lord Cowper thanked the
great philosopher for one of his scientific works written in Latin,
and goes on to say, ‘I find you have taken occasion to do justice to
that truly great man, my Lord Sommers, but give me leave to say
the other parts of the book which do not appear to concern him are a
lasting instance, among many others, to his clear judgment in
recommending the fittest man in the whole kingdom to that employment.’
It was about this time that the feud between Oxford (Harley) and
Bolingbroke (St. John) was at its height, the former still continuing
his overtures to Cowper to coalesce, when the Gordian knot was cut
asunder by the shears of Atropos. The Queen’s dangerous illness was
announced, and the Treasurer’s staff wrested from Oxford’s grasp, and
consigned by the dying sovereign into the hands of the Duke of
Shrewsbury, who burst into the Cabinet while sitting, accompanied by
the Duke of Argyll, with the important news that Oxford was dismissed,
and Bolingbroke called upon to form a Ministry. Great confusion
prevailed; all Privy Councillors were summoned to attend, and Lords
Cowper and Sommers (both fast friends to the Hanoverian
succession) repaired to Kensington Palace to make preparations for the
reception of the new monarch—for Queen Anne had breathed her last.
On the accession of George I. Lords Justices were appointed by the
Regency Act for the administration of the Government till the arrival
of the King. The Whig Lords outnumbered the Tories, and Cowper was
their guiding spirit. Their first measure was to name Joseph Addison
secretary, and respecting this appointment a laughable story is told.
Being directed to draw up an official statement of the death of Queen
Anne, the great author was so deeply impressed with the responsibility
of his situation, and so overwhelmed by a choice of words, that the
Lords Justices lost all patience, and directed a common clerk to do
the business. No change took place in the Government offices till the
arrival of George from Hanover, with the exception of Lord
Bolingbroke, ‘the Pretender’s friend,’ who was summarily dismissed.
Lord Cowper, being one of those intrusted with this duty, and the
recently appointed Treasurer, found the very doors of his office
locked against him.
No sooner did George I. arrive from Hanover than the Whigs returned to
power. Lord Cowper was summoned to the Royal presence, and the Great
Seal once more intrusted to that worthy keeping.
‘The King was pleased to say he was satisfied with the character he
had heard of me, and so I replied that I accepted the post with the
utmost gratitude, and would serve his Majesty faithfully, and, as far
as my health would allow, industriously.’
The Prince of Wales was in the outer room, and very cordial in his
manner to the new Lord Chancellor.
On the 20th October 1714, the King was crowned, and Lord and Lady
Cowper were both present. The lady had translated for the King’s
benefit (seeing he knew no English) a memorial written by her lord,
and entitled _An Impartial History of Parties_, decidedly in favour of
Whig principles, which strengthened his Majesty’s predilection for his
Chancellor; and indeed both husband and wife stood in high favour at
Court, Lady Cowper having just been named Lady of the Bedchamber to
the Princess of Wales. Now the King, although he had long looked
forward to the possession of the English Crown, had never given
himself the trouble to learn English, while Cowper had neither French
nor German,—a circumstance which was productive of some difficulties
in the new Parliament. The King’s ignorance and natural awkwardness
were all the more distasteful to those who had been accustomed (we
quote Lord Campbell’s words) ‘to the late Queen’s graceful delivery,
scarcely excelled by what we ourselves so warmly admire.’
But could the voice of the last Queen-Regnant, though ‘it charmed all
ears,’ rival for one moment those tones—to be heard, alas! so seldom
now—which used to ring, clear and distinct as a silver bell, from one
end of the House to the other, where the loud overstrained accents of
angry men are so often inaudible?
In 1715 the Lord Chancellor acted as High Steward on the trial of the
Jacobite Lords, ‘much,’ says Lady Cowper, ‘to my husband’s vexation
and mine.’
Lord Winton, one of the prisoners, tried the Lord Steward’s patience
so sorely by frivolous delays and impediments to the despatch of
business, that Cowper, forgetting his usual equanimity, answered with
some harshness, upon which Winton cried out, ‘I hope, my Lords, we are
not to have what in my country is called Cowper Justice; that is, hang
a man first, and try him afterwards.’ The Lord Steward was too
dignified to vouchsafe an answer, but the sally caused some unseemly
merriment in Court, and the saying ‘Cowper Justice’ was often quoted
in after days by his enemies. He presided on several State trials,
that of the ex-Minister Harley, Earl of Oxford, and others. About this
period of his career a charge was brought against him of unfairness in
the appointment and dismissal of magistrates, but his faithful
secretary and expounder, Mary Cowper, came once more to his aid by
translating his vindication for the King’s perusal. He writes to her
on the subject—
‘My dear, here is the postscript which I hope may soon be turned into
French. I am glad to hear that you are well, which upon tryall I find
myself too. Dear Rogue, yours ever and always.’
The proceedings were stopped, but the days of Cowper’s public life
were numbered. Many intrigues had been at work among his political
opponents, to induce, worry, or persuade the Lord Chancellor to vacate
the Woolsack, but his wife’s diary lets us completely behind the
scenes. She says, ‘My Lord fell ill again, which occasioned a report
that he was about to resign; some said he had not health to keep in,
others that the Lords of the Cabinet Council were jealous of his great
reputation, which was true, for they had resolved to put Chief-Justice
Parkes in his place.’ The lady goes on to say that her ‘disputes and
arguments were the chief reason of his staying in,’ and how she ‘took
three weeks to prevail on her Lord to remain.’ But the friendship that
existed between the Prince and Princess of Wales and Lord and Lady
Cowper was very disadvantageous to the latter pair, as regarded the
favour of the Sovereign, for at this juncture the Royal father and son
were at daggers drawn, so that it was difficult for any one to keep
friends with both sides. Doubtless worry and perplexity of all kinds
tended to increase the indisposition of the Lord Chancellor, for his
wife now gave up all idea of pressing him to remain in office. She
told him ‘that if it were any pleasure to him she would retire into
the country, and never repent the greatest sacrifice she could make.’
And unquestionably it appeared that it would have been a sacrifice,
for Mary Cowper was eminently fitted for a Court life, although her
patience and forbearance were often sorely tried, as we gather from
her diary. It is almost impossible to avoid occasional repetition, as
the notices of husband and wife are naturally interwoven, though we
have endeavoured to disentangle them.
The Chancellor was beset with importunities to exchange his post for
that of President of the Council. He replied he would resign if they
found a better man to fill his place, but he would never change the
duties of which he could acquit himself with honour for such as he
could not perform at all—a resolution we strongly recommend to the
consideration of more modern statesmen.
Lady Cowper’s Diary.—‘The Prince says, there is no one in whom he has
any confidence but my husband, and the King says Lord Cowper and the
Duke of Devonshire are the only two men he has found trustworthy in
the kingdom!’ But for all that, there seems little doubt that his
Majesty, to whose ear birds of the air carried every matter, was not
best pleased with the constant allusions made in conversation between
the Prince of Wales and the Lord Chancellor to a future time, and all
that was then to be done, when another head would wear the crown. Lord
Cowper, writing to his wife from Hertfordshire, excuses himself for
not attending Court, ‘as my vacations are so short, and the children
require the presence of one parent at least; your sister is prudent,
but they do not stand in awe of her, and there was no living till the
birch was planted in my room.’—_September 1716._ The opposition which
Lord Cowper offered to a proposed Bill, the passing of which would
have made the Prince dependent on his father for income, put the
finishing touch to his unpopularity with George I., although the Lord
Chancellor wrote a letter (in Latin, the only language they understood
in common) to his Majesty, to explain his views.
On the 15th April 1718, Lord Cowper resigned the Great Seal at the
same time that he kissed hands on his elevation to an earldom. We
cannot resist inserting in this place a tribute which was paid the
Minister, though it was not published till after his death: ‘His
resignation was a great grief to the well affected, and to
dispassionate men of both parties, who knew that by his wisdom and
moderation he had gained abundance of friends for the King; brought
the clergy into better temper, and hindered hot, over-zealous spirits
from running things into dangerous extremes.’ This, be it remembered,
was written of one who had gone to his account, of no living patron
who could benefit the writer. He now retired to his house at Cole
Green, and busied himself in improving and beautifying his gardens and
pleasure-grounds. Here he received many congratulations on being (as a
_protégé_ of his, one Hughes, a poet, expresses it) ‘eased of the
fatigue and burthen of office.’
But, though Lord Cowper had felt the strife and contention of parties
to be most irksome, yet he was so accustomed to official life, that he
continued to take a deep interest in all the measures that were
brought before the country. He strenuously supported the Test and
Corporation Acts, and as vigorously opposed Lord Sunderland’s famous
Peerage Bill, which proposed that the existing number of English Peers
should never be increased, with exception in favour of Princes of the
blood-royal, that for every extinction there should be a new creation;
and, instead of sixteen elective Scotch Peers, the King should name
twenty-five to be hereditary. A glance at the works of Sir Bernard
Burke, Ulster King-at-Arms, and his _collaborateurs_, will be the best
proof that Sunderland’s Bill was thrown out. Amongst those who were
the most violent in the denunciation of this measure, were the wives
and daughters of members in the House of Commons, who were supposed to
have been instrumental (as we may believe from more recent experience)
in influencing the votes of their relatives. We mention this
circumstance as bearing in some degree on our subject. In the
beginning of 1722 an incident occurred which was differently construed
by the admirers and detractors of the ex-Chancellor.
On the 3d February, the House of Lords having assembled, the absence
of the reigning Lord Chancellor, as likewise that of the Lord
Chief-Justice, was remarked, and much difficulty arose as to the
proceeding of the House. Lord Cowper, most indignant at the
defalcation of his successor, moved that the Duke of Somerset, the
peer of highest rank present, should occupy the Woolsack, and, on his
refusal, further proposed that course to the Duke of Kingston and Lord
Lechmere; but the discussion was put an end to by the arrival of the
Chancellor, in most undignified and hot haste, full of excuses of
having been detained by his Majesty, and of apologies to their
Lordships for having kept them waiting. Lord Cowper, and several of
his way of thinking, were not so easily appeased, and one of them
moved that the House, to show its indignation, should adjourn till
Monday next without transacting any further business. The motion was
negatived, but Lord Cowper and his friends signed a protest, which
went to say, that the excuses which had been alleged seemed inadequate
to justify the indignity offered to the House,—‘undoubtedly the
greatest council in the kingdom, to which all other councils should
give way, and therefore no other business ought to have detained the
Chancellor,’ etc.; ‘also, we venture to say, the dignity of this House
has not of late years been increasing, so we are unwilling that
anything that we consider to be a gross neglect of it should pass
without some note on our records.’ We cannot help alluding to this
curious circumstance, as it bears so strongly on the state of party
feeling at the time, and of Lord Cowper’s individual feelings in
particular.
The exiled Royal family had on several occasions applied to him for
his support and assistance, and, although he had treated the
communications with neglect and refusal, yet his enemies were
industrious in setting rumours abroad prejudicial to the
ex-Chancellor’s loyalty to the house of Hanover. Layer (afterwards
executed for conspiracy) had brought in his name when examined before
a Committee of the House of Commons, which was, for the most part,
only too ready to listen to any slander against the ex-Minister.
Lord Cowper entered a protest in the Parliamentary Journal, that the
charges brought against him in this matter were false, ‘upon his
honour,’ the usual oath of a Peer. He manfully opposed the Bill for
the banishment of Bishop Atterbury, who was voted guilty of high
treason without a hearing. ‘The alleged culprit,’ he says, ‘stands at
your bar, and has never attempted to fly from justice. If there be
legal evidence against him, let him be legally convicted; without
legal evidence he must be wrongly condemned.’
After much more in the same forcible strain, he continues, ‘I can
guess at no other advantage that the Church can derive from this Bill,
except that it will cause a vacancy in the Deanery of Westminster and
the See of Rochester.’
Lord Campbell quotes a saying of Lord Bathurst on the same debate,
which is worth recording. He ‘could not account for the inveterate
malice which some people bore to the learned and ingenious Bishop,
unless possessed of the infatuation of the wild Indians, who believe
they will not only inherit the spoils but also the abilities of the
enemy they kill.’ But, in spite of eloquence and sarcasm, Bishop
Atterbury was banished. Cowper’s last public act was to vote against
Sir Robert Walpole’s Bill for the imposition of a heavy tax on the
estates of the Roman Catholics. This proposed injustice he strenuously
opposed, one of his chief arguments being as follows: ‘I beg your
Lordships to reflect if you are not yourselves injuring the Protestant
cause, for Protestants might have severe hardships inflicted on them
abroad, by reason of our persecution of Roman Catholics at home.’
The remainder of his life was passed between Cole Green and London. As
we have before observed, he superintended the management of his
estate, presided over the education of his children, and enjoyed the
society of his friends; but his letters go to prove that the interest
he still took in public affairs preponderated over that he felt in the
pursuits of a country life. He was too often deprived of the
consolation of his wife’s presence in his Hertfordshire home, in
consequence of her close attendance on the Princess of Wales. He
writes to her most affectionately, and gives her excellent advice,
such as, ‘If you discern that any at your Court are sowing seeds that
will raise strife, I hope you will do your best to root ‘em out; and
when you have so done your duty, you will have more reason to be
unconcerned at the event, if it should be unfortunate. Though, when
you have done so well, I would not have you so much as hope that there
are not some who will represent you as an intolerable mischief-maker.
I thank you for your endearing and, I depend, very sincere
expressions; but, considering all things, I think it is but reasonable
that you should find something more satisfactory in a Court than you
can in the home of a retired Minister—who, you know, is always a
peevish creature—and so solitary a place. The Attorney-General puts me
in mind of the choice by which they generally try idiots: it is to see
if they will choose an apple before a piece of gold. It is cruel to
tantalise a poor country man with the life of state and pleasure you
describe. I could be content as I am if I did not hear of such fine
doings.’
He thinks the best way, ‘since we neither beat nor fine our servants,
is to make them so content that they will fear being turned away.
John’s drunkenness seems a tertian, having one sober day between two
drunken ones. On Friday it proved quotidian.’ He finds ‘the country
pleasant,’ but it dulls him, and he takes an aversion to all but the
little ones of the place. The last letter he ever wrote to his wife
was dated from London, she being at Cole Green, one week before his
death—the fine handwriting, much impaired. He complains to his dearest
Mary, ‘that man and wife cannot correspond with innocent and proper
freedom, without its being a diversion to a third person,’ and he
signs himself, after promising to be with her soon, ‘yours with
perfect affection.’ He returned home on the day appointed, but he had
caught cold on his journey thither, and was seized with an alarming
illness. Happily his wife was by his bedside to minister to his
necessities, with all the tenderness of devoted affection; his
children, too, whom he so much loved, were with him. When told that he
had not long to live, Lord Cowper listened calmly, and his death was
composed and peaceful. He was buried in the parish church of
Hertingfordbury, but no tablet marks the last resting-place of
William, Earl Cowper, first Lord Chancellor of Great Britain.
Lord Campbell, in the interesting Life from which we have so largely
quoted, speaks of those who praised him and those who maligned him.
Swift, who had no call to be severe in matters of morality, and his
friend Mrs. Manley, had been very instrumental in promulgating the
slander respecting a clandestine marriage between Cowper and the young
lady of whom he was guardian,—a charge which was so often repeated
that it gained credit among some of his political enemies, at least,
who gave him the nickname of ‘Will Bigamy.’
The great Voltaire, in his _Philosophical Dictionary_, does not
disdain to assure his readers that the English Lord Chancellor not
only practised, but wrote a pamphlet in favour of, polygamy! ‘Il est
public en Angleterre, et on voudroit le nier en vain, que le
Chancellier Cowper, épousa deux femmes, qui vécurent ensemble dans sa
maison, avec une concorde singulière, qui fit honneur à tous les
trois.’ This was one of the observations made by the great French
philosopher, when he was so obliging as to come over for the purpose
of studying our manners and customs; but Lord Cowper was rich in
panegyrists both in prose and verse—the latter effusions, to our
taste, too stilted and artificial, for the most part, to be worthy of
insertion; but a passage from a paper in the _Spectator_ is a graceful
and characteristic tribute to his many gifts:—
‘It is Lord Cowper’s good fortune ever to please and to be pleased;
wherever he comes, to be admired, or is absent, to be lamented. His
merit fares like the pictures of Raphael, which are seen with
admiration, or at least no one dare own he has no taste for a
composition which has received so universal an applause. It is below
him to catch the sight by any care of dress; he is always the
principal figure in the room. He first engages your sight, as if there
were stronger light ‘upon him than on any other person. Nothing can
equal the pleasure of hearing him speak but the satisfaction one
receives in the civility and attention he pays to the discourse of
others.’ So far the _Spectator_: his character, drawn in the
_Historical Register_, speaks in the most glowing terms of his
eminence as a lawyer, civilian, and statesman, and winds up with these
words: ‘a manly and flowing eloquence, a clear, sonorous voice, a
gracious aspect, and an easy address; in a word, all that is necessary
to form a complete orator.’
The Duke Wharton, speaking of him in his official capacity, says, ‘He
had scarcely presided in that high station for one year before the
scales became even, with the universal approbation of both parties.’
Lord Chesterfield, although there was a little sting mixed with the
praise, records ‘his purity of style, his charm of elocution, and
gracefulness of action. The ears and eyes gave him up the hearts and
understandings of his audience.’ We would merely add that if to any
reader of these pages such praise should appear in any way
exaggerated, we must remind them they were all written after there was
no more to be hoped from the gratified vanity of Lord Cowper. His
trust and humility as a Christian are testified by an entry in his
Diary, on his appointment as Lord Keeper: ‘During these great honours
done me, I often reflected on the uncertainty of them, and even of
life itself. I searched my heart, and found no pride and self-conceit
in it; and I begged God that He would preserve my mind from relying on
the transient vanity of the world, and teach me to depend only on His
providence, that I should not be lifted up by present success, or
dejected when the reverse should happen. And verily, I believe, I was
helped by His Holy Spirit.’
When the reverse did come, he added, ‘Glory be to God, who has
sustained me in adversity, and carried me through the malice of my
enemies, so that all designed for my hurt turned to my advantage.’ It
is evident that Lord Cowper, although he loved the exercise of those
public offices for which he was so well fitted, knew how to retire
into private life with dignity and composure. One short anecdote, and
we have done. It so happened that Richard Cromwell, in his old age,
had to undergo an examination in Westminster Hall, at a moment when
the name of the ex-Protector’s family was execrated through the
kingdom. The Lord Chancellor treated the fallen dignitary with more
than common respect, and courteously ordered a chair to be placed for
him,—treatment which contrasted with that experienced by Richard when
driven from the door of the House of Lords with insults as one of the
common mob, exclaiming as he went, ‘The last time I was here I sat
upon the throne!’
Lord Cowper had gained the good fortune he deserved; he built a house
at Cole Green, and made a collection of pictures which forms part of
the splendid gallery now at Panshanger. His London houses were
situated in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and Great George Street. He had also
a lodging at Kensington,—‘the roads about that distant spot being,’ we
are assured, ‘so secure, that there was no danger in travelling thence
to London at night.’
------------------
_No. 12._
WILLIAM, SECOND EARL COWPER.
_Blue coat. Red waistcoat._
BORN 1709, DIED 1764.
MARRIED in 1732 Lady Henrietta, daughter and co-heir of Henry de
Nassau d’Auverquerque (Overkirche), Earl of Grantham. She was the sole
surviving descendant of the legitimised offspring of Maurice, Prince
of Orange, Stadtholder. In 1733 Earl Cowper was appointed Lord of the
Bedchamber, a post he afterwards resigned; subsequently Lord
Lieutenant, and _Custos Rotulorum_ of the county of Hertford. He
assumed the prefix of Clavering to that of Cowper, in pursuance of his
uncle’s will. By his first wife Lord Cowper had one son, and one
daughter; by his second wife, Caroline Georgiana, daughter of the Earl
Granville, widow of the Honourable John Spencer, he had no children.
He was buried at Hertingfordbury, and succeeded by his only son.
------------------
_No. 13._
GEORGE, THIRD EARL COWPER.
_Red dress. Light-coloured cap._
BORN 1738, DIED 1789.
BY RAPHAEL MENGS (?).
ELDEST son of the second Earl Cowper by Lady Henrietta, youngest
daughter and co-heir of Henry d’Auverquerque, Earl of Grantham. King
George II., the Duke of Grafton, and Princess Amelia stood in person
as sponsors at his baptism. In 1754 he came into a large fortune on
the death of the aforesaid Earl of Grantham, and in 1759 was elected
M.P. for the town of Hertford. While his father was yet alive, Lord
Fordwich (as he then was) went on his travels, and, arriving at
Florence, fell in love with that beautiful city, and with one of its
beautiful citizens, the Princess Corsi. The lady was married, or the
young lord would doubtless have carried her to England as his wife,
and thus escaped the blame, cast upon him by Horace Walpole, of
disobeying the summons of his dying father in 1764. So delighted was
George, Lord Cowper, with his sojourn in Florence, which he had
originally visited with the intention of passing a short time there,
that he remained within its charmed walls for upwards of thirty years.
He outlived his infatuation for the fair Florentine, and married, in
1775, Anna, daughter of Charles Gore, a gentleman at that time
residing in Florence with his family, who was said to have been the
original of Goethe’s travelled Englishman in _Wilhelm Meister_. Lord
Cowper was most desirous of obtaining permission to add the royal
surname of Nassau to his own patronymic, on the plea that he was one
of the representatives of the Earl of Grantham (an extinct title); but
there were many difficulties in the way, and while the matter was
pending he received a high mark of distinction from the Emperor of
Austria, through the instrumentality of his Imperial Majesty’s
brother, Peter Leopold, Grand Duke of Tuscany, at whose Court Lord and
Lady Cowper (but especially the latter) stood in high favour. This was
the grant of a patent to Lord Cowper, which bestowed on him the rank
of a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire. That arch-gossip, but most
amusing letter-writer, Horace Walpole, in his correspondence with his
friend Sir Horace Mann, British Envoy at Florence, takes a most
unaccountable interest in the private concerns and aspirations of Lord
Cowper, and thus animadverts on the subject of his foreign names and
titles: ‘There is another hitch in the great Nassau question. The
objection is now started, that he must not bear that name with the
title of Prince. The Emperor thought he had hit on a clever compromise
for his _protégé_, by giving up the name of Nassau, and substituting
that of Auverquerque. But my Lord’s cousins object to that also, so
now he is reduced to plain Prince Cowper, for which honour he has to
pay £500.’
Again: ‘I do not think either the Emperor or Lord Cowper knows what he
is about. Surely an English peer, with substantial dignity in his own
country, is more dignified than a man residing in another country, and
endowed with a nominal principality in a third!’
Again: ‘I believe both Emperor and Prince begin to regret the step.
The Imperial diploma dubs him Highness, but he himself will not allow
any one to address him in any other way than Lord Cowper.’
It was not very long after their marriage that Horace Walpole glances
at the report of a possible separation between Lord and Lady Cowper,
but without assigning any reason. There can be little doubt that the
union was not a happy one, for, whatever other ground of complaint the
husband might have had, Lady Cowper was of a quarrelsome and
unconciliatory disposition, and her sister, who lived with the family
at Florence, seems, by all accounts, to have been far the more amiable
of the two. Miss Berry alludes to a visit she paid her compatriots at
Lord Cowper’s house in Florence, ‘where you have the best of society,
both native and foreign, and where all the English (in particular) are
desirous of obtaining an introduction.’ She goes on to describe the
house as ‘fitted up in a peculiar manner: one room as a museum,
another as a laboratory, a third a workshop; in fact, too many to
enumerate.’ He was evidently a man of very versatile tastes, and one
who had many irons in the fire at the same moment. In 1781 Horace
Walpole, alluding to the fact that the three Cowper boys had been sent
over to England for their education, says, ‘It is astonishing that
neither parent nor child can bring your _principal_ Earl from that
specific spot,—but we are a lunatic nation.’ Another letter speaks of
a vacant green ribbon, and the possibility it might be given to Lord
Cowper, if he were on the spot; ‘but he won’t come. I do allow him a
place in the Tribune at Florence. An English earl, who has never seen
his earldom, and takes root and has fruit at Florence, and is proud of
his pinchbeck principality in a third country, is as great a curiosity
as any in the Tuscan Collection.’
Lord Cowper did go to England at last, and Walpole owns to his going
to a concert at Mrs. Cosway’s—‘out of curiosity, not to hear an
Italian singer sing one song, at the extravagant sum of £10—the same
whom I have heard half a dozen times at the opera-house for as many
shillings—but to see an English earl, who had passed thirty years at
Florence, and thought so much of his silly title, and his order from
Würtemberg! You know, he really imagined he was to take precedence of
all the English dukes, and now he has tumbled down into a tinsel
titularity. I only meant to amuse my eyes, but Mr. Durens brought the
personage up, and presented us to each other. He answered very well,
to my idea, for I should have taken his Highness for a Doge of Genoa.
He has the awkward dignity of a temporary representative of a nominal
power. I wonder his Highness does not desire the Pope to make one of
his sons a bishop _in partibus infidelium_, and that Miss Anne Pitt
does not request his Holiness to create her Principessa Fossani.’
It is inconsistent with the character of Horace Walpole, who did not
disdain rank or titles, and who was by no means insensible to the
charm of decorations—whether of walls or button-holes—to inveigh so
harshly against a dignity which entitles the owner to the privilege,
dear in heraldic eyes, of bearing his paternal coat on the breast of
the Imperial Eagle.
England could not long detain Lord Cowper from the country of his
adoption. He returned to Florence, where he died in 1789. The greater
part of the Italian pictures in this beautiful collection was
purchased by the third Lord Cowper, who was a true lover of art, and
who was reduced to great difficulties, on more than one occasion, in
conveying his pictures out of Florence, the inhabitants of that city
being averse to parting with such treasures. One of the most valuable
is said to have been concealed in the lining of his travelling
carriage, when he went to England.
------------------
_No. 14._
GEORGE AUGUSTUS, FOURTH EARL COWPER.
_Peer’s Parliamentary robes. Powder._
BORN 1776, DIED 1799.
BY JACKSON.
BORN at Florence, Sir Horace Mann stood proxy as godfather for the
King of England at the boy’s baptism, and Sir Horace Walpole writes to
the Minister giving him information on some especial points of
etiquette to be observed on the occasion. Lord Cowper died suddenly.
He was unmarried, and was succeeded by his brother, Peter Leopold.
------------------
_No. 15._
PETER LEOPOLD FRANCIS NASSAU, FIFTH EARL COWPER.
_In Peer’s Parliamentary robes_
BORN 1778, DIED 1837.
BY NORTHCOTE.
HE was the second son of the third Earl, born at Florence, godson to
the Grand Duke of Tuscany, married, in 1805, Emily, only daughter of
Peniston Lamb, first Viscount Melbourne (afterwards Viscountess
Palmerston), by whom he had three sons,—George, his successor,
William, and Spencer, and two daughters, the Countess of Shaftesbury
and Viscountess Jocelyn. He succeeded his brother. Lord Campbell, in
his _Lives of the Chancellors_, concludes his notice of the first Earl
Cowper with a sincere tribute of admiration to Peter Leopold, the
fifth earl:—
‘He had too much delicacy of sentiment to take a leading part in
public life, but to the most exquisitely pleasing manners he joined a
manly understanding and a playful wit. From him I received kind and
encouraging notice when I was poor and obscure; and his benevolent and
exhilarating smile is one of the most delightful images in my memory
of pleasures to return no more.’
------------------
_No. 16._
JOHN OF NASSAU, COUNT OF NASSAU SIEGEN; HIS WIFE AND FAMILY.
_The Count and Countess are seated side by side in a large vestibule;
he is richly dressed, and wears the collar of the Golden Fleece; a
dog at his feet. On the lap of the Countess lies a small spaniel,
and at her side leans her son, in a red dress. Three daughters, in
different-coloured frocks, stand together; the eldest holds a
rose._
BORN 1583, DIED 1638.
BY VANDYCK.
HE was surnamed the Junior, son of Count John of Nassau Siegen by his
wife, Margaret de Waldeck. He began public life in the service of the
Archbishop of Cologne, and afterwards entered that of the United
Provinces, in which he fought against Spain. But the Count considered
that he was slighted, and his merits not duly appreciated by the
Government, and in disgust he renounced the Protestant faith in 1609
(or 1613), at the Hague, where he published an explanation of the
motives which led him to embrace the tenets of the Church of Rome. He
moreover transferred his military services to the Emperor of Germany,
Ferdinand II., the sworn enemy of the Protestants, the adversary of
the unfortunate King of Bohemia, of Gustavus Adolphus, and all the
heroes of the Reformed religion in the early part of the Thirty Years’
War. In 1620, when the Stadtholder, Frederic Henry, was besieging
Bois-le-Duc, the Count of Nassau Siegen (his kinsman) invaded Holland
at the head of eight or ten thousand men, and took the town of
Amersfoort. The following year, in command of a small army, he
encamped in the neighbourhood of Rynberg, and did all in his power to
prevent his brother William from crossing the Rhine between Broek and
Orsoy. In this attempt he was defeated, wounded, and carried prisoner
to Wesel, where, we are told, his brother frequently visited him
during his captivity. When his wounds were cured, Count John purchased
his freedom with the sum of ten thousand rixdollars; but he narrowly
escaped being taken prisoner a second time, in a naval engagement with
the Spaniards. This was at Mosselkreek (the Creek of Mussels), where
his vessels were stranded, and he lost a considerable number of men.
The Dutch on this occasion gave him the derisive title of Mussulman.
In 1637 he made an unsuccessful attempt to surprise Rynberg; and in
1638 death put an end to his adventurous, but by no means blameless,
career.
It is impossible to look on Vandyck’s splendid picture without
experiencing a feeling of profound regret that a brave and able
soldier, a man of so imposing a presence, and so noble a bearing,
should have renounced the faith for which numerous members of his
family had fought and bled, and drawn his sword against his native
land in the service of an alien sovereign. The proud order of the
Golden Fleece which hangs round his neck seems but a poor distinction
when we remember the circumstances by which it was obtained. In 1618
he had married Ernestine, daughter of Lamoral, Prince de Ligne, by
whom he had one son and three daughters:—
John Francis Desideratus, Prince of Nassau Siegen, Knight of the
Golden Fleece, and Spanish Governor of Guelderland in 1688. He
had three wives: first, Johanna Claudia, daughter of John,
Count of Köningseck, who died in 1664; second, Eleanor Sophia,
daughter of Hermann Fortunatus, Margrave of Baden, who died in
1668; third, Isabella Clara Eugenia de la Serre, _alias_ de
Montant, ‘a noble lady.’ She died in 1714. Prince John of
Nassau Siegen had eleven children. He died in 1690.
The three daughters represented in this family group were—
1. Ernestine, married to the Prince Maurice Henry, Hadawar.
2. Clara Mary, married first Albert Henry, Prince de Ligne, and
afterwards Claudius Lamoral, his brother.
3. Lamberta Alberta, who died unmarried.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
ANTE-LIBRARY.
[Illustration]
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ANTE-LIBRARY.
-------
_No. 1._
ADMIRAL DE RUYTER.
_In armour, holding a truncheon. The other arm akimbo. Curtain._
BORN 1607, DIED 1676.
BORN at Flushing, of which town his father was a burgher. As a mere
child Michael de Ruyter was determined to be a sailor, and gained the
paternal consent that he should go to sea as cabin-boy when only
eleven years of age. He rose quickly in his profession, was made a
pilot when still very young for the post, and passed through the
intermediate grades, till he gained the command of a vessel. In 1635
he made several campaigns in the East Indies, and in 1645 was sent as
Vice-Admiral in command of a Dutch fleet to assist the Portuguese
against the Spaniards. After two years’ retirement from service, De
Ruyter engaged the Algerine corsairs off Sarley, and gained a complete
victory. The Moors, who were spectators of the conflict, insisted on
his entering the town in triumph, on a richly caparisoned horse,
followed by a long retinue, including many of the captive pirates.
These ‘plagues of the ocean,’ as they were justly termed, continued to
give De Ruyter much annoyance, but he was usually successful in his
encounters with them, and in one fierce combat he seized and hanged
one of the most notoriously cruel and rapacious of these ‘buccaneer
sea-dogs.’ In 1659 he was sent, by order of the States-General, to the
assistance of Denmark against Sweden, an enterprise in which he
distinguished himself greatly, and gained the gratitude of the King of
Denmark, who complimented him highly, and granted him a pension. On
his return home De Ruyter was received with great honour, and
promoted. He then proceeded to the coast of Africa, to look after some
Dutch colonies, of which England had taken possession. England and the
United Provinces were now in constant collision, and the Dutch Admiral
found a noble and well-matched foe in the gallant commander Prince
Rupert, soldier, sailor, and artist. De Ruyter was afterwards joined
in command with Van Tromp, a worthy colleague, but of no friendly
spirit. During the time that negotiations were pending for peace with
England, at Breda, De Ruyter resolved, so to speak, to hasten his
opportunities; he therefore bore down on Sheerness, burned all the
available shipping, and, continuing his work of destruction up the
river Thames, approached too near London to be agreeable to the more
peaceable portion of the citizens.
In 1671 he had sole command of his country’s fleet, against the
combined forces of England (under the Duke of York) and France (under
the Comte D’Estrées), and it is but just to record that he was
frequently successful, but invariably brave. Indeed, the French
Admiral wrote to Colbert, the Minister, at home, ‘I would lay down my
life for the glory that De Ruyter has gained.’ In 1675 the Spaniards
had recourse to their old enemies, the Dutch, to ask assistance for
the inhabitants of Messina, against the French, and De Ruyter was
despatched to Sicily for that purpose. A terrible sea-fight ensued,
the French being commanded by Duquesne, a brave and efficient officer;
many vessels were sunk and destroyed on both sides, and the carnage
was terrible.
At the commencement of the action the gallant De Ruyter had his left
foot carried away, and a few moments afterwards his right leg was
shattered by a shell. Writhing with pain, and covered with blood, the
brave sailor remained on deck, and issued his orders, even to the
bitter end of the battle. It was only when he became aware that five
of his vessels, including his own, were about to fall into the hands
of the enemy, that he could be prevailed upon to give the word for
retreat. Favoured by the approaching darkness, he made the port of
Syracuse, and in that town he died of his wounds. His heart was
carried to Amsterdam, where the States-General caused a noble
mausoleum to be erected to the memory of this brave and patriotic
commander. His name is still venerated in his native country.
The King of Spain sent De Ruyter the title of Duke, but the patent did
not arrive till after his death, and his children wisely refrained
from pressing any claim to rank, which would have been incongruous in
a Republic; and they were more proud of their father’s simple name
than of any foreign and alien dignity. Louis XIV. expressed his regret
for the death of this brave commander in public, and when reminded
that he had lost a dangerous enemy, he replied generously, ‘I always
mourn the death of a great and brave man.’ A medal was struck in
honour of Admiral de Ruyter, and the following distich was written on
his name:—
‘Terruit Hispanos Ruyter, _ter_ _ter_ruit Anglos,
_Ter_ ruit Gallos, _ter_ritus ipse ruit.’
It will not be necessary that the reader should be a scholar to enable
_her_ to perceive the anagrammatic and punning nature of these lines,
but we subjoin a very ingenious rendering of the same, done into
English by a friend in what he terms ‘a free-and-easy translation’—
‘Ruyter thrice the Spaniards routed,
Daunted thrice the British foe,
Thrice o’ercame the Gallic squadrons,
Struck his flag, and went below.’
------------------
_No. 2._
WILLIAM, PRINCE OF ORANGE, AFTERWARDS WILLIAM III. OF ENGLAND.
_In armour. His hand resting on a black and white dog. Helmet lying on
the table._
DIED 1702.
BY WISSING.
HE was the son of William of Nassau, Prince of Orange (and grandson of
Henry Frederic, the Stadtholder), by Princess Mary, daughter of
Charles I. of England. He married, in 1677, Mary, daughter of James
II., and in 1688 came over to England, and ascended the throne as King
Consort. He left no children.
------------------
_No.3._
ANTHONY ASHLEY COOPER, FIRST EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.
_Fawn-coloured Chancellor’s robes. Wig. Sitting in an arm-chair._
BORN 1621, DIED 1683.
BY GREENHILL.
SON of Sir John Cooper of Rockbourne, county Hants, by Anne, daughter
and sole heir of Sir Anthony Ashley, Bart., of Wimborne St. Giles,
county Dorset, where the future Chancellor was born.
In his Autobiography he describes his mother of ‘low stature,’ as was
also the aforesaid Sir Anthony, ‘a large mind, but his person of the
lowest,’ while his own father was ‘lovely and graceful in mind and
person, neither too high nor too low,’ therefore the pigmy body of
which Dryden speaks must have been inherited from the maternal side.
Sir Anthony was delighted with his grandson; and although at the time
of the infant’s birth the septuagenarian was on the point of espousing
a young wife, his affection was in nowise diminished for his daughter,
or her boy.
Lady Cooper and her father died within six months of each other. Sir
John married again, a daughter of Sir Charles Morrison, of Cassiobury,
county Herts, by whom he had several children. He died in 1631,
leaving the little Anthony bereft of both parents, with large but
much-encumbered estates, and lawsuits pending.
Many of his own relations being most inimical to his interests,
Anthony went with his brother and sister to reside with Sir Daniel
Norton, one of his trustees, who—we once more quote the
Autobiography—‘took me to London, thinking my presence might work some
compassion on those who ought to have been my friends.’
He refers to the suit in which they were now engaged. The boy must
have had a winning way with him (as the old saying goes), for,
when only thirteen, he went of his own accord to Noy, the
Solicitor-General, and entreated his assistance as the friend of
his grandfather. Noy was deeply touched, took up the case warmly,
and gained one suit in the Court of Wards, stoutly refusing to
take any fee whatever.
After Sir Daniel Norton’s death, Anthony went to live with an uncle,
Mr. Tooker, near Salisbury, though it was supposed Lady Norton would
gladly have kept him under her roof, with a view to a match with one
of her daughters. He says himself: ‘Had it not been for the state of
my litigious fortune, the young lady’s sweet disposition had made me
look no farther for a wife.’
In 1637 he went to Exeter College, Oxford, where he ‘made such rapid
strides in learning as to be accounted the most prodigious youth in
the whole University.’ By his own showing, he was popular with his
companions and well satisfied with himself,—indeed, a general spirit
of self-complacency pervades these pages. In little more than a year
he went to Lincoln’s Inn, where he appears to have found the theatres,
fencing galleries, and the like, more to his taste than the study of
the law.
An astrologer who was in old Sir Anthony’s house at the time of the
grandson’s birth cast the horoscope, and to the fulfilment of these
predictions may probably be attributed young Anthony’s own
predilection for the study of astrology in later days. The horoscope
in question foreboded feuds and trouble at an early age; and some
years afterwards the same magician, foreseeing through the medium of
the planets that a certain Miss Roberts (a neighbour without any
apparent prospect of wealth) would become a great heiress, he
endeavoured to persuade his pupil to marry her. The lady did
eventually come into a considerable fortune; but Mr. Tooker, who was
not over-credulous, had other views at the time for his nephew; and
accordingly, at eighteen, Ashley Cooper became the husband of
Margaret, the daughter of my Lord Keeper Coventry, ‘a woman of
excellent beauty and incomparable gifts.’
The young couple resided with the bride’s father in London, Sir
Anthony, as he now was, paying flying visits to Dorsetshire. He was
subject to fits, but even this infirmity redounded to his advantage,
according to his own version; how that being in Gloucestershire on one
occasion, and taken suddenly ill, ‘the women admired his courage and
patience under suffering,’ and he contrived to ingratiate himself with
the electors of Tewkesbury to some purpose.
He gives us an amusing and characteristic description of how he won
the favour of the electors and bailiffs of this town by his conduct at
a public dinner, where he and a certain Sir Henry Spiller were guests,
and sat opposite each other. The knight, a crafty, perverse, rich man,
a Privy Councillor, had rendered himself very obnoxious in the
hunting-field, and, at the banquet aforementioned, began the dinner
with all the affronts and dislikes he could possibly put on the
bailiffs and their entertainment, which enraged and disgusted them,
and this rough raillery he continued. ‘At length I thought it my duty
to defend the cause of those whose bread I was eating, which I did
with so good success, sparing not the bitterest retorts, that I had a
complete victory. This gained the townsmen’s hearts, and their wives’
to boot. I was made free of the town, and at the next Parliament
(though absent at the time), was chosen burgess by an unanimous vote,
and that without a penny charge.’
Sir Anthony had strange humours: he loved a frolic dearly. He had a
confidential servant who resembled him so much that, when dressed in
his master’s left-offs, the lackey was often mistaken for his better.
This worthy was a clever man-milliner, and had many small
accomplishments which made him popular in country houses, and his
master confesses that he often listened to the valet’s gossip, and
made use of it, in the exercise of palmistry and fortune-telling,
which produced great jollity, and ‘of which I did not make so bad a
use as many would have done.’ With this account he finishes the record
of his youth. A time of business followed, ‘and the rest of my life is
not without great mixture of public concerns, and intermingled with
the history of the times.’
Sir Anthony sat for Tewkesbury in 1639, but that Parliament was
hastily dissolved. He raised a regiment of horse for the King’s
service, and occupied places of trust in his own county; but,
believing himself unjustly treated and slighted by the Court, he
listened to the overtures of the Parliament, and returned to
Dorsetshire as colonel of a regiment in their army.
In 1649 he lost the wife he dearly loved, to whose memory he pays a
most touching tribute in his Diary. But she left no living child, and
before the expiration of the year the widower had espoused Lady
Frances Cecil, daughter of the Earl of Exeter, a Royalist.
The friendship of the Protector and Sir Anthony was of a most fitful
and spasmodic nature,—now fast allies, now at daggers drawn. Some
writers affirm that, on the death of his second wife, he asked the
hand of one of Cromwell’s daughters; others, that he advised the
Protector to assume the Crown, who offered it to him in turn!
He held many appointments under the reigning Government, and continued
to sit in Parliament; but having, with many other Members, withstood
the encroachments of the great man, Oliver endeavoured to prevent his
return, and, not being able to do so, forbade him to enter the House
of Commons. (See the history of the times.) The Members, with Ashley
Cooper at their head, insisted on re-admittance. Again ousted, again
admitted; nothing but quarrels and reconciliations. The fact was, that
Sir Anthony was too great a card to lose hold of entirely. He had
still a commission in the Parliamentary army, and a seat at the Privy
Council, circumstances that in nowise prevented him carrying on a
correspondence with the King ‘over the water.’ Indeed, he was accused
of levying men for the Royal service; arrested, acquitted; sat again
in Parliament under Richard Cromwell, joined the Presbyterian party to
bring back Charles, and when the Parliament declared for the King, Sir
Anthony was one of the twelve Members sent over to Breda to invite his
return. While in Holland, Ashley Cooper had a fall from his carriage,
and a narrow escape of being killed. Clarendon (there was no love lost
between them) says it was hoped that by his alliance (as his third
wife) with a daughter of Lord Spencer of Wormleighton, a niece of the
Earl of Southampton, ‘his slippery humour would be restrained by his
uncle.’
He now took a leading part in politics, was appointed one of the
Judges of the Regicides, created Baron Ashley at the Coronation, and
afterwards became Chancellor of the Exchequer, Under-Treasurer, and
further high offices, and in 1672 Lord Cooper of Pawlett, county
Somerset, and Earl of Shaftesbury; and so quickly did honours rain on
him, that the same year saw him Lord High Chancellor of England. He
appears to have given great umbrage to many of the law officers by his
haughty bearing. We are told ‘he was the gloriousest man alive; he
said he would teach the bar that a man of sense was above all their
forms; and that he was impatient to show them he was a superior judge
to all who had ever sat before on the marble chair.’
He maddened the gentlemen of the long robe by his vagaries and
innovations, and defiance of precedents. He wore an ash-coloured gown
instead of the regulation black, assigning as his reason that black
was distinctive of the barrister-at-law, and he had never been called
to the bar.
He went to keep Hilary term ‘on a horse richly caparisoned, his grooms
walking beside him,’ all his officers ordered to ride on horseback,
‘as in the olden time.’
No doubt the good Dorsetshire country gentleman, the lover of sport
and of horse-flesh, who had been accused of regaling his four-footed
favourites on wine and cheese-cakes, had a mischievous pleasure in
seeing the uneasy and scared looks of his worshipful brethren, some of
whom perhaps had never sat on a saddle till that day.
At all events, poor Judge Twisden was laid in the dust, and he swore
roundly no Lord Chancellor should ever reduce him to such a plight
again. Shaftesbury lived at this time in great pomp at Exeter House,
in the Strand, and was in high favour with his Royal master, who
visited him at Wimborne St. Giles during the Plague, when the Court
was at Salisbury.
At Oxford, when Parliament sat, he made acquaintance with the
celebrated John Locke, who afterwards became an inmate of his patron’s
house, his tried friend, and medical adviser.
The situations of public employment which Shaftesbury obtained for
this eminent man were, unfortunately, in the end, the source of
difficulty and distress rather than advantage. The history of the
Cabal, of which he was the mainspring, and of which he formed the
fourth letter (Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley, Lauderdale),
would suffice for his biography during the five years of its life. But
it must never be forgotten that to Shaftesbury England owes the
passing of the Habeas Corpus Bill, as likewise one for making judges
independent of the Crown.
The reader must seek elsewhere, and elect for himself, whether
Shaftesbury was or was not guilty of all the plots and conspiracies
against King and country of which he has been accused. To the Duke of
York he made himself most obnoxious. He was instrumental in
establishing the Test Act, which made Roman Catholics ineligible for
public offices; he was, moreover, the champion of the Exclusion Bill,
and opposed James’s marriage with Mary of Modena; and there is little
doubt that the Duke did all to undermine Shaftesbury’s favour with the
King.
There was always an element of humour mixed up with his doings, even
when fortune frowned on him. Finding that the King meant to unseat him
from the Woolsack, and that his successor was already named, he sought
the Royal presence. The King was about to proceed to chapel. The
fallen favourite told Charles he knew what his Majesty’s intentions
were, but he trusted he was not to be dismissed with contempt. ‘Cod’s
fish, my lord,’ replied the easy-going monarch, ‘I will not do it with
any circumstances that may look like a slight,’ upon which the
ex-Minister asked permission to carry the Great Seals of Office for
the last time before the King into chapel, and then to his own house
till the evening.
Granted permission, Shaftesbury, with a smiling countenance, entered
the sacred building, and spoiled the devotions of all his enemies,
during that service at least. Lord Keeper Finch, who was to succeed
him, was at his wit’s end, believing Shaftesbury reinstated, and all
(and there were many) who wished his downfall were in despair.
The whole account is most amusing and characteristic, including the
manner in which the Seals were actually resigned, but we have not
space to say more. Shaftesbury was indeed now ‘out of suits with
fortune.’ In 1677 he, with other noblemen, was committed to the Tower
for contempt of the authority of Parliament, and although other
prisoners were soon liberated, he was kept in confinement thirteen
months. On regaining his freedom he was made Lord President of the
Council, but, opposing the Duke of York’s succession, was dismissed
from that post in a few months. In 1681 he was again apprehended, on
false testimony, and once more sent to the Tower on charge of treason,
and that without a trial.
His papers were searched, but nothing could be found against him
except one document, ‘neither writ nor signed by his hand.’ The jurors
brought in the bill ‘Ignoramus,’ which pleased the Protestant portion
of the community, who believed the Earl suffered in the cause of
religion.
Bonfires were kindled in his honour; one of the witnesses against him
narrowly escaped from the fury of the mob; a medal was struck to
commemorate his enlargement. Hence the poem of that name from the pen
of Dryden, suggested by the King. On regaining his liberty,
Shaftesbury went to reside at his house in Aldersgate Street, when,
finding his enemies were still working against him, he took the
friendly advice of Lord Mordaunt, and after lying _perdu_ in another
part of London for a night or two, he set off for Harwich, _en route_
for Holland, with a young relative, both disguised as Presbyterian
ministers, with long black perukes. Adverse winds detained them at a
small inn, when one day the landlady entered the elder gentleman’s
room, and, carefully shutting the door, told him that the chambermaid
had just been into his companion’s apartment, and instead of a
swarthy, sour-faced dominie, had found a beautiful fair-haired youth.
‘Be assured, sir,’ said the good woman, ‘that I will neither ask
questions, nor tell tales, but I cannot answer for a young girl’s
discretion.’
The man who had been so hunted of late was touched, thanked the good
soul, and bade his handsome young friend make love to the maid, till
the wind changed.
The fugitives, however, had an extra run for it, as it was, for the
hounds were on their track. Fortunately the capture of one of
Shaftesbury’s servants, dressed like his master, gave them time to
embark.
They arrived at Amsterdam after a stormy passage, where Shaftesbury
hired a large house, with the intention of remaining some time, and
all the more that he found himself treated with great respect by all
the principal inhabitants. But misfortune pursued him. He was seized
with gout in the stomach, and expired on the 1st of January 1683. His
body was conveyed to England, and landed at Poole, whither the
gentlemen of his native county flocked, uninvited, to pay a tribute to
his memory, by attending the remains to Wimborne St. Giles.
We leave the sentence to be pronounced on the first Earl of
Shaftesbury to wiser heads than ours, but one remark we feel
authorised to make,—that we are not called on to believe him as black
as Dryden has painted him, since we cannot but question the justice of
the pen that described Charles II. as the God-like David, in the
far-famed poem of ‘Absalom (the Duke of Monmouth) and Achitophel’
(Shaftesbury), which loads the latter with invective:—
‘A name to all succeeding ages curst,
For close designs and crooked counsels fit,
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,
Restless, unfixed in principles and place,
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul, which working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay....
Great wits are sure to madness close allied;...
Oh! had he been content to serve the Crown
With virtues only proper to the gown,’ etc. etc.
There spoke the Laureate, and woe indeed to the man who had such a
poet as Dryden for his censor! Yet for all this abuse, which he had
written to order, Dryden could not help bearing testimony as follows:—
‘Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge,
The Statesman we abhor, but praise the Judge;
In Israel’s courts ne’er sate an Abbethdin
With more discerning eyes or hands more clean,
Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress,
Swift of despatch, and easy of access.’
Lord Shaftesbury was kind and charitable to the poor in his
neighbourhood, and was very hospitable. In 1669 Cosimo de’ Medici,
being in England, went to St. Giles’s, and was so much pleased with
his reception, that he kept up a correspondence with his English
friend, and sent him annually a present of Tuscan wine. It has been
adduced by some, in evidence of his immorality, that on one occasion,
while still in favour with Charles, the King said to him, ‘I believe,
Shaftesbury, you are the greatest profligate in England.’ The Earl
bowed low, and replied, ‘For a subject, sire, I believe I am.’ It
would be hard to condemn a man on the testimony of a repartee.
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_No. 4._
WILLIAM, FIRST EARL COWPER, FIRST LORD CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN.
_In Chancellor’s robes._
BORN 1664, DIED 1723.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
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_No. 5._
JOHN, FIRST LORD SOMMERS, LORD CHANCELLOR.
_Violet velvet coat. Lace cravat. Fall wig._
BORN 1652, DIED 1716.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
THE fine old cathedral city of Worcester is so justly proud of its
noble citizen, the first Lord Sommers, that different districts
have contested the honour of his birthplace; but the best evidence
goes to prove that he was born at his father’s estate of Whiteladies,
which at that period was not included in the precincts of the city.
The house was a dissolved Carthusian nunnery, and had been granted to
the Sommers family at the time of the Reformation.
For two generations before the birth of Lord Sommers, the name
was spelled without the final _s_, which probably gave rise to the
supposition that it had a common origin with that of Van Somer, the
famous Flemish painter. On the other hand, some writers contend that
the name was derived from a St. Omer, as in the case of St. Maur, St.
Leger, and the like.
Be this as it may, they undoubtedly claimed kinship with the gallant
admiral, Sir George Somers, who rediscovered the island (or rather the
cluster of islands) of Bermuda, so called after one Juan Bermudez,
‘who was driven thereon by force of tempest.’ The place did not enjoy
a good reputation; it was termed ‘the island of divelles,’ or the
‘enchanted isle,’ and was supposed to harbour sea-monsters, mermen,
and ‘such cattle,’ from which legend doubtless sprang Setebos and
Caliban. Admiral Somers was also wrecked here, and thus rediscovered
the whereabouts which had been lost; and he was most desirous it
should bear his name, and so it is still called Bermuda or Somers’
(erroneously Summer’s) island.
Purchas, in his _Pilgrimage_, gives a long description of the
abundance of sea-fowl, on which the shipwrecked mariners feasted, and
of the wonderful tameness of the birds,—for Somers might have said
with Alexander Selkirk:—
‘They are so unaccustomed to man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.’
Purchas goes on to say, ‘Notwithstanding the wonted danger, you may
now touch at Bermuda, for danger hath made it not so dangerous:’ after
the fashion of many another peril that calls for precautionary
measures.
Waller, in his didactic poem on the beauties of this region, forgets
to do honour to the gallant old ‘salt,’ who was as well known for his
daring rejoinder to King James I. as for his nautical adventures; it
was when subjected to one of the tyrant’s manifold acts of injustice.
‘I hope I may be the last of sacrifices in your time. When from
private appetite it is resolved that a creature shall be sacrificed,
it is easy to pick up sticks enough from any thicket, whither it has
strayed, to make a fire to offer it with.’
The immediate ancestors of the Lord Chancellor had been settled for
some time on a small estate in Gloucestershire, called Stoke Severne,
and they also owned the ‘Whiteladies,’ then a suburb of Worcester.
Here, in 1585, the family entertained Queen Elizabeth, in her progress
through Worcestershire, and although the Sommerses afterwards
imbibed republican principles, the bed in which good Queen Bess lay,
and the cup out of which she drank, were long preserved as precious
relics in the family.
Queen Elizabeth was much pleased with her reception at the
Whiteladies, and indeed at Worcester altogether. More especially was
her Grace’s fancy taken by a conceit of Master Sommers, who
caused a splendid pear-tree, loaded with fruit, to be transplanted
from his own garden to the market-place in the town, as a decoration,
at the time of the Queen’s public reception,—in remembrance of which
Elizabeth granted an augmentation to the arms of the city, in the
shape of three pears, as may be seen to this day.
Master Sommers, the father of the future Peer, had been bred up
to the law, and practised as an attorney, but, when the civil war
broke out, in opposition to the majority of his fellow-citizens, he
took part with the Roundheads, and raised a troop of horse to serve
under Cromwell. He was for some time quartered at Upton, near his own
estate of Stoke Severne, the parish church of which he frequented.
Now the Rector was a Royalist, and a firm upholder of Divine right,
and he was very apt to mix political with theological arguments in his
sermons. Captain Sommers had constantly warned him against so
doing, but in vain; and one Sunday the good parson indulged in so much
abuse of the Cromwell men as to raise the ire of the Parliamentarian
officer, who, drawing forth a loaded pistol, lodged a shot in the
sounding-board above his reverence’s head.
In spite of all this, King Charles passed the night previous to the
battle of Worcester, and that following, at the Whiteladies, where,
after ‘shifting himself’ into a disguise, he left his trunk hose, his
garters, and two pairs of fringed gloves, to be added to the Royal
Elizabethan relics. Lord Campbell remarks that a species of sanctity
had been attached to the Whiteladies by both parties, since the
building was spared, when almost every other edifice was destroyed;
but Nash, the county historian, accounts for the circumstance by
saying that the soldiers spared the house on account of its being a
strong building, capable of holding 500 men with safety.
Not many days after the King’s flight, Captain Sommers brought
his wife, Mistress Catherine (whose maiden name was Ceaverne, a native
of Shropshire), to this stronghold, she being at the time in an
interesting condition for the second time, having already presented
her husband with a daughter; and there, to the best of our belief, was
born, a few months afterwards, the future Lord Chancellor of England,
and the first Peer of the name. Few good stories are told of his
boyhood, excepting one which was probably very much prized in the home
archives, and is remembered till this day, as an omen of his future
greatness. He was on a visit to his aunt, Mistress Bluron, the wife of
a Presbyterian minister, with whom he was walking hand-in-hand amid
the glories of her poultry-yard, when a beautiful roost-cock lighted
on the little fellow’s curly head, and crowed three distinct times
while perched thereon. No less honour than the Woolsack could surely
be prognosticated by so splendid an augury! When, in modern times,
could there have been such literal _avium garritus_?
The boy went to the College School at Worcester, where he became the
favourite model pupil of the master, Dr. Bright, a distinguished
classical scholar. He is described as weakly in health, wearing a
little black cap, but the ‘brightest boy in the whole school, so
studious and contemplative that he did not care for the sports of his
companions, and was usually seen musing alone with a book in his hand
during the hours of recreation.’ He appears to have gone to more than
one other school, and at intervals to have learned the business of an
attorney in his father’s office, the elder Sommers having by
this time resumed the profession to which he was bred before he joined
Cromwell’s army.
At the time of the Restoration he had solicited, and obtained, a
pardon, under the Great Seal, for his former disaffection to the
Crown, but, ‘being a lawyer,’ says Lord Campbell, ‘he perhaps
remembered Sir Edward Coke’s wise observation, that “good men will
never refuse pardon from God or the King, because every man doth often
offend both.”’ In 1667 young Sommers matriculated, and was
entered at Trinity College, Oxford, but apparently only remained there
a short time, and did not take his degree. While at the University he
showed more predilection for the study of the _belles lettres_ than
for that of law, in spite of which his father insisted on his becoming
his clerk at Whiteladies. The picturesque old place was now not only
inhabited by Sommers, the well-to-do solicitor, and his wife and
children, but it had been converted into a species of colony, and was
peopled by several families connected, for the most part, with the
owner, either by blood or marriage. Some of the occupants were engaged
in the cultivation of the large farm adjoining, others in producing
all kinds and colours for dyeing materials, or manufacturing cloth,
which trade was at that time in a flourishing condition in Worcester;
and, above all, in making bricks and tiles for rebuilding the ruined
city and suburbs. The latter calling gave rise to the epithet by which
the scurrilous libellers of later days thought (vainly) to lower the
pride of the great Lord Sommers, by calling him the brickmaker’s
son! When the multifarious labours of the day were at an end, the
various inhabitants, occasionally augmented by outside guests, met, to
the number of twenty or thirty, round the table, in the old refectory
of the nunnery, where the produce of the farm and gardens afforded
them a plentiful and inexpensive banquet. John Sommers, senior,
had great influence in electioneering matters, and also received and
entertained at his house many persons of weight and influence,—among
others, Sir Francis Winnington, a rising lawyer, and Member for the
city, afterwards Solicitor-General. The good knight was much impressed
by young John’s talents, and recommended that he should pursue the
study of the law, in which profession, he remarked, many
Worcestershire men had risen to eminence. It took some time to
persuade the father to send his son away from the establishment, which
was growing more lucrative every day, but at length he yielded to the
wish of Sir Francis, and entered his son as student of the Middle
Temple, 1669. The youth returned, however, and read law at Whiteladies
for a year before settling in the Temple, and, both at Worcester and
in London, he benefited by the friendship and tuition of his good
friend Sir Francis. His circle of acquaintance in London was, at
first, limited almost exclusively to lawyers, and amongst his
intimates was Sir Joseph Jekyll, afterwards his brother-in-law.
But the young Templar returned for his vacations to Worcester
(although the society did not much suit his taste) until the year
1672, when he met a genial spirit at Whiteladies. His father was agent
for the estates of several noblemen, and, among others, of the young
Earl of Shrewsbury, son to the unfortunate Peer who had been killed in
a duel with the Duke of Buckingham,—his shameless wife, at least so
goes the tradition, holding her lover’s horse while he murdered her
husband.
Grafton, the estate of the Shrewsburys, was at that time out of
repair, and the young Earl gladly accepted an invitation to
Whiteladies, and no sooner did our Templar come down from London for
his usual visit, than the two youths formed a friendship which proved
lifelong. They became inseparable companions, both in their studies
and their recreations, and the intimacy continued when they returned
to London. Lord Shrewsbury took a delight in introducing Sommers
to the most distinguished men of his acquaintance, whether remarkable
for birth or learning. John Sommers, becoming aware of his own
deficiency in education, resolved to return to the University, where
he made the Classics his more especial study, without neglecting his
legal pursuits, or giving up his visits to home. It speaks well for
the liberality both of father and son, that John was able and willing
to contribute five pounds (a large sum for a student in those days)
towards the reparation of the chapel; and in after years and better
circumstances he gave a larger donation for the same purpose, as a
proof of his attachment to his old College. We are told rather a
laughable story, which shows in what high repute he was held by his
father, who, in his frequent visits to London, used to leave his horse
at the George Inn at Acton, and in conversing with the landlord seldom
omitted a panegyric on ‘young John,’—so much so, that mine host’s
curiosity was inflamed, and he requested to be allowed some day to see
this prodigy. Mr. Sommers, in consequence, asked his son one
time to escort him on his way as far as Acton, and on entering the
inn, he took the landlord aside, and whispered, ‘I have brought him,
Cobbett, but you must not talk to him as you do to me, for he will not
suffer such fellows as you in his company.’
John Sommers, junior, was called to the bar in 1666, but did not
practise much till five years afterwards; and it was on the occasion
of the famous trial of the seven Bishops that he first made his mark.
Macaulay, in his eloquent account of the transaction, does honour to
the rising barrister. He gives an animated description of the progress
of these stout-hearted Prelates on their committal to the Tower, to
await their trial, of which we give a short extract: ‘The river was
alive with wherries when they came forth under a guard to embark, and
the emotion of the people broke through all restraint. Thousands fell
on their knees and prayed for the men who had emulated the Christian
courage of Ridley and Latimer; many dashed into the water up to their
waists, and cried on the holy fathers to bless them. All down the
stream, from Whitehall to London Bridge, the royal barge passed
between lines of boats, whence arose a shout of “God bless your
Lordships!”’
John Sommers had been chosen as junior counsel for the Bishops
on the trial. He had not yet had much opportunity of distinguishing
himself in public, ‘but his genius, industry, his great and various
accomplishments, were well known to a small circle of friends, and in
spite of his Whig opinions, his pertinent and lucid mode of arguing,
and the constant propriety of his demeanour, had already secured to
him the ear of the Court of King’s Bench, and it was said of him
beforehand that no man in Westminster Hall was so well qualified to
treat an historical and constitutional question.’
Even while endeavouring to keep within our prescribed limits, we feel
it is but simple justice to the future Chancellor to quote the great
historian’s own words: ‘Sommers rose last. He spoke little more
than five minutes, but every word was full of weighty matter, and when
he sat down his reputation as an orator and a constitutional lawyer
was established. The jury were long in coming to a decision, but when
they did return, and the foreman pronounced the verdict—“Not
guilty”—amid deathless silence, a tempest of rejoicing arose. Lord
Halifax threw up his hat, and ten thousand people who crowded the Hall
made the oaken roof crack with shouts, which, echoed by the throng
outside, resounded as far as Temple Bar, and were caught up and sent
back by all the boatmen on the river. The acquittal was mainly
attributed to Sommers’s speech, the effect of which upon the
jury was greatly heightened by the modesty and grace with which it was
delivered. He now, and ever, merited the praise that his pleading at
the bar was masculine and persuasive, free from everything that was
trivial and affected.’
Amid the solemn details of this most important trial, the comic
element cropped up in a speech of one of the jurymen, a Nonconformist,
who was brewer to the Court. The story goes that he complained
bitterly of the dilemma in which he was placed. ‘What am I to do?’ he
asked piteously; ‘if I say Not guilty, I shall brew no more for the
Court; if I say Guilty, I shall brew no more for anybody else.’ On the
same day that the Bishops were acquitted, a paper was drawn up,
entitled ‘The Association,’ censuring the Government of King James
II., and calling on William, Prince of Orange, to come over to
England, and deliver the country from Popery and despotism. The name
of Sommers did not appear, but by many it was believed that the
wording of the document emanated from him. It was signed by all his
political friends, and Lord Shrewsbury immediately afterwards went to
the Hague, laden with large supplies of money, to urge on the Prince
the advisability of his coming over without delay. William answered by
a ‘Declaration,’ announcing his readiness (as the husband of the
Princess Mary) to accede to the wishes of the nation, and promised to
proceed to England, ‘in order to have a free and lawful Parliament
assembled for the maintenance of liberty and the Protestant religion,
and by the decision of that Parliament he would abide.’
This document also was ascribed to Sommers, or at all events it
was said to have been supervised by him, for he had by this time, to
quote the words of Lord Sunderland, become the ‘very soul and spirit
of his party.’ No sooner had King James left the country than
Sommers was returned for his native city, having refused to sit
in the former Parliaments under the two last Kings.
This was in the so-called ‘Convention Parliament;’ and we give
Macaulay’s notice of the new Member’s first appearance in the House of
Commons. After enumerating the names of many political veterans, he
says: ‘But they were speedily thrown into shade by two young Whigs,
who, on this great day, took their seats for the first time, and soon
rose to the highest honours of the State, who weathered the fiercest
storms of faction together, and, having been long and widely renowned
as statesmen, as orators, and as munificent patrons of genius and
learning, died within a few months of each other. These were Charles
Montagu and John Sommers.’
The latter led the debate in the Lower House, and in his maiden
speech, which was considered a model of eloquence, he maintained that
James, by his flight and abdication, had forfeited all claim to
allegiance, and he drew up a manifesto to that effect, declaring the
throne of England to be vacant.
He was thus most instrumental in the passing of the Exclusion Bill,
which precluded the succession of a Popish Prince to the Crown of
England. In all the differences of opinion which now ensued between
the two Houses, John Sommers zealously supported the claims of
William and Mary. He also gained lasting renown by the declaration
that he drew up for classing under general heads ‘such things as were
necessary for the better security of our religion, laws, and
liberties.’ Hence sprang the world-famed Bill of Rights, with which
the name of John Sommers is indissolubly connected. William and
Mary were proclaimed King and Queen; Lord Shrewsbury made his friend,
and that friend’s merits, known to the new Sovereigns; and Sir John
Sommers, Knight, was appointed Solicitor-General. He now took a
prominent part in every public question of importance, evincing the
utmost consistency in his opinions and principles; and his biographer
and earnest admirer, Lord Campbell, appears never to have found fault
with his administration of justice, excepting in one instance, namely,
the course he pursued with regard to a Bill for regulating high
treason—a question we leave to judicial minds. But the same pen awards
him great praise for the manner in which he conducted prosecutions
before Courts of Justice, which he designates as ‘mild, candid, and
merciful.’ Speaking of the trial of Lord Preston and others for high
treason (the first State trial of the reign), in which his moderation
and humanity were universally extolled, Sommers himself said: ‘I
did never think that it was the part of any, who were counsel for the
King in cases of this nature, to aggravate the crime of the prisoners,
or to put false colours on the evidence.’
Indeed, the manner in which these trials were conducted formed an
epoch in legal annals, contrasting brilliantly with the injustice and
cruelty which had characterised former tribunals. Lord Preston, though
found guilty, and sentenced to death, owed his respite and subsequent
pardon to the recommendation of Sir John Sommers.
When war was declared with France, it was the Solicitor-General who
drew up the declaration; and in 1692 he was promoted to the office of
Attorney-General, and shortly afterwards chosen counsel for the
plaintiff in the first trial for criminal conversation, _i.e._ the
Duke of Norfolk _versus_ Sir John Germaine. But the divorce was not
granted till after Sommers became Chancellor. In 1693 he was
again returned for Worcester, and a few days afterwards the Great Seal
of England was intrusted to his keeping, and he took his seat at the
Council Board. Evelyn thus records the event: ‘The Attorney-General
Sommers made Lord Keeper, a young lawyer of extraordinary
merit.’
The appointment (with the exception, naturally, of adverse
politicians) was generally popular. Burnet says: ‘Sommers is
very learned in his own profession, with a great deal more learning in
other professions,—divinity, philosophy, and history.’
He had great capacity for business, a fair and gentle temper, having
all the patience and softness, as well as the justice and equity,
becoming a great magistrate. He had always agreed in his notions with
the Whigs, and had striven to bring them to better thoughts of the
King, and greater confidence in him. During the seven years he
presided in the Court of Chancery he won golden opinions, having most
important judicial duties to perform, and acting on several occasions
as Lord Steward in State trials. A close friendship now existed
between the King and Sommers, but the latter knew how to uphold
both his personal and official dignity, which he proved in a most
remarkable manner at the beginning of this reign, in a passage of arms
that occurred between his Royal master and himself. During the time
that the Seal was in commission, his Majesty had exercised unlimited
judicial patronage, and conceived the idea of continuing to do so,
unquestioned. He was on the eve of embarking for Flanders at the time
of Sommers’s appointment, and he sent Lord Nottingham to the new
Minister, with orders to make out patents for the Chief Baron of the
Exchequer, the Chief-Justice of Chester, and for the Attorney-General.
This cavalier manner of proceeding did not suit Sir John
Sommers, and as the King was still detained at Harwich, waiting
for favourable winds, he wrote a respectful but resolute letter to his
Majesty on the subject, pointing out, in clear, distinct terms, that,
under the conditions imposed on him, he must tender his
resignation—_Anglicè_, he would not accept a post shorn of all
judicial patronage. The King responded nobly to this straightforward
appeal, declined the resignation, paid the Lord Keeper the highest
tribute as to ability and fitness for the great office, announced his
intention of non-interference for the future, but ended by the hope
that Sommers would take the names of the candidates already
mentioned into consideration.
In fact, this short misunderstanding increased and cemented the
cordiality between King and Minister. The three men William had named
were continued, but the office of Attorney-General soon after falling
vacant, was filled up by a nominee of Sommers’s own selection.
Although he declined the offer of a Peerage, he sat in the House of
Lords as Speaker, and exercised a weighty influence over William’s
opinions. On the subject of ‘unlicensed printing,’ the liberal King
and the liberal Minister were agreed, and the Bill was passed by
which, says Macaulay, ‘English literature was emancipated for ever.’
It was strange how little excitement was caused by so great an event.
Neither Evelyn nor Luttrell allude to it in their Diaries, and the
Dutch Minister forgot to mention it in his despatches.
However, from this time forth, the liberty of the Press was assured;
and ‘now we have only to be watchful,’ Lord Campbell sapiently
remarks, ‘lest the Press itself be not turned into an engine of
tyranny.’
In 1690 Queen Mary was attacked with small-pox, and to the
inexpressible grief of her husband, shared by the greater part of the
nation, she died after a very short illness. Friendly messages had
been exchanged between her and her sister, but Mary’s state was too
critical to allow of her being exposed to the excitement of an
interview. When the last scene was over, and the last duties paid to
the beloved Queen and consort, the attempt at reconciling the Princess
of Denmark and her brother-in-law was renewed, and Lord Sunderland,
the Duke of Marlborough, and Sir John Sommers, joined to promote
the wished-for result. Anne had been persuaded to write to the King,
who, stunned by grief, showed little inclination to respond to her
advances. Sommers therefore, bent on carrying out his object,
made his way into the Royal presence at Kensington, where he found
William absorbed in speechless grief. He waited for some time in
respectful sympathy, hoping that the King would break the painful
silence, but was at length compelled to take the initiative.
With the gentle delicacy that characterised him, the Lord Keeper
broached the subject, pointing out how essential it was, on public as
well as private grounds, that the enmity between his Majesty and his
wife’s sister should cease. ‘Do as you will,’ replied the unhappy
widower, ‘I can think of no business.’ An interview was accordingly
arranged. Anne was graciously received, apartments assigned her in St.
James’s Palace, and due honour paid her as heir-presumptive to the
Crown. William once more pressed a Peerage on Sir John (through his
friend, now Duke of Shrewsbury), but it was again declined. He was
placed virtually at the head of the Regency (the Archbishop of
Canterbury presiding only in name), when the King again left England
for a foreign campaign.
He took a prominent part in the great measure for the reformation of
the coinage, and drew up and strongly advocated a plan by which
clipping money could be prevented; but this was not carried into
effect. Lord Macaulay praises him highly for the appointments he made
of such eminent men as Sir Isaac Newton and John Locke, for the
respective posts of Warden of the Mint and a Lordship of Trade.
In 1697 Sir John resigned the Seals, only to have them returned to
him, with the title of Lord Chancellor and Baron Sommers of
Evesham, county Worcester, as also grants of the manors of Reigate and
Howleigh in Surrey, with a yearly income to enable him to keep up the
same. On the retirement of Lord Godolphin, the Ministry became wholly
Whig,—Montagu, Russell, Sommers, and Wharton forming ‘the
Junto.’ In the same year the Peace of Ryswick was signed, by which
France made great concessions, and acknowledged William as King of
England, and Anne as his successor, a circumstance which gave rise to
much rejoicing. But serious differences took place between the King
and his Parliament, which required the disbanding of the troops that
had done such good service in foreign campaigns. The most stormy
discussions ensued, and the press, in all the wild ardour of recent
emancipation, thundered with controversy. To Lord Sommers was
attributed (indeed Macaulay speaks of the authorship as a certainty) a
treatise, called ‘The Balancing Letter,’ which made a great noise at
the time, weighing, as it did, the arguments for and against the
momentous question, but undoubtedly leaning towards the advisability
of maintaining a small standing army. In spite of William’s vehement
opposition, he found himself compelled to ship off his beloved Dutch
Guards, and to diminish the English forces.
Until this time the life of John Sommers had been uninterrupted
in its prosperity and advancement; but a change in his fortunes was
now impending. Henceforward he had both public and private trials to
encounter, added to which, his health had become much impaired. In
July 1698, Parliament being dissolved, and the King gone to Holland,
Lord Sommers gladly availed himself of the opportunity to
recruit his bodily powers, by drinking the waters in the pleasant
retirement of Tunbridge Wells. The question of the Spanish succession
(Charles II., king of that country, being at the time in a dying
state) belongs rather to the political history of Europe than to the
biography of an individual, yet Lord Sommers was so intimately
connected with the so-called ‘Tradition Treaties,’ that we cannot
altogether keep silence on the matter. Before the King’s departure for
Holland, William had already consulted Sommers on the subject,
and, on arriving at the Loo, he wrote, authorising him to consult with
any of his colleagues, on whose discretion and secrecy he could rely,
and asking for opinions on the arrangement proposed, which his Majesty
detailed at full length. Now such a treaty could not be concluded
without the appendage of the Great Seal and the signature of one
Secretary of State. The Lord Chancellor was therefore directed to send
full powers to the Loo, sealed, but with blanks left for the names of
the Plenipotentiaries; and it was strongly urged that the clerks whose
duty it was to draw up the documents should be kept in profound
ignorance of the subject, and the importance of the work they were
performing. The Royal missive found ‘Sommers at a distance from
his political friends, his delicate frame enfeebled by the labours and
vigils of many months, and his aching head giddy with the first
draughts of the chalybeate spring.’ But he lost no time, and
communicated promptly with all the leading statesmen, who agreed with
the King in wishing to see the question of the Spanish succession
settled without delay. Sommers, however, delicately hinted to
his master that he and his colleagues had misgivings on many points of
the treaty, although the Royal wishes had been complied with.
The powers were sent off, the enjoined secrecy observed, the blanks
left for the names of two Commissioners, who, the Lord Chancellor
suggested, should be English, either by birth or naturalisation, and
consequently responsible to Parliament.
A second Partition Treaty was shortly afterwards drawn up and signed,
with fresh clauses and allotments to the different European powers,
with the same secrecy; and when the terms of these treaties became
known in England, a great outcry was raised against the Whigs, and
strenuous efforts made to overthrow the Administration. The Lord
Chancellor, in particular, became the mark for attacks of different
kinds, such as his misconduct in the appointment and dismissal of
magistrates, while a novel charge for the dignitary of the Woolsack
was adduced against John Lord Sommers, namely that of piracy on
the high seas,—not in person, indeed, but by proxy. Thus it came
about: he, in common with other Ministers, had subscribed a sum of
several hundreds towards the fitting out of a ship called _The
Adventure Galley_, for the purpose of ridding the Indian seas of
pirates. The command was given to Captain William Kid, a naval
officer, who had hitherto borne a high character for honour as well as
courage.
As may easily be believed, Lord Sommers knew nothing of the
matter further than that he thought it became the post he occupied to
assist in such a public service; and a grant was made to all the
undertakers of the scheme that they should become possessed of any
booty taken from the pirates by their ship. Captain Kid was armed with
full powers to sink, burn, and destroy the pirates, but on breathing
the air of the buccaneering seas, he turned pirate himself, and became
a dangerous foe to honest traders of all nations, till, after a sharp
encounter with an English frigate, he was taken, and brought home in
irons. A motion was now brought forward by his (Sommers’s)
political adversaries, that the Lord Chancellor should be made
responsible for all the outrages committed by Kid, with whom, they
affirmed, he had intended to go shares for the purpose of swelling his
own coffers,—‘Such black constructions,’ says Burnet, ‘are men apt to
put on the actions of those whom they intend to disgrace.’ The charge,
being preposterous, was rejected by a large majority.
A Bill was now brought in to resume the Irish forfeited estates, which
the King had bestowed on his Dutch favourites, and Lord Sommers
incurred both the Royal displeasure and that of the Opposition in
Parliament for his absence during the debates, although he pleaded the
excuse of bad health. William expected assistance from the Chancellor
in opposing this measure, but the public opinion was so strong that
Sommers did not consider it advisable to support his Majesty.
His enemies had now become persistent in their attacks; and a motion
was made in the House of Commons to the effect that ‘the King should
be advised to remove the present Lord Chancellor from his councils for
ever,’ in common with other leading Ministers.
He had been absent from his duties for some time, in consequence of
failing health, in spite of which the Opposition did all in their
power to induce him to coalesce in the formation of a new Government;
and in answering the overtures made him by Lord Sunderland,
Sommers replied that he considered such a step would be
inconsistent with honour.
The refusal naturally increased the bitterness of his adversaries, and
Harley especially, who rose in arms against him.
William, with all his predilection for the Chancellor, was at length
persuaded of the expediency of removing him, and Lord Sommers
received a hint to that effect, ‘which determined him to wait on his
Majesty at Kensington, in order to know his real mind.’ The King told
him plainly that the time had come when it was necessary for the Seals
to pass into other hands, at the same time expressing a wish that
Sommers himself would resign.
The Chancellor begged his Majesty’s pardon for following the advice of
numerous friends, who had warned him against such a step, which would
be ascribed to guilt or fear; adding that he well knew the designs of
his enemies; that the Great Seal was his greatest crime, and if
permitted to keep it, in spite of their malice, he would do so, being
well aware what a bad use they would make of it. He had no fear of
them, but he would be firm to his friends, with more in that style;
but the King only shook his head, and said, ‘It must be so.’ And thus
was Lord Sommers discharged from the great office which he had
held for so many years, ‘with the highest reputation for capacity,
integrity, and diligence.’
Strangely enough, this ever-coveted post was offered to and refused by
several men ‘high in the law,’ possibly from the fear of comparison
with such an illustrious predecessor. The Seals were at length
delivered to Sir Nathan Wright, ‘in whom,’ says Burnet, ‘there was
nothing equal to the post, much less to the man who had lately filled
it.’
Wright represented a dark shadow between two such shining lights as
Sommers and Cowper.
After a short residence at Tunbridge Wells for the benefit of the
waters, the ex-Chancellor retired to his villa, and, resuming his
literary pursuits, strove to forget all the mortification and
humiliation to which he had lately been exposed. Louis XIV., breaking
through the conditions imposed by the Tradition Treaty, took advantage
of a will made by the Spanish king on his deathbed, in which the
imbecile Charles had been made to bequeath his dominions to the French
king’s grandson, Philip of Anjou; and the young prince was despatched
to Madrid with a splendid and exulting Court. A violent outcry ensued
in England against the Whigs, and Lord Sommers in particular, to
whom this public catastrophe was in a great measure attributed.
Parliament was dissolved, and on the reassembling of the new House,
the Commons proposed to impeach the ex-Chancellor for the part he had
taken in concluding these treaties, and for other high crimes and
misdemeanours. Prior thus alludes to the circumstance in writing to
the Duke of Manchester: ‘I congratulate you on being out of this noise
and tumult, where we are tearing and destroying every man his
neighbour. To-morrow is the great day, when we expect my Lord
Chancellor to be fallen upon, though God knows of what crime he is
guilty, but that of being a great man and an upright judge.’
Sommers begged to be heard in his own defence, and his demeanour
was so dignified, and his explanation so clear, as to enlist many
members on his side, notably Robert Walpole, a young senator,
afterwards Prime Minister, who took the warmest interest in Lord
Sommers’s cause, and voted in his behalf. Notwithstanding, the
motion for the impeachment (with that of four other noblemen) was
carried in the House of Commons—a measure which caused tremendous
indignation in the Upper House, ‘at the infringement of their
privileges;’ while the King’s reply to the Lower House conveyed a
rebuke (though couched in mild terms) for the irregularity of their
proceedings. In spite of King and Peers the impeachment commenced, and
fourteen articles were exhibited against Lord Sommers. The six
first concerned his share in carrying out the Partition Treaties; the
next five accused him of passing illegal grants of Crown property in
his own favour; the thirteenth, of giving a commission to William Kid,
pirate; ‘while the last,’ says Lord Campbell, ‘was a frivolous charge
of judicial delinquency.’
A violent altercation now took place between the two Houses of
Parliament regarding the time and manner of the trial, the Whig
element at that time being paramount among the Lords, while the Tories
preponderated in the Commons. So it came to pass, when the Peers were
seated in great state in Westminster Hall, and Lord Sommers
placed within the bar, the Commons were summoned to make good their
indictment, but in vain. A long pause ensued, but not one member
appeared, and after another solemn procession to and from their own
House, their Lordships decided the question by themselves.
John Lord Sommers was acquitted by a majority of his peers, and
the impeachment dismissed. ‘The following comparison between his
demeanour and that of a former Chancellor, Lord Verulam, on a similar
occasion, is thus drawn by Joseph Addison: ‘The conduct of these
extraordinary persons under the same circumstances was vastly
different. One, as he had given just occasion for his impeachment,
sank under it, and was reduced to such abject submission as diminished
the lustre of so exalted a character. But Lord Sommers was too
well fortified in his integrity to fear the impotence of an attack on
his reputation, and though his accusers would gladly have dropped
their impeachment, he was instant for the prosecution, and would not
let the matter rest till it was brought to an issue.’
The two Houses fell to fighting once more, and fierce and bitter
hatred was fostered by the late proceedings. The Duke of Shrewsbury,
Sommers’s early and faithful friend, alluding to these
squabbles, thus writes to him from Rome: ‘I cannot help referring to
my old opinion, and wonder that a man can be found in England, who has
bread, that will be concerned in public business. Had I a son I would
sooner breed him a cobbler than a courtier, and a hangman than a
statesman.’
In 1701 James II. died, and Louis XIV. astonished Europe in general,
and England in particular, by recognising the Pretender as King of
England,—a step which even incensed the Jacobites, jealous of foreign
interference, and set the Whig party in a flame. A reaction now took
place in favour of the latter faction: the King dismissed his Tory
Ministers, and it was confidently believed that in the formation of a
new Cabinet Lord Sommers would resume office. But William’s days
were numbered. His health had long been a source of anxiety to his
friends and the nation at large, when a fatal accident hurried the
crisis. He had not yet relinquished his favourite exercise of riding,
and even occasionally hunted, but neither his seat nor his hand was
what it had been. Riding one day through his favourite haunt of the
Home Park at Hampton Court, mounted on ‘Grey Sorrel,’ the horse,
having just broken into a gentle canter, stumbled at a molehill, and
fell on his knees, throwing his rider, who broke his collar-bone, and
otherwise injured himself. The bone was set; William proceeded in his
coach to Kensington, but he never rallied. ‘His last days,’ says his
enthusiastic admirer Macaulay, ‘were worthy of his life.’ He
transacted business calmly, took an affectionate leave of his friends,
joined in prayer with the two Bishops who attended him, and breathed
his last. Round his neck was found, suspended to a black riband, the
locket which contained the hair of his beloved wife.
In William III. Lord Sommers lost a sincere and admiring friend,
and far different was the treatment he met with from the new
Sovereign. In a combined Ministry of Whigs and Tories, not only had he
no post assigned him, but he was not allowed to renew the oaths of a
Privy Councillor. His name was struck out of the Commission of the
Peace in every county in England, and it was intimated to him that her
Majesty would not admit him to the Royal presence. Anne condescended
to the mean spite of suspending the pension granted to Addison, whose
only crime was that Lord Sommers esteemed and protected him.
Such petty conduct on the part of the Queen called forth no reprisals
from the man who had his country’s welfare at heart. Finding that
Godolphin and Marlborough considered it expedient to adopt the home
and foreign policy which he advocated, Sommers gave his support
to the Government, and was a diligent attendant in the House of Lords.
Indeed, he now divided his time between his Parliamentary duties and
the enjoyment of literary and scientific pursuits. President of the
Royal Society, he continued his friendship with Addison, and exerted
himself unwearyingly in his behalf. Although an ex-Minister, and
slighted by the Court, he still carried great weight in public
measures, especially in the famous case of the Aylesbury election
trial. This was an action brought against the returning officer by a
man who accused him of not recording his vote, and the case coming by
appeal before the Lords, the Commons declared it a breach of
privilege. The warfare between the two Houses was now resumed, and
waged for some time as fiercely as that between France and England. In
1706 Lord Sommers was most instrumental in negotiating the Union
with Scotland, as, in the fluctuating state of parties, the constant
coalitions and mosaic Governments which were formed, his great talents
were generally recognised in an emergency. The death of Prince George
of Denmark in 1708 brought about further changes, and the presidency
of the Council becoming vacant, Lord Sommers succeeded to the
post. The appointment gave general satisfaction, for, says Burnet, ‘it
was expected that propositions for a general peace would shortly be
made, and so they reckoned that the management of that upon which not
only the safety of the nation, but all Europe, depended, would be in
sure hands. Sommers was a man of inflexible integrity, on whom
neither ill practices nor false colours were like to make any
impression.’
He remained President of the Council until the famous trial of Dr.
Sacheverell. Impeached by the Whigs for preaching against them and the
Government, Sacheverell escaped with a light sentence, but the
proceedings were followed by the downfall of the Administration, which
was replaced by one composed entirely of Tories,—Harley, St. John,
etc.
When the news of the Queen’s dangerous illness became known,
Sommers put himself into communication with the Elector of
Hanover, but the curious scene which took place at the last Privy
Council held in this reign is given in our notice of Lord Chancellor
Cowper, between whom and Lord Sommers a warm friendship had long
existed. On the morning of Sunday, the 1st of August 1714, Queen Anne
expired, and a meeting of the Lords Justices was immediately held.
Lord Sommers was not present, on account of his infirm health,
but he attended the Privy Council, and took the oaths of allegiance to
George I. On the arrival of that monarch in England, and the
reinstatement of the Whigs in office, Sommers would inevitably
have joined the Ministry in his former capacity of Chancellor, but his
increasing indisposition determined him to decline any public post,
even the comparatively light duties of President of the Council having
become irksome to him; but he promised to attend the meetings of the
Privy Council as often as it was possible for him to do so, and he
received an additional pension as a mark of public gratitude. He made
a point of being present at the first council, which was held in
George I.’s reign, but his infirmities gained upon him, and a
paralytic affection incapacitated him from the exertion consequent on
public business. He became torpid and inactive in mind and body; when
a sudden fit of the gout roused him for a time from his lethargy. This
happened at the moment that the Septennial Bill, a measure in which he
had always taken the deepest interest, was pending. His mind
brightened up, his intellect was re-sharpened, and he took to
conversing with his well-named physician, Dr. Friend, on passing
affairs, with all the clearness and vigour of former times. The good
doctor hurried off with the good news to Lord Townshend, one of the
chief promoters of the Bill, who instantly flew to his ancient
colleague to consult him on the subject. On entering the room, the
dying statesman embraced his old friend, cordially congratulated him
on the work in which he was employed (having, he said, never approved
of the Triennial Bill), and ended by assuring him of ‘my hearty
approbation in the business, for I believe it will be the greatest
support possible to the liberty of the country.’
When the gout subsided, Lord Sommers fell back into a state of
torpor and helplessness, from which he was released by death on the
26th of April 1716, the very day the Bill in question was passed. He
died of apoplexy at his villa in Hertfordshire, and was buried in the
parish church of North Mymms, where a plain monument bears this modest
inscription:—
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN LORD SOMMERS,
BARON OF EVESHAM,
LORD CHANCELLOR OF ENGLAND IN THE REIGN OF
WILLIAM THE THIRD,
TO WHOSE MEMORY THIS MONUMENT WAS ERECTED BY
DAME ELIZABETH JEKYLL.
The sister who loved and admired him so ardently felt doubtless that
eulogium would be misplaced, and that all who read the name would
recall the virtues, talents, and patriotism of her noble-hearted
brother. Lord John Russell does him ample justice when he says,
‘Sommers is a bright example of a statesman who could live in
times of revolution without rancour, who could hold the highest posts
in a Court without meanness, who could unite mildness and charity to
his opponents with the firmest attachment to the great principles of
liberty, civil and religious, which he had early espoused, long
promoted, and never abandoned;’ while Mackintosh says, ‘Sommers
seems to have nearly realised the perfect model of a wise statesman in
a free community.’ Notwithstanding the accumulation of professional
and public business which fell to his share, from the day he arrived
in London, he not only found time (as we have observed before) for
literary studies and compositions, but for indulging in the society
and correspondence of distinguished men of letters—foreigners as well
as English. He held the poet Vincenzo Filicaja in high estimation,
which was indeed reciprocal, as a Latin ode written in honour of ‘My
Lord Giovanni Sommers, Cancelliere di Gran Brettagna,’
testifies.
Steele, Prior, and Congreve were among his associates. Newton, Locke,
Addison, and Swift were marked out by him for preferment. He was a
noble patron, and rewarded merit wherever he found it, and had it in
his power. Lord Sommers was an exemplary son, and his mother
(who survived her husband many years) had the satisfaction of seeing
‘little Johnnie’ rise to the highest honours of the State. Addison
vouches for the religious faith of his benefactor, and tells us how
unremitting he was in the performance of his devotional services, both
in public and in his own family. Sommers never married, although
in early life he wooed and won the affections of one Mistress Rawdon,
the daughter of a rich Alderman, who broke off the match on the plea
of the insufficiency of marriage settlements. We feel an inward
conviction that in later days Sir John Rawdon must have repented his
arbitrary decision. The title became extinct at Lord Sommers’s
death, his property being shared by his two sisters, of whom the elder
married Charles Cocks, Esquire of Castleditch, and the younger Sir
John Jekyll, Master of the Rolls, an early friend and fellow-lawyer of
her brother. From Mrs. Cocks descended the late Earl Sommers, to
whom the present imperfect sketch of his ancestor was submitted in
manuscript, but who has not, alas! lived to read it in the completed
form.
He was indeed a worthy descendant of a great man, and by his death
society at large, and a band of admiring and loving friends, have
sustained an irreparable loss; while on the domestic hearth that light
has been quenched which shed so radiant a glow on all those who
clustered fondly round it. A scholar, an artist, a traveller, a
linguist, the versatility of his information could only be equalled by
the graceful refinement of his wit and the tenderness of his sympathy.
He was one of those rarely gifted men, on whom the mantle of moral and
intellectual qualities sit so easily, that in his genial company no
feeling of inferiority was imposed on others. On the contrary—as the
writer of these lines can testify, from grateful experience,—those who
had the privilege of conversing with him partook for the moment, in
some slight degree, of the brightness and intelligence of his rich
nature.
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_No. 6._
FIELD-MARSHAL HENRY DE NASSAU, LORD OF AUVERQUERQUE.
_In armour, holding a truncheon. Wig. Table in the background._
DIED OF HIS WOUNDS 1708.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
HE was the third son of Lewis de Nassau, Lord of Leek, Odyke,
Auverquerque, and Beverwaart, by Elizabeth, daughter of the Count de
Horn. He formed part of William of Orange’s suite when that Prince
came over to England in 1670, and on the occasion of a visit to
Oxford, De Nassau had the degree of D.C.L. conferred upon him. In the
campaigns which ensued in Flanders, he was brother-in-arms to his
cousin and Royal master, and gained general approbation for his
courage and patriotism. When William III. ascended the throne of
England, Auverquerque was appointed Master of the Horse, and allowed
to retain his post of Captain of the Dutch Guards who had come over to
this country. He was also naturalised by Act of Parliament. Macaulay
speaks of this ‘gallant soldier as uniting the blood of Nassau with
that of Horn. He wore with just pride a costly sword, presented to him
by the States-General, for having, on the bloody day of St. Denis,
saved the life of William of Orange by interposing himself between his
Highness and a French soldier, whom he killed on the spot.’
Auverquerque likewise received a brace of pistols, richly mounted in
gold, and a pair of horse-buckles of the same precious metal.
In 1690 he was with the army that embarked for Ireland, headed by the
King in person; fought with his Royal master at the battle of the
Boyne, and was afterwards sent to Dublin (hastily evacuated by James
II. and his adherents) to take possession of the city and keep the
peace. He was also with William at the unsuccessful siege of Limerick,
and subsequently served with great distinction in the campaigns in
Flanders against the French.
But it was at the battle of Steinkirk, in 1692, that Auverquerque
immortalised himself by his gallantry. The French army, commanded by
the brave and eccentric Duke of Luxembourg, was encamped at Steinkirk,
six miles from the King of England’s headquarters. Luxembourg was one
of the most extraordinary compounds of physical and moral
incongruities. Macaulay describes him as a valetudinarian and a
voluptuary, whose camp was of the most luxurious, who usually selected
his quarters with a view to his culinary department, and whose
thoughts were almost as much taken up with his _batterie de cuisine_
as with his batteries in the field,—a little ugly hump-backed gnome,
who was accredited with powers of witchcraft, and had the spirit of a
lion. On his camp William made a night surprise, but Luxembourg was
one of those spirits who, in the literal meaning of the word, cannot
be surprised. He was the king of emergencies; ‘his mind’—we again
borrow the language of Macaulay—‘nay, even his sickly and distorted
body, seemed to derive health and vigour from disaster and dismay.’
In his army were the flower of the French chivalry. The noble
historian, whom we are never tired of quoting, describes the
appearance of the young Princes of the blood-royal of France,—‘brave
not only in valour, but in the splendour of their brilliant uniforms,
hastily donned and half fastened.’ They had orders to charge the
English: ‘No firing was the word; sword in hand, do it with cold
steel.’
In the order of battle, the division which was to lead the van was
that of General Mackay (the brave soldier who had done such good
service in Scotland, Ireland, and elsewhere). They first encountered
the Swiss, and drove them back with fearful slaughter, after so close
a fight that the muzzles of the muskets crossed.
But the English were borne down, after a noble resistance, by the
French troopers. They never ceased to repeat that, if Count Solmes,
who commanded them, had done his duty, they would have been
successful; but he forbade his infantry to stir; he would not send
them, he said, to be slaughtered. The Duke of Ormonde wished to
advance to the assistance of his countrymen, but was not permitted to
do so.
Mackay sent to say if he were not reinforced, his men were doomed to
destruction. It was of no avail; ‘God’s will be done,’ said the brave
veteran with his latest breath, and ‘he died as he had lived, a good
Christian.’ Five regiments were entirely cut to pieces. It was at this
juncture that Auverquerque came to the rescue with two fresh
battalions, and the splendid manner in which he brought off the
remains of Mackay’s division was long remembered and gratefully
acknowledged by the English. In the debates which ensued in the House
of Commons, when the events of the war by land and sea were discussed,
there was much difference of opinion, and the question of the
disadvantages of English troops being commanded by aliens was mooted.
The conduct of Solmes was almost universally reprehended. Four or five
of the colonels, who had been present at Steinkirk, took part in the
debate, and, amid many warring opinions, full justice was done to the
valour and conduct of Auverquerque.
On the other hand, the exultation of the French over this dashing
victory was unspeakable; and it was commemorated by the votaries of
fashion in all sorts of ‘modes _à la Steinkirk_,’ the most captivating
of which, we are told, was the loosely arranged and scarcely knotted
cravats of white lace, worn round the fair necks of Parisian beauties,
in imitation of the hasty toilettes of the young princes and nobles of
the King’s household troops.
In Macaulay’s pathetic account of the last days of William III., he
tells us ‘there were in the crowd surrounding the Monarch’s dying bed
those who felt as no Englishman could feel, friends of his youth, who
had been true to him, and to whom he had been true, through all
vicissitudes of fortune, who had served him with unalterable fidelity
(when his Secretaries of State, of his Treasury, and his Admiralty had
betrayed him), who had never on any field of battle, or in an
atmosphere tainted with loathsome and deadly disease, shrunk from
placing their own lives in jeopardy to save his, and whose truth he
had, at the cost of his own popularity, rewarded with bounteous
munificence.’
Amid the group of his countrymen, the nearest to him was Auverquerque,
to whom he stretched out a feeble hand, thanking him for the
affectionate and loyal service of thirty years.
After the King’s death Auverquerque felt no inclination to remain in
England, but returned to his native land, and once more engaged in the
war which was still waging against France; and the States-General, in
acknowledgment of his services, bestowed on him the highest military
honours, by making him Field-Marshal of the whole army. He closed his
noble career by dying (as he had always desired) on the field. The
gallant Marshal had for some time suffered from bad health, which he
never allowed to interfere with his duties. He died in the camp at
Rouselaer, on the 17th day of October 1708, after the battle of Lille.
Collins gives a detailed account of the funeral, with more than common
military honours, even for an officer of such exalted rank. The
funeral car was escorted by squadrons of life guards, horse guards,
and dragoons, the colours of the regiments, as well as the men, being
in mourning, two battalions of foot guards, with arms reversed, etc.
The body was followed for a quarter of a league by a band of mourners,
consisting of the Marshal’s sons and most of the generals, headed by
the Duke of Marlborough. The troops were then drawn up, and saluted,
after which there was a triple discharge of cannon; the generals
returned to the camp, and the melancholy cortége passed on towards the
place of interment at Auverquerque.
The Marshal married Isabella van Arsens, daughter of Cornelius, Lord
of Sommerdyke and Placata (who survived him), by whom he had five sons
and two daughters. The eldest surviving son, Henry, was made an
English peer in 1698, by the title of Earl of Grantham, Viscount
Boston, and Baron Alford. He had to wife his cousin, Lady Henrietta
Butler, daughter of the celebrated Earl of Ossory (son to the first
Duke of Ormonde), by whom he had two sons and three daughters. The
youngest, Lady Henrietta Auverquerque, married William, third Earl
Cowper, and through this union the present noble owner of Panshanger
boasts a lineal descent from the hero, William the Silent, and
Maurice, Princes of Orange, whose portraits Lady Henrietta brought
into the Cowper family, together with the splendid Vandyck of John of
Nassau—purchased by Lord Grantham at the Hague, in 1741, for the sum
of 5000 florins, from the Van Swieten collection,—also several other
Dutch pictures, which may be found in this Gallery. From the aforesaid
lady the present Lord Cowper derives his title of Dingwall, though
only called out of abeyance so recently as 1880.
Lord Albemarle, in his delightful volume entitled _Fifty Years of My
Life_, speaks in the highest terms of the valour and generalship of
Field-Marshal d’Auverquerque, and says the history of the War of
Succession best attests his merits as General, and the Marlborough
despatches best show the estimation in which he was held by that
consummate commander. The titles of Earl Grantham and Baron Alford
were bestowed upon him for his services, but he never assumed these
honours.
------------------
_No. 7._
ADMIRAL CORNELIUS VAN TROMP.
_In a leather jerkin. Holding a truncheon. The other arm akimbo.
Ship blowing up in the background._
BORN 1629, DIED 1691.
BY SIR PETER LELY.
A NATIVE of Rotterdam, the son of Martin Van Tromp, who, at the age of
eleven years, stood by his father when he was shot down in action, the
boy crying wildly to his messmates, ‘Comrades, will you not revenge my
father’s death?’
Martin’s father before him had also been killed on the deck of his own
vessel, in an engagement with the English, and Cornelius proved
himself worthy of his brave progenitors. At the age of twenty-one he
had attained the rank of post-captain, and was employed against the
Emperor of Morocco, whom he compelled to make advantageous terms with
the Dutch. In 1652 he fought the English at Porto Longone, and
captured one of their finest vessels, the _Sampson_, which he boarded,
his own ship being disabled; but, to the great mortification of Van
Tromp, the _Sampson_ was recaptured by the enemy. The following year,
in a fresh encounter with the English, he made a violent effort to
regain possession of his former prize, but the _Sampson_ was blown up.
The Dutch were victorious on this occasion, but they lost their
Admiral, and Van Tromp was promoted to the vacant post. In 1656, in
connection with Oldham and De Ruyter, he distinguished himself on the
high seas, and then retired for a while from public life, and did not
go afloat till 1662, when he fought the Algerine pirates in the
Mediterranean. He also performed an arduous task in convoying several
richly freighted Dutch merchantmen from the East Indies safely into
port, in spite of numerous enemies who were on the look-out for such
valuable prizes. Van Tromp was constantly opposed to the English, and
in one engagement he gained universal praise for the manner in which
he defended his disabled and shattered ship, when the Dutch were
defeated, and sad havoc made in their fleet. New ships had to be
constructed in all haste, and the States-General were placed in a
dilemma as to the appointment of the command of the naval forces.
Popular De Ruyter was absent, battling with other foes, and although
Van Tromp’s knowledge and skill were almost universally acknowledged,
there was a very powerful faction against him, led by the brothers De
Witt, then in the plenitude of their power. The head and front of the
gallant seaman’s offending seemed to consist in his unswerving loyalty
to the House of Orange. There was, however, no alternative, and the
command of the fleet was grudgingly bestowed on Cornelius Van Tromp,
who had many hard conditions, to which his patriotism alone induced
him to submit. He had not the sole command, but was joined therein by
De Witt and others, who received instructions to watch over and
supervise all his movements. Worse treatment was in store for him; no
sooner had he hoisted his flag, than the sudden return of De Ruyter
changed the whole aspect of affairs; Van Tromp’s appointments were
cancelled, and De Ruyter ordered to supersede him. We can imagine with
what feelings of wrathful indignation Van Tromp went on shore, proudly
refusing to serve under the man who had supplanted him. In the ensuing
year, spite of much bitterness of feeling, he who had been so unjustly
treated was induced (partly by the bribe, perhaps, of a splendid ship)
to join De Ruyter in an attack on the English, when, after a fierce
struggle, of several days’ duration, the Dutch were victorious.
Hostilities continuing between the two nations, in another engagement
Van Tromp defeated the British Admiral Smith, but De Ruyter was
worsted; and on their return violent recriminations passed between
them. De Ruyter complained that his colleague had acted quite
independently, had afforded him no support whatsoever, and, in fact,
had left him and his portion of the fleet completely in the lurch,
while Van Tromp retaliated with counter-charges. The States-General,
as usual, espoused the cause of De Ruyter, deprived Van Tromp of his
commission, forbade him to hold any communication with the fleet, and
placed him under provisory arrest at the Hague. It was at this moment,
while smarting beneath the ingratitude and injustice of the country
which he had so nobly served, that tempting offers were made to the
gallant seaman to enter the service of France, but these overtures
were answered with becoming indignation. He now gained permission to
leave the Hague, and repair to a country house which he possessed near
Gravensand, called Trompenburg, and built in the fanciful form of a
man-of-war. But being in the Hague at the time of the murder of the De
Witt brothers, there were slanderous rumours set abroad that he
encouraged the assassins. This arose doubtless from the fact that some
voices in the crowd on the day of the murder called out, ‘Down with
the De Witts! Long live Van Tromp!’
The Admiral remained for some time in retreat, but in 1673 he was
reinstated in all his dignities by the Prince of Orange (afterwards
William III.). A formal reconciliation took place between him and De
Ruyter, and they once more agreed to make common cause against the
enemies of their country. In an engagement with the combined forces of
France and England, Van Tromp was sorely pressed, compelled to change
his ship three times, and three times he was rescued by the gallantry
of De Ruyter. The war continued, and they were both in constant
service, and, whether successful or not, both famed alike for their
patriotism and courage.
In 1675, the Dutch being then at peace with England, Charles II.
invited Van Tromp to visit London, where he welcomed him with great
honour, and gave him the title of Baron. The citizens also crowded to
see the man whose name, as well as that of his father, had long been
used with them as a bugbear to frighten naughty children (as was the
case with ‘Boney’ in later days), and whose advent on the shores of
England had at one time been so much dreaded that prayers had actually
been printed against such a calamity.
Next year the Admiral was despatched to the assistance of Denmark
against Sweden, and the King of that country also did him great
honour, creating him a Count, and decorating him with the Order of the
Elephant. On his return, the death of De Ruyter had made a vacancy in
the highest naval command which it was in the power of the
States-General to bestow, and it was conferred on Van Tromp. His last
expedition was to accompany the Prince of Orange in his attack of St.
Omer, and in 1691, William (then King of England) proposed to him to
hoist his flag on the new fleet equipping against France, but Van
Tromp died before he could undertake the trust. He expired at
Amsterdam, and was buried with great solemnity in the paternal
mausoleum at Delft.
Cornelius Van Tromp, with many great qualities, had something of a
braggadocio in his nature. Witness his vain boast, when, after some
successful encounter with the English, he attached a broom to his main
mast, at a time when our superiority as a naval power was almost
universally admitted.
Van Tromp had one brother, and an only sister, who had been christened
by her father (in commemoration of one of his victories, at the time
of her birth) by the following names, ‘Anna Maria Victoria Hardensis
Trompensis-Dunensis.’ We sincerely hope, for the sake of her
playmates, that the young lady had at least one nickname.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
DRAWING-ROOM.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DRAWING-ROOM.
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_No. 1._
LADY CAROLINE COWPER.
_Red gown. Black and white cloak._
BORN 1733, DIED 1773.
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
THE only daughter of William, second Earl Cowper, by Lady Henrietta
Auverquerque, daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Married in 1753 to
Henry Seymour, Esq. of Sherborne, Redland Court, and Northbrook,
nephew to the Duke of Somerset. They had two daughters,—Caroline, wife
to Mr. Danby of Swinton Park, county York (who bequeathed this picture
to Lord Cowper), and Georgiana, married to the Comte de Durfort,
Ambassador at Venice.
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_No. 2._
MRS. SAMUEL REYNOLDS.
_Green gown, with short sleeves. Holding a basket._
A STUDY BY OPIE.
MISS JANE COWING married in 1793 Samuel Reynolds, who became
identified with his great namesake, Sir Joshua, by his beautiful and
delicate engraving of the works of that master, and of many other
celebrated painters. His son and daughter were also artists in oil and
miniature, and his grandchildren still keep up the character of the
family for the love and practice of art. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were
intimate friends and constant guests of Lord and Lady John Townshend
at Balls Park, Hertford, where the agreeable and versatile talents of
the former, and the gentle and kindly disposition of the latter,
ensured them a cordial welcome. They were also occasional visitors to
Panshanger, and it is easy to imagine how fully the treasures of this
noble gallery must have been appreciated by the practised eye and
refined taste of Samuel Reynolds.
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_No. 3._
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A.
_Red coat. Fur collar. No spectacles._
BORN 1723, DIED 1792.
BY HIMSELF.
BORN at Plymouth, where his father, Samuel, was master of the
Grammar-School. His mother was Theophila Potter, of Bishops Plympton,
South Molton, who had many children. Samuel Reynolds was a good man,
and sensible withal; yet we are told, on the authority of a maid who
lived in the family, that he was given to astrology, and would go out
on the house-top to consult the stars; moreover, that he once cast the
horoscope of a little daughter, for whom he predicted a violent
death,—a prophecy which was, unfortunately, fulfilled, as the child
fell out of a window, and was killed. When only eight years old,
Joshua had benefited so much by studying Richardson’s treatise on
Perspective, that he was enabled to draw the schoolhouse according to
rule, a feat which much delighted his father. The boy also busied
himself in copying all the engravings he could lay hands on, more
especially a volume of Catt’s Emblems, which his grandmother had
brought with her from Holland. His sisters had all a turn for drawing,
and the little band of artists used to decorate the whitewashed walls
of the passages with designs in charcoal, whereof the least admired
were the brother’s handiworks. Indeed, in those days Joshua was not
considered a prophet by his sisters, who had nicknamed him ‘The
clown,’—a sobriquet certainly not applicable to him in after life.
Mrs. Parker, a friend and neighbour of the Reynolds family, sent the
children a present of pencils,—a gift which the great painter lived to
pay back with interest, for the walls of Saltram are rich in his
paintings. When about twelve years of age, Joshua is said to have made
his first essay in oils under considerable difficulties,—the portrait
of Richard (afterwards Lord) Edgecumbe,—in the boat-house on Cremel
Beach, below Mount Edgecumbe. This work was executed on the rough
canvas of a boat-sail, with the common paints used by shipwrights!
After much consultation with friends and relations, and many pecuniary
obstacles, Joshua proceeded to London as an apprentice to Hudson, the
fashionable portrait-painter of the day, son-in-law to Richardson,
whose writings on Art had been so useful to the young beginner.
Shortly after his departure, his father writes to a friend that no one
could be more delighted than the dear fellow with his new life, his
master, his employment,—indeed, he was in the seventh heaven.
Joshua was an enthusiast in all things, and a characteristic anecdote
is told of him when he first went to London. Hudson sent him to a
picture sale, on a commission to make a purchase, when a whisper ran
through the crowded room—‘Mr. Pope! Mr. Pope!’ A passage was instantly
made for the great man, and Joshua, in a fever of excitement,
stretched out his hand under the arm of the person who stood before
him, desirous even to touch the hem of the poet’s garment. To his
delight, his hand was warmly shaken by the man whose homely but
expressive features, and poetical creations, he was destined to
portray in later days.
Reynolds left Hudson’s studio before his apprenticeship had expired,
for which step many reasons were assigned at the time by those who,
perhaps, were not in possession of the truth. Some said his master was
unkind to him, from a feeling of jealousy; but as both father and son
(Reynolds) remained on friendly terms with the painter, this does not
appear probable. Joshua went down to Plymouth, and painted all the
remarkable people in the neighbourhood, including the greatest
dignitary of all,—the Commissioner of the dockyard!
In 1746 his father died, and when the household broke up, he went to
live with his two unmarried sisters at Plymouth. It was here he made
the acquaintance of Commodore Keppel, whose portrait is so well known
and so justly admired. This gallant sailor had been appointed to the
command of the Mediterranean Fleet, and intrusted with a diplomatic
mission, before he had completed his twenty-fourth year. He met Joshua
at Mount Edgecumbe, and proposed to take him for a cruise, an offer
that was gladly accepted. After visiting Portugal, the Balearic Isles,
and different portions of the Italian coast, the young painter took
leave of the Commodore, and proceeded on a prolonged tour through all
the principal towns of Italy, carefully admiring, studying, copying,
and writing essays on all the treasures of art in his progress. His
long and patient worship of Raphael, in the chambers of the Vatican,
cost him one of his senses, for the extreme cold of those vast
apartments brought on a chill, which deprived him of hearing, even at
that early age. Returning to London, he established himself in St.
Martin’s Lane, in a house formerly occupied by Sir James Thornhill,
immediately behind which stood the school for drawing and design. He
now wrote to his sister Frances to come up from Devonshire, and keep
house for him,—a proceeding which, judging from the character given of
that lady by Madame D’Arblay (whose testimony we are always inclined
to take _cum grano_), appeared to be of questionable advantage, for
Miss Fanny, though a person of worth and understanding, lived in a
perpetual state of irresolution of mind and perplexity of
conduct,—what in these days we should call a chronic fuss; added to
which, she insisted on being an artist, and her admiration for her
brother’s works induced her to make what she called ‘copies,’ and
Joshua ‘caricatures.’ ‘Indeed,’ said he wofully, ‘Fanny’s copies make
me cry, and other people laugh.’ She had also a knack of taking
offence on the slightest provocation, and one day, being displeased
with her brother for some imaginary slight put upon her, she deputed
Samuel Johnson to compose an expostulatory letter for her to write to
Joshua. Dr. Johnson was a warm admirer of Miss Fanny and her talent
for tea-making,—to which he did full justice,—and could deny her
nothing; but when the copy of the letter was read and discussed, the
style was so unmistakably masculine and Johnsonian, that it was deemed
advisable not to send it.
Our painter’s hands were now full. Men and women of all classes,
denominations, and reputations, thronged his studio; his pocket-book
was a perfect record of all the illustrious and celebrated names of
the period. He determined to change his quarters, first to Newport
Street, and finally to far more commodious apartments in Leicester
Square. He raised his prices, charging twelve guineas for a head, and
forty-eight for a full-length. He set up a magnificent coach, which
caused a great sensation. Northcote flippantly describes it as an
advertisement; but it would appear more likely that Reynolds wished to
do Catton a good turn. Catton had begun life as a decorator, and ended
as an R.A. The vehicle was splendid in colour and gorgeous in gilding,
and Catton soon received orders to paint royal and municipal
carriages. Joshua was far too busy to take the air in his new
equipage, and it was in vain he entreated Miss Fanny to do so. She was
much too shy, she said, to attract the eyes of the whole town.
We do not require to be told that Sir Joshua was a friend and
playfellow of children. None but a lover could have painted in all
their winning varieties, not merely the comeliness, but the roguish
grace, the dimpled smiles, the ‘beautifully shy’ glances, of
childhood. It is easy to picture him paying court to these juvenile
charmers, and entering into delightful small flirtations. But the
history of one of these tender passages will suffice to give an idea
of the course he usually pursued. The parents of the beautiful little
Miss Bowles, with whose sweet face we are all familiar, had settled
that their darling should sit to Romney. But Sir George Beaumont
recommended Reynolds for the privilege. The little lady was shy and
coy. ‘Invite him to dinner,’ said Sir George. The President came, and
sat at table by the daughter of the house. He paid her the most
assiduous court; no end of stories; no end of tricks; her plate was
juggled away and brought back from unexpected quarters. Her senses
were dazzled; the conquest was complete; she thought him the most
captivating of men, and was only too ready to be taken to his house
next day. There, seated on the floor in an ecstasy of expectation and
delight, she gave herself up to Sir Joshua’s fascinations. He seized
his opportunity, caught the radiant expression, fastened it on the
canvas, and made his little friend immortal! No one gloried more in
the success of the young painter than Samuel Johnson, for between
these two great men, so essentially different in pursuits, in
character, intellect, and appearance, a tender friendship had sprung
up. Reynolds’s heart, home, and purse were always at the service of
the Doctor, who was often in pecuniary difficulties, and who wrote
_Rasselas_ under the pressure of great sorrow, paying the expenses of
his mother’s funeral out of the proceeds of the book. He puts these
touching words into the mouth of Imlac: ‘I have neither mother to
delight in the reputation of her son, or wife to share in the honours
of her husband.’
Many a delightful summer excursion did Johnson and Reynolds make
together, where the eccentricities and caustic humour of the former
made him as welcome a guest at the country houses they visited as the
refined qualities and polished manners of the latter.
If the peculiarities, the sayings, and doings of the great ‘leviathan
of literature’ have been made familiar to us by the pen of Boswell,
surely the pencil of Reynolds has stamped his image on our minds, as
if the living Samuel had ever stood before us. Boswell recognised the
Doctor when he saw him first through a glass door in Tom Davies’s
coffee-house from his exact resemblance to the portrait which the
painter afterwards gave the biographer, who had it engraved for one of
the first editions of Johnson’s Life. What can be more charming than
‘The Infant Johnson,’ one of the chief glories of the Bowood
collection? Was ever a joke so wonderfully delineated?
The question being raised one evening at a convivial meeting, Could
the Doctor ever have been a baby? ‘No doubt about it,’ said Reynolds;
‘I know exactly what he looked like, and I will show you some day.’
The painter was a great admirer of Johnson’s powers of conversation,
and it was chiefly at his instigation that the Literary Club was
formed, with a view ‘of giving the Doctor the opportunity of talking,
and us, his friends, of listening.’ The meetings were held in Gerrard
Street, Soho, and were at first confined to twelve members, but ere
long included all the wit and literature of the town.
Sir Joshua liked cards, masquerades, and theatres. Neither did he
disdain the illegitimate drama, for we find him accompanying the
sapient Samuel and the rollicking Oliver (Goldsmith) to a performance
of the Italian Fantoccini; and, still more surprising, we have the
account of the supper which crowned this convivial evening, when
Goldsmith and the Doctor jumped over sticks, in imitation of the
frolics of the wooden puppets, and the latter nearly broke his leg in
these elephantine gambols!
In 1769 the Royal Academy was founded. Joshua did not join the
deputation that waited on the King; in fact, he kept aloof from the
whole undertaking, interested as he was at heart in the cause; but the
slights put upon him at Court formed a sufficient reason for his
non-appearance. From the moment that he found himself elected
President by the unanimous voice of his brother artists, his zeal
never slackened, and knew no bounds. He drew up Regulations, wrote and
revised the Catalogue, and began a regular course of lectures, which
gained him as much literary, as his paintings had secured for him
pictorial, fame. As long as Reynolds could hold a brush he contributed
his most splendid portraits to the Exhibitions. As in duty bound, he
went to the levee, where the King knighted him. ‘His very name,’ says
his friend Edmund Burke, an undoubted master of euphony, ‘seemed made
for knightly honours.’
George III. sat to him for the presentation picture to the Royal
Academy. Sir Joshua had not as much time now as formerly for his
summer excursions, whether in England or abroad. He spent most of the
day in his painting-room, or in attending to his numerous duties as
P.R.A. In the evening he gave himself up more or less to social
enjoyment, dining out constantly at clubs or private houses, or
presiding at his own table at those convivial banquets, where
oftentimes half a dozen guests were expected and a dozen appeared, and
where verily the feast of reason and the flow of soul made up for the
scarcity of the servants, knives, forks, plates, and such minor
details.
In that dining-room were gathered all the intellect and wit of the
town; and its noble master presided calmly, taking an interest in all
that came within the range of his ear-trumpet. Leicester Square was in
the centre of the disturbed district at the time of the Gordon Riots,
and the noise and hubbub were painfully audible to the painter’s
impaired hearing, and for a time interfered with the visits of his
fair sitters. On St. George’s Day 1770, Sir Joshua presided at the
first Royal Academy banquet, a festivity which was spoiled for many of
the guests by the announcement that the boy-poet Chatterton had
committed suicide.
In the ensuing year Reynolds was summoned to Windsor Castle to witness
the installation of nine Knights of the Garter, all of whom (with the
exception of two foreign Princes) had been immortalised by his pencil.
Northcote tells us that on this occasion Sir Joshua lost his laced hat
and gold watch in the crowd close to the Royal precincts,—a
circumstance which excited little astonishment in days when a boat
containing ladies and gentlemen from Vauxhall was boarded by masked
highwaymen!
A delightful addition was made in 1771 to the Leicester Square
household, in the person of his pretty niece, Theophila Palmer; and
two years later she was joined by her sister, Mary, adding that
element of youth, beauty, and good spirits which were most acceptable
to Sir Joshua himself and to all his guests. A sad blow was in store
for him in the death of his valued friend David Garrick, who was taken
ill when on a visit to Lord Spencer at Althorp, and only returned to
London to die. The whole Faculty put forth their skill to save this
darling of the public, this cherished member of private society; but
in vain. Garrick’s humour never forsook him; when almost at the point
of death, he drew a friend near him, and, pointing to the crowd of
doctors in the room, whispered these words from the ‘Fair Penitent’—
‘Another and another still succeeds,
And the last fool is welcome as the former.’
David Garrick’s funeral was a pageant. The procession included every
name remarkable for talent, rank, celebrity of all kinds and classes.
But amidst that crowd of mourners few could have grieved more deeply
than the actor’s fast friend, Joshua Reynolds.
He was indeed a good friend, and was much interested in the unhappy
Angelica Kauffmann, whom he assisted in the dissolution of her
marriage with her first husband, a swindler and an impostor. We find
by his pocket-book that she sat twice to him, and in exchange she
afterwards painted the P.R.A. for Mr. Parker of Saltram. There was a
rumour that the painter’s heart was touched by the charms of the
paintress. But Joshua was evidently not very susceptible; he was an
inveterate club man, and was immensely popular, from the geniality and
cordiality of his manners, as also (it was whispered) from the badness
of his whist-playing. He was elected for the Dilettanti Club in 1766,
and his picture of the assembled members was greatly admired, and
added considerably to his fame.
In 1782 the great painter had a paralytic seizure, though of a mild
nature, and he soon recovered sufficient energy to continue his
labours, with, if possible, increased diligence, finishing and
exhibiting some of his noblest works after this premonitory warning.
In 1784 Samuel Johnson was stricken down by the same terrible disease,
but in a much more aggravated form, leaving little hope of his
recovery. He had lost the power of speech for a time, and his first
efforts at returning articulation were to repeat the Lord’s Prayer,
and an earnest supplication that his intellect might be spared to the
last, together with a summons to his dear Joshua,—the loved companion
of so many pleasant excursions, of so many jovial and intellectual
gatherings,—of whom he took a tender farewell. The dying man made
three requests in that solemn moment: that Reynolds would paint no
more on Sundays; that he would invariably read his Bible on that day,
and other days besides; and that he would cancel the debt of £30 which
he (Johnson) owed him.
The relations between Gainsborough and Reynolds had never been very
friendly; but when the first-mentioned painter was on his deathbed, he
also sent for Sir Joshua, who says: ‘In those solemn moments all
little jealousies were forgotten, and he recognised in me one whose
tastes and pursuits were in common with his own, and of whose works he
approved.’ It should be remembered that when Gainsborough heard some
one disparaging Sir Joshua’s talent, he spoke up gallantly, and said,
‘For myself, I consider his worst pictures superior to the best of any
other painter;’ and words nearly to the same effect, on the same
subject, are recorded of Romney. Reynolds himself, being attacked on
the score of his portraits fading, laughed, and said good-humouredly,
‘Well, you must confess at all events that I have come off with
_flying_ colours.’ On the death of Ramsay, the Court painter, the post
was offered to Sir Joshua, but it required the united persuasions of
his friends to induce him to accept the office.
Reynolds had a great deal to contend with in these latter days. He had
entirely lost the sight of one eye, and was under grave apprehensions
for the safety of the other; while the conduct of many of the Royal
Academicians towards their noble President was such as to determine
him to resign his post. The King (who had just recovered from an
attack of insanity) exerted himself to persuade Reynolds to take back
his resignation. But it was not until he had received a deputation
from the Council, accompanied by apologies from some of the offenders,
that Sir Joshua consented to resume the Chair. In December 1790 he
delivered his last discourse at the Royal Academy, which he commenced
by alluding slightly and delicately to the causes which had nearly
prevented his ever occupying that place again, and assuring his
hearers that he should always remember with pride, affection, and
gratitude the support with which he had almost uniformly been honoured
since the commencement of their intercourse. He enjoined, for the last
time, the enforcement of those rules which he considered conducive to
the wellbeing of the institution.
Every eye was fixed on the speaker, every ear open to his charming,
when suddenly a loud crash plunged the whole assembly (with the
exception of the President) into alarm and confusion. There was a
general rush to the door, but when order was restored, and assurance
of safety believed, it was ascertained that a beam, which helped to
support the flooring, had given way.
Alas for the omen! The greatest prop to the grandeur of the Royal
Academy was soon to fall away in truth.
Sir Joshua remained calm and unmoved during the perturbation, and
concluded by these words: ‘I reflect, not without vanity, that these
discourses bear testimony to my admiration of a truly divine man, and
I desire that the last words I pronounce in this Academy should be the
name of Michael Angelo.’
As Reynolds descended from the Chair, Edmund Burke stepped forward,
and, taking his hand, addressed him in the words of Milton:—
‘The angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
So charming left his voice, that he a while
Thought him still speaking, and stood fixed to hear.’
‘Such a tribute, from such a man,’ says Leslie, ‘was a fitting close
to the life-work of Joshua Reynolds.’
Neither his impaired sight, his deficient hearing, or his increasing
weakness, could entirely damp the warmth of his social affections. The
last time he wielded his brush was at the request of some schoolboys,
who entreated him to paint them a flag for ‘breaking up.’
Reynolds had that love for children and domestic pets which seems
inseparable from great and good natures. He would pay the most
assiduous court, and make the most gallant advances, to some of the
exquisite little models who sat to him, till they became spellbound.
And one day, his canary having escaped from its cage, nothing would
content the P.R.A. but he must go out into the glaring sunshine, with
his weak eyes, and the green shade over them, to spend hours in
seeking and whistling for his lost favourite.
The end was approaching. His spirits became depressed, his appetite
failed, and on the evening of February 23, 1792, he concluded a
blameless life by a calm and peaceful end. The manuscript of Burke’s
obituary notice still exists, blotted with the writer’s tears. It was
written in the very house where the friends had spent so many happy
hours together. Beautiful in its touching eloquence, we regret we have
only space for a short extract:—
‘From the beginning Sir Joshua contemplated his dissolution with a
composure which nothing but the innocence, integrity, and usefulness
of his life, and his entire submission to the will of Providence,
could bestow. In the full affluence of foreign and domestic fame,
admired by the expert in art, by the learned in science, caressed by
sovereign powers, and celebrated by distinguished poets, his native
humility, modesty, and candour never forsook him. He had too much
merit ever to excite jealousy, too much innocence ever to provoke
enmity. The loss of no man of his time can be felt with so much
sincere, general, and unmixed sorrow.’ And these words were confirmed
by the crowds of every calling, position, and class which followed him
to the grave.
The body lay in state at Somerset House. There were ninety-one
carriages followed, so that, before the first in the line had reached
St. Paul’s, the last was still at the entrance of Somerset House. The
Annual Register for that year gives a detailed account of the funeral.
The pall-bearers were ten Peers, Reynolds’s personal friends, the
greater part of whom had been his sitters. And the procession included
three Knights of the Garter, two of St. Patrick, and one of the
Thistle; three Dukes and four Lords-Lieutenant of Ireland; the whole
body of Academicians, painters, authors, actors,—every name
distinguished for literature, art, and science. Sir Joshua left
numerous legacies; many of his finest pictures were bequeathed to
private friends.
He left the bulk of his fortune, for her life, to his sister, Frances
Reynolds, with reversion to his niece, Mary Palmer, afterwards Lady
Thomond, together with a large collection of his paintings, which were
sold and dispersed at her death.
The number of his paintings seems miraculous when the list is read. He
was a large contributor to the Exhibitions of the Royal Academy. At
the first of these he sent four; at the last (as far as he was
concerned, in 1790) he sent but six, only two years before his death.
But in the interim his pictures often numbered fourteen, sixteen, and,
on one occasion, seventeen, for his talent was only equalled by his
industry, and he was a workman as well as an artist, to which fact all
his contemporaries bear witness.
------------------
_No. 4._
THE NIECE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, MARY, OR THEOPHILA PALMER.
_Sitting. White gown. Blue sash. Hair falling on her shoulders._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A.
WE give a sketch of both sisters, not being quite certain as to the
identity of the portrait. They were the daughters of Mrs. Palmer, who
was sister of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and wife of John Palmer of
Torrington, county Devon. Theophila, their youngest daughter, had been
residing some time with her uncle in Leicester Square, but came home
for change of air; and when she returned to London in 1779, her elder
sister, Mary, accompanied her. Miss Burney tells us that the two
sisters ‘added to the charm of the President’s table and his evening
parties by their pleasing manners and the beauty of their persons.’
They both served as occasional models. Mary appears to have been the
more staid and demure of the two. She had the keenest admiration and
appreciation of her uncle’s talent, and never tired of describing his
works to her frequent correspondent and cousin, William Johnson, at
Calcutta. In 1786 she says: ‘Uncle seems more than ever bewitched by
his palette and pencil. He paints from morning till night, and, truth
to say, each picture appears better than the last. The Empress of
Russia has ordered an historical painting; his choice is still
undecided.’
This was the ‘Infant Hercules,’ which made such a noise at the time,
and the merits of which were the subject of so much controversy.
Romney’s verdict was ‘that, whatever fault might be found with it, no
other painter in Europe could have produced that picture.’ Sir Joshua
was one of those who did not disdain criticism, even from young lips.
He had painted a captivating portrait of Mary’s little niece, Polly
Gwatkin, and when Miss Palmer saw it she told the President boldly
that the little fingers, which were clasped on the child’s lap, with
their very red tips, suggested the idea of a dish of prawns! Sir
Joshua, no ways offended, laughed, and set to work immediately,
turning the prawns into roseate buds, which he placed in the little
chubby hand. Mary was at Torrington when she heard of her uncle’s
sudden failure of sight and loss of one eye. She hastened back to his
side, to read, to write, to minister to him in every possible way, for
he was not allowed to read, or write, or paint for some time. ‘You may
believe,’ Mary writes, ‘what the loss of an eye is to him. But his
serenity never forsook him. One of his early axioms was not to fuss
about trifles,—if the loss of an eye could be considered as such. ‘The
ruling passion continues. He amuses himself by mending or cleaning a
picture. In the meantime he enjoys company as much as ever, and loves
a game at cards.’
Mary Palmer lived with her uncle till his death. He left her a
considerable fortune and a large collection of his pictures, which
were sold by auction at her death, in 1821. The same year that Sir
Joshua died she married Murrough, first Marquis of Thomond, as his
second wife. She made a present of one of his historical paintings to
George IV. Theophila, or Offy, as her uncle usually called her, was
his favourite, although much attached to both sisters. She was only
thirteen when she first went to live in Leicester Square. She was very
pretty, and full of fun and playful spirits. She frequently sat to the
President, especially for his arch and sprightly models,—his
‘Strawberry Girl,’ his ‘Mouse Girl,’ and ‘Reflections on reading
_Clarissa Harlowe_.’ But Miss Offy’s dignity was much hurt on the
exhibition of the last-named picture, because it was entered into the
Catalogue as ‘A Girl reading:’ ‘You might have put “a young lady,”
uncle’! Another time the President was scolded because he made the
portrait look too young, when the original was nearly fourteen! But
for all these differences, the great man and the little lady were the
dearest friends, and we find in one of his long letters that he will
not tell her how much he loves her lest she should grow saucy over it;
and again he says he has two presents for her and Mary,—a ring, and a
bracelet of his hair. She is to have her choice, but she is not to let
her sister know of this mark of preference.
Offy was married in her twentieth year, from her mother’s house at
Torrington, to Richard Lovell Gwatkin, a man of fortune, and of a good
Cornish family. Her uncle writes her a most affectionate letter of
congratulation, with a postscript by Edmund Burke, who came in at the
moment, wishing her every possible happiness. The wish was fulfilled.
There never was a happier wife or mother than little Offy. She came to
London and sat for a conjugal picture to Sir Joshua, who also painted
her little daughter, as we have said before. Mrs. Gwatkin lived to be
ninety years of age, surrounded by her children’s children.
------------------
_No. 5._
A YOUNG WOMAN.
_Dark green gown, open at the throat. Shady hat. Landscape in
background._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
------------------
_No. 6._
KATRINE, COUNTESS COWPER.
_Red gown. Diamond necklace._
BY POYNTER.
KATRINE CECILIA COMPTON, eldest daughter of the fourth Marquis of
Northampton, by Eliza, second daughter of Admiral the Honourable Sir
George Elliot, K.C.B.
She married in 1870 the present and seventh Earl Cowper.
------------------
_No. 7._
WILLIAM COWPER, THE POET.
_Loose gown, trimmed with fur. White cap. Table with books and
papers._
BORN 1731, DIED 1800.
BY JACKSON, AFTER A CHALK DRAWING FROM LIFE.
THE grandson of Spencer Cowper, Attorney-General, and great-nephew of
Lord Chancellor Cowper, the first peer of the name. His father was Dr.
John Cowper, chaplain to King George II., who married the daughter of
Roger Donne, of Lidham Hall, county Norfolk. William, the eldest of
two sons, was born at his father’s rectory of Great Berkhamstead.
Mrs. Cowper died in giving birth to a second son. She was an amiable
and pretty woman, and much more deserving of the flattering epitaph
(by her niece, Lady Walsingham) than most objects of elegiac praise,
in the days when it might well be asked ‘where all the naughty people
were buried.’
Even in these times when ‘The Task’ and the Homer lie unopened on the
table, few readers of poetry are surely unacquainted with the ‘Address
to my Mother’s Picture,’ written half a century after her death. The
portrait was a present to William Cowper, from his cousin, Mrs.
Bodham, and he writes her an enthusiastic letter of thanks ‘for the
most acceptable gift the world could offer;’ sending her at the same
time the lines to which we have alluded. ‘I have placed the painting
so as to meet my eye the first thing in the morning, and the last at
night, and I often get up from my bed to kiss it.’
But we must not anticipate by so many years. When only six, William
went to a large school at Markgate Street, where he had to undergo a
fierce ordeal. Many a stout-hearted boy, possessing the germs of
future heroism, might have quailed before the bully who marked the
little sensitive, tender-hearted Willie (ready to burst into tears at
the first harsh word) as his victim. He tells us himself that he
scarcely ever dared to lift his eyes above the level of his tyrant’s
shoe-buckle; and, alluding to those days in later life, he said he
could not dwell on the cruelty practised on him, but he hoped God
would forgive his tormentor, and that they might meet in heaven.
‘Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun.’
It is easy to see how the memory of those days suggested his
‘Tyrocinium.’ Mr. Cowper, finding that the boy was suffering from
inflammation of the eyes, sent him to board with an oculist in London,
and afterwards to Westminster School, where William improved in
health, and took bodily exercise, cricket and football, which proved
beneficial to him in more ways than one, making him popular in the
school.
He was diligent in his study of the Classics, and wrote good Latin
verses. Warren Hastings was his contemporary and friend, and Cowper
would never listen in after days to a word against his old
school-fellow.
On leaving Westminster, he became articled clerk to an attorney, in
obedience to his father’s wishes, he himself disliking the profession
of the law. He confesses that at this period he spent most of his time
‘in giggling and making giggle’ his two favourite cousins, Theodora
and Harriet, daughters of Ashley Cowper. He ‘feared some day that
worthy gentleman would be picked up for a mushroom, being a diminutive
man, nearly hidden under the shadow of a white broad-brimmed hat,
lined with yellow.’ His fellow-clerk and ally in these giggling
matches was the afterwards famous Lord Thurlow, of whom it was said,
‘No man could possibly be as wise as Lord Thurlow looked.’ At all
events he was wise enough at this period to combine legal study with
flirtation. Cowper prophesied he would one day sit on the Woolsack,
and Thurlow promised to do something handsome for his friend whenever
that time should come. He redeemed his pledge by the gift of a few
strictures and criticisms on the poet’s translation of Homer.
Cowper removed from the attorney’s office to chambers in the Temple,
where he studied literature rather than law, and became a member of
the Nonsense Club, which was the resort of authors, journalists,
editors, and the like. Here he formed many friendships which lasted
through life, became a contributor to several periodicals, kept up his
classical reading, translated many amatory and sentimental poems, and
wrote odes to Delia of a very tender character,—Delia otherwise
Theodora Cowper.
The cousins had fallen in love, but the lady’s father would not hear
of the marriage, which was a bitter disappointment. The lady remained
faithful to her first love, and Cowper, as we know, never married.
A cousin of William’s, Major Cowper, had the patronage of the
Clerkship of Journals in the House of Lords; and the future poet,
whose finances were very low at the time, one day expressed a hope
that the holder of the office might die, in order to make way for him.
This uttered wish was afterwards the subject of due remorse to this
sensitive spirit: ‘God gave me my heart’s desire, and sent leanness
withal into my soul.’ The man died, the office was offered to, and
accepted by, Cowper. ‘I was so dazzled,’ he said, ‘by the idea, that I
did not reflect on my incapacity for the appointment;’ but as he
answered in the affirmative, he felt ‘a dagger strike at his heart.’
He fell a prey to nervous fears and terrors of all kinds, and, even
while preparing himself for the duties of his office, began to
contemplate with horror the prospect of being examined as to his
proficiency at the bar of the House of Lords.
By degrees he became quite mad, and in that state meditated
self-destruction. He bought laudanum, he drove to the river-side to
drown himself, he pointed a knife at his throat; but his courage
always failed him, or, as he thought, some particular interposition
saved his life. Twice he suspended himself by the neck long enough to
occasion insensibility, but so insecurely as to fall each time, the
shock bringing back consciousness. After this last incident he sent
for a relative, to whom he confessed everything, and who,
comprehending the state of the case, returned the nomination to Major
Cowper.
Several of his friends, unacquainted with these sad circumstances,
called upon him on the day appointed for his appearance at the House
of Lords, but one and all acquiesced in the sad decision that he must
be placed under restraint. The asylum chosen was that of Dr. Cotton, a
religious and well-educated man, who was of much service to the
sufferer by his judicious treatment. William laboured under terrible
despondency, fear of eternal punishment, and the deepest feelings of
remorse. By the gentle, friendly care of Dr. Cotton, the patient
gradually regained his health, both mental and bodily, and took much
comfort in reading the Bible,—the very book which, in his fits of
madness, he would dash to the ground. One morning, studying the third
chapter of Romans, he experienced ‘comfort and strength to believe,
feeling the full beams of the Sun of Righteousness shining on me, and
relying on the full justification by faith in the blood of Jesus. In a
moment I believed, and received the Gospel.’
The seeds of religion, which bore fruit in Cowper’s after life, had
been in some measure sown by the hand of the good physician Dr.
Cotton, and, after eleven months’ sojourn at St. Albans, William
Cowper went forth in his right mind.
After much consultation between the brothers, an abode was fixed upon
for William Cowper at what one of his biographers designates as ‘dull,
fenny Huntingdon,’ which appeared an Elysium to one who had just
recovered his senses and his liberty. He had not been there long
before an incident occurred which changed the whole tenor of his after
life. Leaving church one morning, he began pacing up and down under
the shade of the trees, before returning to his solitary lodging, when
he was accosted by a young man of prepossessing appearance, who craved
pardon for addressing ‘a perfect stranger,’ and asked leave to
accompany him in his walk. Such an unconventional proceeding was
doubtless calculated to please a man of so imaginative a turn of mind,
and Cowper warmly responded. The young man announced himself as
William Unwin, a student of Cambridge, the son of the Rev. Mr. Unwin,
who lived in the town, and boarded pupils for the Huntingdon school.
Young Unwin went on to confess that, for some time past, he had been
attracted by Cowper’s appearance, and longed to speak to him, but
to-day he could no longer resist doing so. He ended by requesting his
new friend to accompany him home, that he might make acquaintance with
his parents. No time was lost, the visit was paid; the liking proved
reciprocal, and it was not long before William Cowper left his lonely
apartments to occupy a room, lately vacated, under the roof of the
Rev. Mr. Unwin. Thus began that lifelong friendship, the annals of
which are indissolubly connected with the poet’s history. ‘Verily
there is One who setteth the solitary in families.’ Writing to his
dear cousin and constant correspondent, Lady Hesketh (the sister of
Theodora), he described ‘the most comfortable and sociable folk he had
ever met,—the son, destined for the Church, most frank and unreserved;
the girl pretty, bashful, taciturn; the father a kind of Parson Adams,
and the mother.’ Mrs. Unwin was some years younger than her husband,
comely in appearance, strongly imbued with evangelical views in
religion, well read, particularly in the English poets, with a vein of
cheerfulness and humour tempering the strictness of her religious
tenets, and an invaluable critic. Cowper describes a two hours’ walk
and conversation with her, which did him ‘more good than an audience
with a prince could have done. Her society is a real blessing to me.’
The manner of life in the Unwin establishment proved most congenial to
Cowper’s tastes, for he both contemned and condemned ‘the frivolous
gaieties, the balls, routs, and card-parties of the Huntingdon _beau
monde_.’ ‘After early breakfast,’ he says, ‘we occupy ourselves in
reading passages from Scripture, or the works of some favourite
preacher; at eleven, Divine service, which is performed twice a day; a
solitary ride, walk, or reading; and after dinner a sociable walk in
the garden with mother or son, the conversation usually of a religious
character.’ Mrs. Unwin was a good walker, and the friends often
rambled beyond the home precincts, and did not return till tea-time;
at night, reading or singing hymns till supper; family prayers
concluded the order of the day. This was the description by William
Cowper of a day of perfect cheerfulness. With all our admiration for
the man who was thus spiritually minded, it is almost a relief to find
him confessing to some slight shade of human weakness in a letter to
his cousin, Mrs. Cowper. He had given young Unwin an introduction to
‘the Park,’ and—after a lengthened rhapsody of self-accusation, not
without a spice of humour, as of one who is laughing at himself,—he
allows that ‘it was not alone friendship for the youth which prompted
the introduction, but a desire that Unwin should receive some
convincing proof of “my _sponsibility_,” by visiting one of my most
splendid connections, so that, when next he hears me called “that
fellow Cowper” (which has happened before now), he may be able to bear
witness to my gentlemanhood.’
About this time he seems to have revolved in his mind the idea of
taking orders, which he wisely abandoned. He had spent but two
peaceful years under his friends’ roof, when the home was broken up by
the death of Mr. Unwin, who fell from his horse and fractured his
skull, riding home after church. ‘This event necessitates a change of
residence,’ Cowper remarks. But the possibility of a separation from
Mrs. Unwin never appears to have struck either of them; they merely
commenced making inquiries and taking advice as to whither they should
flit. The poet’s biographers are at variance respecting this epoch in
his life, some asserting, others denying, that the friends ever
contemplated marriage. There must have been some rumour to this
effect, as, in a postscript to one of his letters he says laconically,
‘I am not married.’ He frequently remarked that the affection Mrs.
Unwin bore him was that of a mother for a son; nevertheless, the lady
was only his senior by seven years.
To the eye of watchful affection, it was evident that Cowper’s mental
recovery would not prove permanent, and such a consideration doubtless
weighed in the devoted woman’s resolution to remain at her friend’s
side. Her son, a religious and high-principled man, offered no
objection; her daughter was married; and so William Cowper and Mary
Unwin took up their abode together in the melancholy little town of
Olney, in Buckinghamshire. They were attracted to this unpromising
locality by one of those hasty friendships to which they were both
prone. The Rev. Mr. Newton, at that time esteemed a shining light in
Methodist circles—well known by his _Cardiphonia_ and many evangelical
works, and still better, perhaps, by his collection of ‘Olney
Hymns’—had visited the Unwins at Huntingdon, and had held discussions
with them on religious matters, in a strain much appreciated by the
whole household. He was now curate at Olney, and invited his new
friends to settle near him. This remarkable man had passed a stormy
and eventful youth. He had been a sailor in all parts of the world;
had endured shipwreck, slavery, imprisonment, and perils of all kinds,
by land and by sea. He had become a minister of the Gospel, and was
one of those enthusiasts who, after a sudden conversion (generally
brought about by a lightning flash of conviction), take delight in
reviling their former selves, painting their own portraits in colours
so black as to bring out in stronger relief the subsequent brightness.
He was a zealot, and had the reputation of ‘preaching people mad.’
Alas! such a man, however conscientious and well-intentioned, was one
of the worst influences that could have crossed Cowper’s path. But so
it was. Mr. Newton hired a house for the new-comers next door to the
Vicarage where he lived,—damp, dark, and dreary; even the
easily-contented and far from luxurious poet described it as a ‘well’
and an ‘abyss.’ Then the life prescribed by this spiritual pastor and
master,—prayer-meetings at all hours of the day and evening; rigid
self-examinations and upbraidings; scarcely any leisure allowed for
wholesome exercise or cheerful correspondence.
Mrs. Unwin, usually watchful and judicious, was herself so completely
under Newton’s influence, that she did not interfere to arrest the
progress of a system which was helping to hurry her poor friend back
into his former miserable state. Before the malady returned in its
most aggravated form, Cowper used to take violent fancies, and one day
suddenly insisted on leaving his own house and removing to the
Vicarage,—a most inconvenient resolution, as far as the curate was
concerned. John Cowper’s death, about this time, helped to agitate his
brother’s mind, and ere long he was again insane.
When the dark hour came, the devoted woman and the benevolent though
mistaken friend were unremitting in their care; and it was in allusion
to the tenderness with which his gentle-hearted nurse ministered to
him on this and subsequent occasions that Cowper wrote:—
‘There is a book
By seraphs writ in beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look;
A chronicle of actions just and bright.
Here all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.’
Mr. Newton was soon to leave Olney, which he did under circumstances
that appear, at this time of writing, rather comic. He had a great
dread of fire, and strictly prohibited every species of bonfire,
illumination, or firework in the locality on Gunpowder Plot Day. Such
an inroad on a time-honoured institution could not be tolerated. The
parish rose _en masse_, and his reverence narrowly escaped with his
life. Disgusted by the ingratitude and rebellion of his flock, the
curate removed to London.
Cowper had before this returned to his own house, and gradually his
bodily health improved and his mind regained its equilibrium; he now
began to resume out-of-doors pursuits, walking and gardening, and the
like. He was much addicted to reading out of doors, and said that
external objects fixed the subject of his lecture on his memory. He
wrote to William Unwin about this time, requesting him to procure a
diamond for cutting glass, and expatiating at length on the joys of a
glazier’s trade. He hardly knows a business in which a gentleman might
more successfully employ himself. ‘Possibly the happy time may come,’
he goes on to say, ‘when I may be seen trudging off to the
neighbouring towns, with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. A
Chinese of ten times my fortune would avail himself of such an
opportunity,—and why not I, who want money as much as any mandarin in
China?’ He recommends the notion to his clerical friend, who, by
mending the church windows, might increase his income, and his
popularity in the parish into the bargain. How acceptable must these
jocose passages in his letters have been to those who loved him, after
the terrible period of gloomy hallucinations; but a bright vein of
humour was generally interwoven with the darkest threads of Cowper’s
life. He had always evinced a passion for animals, and had a fancy for
pets; and besides the hares (whose lives and deaths, if we may be
permitted a Hibernianism, he has rendered immortal), Cowper was the
proprietor of a flock of pigeons, which perched every morning on the
garden wall, awaiting the moment when their gentle master should
appear to give them breakfast. Still writing to Unwin, he says: ‘If
your wish should ever be fulfilled, and you obtain the wings of a
dove, I shall assuredly find you some fine morning among my flock;
but, in that case, pray announce yourself, as I am convinced your crop
will require something better than tares to feed upon.’
There is something very refreshing in his outburst of indignation at
the manner in which Dr. Johnson handles Milton, ‘plucking the
brightest feathers’ (or at least so Cowper thought) ‘from the Muse’s
wing, and trampling them under his great foot. I should like to thrash
his old jacket till his pension jingled in his pockets.’ He gives a
most amusing description of an unwelcome visitor at Olney, in which he
carefully draws the line between a ‘travelled man’ and a ‘travelled
gentleman.’ He speaks of the intruder’s long and voluble talk, which
set their favourite robins twittering through rivalry, neither the
birds nor the talker inclining to give in; but, ‘I am thankful to say
the robins survived it, and so did we.’
A delightful ray of human sunshine crossed the monotonous path of
Cowper’s life about this time, and for a period cheered and relieved
its grey and sombre colouring. Looking out of the window one
afternoon, he saw Mrs. Jones (the wife of a neighbouring clergyman)
entering the opposite shop, in company with a being (no other word
could be applicable), whose appearance riveted him to the spot. He
summoned Mrs. Unwin to his side, and requested she would ask both
ladies to tea. The stranger proved to be Mrs. Jones’s sister, a widow,
Lady Austen by name, lately returned from a lengthened sojourn in
France, where she appeared, by all accounts, to have become imbued
with a large portion of French vivacity, without losing any of those
sterling qualities or earnestness of purpose, for which we (at least)
give our fair countrywomen credit. The sisters accepted the
invitation, and, as they entered the room, Cowper, with his
characteristic timidity, made his escape at the other door. But the
attraction was too great; he soon stole back to the tea-table, plunged
headlong into conversation, and, when the ladies rose to take leave,
craved permission to accompany them part of the way home. In fact, he
had fallen in (Platonic) love at first sight. Lady Austen was soon in
the receipt of poems and letters, addressed to ‘Sister Anna.’ Mrs.
Jones having gone to join her husband in London, Lady Austen, finding
herself lonely, and surrounded, she said, by burglars, was easily
persuaded to settle at Olney, and at first under the same roof as
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin. It was a large rambling house. ‘She has taken
that part of the building formerly occupied by Dick Coleman, his wife,
child, and a thousand rats.’
We confess to sharing the opinion of the author of a charming sketch
of Cowper’s life, lately published, when he says, ‘That a woman of
fashion, accustomed to French _salons_, should choose such an abode,
with a couple of Puritans for her only society, surely proves that one
of the Puritans, at least, possessed some great attraction for her.’
The Vicarage was too large for the requirements of Mr. Scott (Newton’s
successor), whose sermons Lady Austen admired, though it was said he
scolded rather than preached the Gospel; and so it was settled she
should take rooms in his house, and the door of communication between
the Scott and Cowper gardens was opened. Cowper writes to Unwin on the
subject of the charming widow, and expatiates on the delightful change
wrought in their daily life by her advent. ‘Our society,’ he says, ‘is
not much increased, but the presence of one individual has made the
whole difference. Lady Austen and we pass the day alternately at each
other’s château. In the morning I walk with one or other of the
ladies; in the evening I wind thread;—so did Hercules, and so, I
opine, did Samson! Were either of these heroes living, I should not
fear challenging them to a trial of skill.’
Lady Austen became as watchful as his older associate in marking the
different phases of Cowper’s moods, and as assiduous in her endeavours
to cheer and amuse him. She would sit by his side for hours, and tax
her memory for anecdotes of foreign life, and the chequered scenes
through which she had passed; and while Mrs. Unwin set him to work on
moral satires, on ‘The Progress of Error,’ ‘Table-Talk,’ and, if we
may so express it, sermons in verse, his younger companion suggested
more lively themes for his Muse. One eventful evening, bent on
cheering the drooping spirits of the invalid, Lady Austen related to
him the wonderful adventures of John Gilpin. The poet laughed, laughed
immoderately, went to bed, woke in the night and laughed again and
again; and the next morning at breakfast he produced the immortal
poem. How many generations, how many children of all ages have laughed
since! how many artists have striven to portray their conception of
that famous ride, till it was reserved for the pencil of Caldecott to
embody (who can doubt it?) the very ideal of the poet’s fancy! Gilpin
became widely known, even while the author continued unknown.
Henderson, the popular actor, recited the ballad on the stage, and far
and near it was read and re-read with delight. Cowper now frequently
turned to Lady Austen for subjects, and followed her injunctions to
the letter when she playfully bade him ‘sing the sofa,’ on which she
sat. This poem swelled into ‘The Task’ and ‘The Task’ it was that made
Cowper famous. There is no doubt that the first stone of his future
fame was laid by the fair hand of that friend from whom he was so soon
to be separated. ‘The Task,’ while inculcating piety and morality (the
absence of which ingredients would have been impossible in any of
Cowper’s lengthened writings), abounded in exquisite descriptions of
life at home and abroad, paintings of Nature, of the quiet, homely,
lovely, loveable nature of his own native land, some passages of which
can scarcely be surpassed for calm beauty and musical rhythm. Let
those readers unacquainted with ‘The Task’ turn to the lines where the
poet stands, with the friend ‘whose arm has been close locked in his
for twenty years,’ on the eminence, when their ‘pace had slackened to
a pause,’ and judge for themselves of Cowper’s talents as a landscape
painter. His interiors are as perfect in their way. How irresistible
is the invitation to
‘Stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, draw the sofa round’!
We feel, as we read, a glow of comfort and snugness, and would gladly
make a fourth beside the table, on which stand the cups that cheer
without inebriating.
The success of ‘The Task’ was immediate and complete; the author
suddenly found himself famous and popular. The postmaster at the
little office at Olney had double work: acquaintances who had
neglected him for years now boasted of their intimacy with the lion of
the day; visitors arrived at Olney to stare at him; anonymous letters
and presents poured in on all sides. An amusing incident occurred one
day, when the clerk of All Saints’ Church, Northampton, was ushered
into Cowper’s presence. He had come, he said, with a petition to the
new poet: Would he consent to contribute the mortuary verses, annually
appended to the bills of mortality, in the capital of England’s most
midland county?
Cowper advised the messenger to apply to Mr. Cox, a statuary in the
town, who wrote verses. ‘Alas!’ replied the clerk, ‘I have already got
help from him; but he is a gentleman of so much reading that our
townspeople cannot understand him.’ The very doubtful compliment thus
implied amused our poet into compliance, and he became a contributor
to the lugubrious periodical.
It was characteristic of William Cowper that, a few years later, he
forbade Lady Hesketh to apply in his behalf for the office of
Poet-Laureate to the Court, yet he willingly accepted the office thus
proposed to him by the clerk of Northampton!
We are now approaching one of the many sad episodes in Cowper’s sad
life; we allude to his estrangement from Lady Austen,—she who had been
for some time a vision of delight to his eye, and heart. Not long
before he had written some most unprophetic lines to his ‘dear Anna.’
We do not quote them from any admiration for the verses, but because
they bear painfully on the subject:—
‘Mysterious are His ways, whose power
Brings forth that unexpected hour,
When minds that never met before
Shall meet, unite, and part no more.’
Further on, after describing the suddenness of their friendship, he
says:—
‘And placed it in our power to prove,
By long fidelity and love,
That Solomon has wisely spoken,
A _threefold cord_ cannot be broken!’
It appears that even the wisdom of Solomon is sometimes at fault, for
it was but a few weeks after that the threefold cord was rudely
snapped asunder. ‘I enclose,’ writes Cowper to Mr. Unwin, ‘a letter
from Lady Austen, which pray return. We are reconciled. She seized the
first opportunity to embrace your mother, with tears of the tenderest
affection, and I, of course, am satisfied.’
Lady Austen went away for a time; and later on, Cowper again writes to
Unwin, under the seal of profound secrecy: ‘When persons for whom I
have felt a friendship disappoint and mortify me, by their conduct, or
act unjustly by me, although I no longer esteem them, I feel that
tenderness for their character that I would conceal the blemish if I
could.’ Then, naming the lady to whom he alluded, he goes on: ‘Nothing
could be more promising, however sudden in its commencement, than our
friendship. She treated us with as much unreserve as if we had been
brought up together. At her departure she proposed a correspondence
with me, as writing does not agree with your mother.’
He then proceeds to tell how, after a short time, he perceived, by the
tenor of Lady Austen’s letters that he had unintentionally offended
her, and, having apologised, the wound seemed healed; but finding, on
repeated occasions, that she expressed ‘a romantic idea of our merits,
and built such expectations of felicity on our friendship, as we were
sure that nothing human could possibly answer, I wrote to remind her
that we were mortal, and to recommend her not to think too highly of
us, intimating that, when we embellish a creature with colours taken
from our own fancy, and extol it above its merits, we make it an
idol,’ etc.
The reader, even if he be no poet, can supply the rest of this homily;
and if he be of our way of thinking, he will smile at the frequent use
of the plural pronoun. Neither will he be surprised to hear that the
letter in question ‘gave mortal offence,’ even though the writer had
read it aloud, before posting it, ‘to Mrs. Unwin, who had honoured it
with her warmest approbation.’ We still quote the correspondence with
William Unwin. ‘If you go to Bristol, you may possibly fall in with a
lady who _was_ here very lately. If you should meet, remember that we
found the connection on some accounts an inconvenient one, and we do
not wish to renew it; so pray conduct yourself accordingly. A
character with which we spend all our time should be made on purpose
for us, and in this case the dissimilitude was felt continually, and
consequently made our intercourse unpleasant.’ Now the strain of this
letter helps us to understand that the one written not long before to
Lady Austen was no sooner read than she flung it indignantly into the
fire.
But so it was, and, for our part, we are loath to see the bright
vision, which had cast a halo over dull little Olney, vanish from the
horizon. Cowper’s biographers are all at issue as to the cause of this
estrangement, ‘it is so difficult to solve the mystery.’ To us the
only difficulty appears in the choice of solutions. Hayley, who
handles the matter with delicacy and discretion, says, ‘Those
acquainted with the poet’s _innocence and sportive piety_ would agree
that the verses inscribed to Anna might assuredly have been inspired
by a real sister.’ To him they appeared ‘the _effusions of a gay and
tender gallantry_, quite distinct from any amorous attachment.’ At the
same time, he sees the possibility of a lady, only called by that
endearing name, mistaking all the attentions lavished upon her, as ‘a
mere prelude to a closer alliance.’
The good-hearted, high-flown Hayley concludes by expressing his
sympathy with Cowper, as being ‘perplexed by _an abundance of
affection in a female associate_‘—surely he should have said a couple!
The Rev. Mr. Scott, for some time Lady Austen’s landlord at Olney, is
reported to have said: ‘Who can wonder that two women, who were
continually in the society of one man, should quarrel, sooner or
later?’
Southey (an evident partisan of Mrs. Unwin’s), while acquitting Lady
Austen of any ‘matrimonial designs,’ urges that it would be impossible
for a woman of threescore to feel any jealousy in the matter of
Cowper’s affections. Now it strikes us that the woman of threescore
could herself have had no ‘matrimonial intentions,’ or she would have
carried them out long before. But is it likely that Cowper’s ‘Mary’
would have tolerated a wife under the same roof, or tamely given the
_pas_ to an ‘Anna’? Cowper indeed called Mrs. Unwin his mother, and
Lady Austen his sister; but the former lady may have distrusted the
ambiguity of the latter elective relationship, knowing how frequently
the appellation of brother and sister has been used as a refuge from
the impending danger, of a nearer tie.
Southey goes on to observe, in contradistinction, we suppose, to Mr.
Scott’s remark, that two women were shortly afterwards living
constantly in the society of the identical man, without one shade of
jealousy. Now Lady Austen and Lady Hesketh differed in all respects—in
age, in character, in discipline of mind. The former had been Cowper’s
early friend, and the _confidante_ of his love for her sister
Theodora; they had corresponded with each other for years; and in one
of his letters he says: ‘It seems wonderful, that, loving you as much
as I do, I should never have fallen in love with you. I am so glad I
never did, for it would have been most inconvenient,’ etc.
Lady Hesketh now returned from a lengthened residence on the
Continent, her husband was dead, and the intercourse of old days was
renewed, in all its happy freedom, between the cousins. A few more
words respecting poor Lady Austen, and then her name shall be heard no
more. Cowper writes to Lady Hesketh a long letter on the subject, in
which he describes the rise, decline, and fall of the friendship, and
goes on in this strain: ‘At first I used to pay my _devoirs_ to her
ladyship every morning at eleven. Custom soon became law. When I began
“The Task,” I felt the inconvenience of this daily attendance; long
usage had made that which was at first optional, a point of good
manners. I was compelled to neglect “The Task,” for the Muse that had
inspired it.’
Hayley speaks in most flattering terms of Lady Austen, in his Life of
Cowper, and wrote one of the long-winded epitaphs of the day on her
death, which took place before he had completed the poet’s biography,
in the compilation of which she had given him much assistance. After
her estrangement from the Olney household, Lady Austen married a
Frenchman, one Monsieur de Tardif, who wrote verses to her in his own
language; she accompanied her husband to Paris in 1802, where she
died.
As regards Cowper, one thing is certain: he did not subscribe to the
common error, that ‘two is company, and three none,’ but rather to the
German proverb, ‘Alle gute ding, sind drey;’ for he now summons Lady
Hesketh to his side. He entreats her to come and reside under his
roof, painting, in the most glowing colours, the happiness that her
society will afford them. He addresses her in the most tender, the
most affectionate terms—‘Dearly beloved cousin,’ ‘Dearest,
dearest,’—and often in the middle of his epistles he breaks forth
again into similar endearing epithets. Southey assures us that Mrs.
Unwin never felt a shade of jealousy for Lady Hesketh; but no one
tells us if such letters as these were read aloud to Mary, or
‘honoured by her warmest approbation. Among the anonymous presents
which Cowper was now in the habit of receiving, was one more
acceptable than all others, and that not only because it enclosed a
cheque for fifty pounds, with a promise that the donation should be
annual, as he writes to Lady Hesketh (whom he appoints his ‘Thanks
Receiver-General,’ ‘seeing it is so painful to have no one to thank’),
but because the letter was accompanied by ‘the most elegant gift, and
the most elegant compliment, that ever poet was honoured with,’—a
beautiful tortoise-shell snuff-box, with a miniature on the lid,
representing a landscape, with the three hares frolicking in the
foreground; above and below two inscriptions, ‘Bess, Puss, Tiny,’ and
‘The Peasant’s Nest.’ Southey had no doubt (neither would it appear
had Cowper himself, though he thinks it dishonourable to pry into the
incognito) that ‘Anonymous’ and Theodora were synonymous. He was now
hard at work translating Homer, and he longed to read what he had done
to Lady Hesketh, as well as to Mrs. Unwin. ‘The latter,’ he says, ‘has
hitherto been my touchstone, and I have never printed a line without
reference to her. With one of you at each elbow, I shall be the
happiest of poets.’
To the same: ‘I am impatient to tell you how impatient I am to see
you. But you must not come till the fine weather, when the greenhouse,
the only pleasant room in the house, will be ready to receive us, for
when the plants go out, we go in. There you shall sit, my dear, with a
bed of mignionette by your side, and a hedge of roses, honeysuckle,
and jasmine, and I will make you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Come,
come then, my beloved cousin, for I am resolved, whatever king may
reign, you shall be vicar of Olney.’ He hopes their friendship will be
perpetuated for ever; ‘For I should not love you half so well if I did
not believe you would be my friend to all eternity. There is not room
for friendship to unfold itself in full bloom, in such a nook of life
as this; therefore I am, and must, and always will be yours for
ever.—W. COWPER.’
In another letter he prepares her for the aspect of his peculiar
abode: ‘The entrance hall: opposite you, stands a cupboard, once a
dove-cot, and a paralytic table, both the work of the same author.
Then you come to the parlour door, which we will open, and I will
present you to Mrs. Unwin; and we shall be as happy as the day is
long.’
Lady Hesketh preferred separate lodgings, and, following in the
footsteps of Lady Austen, became a tenant of the Vicarage, and
inhabited the rooms so lately vacated by her predecessor. ‘All is
settled, dear cousin, and now I only wish for June; and June, believe
me, was never so much wished for, since it was first made. To meet
again, after so long a separation, will be like a resurrection; but
there is no one in the other world whose reappearance would cause me
so much pleasure.’ He prepares her for the possible recurrence of his
fits of dejection, but is sure he will be cheerful when she comes. In
a letter to Unwin, speaking of the long-looked-for arrival, he says:
‘I have always loved the sound of church bells; but none ever seemed
to me so musical, as those which rang my sweet cousin into her new
habitation.’ Lady Hesketh, writing a description of Mrs. Unwin, says
she ‘is a very remarkable woman. She is far from being always grave;
on the contrary, she laughs _de bon cœur_ on the smallest provocation.
When she speaks on grave subjects, it is in a Puritanical tone, and
she makes use of Puritanical expressions; but otherwise she has a fund
of gaiety; indeed, but for that, she could not have gone through all
she has done. I do not like to say she idolises William, for she would
disapprove of the word; but she certainly has no will but his. It is
wonderful to think how she has supported the constant attendance and
responsibility for so many years.’ She goes on to describe the calm,
quiet, dignified old lady, sitting knitting stockings for her poet,
beside his chair, with ‘the finest needles imaginable.’
Cowper used to work in a little summer-house (which is still standing,
or was a few years since) of his own construction, where there were
two chairs indeed, but Lady Hesketh did not often intrude. He says of
himself about this time, that he was happier than he had been for
years. But there are some excellent people in the world, who consider
peace unwholesome, and like to throw stones into their neighbours’
lakes, as schoolboys do, for the pleasure of ruffling the surface.
Cowper writes to William Unwin: ‘Your mother has received a letter
from Mr. Newton, which she has not answered, and is not likely to
answer. It gave us both much concern; but it vexed her more than me,
because I am so much occupied with my work that I have less leisure to
browse on the wormwood. It contains an implied accusation, that she
and I have deviated into forbidden paths, and lead a life unbecoming
the Gospel; that many of our friends in London are grieved; that many
of our poor neighbours are shocked; in short, I converse with people
of the world, and take pleasure therein. Mr. Newton reminds us that
there is still intercourse between Olney and London, implying that he
hears of our doings. We do not doubt it; there never was a lie hatched
in Olney that waited long for a bearer. We do not wonder at the lies;
we only wonder he believes them. That your mother should be suspected
(and by Mr. Newton, of all people) of irregularities is indeed
wonderful.’
The extent of their crimes, the head and front of their offending,
were drives with Lady Hesketh in her carriage, and visits to the
Throckmortons. We suspect that was an unpardonable offence (on account
of their being Roman Catholics) in Mr. Newton’s eyes.
‘Sometimes, not often, we go as far as Gayhurst, or to the turnpike
and back; we have been known to reach as far as the cabinetmaker’s at
Newport!’ And, O crowning horror! Cowper confesses to having once or
twice taken a Sunday walk in the fields with his cousin, for Mrs.
Unwin had never been led so far into temptation. Speaking of Lady
Hesketh, who came in for her share of censure, he says: ‘Her only
crime in Olney has been to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and
nurse the sick.’ The letters to Mr. Newton were in the same strain,
but modified in their expressions; for it was evident Cowper feared
his spiritual adviser, and, like some of our Roman Catholic friends,
subscribed to the infallibility of his Pope, even while harbouring
some secret misgivings on the subject. He ventures to observe: ‘As to
the opinion of our poorer neighbours, uneducated people are seldom
well employed when judging one another, but when they undertake to
scan the motives, and estimate the behaviour, of those whom Providence
has placed a little above them, they are utterly out of their depth.’
Gentle-hearted, generous-hearted Cowper; he not only forgave, but
continued his friendship and intercourse with his severe censor. Mr.
and Mrs. Newton were his guests after he had left Olney, and was
settled in his new house; and though the correspondence between the
two men slackened in some measure, and lost some of its unreserved
character, it was not discontinued. Neither did the poet refer to the
difference which had arisen, unless we accept such a passage as this,
as an allusion to Mr. Newton’s censoriousness. Speaking of the narrow
escape which Mrs. Unwin had run of being burned to death, he says:
‘Had I been bereft of her, I should have had nothing left to lean on,
for all my other spiritual props have long since broken down under
me.’ It did indeed seem strange and cruel, that the only hand found to
throw a stone at the marble shrine of Cowper, and his Mary, should be
that of his own familiar friend.
When Lady Hesketh came to investigate the resources of Olney, she
decided in her own mind that it was a most unfit place for her cousin
to inhabit,—cold, damp, and dreary; and she was not long in arranging
that her two friends should change their abode for a pretty little
house called Weston, belonging to Sir John Throckmorton, and standing
in a picturesque neighbourhood on the skirts of his park. Lady Hesketh
took all the trouble and expense of the removal on herself; furnished
and embellished the little house; and on the day she left Olney for
London, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin drove over to settle at Weston. But they
had not been there above a fortnight, before a sad blow fell upon them
both. News came that William Unwin was no more,—‘the only son of his
mother, and she was a widow;’ the dearly loved friend and constant
correspondent of Cowper. William Unwin was travelling with a friend,
whom he nursed to recovery through a dangerous attack of typhus; but,
catching the disease himself, he died in the hotel at Winchester. The
mother bore her irreparable loss, ‘with her accustomed submission to
the Divine will.’ Cowper dared not give way to emotion, but the shock
was none the less severe. His letters began to show signs of returning
illness and dejection; he marks down for his intimate friends all the
variations of the mental barometer. Alas! the storm signal was already
hoisted, and the tempest was at hand. He complained of sleeplessness:
‘It is impossible, dear cousin,’ he writes, after explaining how
heavily the task of translation (he was busy on Homer) weighed on his
mind, ‘for a man who cannot sleep, to fight Homer’s battles.’
Religious despondency once more took possession of his distracted
mind. Speaking of a visit to his old home at Olney, he says: ‘Dreary,
dark, cold, empty—it seemed a fit emblem of a God-forgotten,
God-forsaken creature.’ Insanity returned in all its distressing
symptoms; he again attempted self-destruction. Poor Mrs. Unwin came
into the room one day, just in time to cut him down. He would scarcely
let her out of his sight for a moment, and would allow no other person
to enter his presence.
It is not our intention to dwell longer than necessary on these dark
passages in the sufferer’s life; suffice it to say, that, as on a
former occasion, the cure was instantaneous; and, after an interval of
several months, he once more took up the thread of his work and
correspondence. He tells Lady Hesketh he is mending in health and
spirits, speaks enthusiastically of the Throckmortons’ kindness, and
says that he has promised them she will soon be at Weston. ‘Come then;
thou art always welcome; all that is here is thine, together with the
hearts of those who dwell here.’ Alluding to her father’s declining
health, he ‘is happy not to have grown old before his time. Trouble
and anguish do that for some, which longevity alone does for others. A
few months ago I was older than he is now; and though I have lately
recovered, as Falstaff says, “some snatch of my youth,” I have but
little confidence, and expect, when I least expect it, to wither
again.’ In the midst of some melancholy reflections he breaks out
with: ‘Oh how I wish you could see the gambols of my kitten! They are
indescribable; but time, that spoils all, will, I fear, sooner or
later, make a cat of her.’ Then he relates, for his cousin’s
amusement, how a lady in Hampshire had invited him to her house,
bribing him with the promise of erecting a temple in her grounds ‘to
the best man in the world.’ Not only that, but, would she believe it,
a Welsh attorney has sent him his verses to revise and criticise! a
lady had stolen his poem of
‘A rose had been washed, just washed by a shower,
Which Mary (Mrs. Unwin) to Anna (Lady Austen) conveyed.’
‘You must excuse it, if you find me a little vain, for the poet whose
works are stolen, and who can charm an attorney, and a Welsh one into
the bargain, must be an Orpheus, if not something greater.’ He was at
work again on Homer, and, when urged not to overtax his mind in so
doing, says he considers employment essential to his wellbeing. But
writing was irksome to him, and he found innumerable volunteers for
the office of secretary,—Lady Hesketh, Mrs. Throckmorton, young Mr.
Rose—a new but true friend,—and his favourite kinsman John, or Johnny,
Johnson, of Norfolk.
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin had a succession of guests at The Hermitage, as
he sometimes called Weston; among others, Mr. Rose, an agreeable young
man, a great admirer of the poet’s, who writes his sister an account
of their life, and speaks of Lady Hesketh, ‘A pleasant and agreeable
woman, polite without ceremony;’ of Mrs. Unwin, ‘A kind angel;’ of
their amusing breakfasts, ‘which take an hour or more, to satisfy the
sentiment, not the appetite, for we talk, O heavens! how we talk!’
Cowper was much attached to Rose. Speaking of his departure: ‘When a
friend leaves me, I always feel at my heart a possibility that perhaps
we have met for the last time, and that before the return of summer,
robins may be whistling over the grave of one of us.’
Our poet was very fond of mere rhyming, and did not despise doggerel,
for we can call the Lines to his ‘dearest Coz,’ after the manner of
Shenstone, by no other name,—being an inventory of all his goods and
chattels, including the cap, so thoroughly identified with his image
in our minds. It was the fashion of the day, more especially for
literary men, to lay aside the heavy periwig, and don this most
unbecoming but, we imagine, more comfortable head-gear.
‘The cap which so stately appears,
With ribbon-bound tassel, on high,’
was the gift of his Harriet, and so were the bookshelves, the chairs,
tables,—all enumerated in verse—‘endearing his abode,’ by recalling
the memory of her, from whom he daily expects a visit, only she is in
attendance on
‘The oldest and dearest of friends,
Whose dial-plate points to eleven,...
And who waits but a passage to heaven.’
And the hour struck very shortly after, for Lady Hesketh’s father,
Ashley Cowper.
In the sylvan glades of Yardley Chase, rich in fine old timber, stood
an ancient oak, the frequent goal of the poet’s rambles, to which he
wrote an address. The tree still bears his name, and ‘Cowper’s Oak’ is
the meeting-place of two packs of hounds. Many a bright morning since
our poet’s time have the woods of old Yardley echoed to the sound of
the huntsman’s horn and the baying of the deep-mouthed ‘beauties.’
One of his letters contains a most graphic description of how he and
Mrs. Unwin, returning from a ramble, fell in with the hounds, and,
climbing the broad stump of an elm in order to have a better view of
the proceedings, were actually in ‘at the death.’ It is delightful to
think of the poet and his Mary in such unexpected circumstances, for
they seem both to have been much excited. ‘And thus, dear cousin,’ as
Virgil says, ‘what none of the gods would have ventured to promise me,
time, of its own accord, has presented me with.’
A letter to his friend Mr. Hill proves how much pleasure a visit from
the Dowager Lady Spencer had afforded him. This remarkable woman, the
daughter of Stephen Poyntz, a distinguished diplomate, was the widow
of the first Earl Spencer, and mother of the beautiful Duchess of
Devonshire. She had made a long _détour_ to call on the poet, whose
works she much admired. And he says: ‘She is one of the first women in
the world; I mean in point of character and accomplishments. If my
translation prove successful, I may perhaps receive some honours
hereafter, but none I shall esteem more highly than her approbation.
She is indeed worthy to whom I should dedicate, and may my _Odyssey_
prove as worthy of her.’
At length the happy hour arrived: Homer was translated and ready for
the press. The _Iliad_ was dedicated to his young relative, Earl
Cowper, and the _Odyssey_ to the Dowager Countess Spencer.
He expressed himself well satisfied with his publisher, Johnson. ‘I
verily believe that, though a bookseller, he has the soul of a
gentleman! Such strange combinations sometimes happen.’ We give an
extract from a letter which he wrote on the conclusion of his Homeric
labours to his amanuensis, Johnny Johnson: ‘Dearest Johnny: now I can
give you rest and joy,—joy of your resting from all your labours, in
my service. But I can foretell that, if you go on serving your friends
at this rate, your life will indeed be one of labour. Yet persevere;
your rest will be all the sweeter hereafter; in the meantime I wish
you (whenever you need him) just such a friend as you have been to
me.’
He was very much attached to Johnny, and it was in allusion to his
young kinsman that he said: ‘I agree with Lavater, “Looks are as
legible as books, take less time to peruse, and are less likely to
deceive.”’ Johnny did the poet a good turn, for it was he who
suggested to his aunt, Mrs. Bodham, what a welcome present it would be
if she sent Cowper his mother’s picture,—a subject to which we have
already alluded.
When Homer was concluded, Mrs. Unwin was most anxious that he should
undertake some new work, which would occupy his thoughts for some
considerable time. She dreaded the effect of idleness, or of the mere
desultory composition of occasional poems. And therefore she rejoices
that he has been prevailed upon to edit a magnificent edition of
Milton, to translate all his Latin and Italian poems, to select the
best notes of former commentators, and to add annotations of his own.
It was a wholesome task, though occasionally, under the pressure of
nervous dejection, Cowper cavilled at what he called the ‘Miltonic
trap.’ Mrs. Unwin, who had lately become enfeebled, had had a bad
fall, but fortunately escaped with some bruises, when one day she was
seized with giddiness, and would have again fallen to the ground, had
not Cowper saved her. There could be little doubt the attack was of a
paralytic nature, though her companion would not allow himself to
utter the fearful word. In this hour of utmost need an invaluable
friend was raised up in the person of William Hayley, whom Southey
designates as one of the most generous of men. We will let him speak
for himself, by giving an extract of his first letter to Cowper,
enclosing some complimentary lines. ‘Although I resisted the idea of
professing my friendship and admiration, from a fear of intrusion, I
cannot resist that of disclaiming an idea which I have heard has been
imputed to me, of considering myself your antagonist. Allow me to say,
I was solicited to write a Life of Milton before I had the least idea
that you and Mr. Fuseli were engaged on a similar project.’ He
concludes a most amiable letter to the man ‘whose poems have so often
delighted him,’ by saying, ‘If, in the course of your work, I have any
opportunity of serving and obliging you, I shall seize it with that
friendly spirit which has impelled me, both in prose and rhyme, to
assure you that I am your most cordial admirer.’ And thus, out of what
might have proved a misunderstanding, began that intercourse which
lasted Cowper’s life, and soothed his latter days.
Speaking of Hayley’s visit to Weston, he says: ‘Everybody here has
fallen in love with him—and everybody must. We have formed a
friendship which will, I hope, last for life, and prove an edifying
example to all future poets.’ Hayley, on his part, writing to his
friend Romney, the painter, describes at length the welcome he had
received at Weston, his delight in Cowper’s society; and then as to
the grand article of females,—‘for what is a scene without a woman in
it? Here is a Muse of seventy, whom I perfectly adore; the woman who,
for so many years, has devoted her time and fortune to the service of
this tender and sublime genius. Not many days after this letter was
written, the two authors were returning from a morning ramble, when
the news met them that Mrs. Unwin had had a second paralytic stroke.
Cowper rushed forward into the house, and returned in such a state of
agitation as made Hayley tremble for his reason; ‘but, by the blessing
of God, I was able to quiet him in a great measure, and from that
moment he rested on my friendship, and regards me as providentially
sent to support him in a season of deepest affliction.’
Cowper will not accept his cousin’s proposal to come to Weston; for he
wishes his dear Harriet’s visits thither to be made for pleasure. Mrs.
Unwin’s health improved. ‘It is a blessing to us both, that, poor
feeble thing as she is, she has an invincible courage. She always
tells me she is better, and probably will die saying so; and then it
will be true, for then she will be best of all.’ Hayley, before, and
since leaving Weston, had urged Cowper to pay him a visit at what his
friends called his ‘little paradise’ at Eartham, on the south coast,
as soon as Mrs. Unwin’s state would allow her to travel. It must have
seemed a tremendous undertaking for those who had not strayed further
than a thirteen miles’ drive for upwards of thirteen years! But Cowper
believed the change of air might benefit his invalid; and that
determined him.
In the interim he writes to his friend, Mr. Bull: ‘How do you think I
have been occupied the last few days? In sitting, not on cockatrice’s
eggs, but for my picture. Cousin Johnny has an aunt who is seized with
a desire to have my portrait, and so the said Johnny has brought down
an artist.’
To Hayley he writes:—
‘Abbot is painting me so true,
That, trust me, you would stare,
And hardly know, at the first view,
If I were here, or there!’
It was much to be regretted that, with no lack of kind and judicious
friends—and Hayley in particular, with his good sense and true
affection,—Cowper should have fallen about this time under the baneful
influence of a fanatic, one Teedon, a schoolmaster, who had long been
a pensioner on his and Mrs. Unwin’s bounty, at Olney. Cowper
constantly spoke of him in his letters to William Unwin and others as
foolish Mr. Teedon’s ridiculous vanity and strange delusions, who
prided himself on the immediate answers to any prayer he might
consider it advisable to put up, as also on wonderful spiritual and
audible communications. This empty-headed man became an object of
reverence rather than contempt in the eyes of Cowper, and of poor Mrs.
Unwin herself, in her debilitated state of health. Cowper began to
believe in Teedon, and to bend beneath his influence. Had Mr. Newton
not strained the spiritual curb too tightly, he would, in all
probability, have retained his hold over the minds of his two friends,
and not exposed them to the subjugation of one uneducated as Samuel
Teedon. But enough of this contemptible man. The friends now began to
prepare for the great enterprise, and we are not surprised to hear
Cowper say, ‘A thousand lions, monsters, and giants, are in the way;
but I suppose they will vanish if I have the courage to face them.
Mrs. Unwin, whose weakness might justify such fears, has none.’ A
coach, with four steeds, is ordered from London to convey them on
their desperate way; the journey is to be a species of royal progress.
‘General Cowper, who lives at Ham—is Ham near Kingston?—is to meet me
on the road, ditto my friend Carwardine and others. When other men
leave home, they make no disturbance; when _I_ travel, houses are
turned upside down, people turned out of their beds at unearthly
hours, and every imaginable trouble given. All the counties through
which _I_ pass appear to be in an uproar. What a change for a man who
has seen no bustle, and made none for twenty years together!’ He is
scrupulous respecting the numbers that will accompany him,—‘for Johnny
of Norfolk, who is with us, would be broken-hearted if left behind.’
It would be the same with his dog Beau, who paid a wonderful tribute
to Abbot’s portrait of his master, by going up to it, and wagging his
tail furiously; while Sam, the gardener’s boy, made a low bow to the
same effigy.
The travellers reached Eartham at last, Hayley’s home, about six miles
from Chichester, and five from Arundel. ‘Here,’ writes Cowper on his
arrival, ‘we are as happy as it is possible for terrestrial good to
make us.’ He looked from the library window on a fine landscape,
bounded by the sea, a deep-wooded valley, and hills which we should
call mountains in Buckinghamshire. Hayley and Cowper were both very
busy with their several works in the morning, and Johnny, as usual,
was his cousin’s transcriber. The kind host, thinking to do honour to
his guest, invited the ex-Chancellor Thurlow to meet his old
acquaintance, but his Lordship would not come. There were, however,
pleasant visitors at Eartham, with whom Cowper fraternised,—Charlotte
Smith the novelist, and Romney the admirable painter. ‘Hayley has
given me a picture of himself by this charming artist, who is making
an excellent portrait of me in pastel.’
‘Mrs. Unwin,’ he says, ‘has benefited much by the change, and has many
young friends, who all volunteer to drag her chair round the pretty
grounds.’ In spite of all these pleasant surroundings, the two friends
became home-sick, and returned to Weston, where they found (after the
manner of less gifted mortals) that chaos had reigned in their
absence. Cowper resumed his Miltonic labours, and began preparing
Homer for a new edition. ‘I play at push-pin with Homer every morning
before breakfast, furbishing and polishing, as Paris did his armour.’
Speaking of his assurance in having undertaken works of such
importance, he quotes Ranger’s observation in the _Suspicious
Husband_: ‘There is a degree of assurance in your modest men, which we
impudent fellows never arrive at.’
Poor Cowper! He was again gradually sinking back into despondency,
though he combated the advances of the enemy as far as in him lay. ‘I
am cheerful on paper sometimes when I am actually the most dejected of
creatures. I keep melancholy out of my letters as much as I can, that
I may, if possible, by assuming a less gloomy air, deceive myself, and
improve fiction into reality.’ He is to sit for his portrait once more
to Lawrence, and he only wishes his face were moveable, to take off
and on at pleasure, so that he might pack it in a box, and send it to
the artist. On Hayley’s second visit to Weston, he found Cowper
tolerably well in appearance. Young Mr. Rose was there, the bearer of
an invitation from Lord Spencer, who wished Cowper to meet Gibbon. ‘We
did all we could to make him accept, urging the benefit he would
derive from such genial society, and the delight he would experience
from revelling in the treasures of the magnificent library. But our
arguments were all in vain; Cowper was unequal to the exertion.’ So
Rose and Hayley were his ambassadors to Althorp, laden with his
excuses. It is our intention to dwell as briefly as is consistent with
the narrative on the sad scenes now enacting at Weston. A fearful
relapse had befallen Cowper; Mrs. Unwin’s state bordered on
imbecility; and Lady Hesketh, who had lately taken up her abode with
her two afflicted friends, seemed powerless to cheer them, and Hayley,
whom she summoned to their aid, was shocked to find that Cowper
scarcely recognised him, and manifested no pleasure in his society. It
was with the greatest difficulty that he could now be induced to taste
food, and this system of course increased his malady, by reducing his
strength. One morning a letter arrived from Lord Spencer, announcing
that the long-looked-for pension had at length been granted,—a
circumstance which was a great relief to his friends, but, alas!
brought no satisfaction to the sufferer’s bewildered mind. Change of
air and scene were recommended. Lady Hesketh, whose own health was
greatly impaired, went to London, and Cowper and Mrs. Unwin were
conveyed into Norfolk under the kind charge of ‘Johnny’ Johnson. They
went first to a village called Tuddenham, and afterwards to Mundsley,
on the coast. Johnson accompanied Cowper in all his rambles, and one
day, calling on Mrs. Bodham, their cousin, to whom we have already
alluded, Cowper saw the portrait of himself painted by Abbot; he
looked at it for some time, and then, wringing his hands, uttered a
vehement wish that he were now as happy as when he sat for that
picture.
He had always been very fond of coast scenery; and in one of his early
letters to William Unwin he speaks of his astonishment at the number
of people who can look on the sea without emotion, or, indeed,
reflection of any kind. ‘In all its various forms, it is an object of
all others most calculated to affect us with lasting impressions of
that awful Power which created and controls it. Before I gave my mind
to religion, the waves used to preach to me, and I always listened.
One of Shakespeare’s characters, Lorenzo, says: “I am never merry when
I hear sweet music.” The sight and the sound of the ocean, produces
the same effect on me that harmony did on Jessica.’ He began to write
again to Lady Hesketh, but his letters were most gloomy, and must have
been painful in the extreme for the recipient.
In the first he thus expresses himself: ‘The most forlorn of beings, I
tread the shore, under the burthen of infinite despair, which I once
trod all cheerfulness and joy.’ He fancies the vessels he sees in the
offing were coming to seize him; he shrinks from the precipice of the
cliff on which he walks, though, perhaps, it would be better for him
to be dashed to pieces. A solitary pillar of rock seems an emblem of
himself: ‘Torn from my natural connections, I stand alone, in
expectation of the storm that shall displace me;’ and so on in the
same terrible strain. He begins to suspect his faithful friend Johnson
(whom he no longer calls ‘Johnny’) of wishing to control him, and
writes to Lady Hesketh, as if compelled to do so by stealth: ‘Dear
Weston! I shall never see Weston again, or you either. I have been
tossed like a ball to a far country, from which there is no rebound
for me.’ Johnson now moved his patients to a new residence, Dunham
Lodge, in the neighbourhood of Swaffham, and never slackened in his
attendance on his kinsman,—reading aloud to him for hours a series of
works of fiction, on which Cowper never made any comment, though they
appeared to rivet his attention. He tells Lady Hesketh,
notwithstanding, that he loses every other sentence, from the
inevitable wanderings of his mind. ‘My thoughts are like loose and dry
sand, which slips the sooner away the closer it is grasped.’ Cowper
could not bear now to be left alone, and if he were so for a short
time, he would watch on the hall door steps for the barking of dogs at
a distance, to announce his kinsman’s return. Mrs. Powley, Mrs.
Unwin’s daughter, came with her husband to visit her mother, and was
much touched by the affection which Cowper still manifested for his
Mary, even in moments of the deepest dejection. By degrees he was
induced to listen composedly, both to the reading of the Bible, and
also to family prayers, which at first his companions feared might
excite instead of soothing him. Johnson laid a kind trap in order to
coax the invalid into a renewal of his literary occupations. One day
he designedly mentioned in Cowper’s hearing, that, in the new edition
of Pope’s Homer, by Wakefield, there were some passages in which the
two translations were compared. The next morning he placed all the
volumes of the work in a large unfrequented room, through which Cowper
always passed on his way from his morning visit to Mrs. Unwin; and the
next day Johnson found, to his great satisfaction, that his kinsman
had examined the books, and made some corrections and revisions, an
occupation which Cowper continued for some little time with apparent
interest. But this improvement did not last long: the melancholy
household moved again to Mundsley, and then to Johnson’s own home, at
Dereham, which was considered less dreary than the house of Dunham
Lodge. It was there that, on the 17th of December, Mrs. Unwin,
Cowper’s faithful and devoted Mary, passed away from earth calmly and
peacefully. In the morning of that day, when the maid opened the
shutters, Cowper asked, ‘Is there still life upstairs?’ She died in
the afternoon, and he went up with Mr. Johnson to take a farewell
look; and, after silently gazing on the lifeless form for some time,
he burst into a paroxysm of tears, left the room, ‘and never,’ says
Hayley, ‘spoke of her more.’
Mrs. Unwin was buried by torchlight in the north aisle of Dereham
Church, where a marble tablet was placed to her memory.
After this event there was little improvement, though some
fluctuations, in Cowper’s state. His friends, Lady Spencer, Sir John
Throckmorton, and others, came to visit him, but he showed no pleasure
in seeing them. He occasionally wrote short verses, especially Latin,
suggested to him by Johnson, made revisions and corrections, and a
longer poem, embodying the most gloomy thoughts, ‘The Castaway,’ from
an incident in one of Anson’s voyages, the last and saddest of his
works.
‘For misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another’s case.’
The end was drawing near. Lady Hesketh was too unwell to go to him;
Hayley was in attendance on his dying son; Mr. Rose went to bid him
farewell, and Cowper, who had evinced no pleasure at his arrival,
mourned his departure.
Johnson thought it now incumbent on him to prepare his friend’s mind
for the impending danger, to which Cowper listened patiently. But when
his kinsman thought to soothe him by speaking of the blessed change
from earthly sorrow to the joys of heaven, the unhappy listener broke
forth into wild entreaties that he would desist from such topics.
On the 25th of April 1800, William Cowper expired, so quietly that not
one of the five persons who stood at his bedside was aware of the
exact moment. ‘From that time till he was hidden from our sight,’ says
his faithful and untiring watcher, Johnson, ‘his countenance was that
of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with _a holy
surprise_,’—words of deepest pathos, indissolubly connected with the
poet’s memory. They inspired Charles Tennyson Turner, our Laureate’s
worthy brother, with one of his most beautiful sonnets,—‘On Cowper’s
Death-smile’—
‘That orphan smile, born since our mourner died,
A lovely prelude of immortal peace.’
Cowper lies buried in the church at Dereham, where his cousin Harriet
placed a monument to his memory.
------------------
_No. 8._
A GIRL.
_In a tawny gown and white cap._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
------------------
_No. 9._
EMILY, WIFE OF THE FIFTH EARL COWPER, AFTERWARDS VISCOUNTESS
PALMERSTON.
_Yellowish-green gown. Pearl necklace. Floating scarf. Arms crossed.
She is holding a white hat and feathers. Background, a stormy sky._
BORN 1787, DIED 1869.
BY HOPPNER AND JACKSON.
THE only daughter and youngest child of the first Viscount Melbourne,
by Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke. When only eighteen she
became the wife of Peter Leopold, fifth Lord Cowper, in the same year
that her brother William married Lady Caroline Ponsonby. We are
confident we cannot do better than quote some passages from an
article, published on Lady Palmerston’s death, by an eminent writer,
who was her personal friend: ‘On her marriage, Lady Cowper immediately
took her place amid that brilliant galaxy of beautiful and
accomplished women who continued to form the chief ornament of the
British Court, through successive reigns, till they were gradually
replaced (not outshone) by a younger race.’ He goes on to describe how
Lady Cowper was admired and distinguished in the brilliant seasons of
1814 and 1815, on the occasion of the Royal and Imperial visits to
England. While speaking of later years, after her second marriage, he
says at that time coteries, cliques, and, above all, party
exclusiveness in politics, prevailed. But at Cambridge House there
were no such limitations. All classes—political, diplomatic, literary,
scientific, artistic—found a welcome, even the proverbially dull
‘country cousin,’ who had any claim on Lady Palmerston’s notice; they
were all received with a gracious smile and a kind word by the amiable
hostess. Her country houses bore the same character for hospitality
and variety of attraction as the London dwelling, and foreigners, in
particular, were never tired of recording the delights of Panshanger,
Brocket (to which she succeeded on her brother’s death), and
Broadlands. The same biographer says of Lady Palmerston that she never
forgot a friend, or remembered an injury; and, speaking of her
devotion to her husband: ‘She was most jealous of his reputation, and
proud of his distinction as a Minister. Every night she sat up for him
until his return from the House of Commons, and her many anxieties on
his account were often hurtful to her health.’ After his death, her
circle was almost entirely restricted to her own family and
connections.
Lady Palmerston was esteemed a most excellent ‘_man_ of business,’
managing her vast property and large households with consummate skill.
She died in her eighty-second year.
London in her time was especially rich in courtly beauties, the fame
of whose charms still survives: the Duchess of Rutland, Ladies Jersey
and Tankerville, Charlotte Campbell, and many other names, well known
to those who read the memoirs of the period. Among such formidable
competitors Lady Cowper held her own for grace and beauty, while she
far surpassed most of her contemporaries in intellectual gifts. She
was much attached to her brother, whose upward career was a source of
pride and satisfaction to her. But in early life she evinced no
personal interest in politics.
Lord Cowper died in 1837; his widow married, in 1839, Lord Palmerston,
and from that moment she became immersed in political life, watching
with the keenest interest the public events which were passing around
her.
Her brother, Lord Melbourne, was at this period at the head of the
Government, and ere long her husband was destined to occupy the same
position. Lady Palmerston now formed a _salon_, which continued for
the lapse of many years to constitute one of the greatest attractions
of London society. We use the word _salon_ advisedly, for these
assemblies bore a nearer resemblance, in character and quality, to the
_salons_ of Paris, than most congregations of guests to be met with in
a London drawing-room.
This picture was begun by Hoppner, and finished after his death by
Jackson.
------------------
_No. 10._
BOY.
_In a dark grey coat. Buff waistcoat. White cravat._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
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_No. 11._
GIRL.
_Brown gown. White muslin handkerchief. Large straw hat. Basket on her
arm. She is seated._
BY HOPPNER.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
BILLIARD ROOM.
[Illustration]
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BILLIARD ROOM.
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_No. 1._
FREDERIC HENRY NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.
_Black and gold dress. Ruff. Gold chain. Sword._
BORN 1584, DIED 1647.
BY MYTENS.
THE youngest child of William the Silent, Prince of Orange. Born at
Delft, christened with great rejoicings, and named after his two
godfathers, the kings of Denmark and Navarre. His mother, Louisa de
Coligny, had been early marked out for misfortune; her father, the
brave Gaspard de Chatillon, High Admiral of France, and her first
husband, the Sieur de Teligny, were both victims of the Massacre of
St. Bartholomew. So sad a fate has surely befallen few women, to see a
beloved parent and two husbands fall by the hands of cruel assassins.
When she was first left a widow, Louisa de Coligny escaped into
Switzerland, and after a time became the fourth wife of William the
Silent, Prince of Orange. During their short union, she endeared
herself to her husband and the whole country by the tender care she
bestowed on her step-children. At the time of William’s murder,
Frederic Henry was but an infant. ‘I am left,’ says the unhappy widow,
‘with a six-months’ child, sole pledge of my dead lord, my only
pleasure and consolation.’
A letter to England gives a most pathetic account of a visit paid to
her a short time after the Prince’s murder. ‘I found the Princess,’
says the writer, ‘in a most dark, melancholy little chamber; and it
was a twice sorrowful sight to behold her heaviness and apparel,
augmented by the wofulness of the place; and truly the perplexity I
found her in was not only for the consideration for things past, but
for that which might follow hereafter. The Princess de Chimay was with
her, herself a dolorous lady.’
The widow’s grief had been insulted by the discourse of an unfeeling
preacher at Leyden, who, alluding to the murder of the Prince,
attributed it to the vengeance of God on the ‘French marriage,’ and
the wicked pomp with which the child’s christening had been
solemnised.
Motley’s portrait of Louisa deserves to be transcribed: ‘A small,
well-formed woman, with delicate features, exquisite complexion, and
very beautiful dark eyes, that seemed in after years, as they looked
from beneath her coif, to be dim with unshed tears; remarkable powers
of mind, sweetness of disposition, a winning manner, and a gentle
voice.’
Such a woman soon became dear to the honest Hollanders, and was indeed
a good monitress, not only to her own child, but to Prince Maurice,
who loved and honoured her, and was inclined on most occasions to
listen to her counsels.
She devoted herself in the first years of her widowhood to
superintending the education of Frederic Henry or Henry Frederic, as
he is called by different historians. The Stadtholder, Maurice, seems
to have been much attached to his half-brother, who, while still a
child, proved his apt and willing scholar in the art of warfare. The
boy stood under fire for the first time when only thirteen, and was
with the army when the siege of Nieuport was projected. Now, this
enterprise was considered so hazardous, that Maurice determined his
brother should remain in a place of safety, on whom, in the event of
his own death, the hopes of the nation would be centred. But this
decision was most repugnant to the brave boy’s inclinations, and he
besought the General, with clasped hands and urgent prayers, to allow
him to share in the glory and danger of the day. There was too much
sympathy between those two noble spirits that Maurice should find it
in his heart to withstand the young soldier’s persistent supplication.
He sent for a new suit of armour, in which Frederic, bravely equipped,
side by side with his young kinsman, De Coligny, participated in the
honours of that memorable victory.
In the early days of his government, Maurice had pledged himself to
his stepmother to remain unmarried, by which means her son would
succeed as Stadtholder; but it was supposed that he went further, and
whispered to her that Frederic should inherit a kingly crown if the
Princess would assist him in obtaining the sovereignty, which he
(Maurice) so ardently desired.
In 1605 the young Prince was in command of a body of veterans in an
attack on the Spaniards, at Mühlheim, by the Rhine, when Maurice,
riding up on the opposite shore, perceived with dismay that a panic
had seized the usually steady and valiant troops. He saw his brother
fighting manfully in the thickest of the fray, his gilded armour and
waving orange plumes making him the aim of every marksman. On that
occasion, at all events, Maurice did not ‘keep silence.’ He tore up
and down the bank, taunting and cursing the soldiers who were
deserting their brave young commander, and his loud and angry
expostulations rallied the fugitives, and saved his brother’s life.
When the exiled King and Queen of Bohemia arrived at the Hague, to ask
shelter and protection from the House of Orange, Elizabeth brought in
her train the faithful and favourite Amelia de Solms, a young lady
whose intelligence and beauty made a deep impression on the heart of
Prince Frederic. There is some little difficulty in reconciling the
different accounts, as the Queen speaks of the lovers’ entire
devotion; yet we are told that Maurice threatened Frederic that, if he
did not make up his mind to marry the German lady, he would himself
espouse a Mademoiselle de Merck, by whom he had already had more than
one child, who would in that case be accepted by the law of that land
as legitimate.
The Queen of Bohemia, in writing to an English correspondent, says: ‘I
am sure you heere already of the Prince of Orange’s marriage with one
of my women, the daughter of Count de Solms, who served the King in
Heidelberg. She is verie handsome and goode. She has no money, but he
has enough for both.’
To return to more public matters. A short time after Maurice’s death
the stronghold of Breda was taken by Spinola. This general had
besieged the place for so long, and had been so much disheartened by
plausible reports of the enemy’s resources, that he asked permission
of the Spanish King to raise the siege. The answer was laconic and
peremptory, ‘_Marquez, sumais Breda. Yo el Rei._‘ There was no
questioning such a command, and Spinola prosecuted the attack with
redoubled energy. In the meantime, the garrison was suffering from
hunger and privations of all kinds; and a mutinous spirit was
spreading so fast as to induce the brave governor, Justin of Nassau
(an illegitimate son of William the Silent), to ask the Prince to
allow him to capitulate.
Frederic replied that he considered it advisable to do so, remarking
at the same time that if Spinola did but know the real state of the
case, he would not be likely to grant very honourable terms. This
letter fell into the hands of the enemy, but the writer misjudged his
generous-hearted foe. With the true ‘garbatezza italiana,’ Spinola
(undeterred by the indignant opposition of most of his officers) gave
orders that the Dutch troops should march out with colours flying,
drums beating, and all the honours of war. He also granted them leave
to carry away many valuables, more especially all the personal
property of the late Prince Maurice. Still further to prove his
respect for the courage displayed by the garrison, he watched them as
they sallied forth, lifting his hat with graceful courtesy, and
exchanging salutations with his noble adversaries.
When the King of Bohemia died, he recommended his widow and children
in the most urgent terms to the protection of the States-General and
the Stadtholder, to whom Elizabeth also drew up a memorial, in which,
after speaking of her profound grief, she goes on to say: ‘My first
great resource is in Heaven; next to that Divine trust, I confide in
you; nor will I doubt that to me and my children will be continued
that friendship so long manifested to my lamented consort. It is for
you to shelter those who suffer for truth and righteousness’ sake.’
The Royal petitioner was liberally dealt with, and the generous
allowance which Maurice (whom she called her second father) had
allotted her, was continued.
Frederic, on succeeding to the government, had found the country in a
ferment of religious and political discord; and he endeavoured to
exercise a tranquillising influence both at home and abroad. He would
gladly have made peace with Spain if he could have done so with
honour, but this was impossible; and he took the field fired with all
the military ardour which had ever distinguished the House of Orange.
In his successive campaigns against the Spaniards, he achieved, for
the most part, brilliant victories, possessing himself, one after
another, of places of the greatest importance. But although
distasteful to himself and the country at large, yet, from motives of
policy, he was induced to enter into an alliance with France, and
maintained a frequent correspondence with the Minister, Cardinal
Richelieu. On the surface of things they were friends, but Richelieu
hated the Stadtholder, and was said to have employed Frederic’s own
valet as a spy on his master’s actions. In 1637 the all-powerful
Cardinal, anxious to propitiate Holland, sent the Count de Charnacé as
ambassador to the Hague, who, in the presence of the assembled States,
addressed Frederic as ‘Prince’ and ‘Highness,’ instead of Excellency,
the title he had hitherto borne. The Stadtholder was not insensible to
the distinction, more particularly as the example set by France was
followed by all the Royal houses in Europe.
He further added to the dignity and importance of his family by
uniting his son with the Princess Mary, daughter to Charles I. of
England, a marriage which afforded general satisfaction. There were
great festivities at the Hague on the occasion, and we are told that
‘the Queen of Bohemia and her fair daughters contributed not a little
to enhance the grace and beauty of the Court pageants.’ The Dutch
continued their victories both by sea and land, their naval
engagements in particular being most brilliant. Henry Frederic’s last
feat of arms was to complete the frontier line, which his skill and
valour had helped to ensure to his country; and the Spaniards were at
length compelled to acknowledge the independence of those Provinces
already united. The Stadtholder was not permitted long to enjoy the
improved aspect of affairs. He died in March 1647, during the session
of the Congress of Münster, and was buried with great splendour at the
Hague. He left one son, William, and four daughters, by Amelia de
Solms, who survived him several years, residing at the Hague, where
she had built a fine palace, and amassed a large fortune. Henry
Frederic was of a noble presence, well formed, and robust; his
disposition was modest and temperate, and his manners gracious and
conciliating. He was a scholar, as well as a soldier, and dictated to
one of his officers memoirs of his principal campaigns, which were
much esteemed. He had none of Maurice’s personal ambition, and never
aspired to the sovereignty. But ‘if it were a sin to covet honour, he
was the most offending soul alive.’ His son succeeded him as
Stadtholder, but died at the early age of twenty-four, leaving his
young widow with child, of a Prince, afterwards William III., King of
England.
------------------
_No. 2._
SENATOR OF ANTWERP.
_Black dress. Black skull-cap. White ruff and cuffs. Sitting in an
arm-chair._
BY WILLEBORT.
------------------
_No. 3._
MAURICE OF NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.
_In armour[1], Holding a truncheon. The other hand rests on a table
beside his helmet. Orange plume and sash._
BORN 1567, DIED 1625.
BY MIEREVELDT.
Footnote 1:
ERRATUM: _for_ “In armour” _read_ “In fuller dress than usual.”
THE second son of William, Prince of Orange, surnamed ‘the Silent’ by
Anne of Saxony, who was repudiated on account of her misconduct.
Maurice was born at the Castle of Dillenbourg; his elder brother,
Philip, had been kidnapped from school, and carried to Spain, where he
became (says Motley) so completely Hispaniolised, both in appearance
and inclinations, as to lose all feeling of patriotism. But his filial
love was never eradicated, and on one occasion, when a Spanish officer
presumed to speak slightly of his illustrious father, Philip flung the
offender headlong from the window of the palace, and killed him on the
spot. It was on the 10th of July 1584 that the hand of a hired
assassin cut short the career of one of the greatest and best men that
had ever illuminated the page of history; Maurice was at that time
pursuing his education at Leyden; and the boy’s tutors had received
strict orders not to allow him to stray by the sea-shore, lest his
brother’s fate should befall him, as it was from that place Philip had
been stolen. William had died deeply in debt; he had spent his
revenues in the service of his beloved country, and at his death there
was no ready money for his widow (Louisa de Coligny), the
step-children to whom she was fondly attached, or her own infant son.
The Prince’s effects were sold for the good of his creditors,—plate,
furniture, tapestries, his very clothes; but this done, the
States-General came forward liberally, and settled a good allowance on
the Princess and her charges. For Maurice (whom they selected as his
father’s successor) they provided most generously, and, impressed by
his promising qualities, and the earnestness and decision of purpose
which he early evinced, they offered to place him at the head of the
States Council, a provisional executive board, for the government of
those Provinces comprised in the union. He was doubtless a remarkable
youth. A letter to Queen Elizabeth extols ‘this flaxen-haired, gentle
boy of seventeen years, his towardness, good presence, courage,
singular wit, and learning,’ while another account describes ‘his
chiselled features, full red lips, dark blue eyes (elsewhere they are
called hazel) with a concentration above his years.’ He was
universally pronounced to resemble his maternal grandfather, the
celebrated Maurice of Saxony, both in appearance and character, and in
nowise to favour his mother, who had been pale and deformed. When
offered the important post Maurice took two days to consider; but he
was not one to shrink from responsibility, and his acceptance was
dignified and modest. He had already selected a device and motto, and
nobly did he redeem the pledge in its wider sense: a fallen oak, with
a young sapling springing from it, ‘Tandem fit surculus arbor.’ And
verily the twig soon became a tree, and a noble one.
The country so lately, and now only partially, emancipated from the
detested yoke of Spain, looked anxiously round for alliance with some
foreign power, to assist in opposing King Philip and his formidable
generals.
Negotiations were commenced, and carried on at great length, with
France, to whose king the sovereignty of the Provinces was offered.
Against this measure Maurice made a most spirited and eloquent appeal
to the Council: he dwelt on all the evils which would accrue from such
a step, reminding his hearers of the services which his family had
rendered, and the misfortunes they had undergone in the cause of
patriotism; furthermore, how nearly they had bestowed the sovereignty
on his late father,—beseeching them not to forget the interests of the
house of Nassau; and he concluded by assuring them, that, young and
inexperienced as he was, he trusted that his zeal and devotion might
be of some avail to his country. His speech was much applauded for its
eloquence; but the negotiations with France were not discontinued,
although after a time they were transferred to England. It seems
certain that the youthful ruler indulged in early hopes of securing
the title of King for himself, but, in default of this, he appears to
have leaned to the notion of the government of Elizabeth, in
preference to that of any other alien. She had always been a staunch
upholder of Protestantism, had been generous to his family in
financial matters, and had always expressed herself in friendly terms
towards the house of Orange; besides, England was a powerful and
desirable ally. Notwithstanding all these considerations, Maurice did
not, as he pithily expressed himself, ‘wish to be strangled in the
great Queen’s embrace.’
Bess was a coquette in politics as well as love, and for a time seemed
inclined to listen to the overtures made her by the States-General,
but she finally refused. Desirous, however, of exercising some
influence in the country, she sent over her prime favourite, the Earl
of Leicester (with his gallant nephew, Sir Philip Sidney), at the head
of a large contingent of British troops. He had stringent rules laid
down for his conduct, most of which he infringed. Not long after his
arrival he was inaugurated in the post of Governor-General of the
United Provinces, with supreme military command by land and sea, and
authority in matters civil and political. In these capacities the
States proffered him an oath of fidelity, a step in which Maurice
himself was reluctantly compelled to join. Leicester’s whole conduct
in the Netherlands was actuated by overweening ambition and the basest
covetousness; while in accepting such high-sounding titles he incurred
the Queen’s anger,—‘acting in direct opposition,’ says Motley, ‘to the
commands of the most imperious woman in the world.’
A courtier at home, no way friendly to the arrogant favourite, told
Elizabeth how Leicester’s head was turned by the honours heaped on
him, and how he had sent over to England to bid his Countess join him,
with a suite, and all appliances, in order to form a Court equal in
splendour to her own. ‘Indeed!’ was the angry reply; ‘we will teach
the upstarts that there is but one Queen, and her name is Elizabeth;
and they shall have no other Court but hers!’
To return to Maurice: John Barneveldt (who had constituted himself the
youth’s political guardian), although opposed to the idea of his
elevation to a throne, stoutly advocated his nomination to the post of
Stadtholder, a measure that was carried after a severe struggle. It
was by the side of this trusty friend that the young Prince first went
into action; but his first military achievement was planned and
carried into execution jointly with Sir Philip Sidney, namely, the
taking of Axel, an important stronghold, which they carried without
the loss of a single man in the combined forces of the English and
Dutch troops.
A close friendship existed between Maurice of Nassau and our gallant
countryman, in spite of the latter’s near relationship to the
obnoxious Leicester, who had warned his nephew to be prudent in his
dealings with Maurice. ‘I find no treachery in the young man,’ was the
reply, ‘only a bold and intelligent love of adventure.’ The two brave
soldiers maintained their brotherhood in arms, until the fatal day
when Sir Philip received his death-wound at the battle of Zutphen. His
undaunted courage and proverbial humanity gained him the love and
admiration of his allies and countrymen, and the respect of his
enemies.
In 1587 Leicester was recalled by the Queen, and compelled to return
to England. He was detested by the majority of the Dutch nation, who
had by this time discovered his plots and treacherous schemes, and his
departure cleared the way for the further display of Maurice’s
political and military talents. He was nominated Governor
Commander-in-chief of five out of the seven United Provinces which
formed the Confederacy: and no one could surely have been better
fitted for such responsible posts. In the early days of his government
he was inclined to leave the reins in the hands of Barneveldt, while
he devoted himself theoretically, as well as practically, to the study
of war. His leisure hours were passed in forming combinations and
executing manœuvres with pewter soldiers; in building up and battering
down, in storming and carrying wooden blocks of mimic citadels; in
fact, in arranging systems of attack, pursuit, retreat, and defence on
his table, all of which he afterwards most effectually carried out on
the field of actual warfare; while for hours together he would pore
over the works of classical authors in the art of strategy.
Maurice introduced the strictest discipline into the army, but he was
the friend and comrade of his soldiers, sharing their privations, and
exacting for them, from the hands of the Government, the pay which had
of late been but too irregularly disbursed. His clemency to his
prisoners formed a brilliant contrast to the cruelties practised by
most of the Generals of his time, barring one or two occasions, when
driven to take reprisals. This he did, indeed, as a warning to the
Spaniards not to deal hardly with the Dutch who had fallen into their
hands. He was most severe on his own soldiers for disobedience of
orders; and with his own hand he shot one of his men, who had been
convicted of plundering a peasant.
The campaigns of 1590-92 against the Spanish troops were for the most
part as successful as they were brilliant, and in 1596 an alliance,
offensive and defensive, was concluded with France and England.
Maurice’s victories on the Rhine were so important as to induce the
Spanish king to offer him most flattering terms, which were refused,
and the war continued. We have neither space nor inclination to enter
on the history of Maurice’s campaigns. How could we do so in our
limited space, or attempt the military memoirs of a general who was
said to have won three pitched battles, to have taken thirty-eight
strong towns and forty-five castles, and to cause the enemy to raise
twelve sieges—the great general of the age, ‘the chief captain of
Christendom,’ as Queen Elizabeth called him—the rival in arms of the
formidable Spinola?
Yet we cannot resist the temptation of alluding to one or two passages
in his military life which have a picturesque or characteristic side
to the occurrence.
The taking of Zutphen was one of those ingenious _ruses de guerre_ in
which Maurice delighted. One bright morning five or six peasants, with
their wives, made their appearance under the walls of the town, laden
with baskets of provisions,—no uncommon, yet a tempting sight. They
sat down on the grass, and had not long to wait before several
soldiers of the garrison came out, and began bartering for the
contents of the said baskets. Suddenly a woman drew a pistol from
under her petticoat, and shot the man dead who was haggling over the
price of her eggs.
In a moment, the peasants, transformed into soldiers, sprang on the
guard, overpowered, bound them, and took possession of the gate; while
a large body of men, who had been lying in ambush, rushed to their
assistance, and, following up the advantage, carried the place without
the loss of a single man on their side.
Maurice of Orange, unlike the first Napoleon, was a great economiser
of life, although so unchary of his own, that he was reprimanded in
his youth by the States for rashly exposing himself to danger.
The Spaniards thought to depreciate his strategical talents by saying,
‘Qu’il ne sçavoit, que le méstier des taupes, de se tapir en terre;’
but he was as successful in open warfare as he was ingenious in
stratagem. The taking of Nieuport, which for some time seemed a
forlorn hope, was one of his most memorable victories. It resulted in
the precipitate flight of the Archduke Albert (the governor of that
portion of the Netherlands still under Spanish rule), and the entire
rout of his army; and this at the very moment that the Infanta
Isabella (Albert’s wife), reckoning without her host, was expecting to
see the Prince of Orange brought into her presence—a prisoner. More
than once during the battle the fortunes of the patriots seemed to
tremble in the balance; but Maurice’s calmness never forsook him, and
his devoted soldiery emulated their General in courage and
determination. When assured that the day was gained, the hero, who had
been unmoved in danger, was overcome by emotion. He leaped from his
saddle, and, kneeling in the sand, raised his streaming eyes to
heaven, exclaiming, ‘O God, what are we human creatures, to whom Thou
hast brought such honour, and vouchsafed such a victory?’
So total was the discomfiture of the Spaniards, so hasty their
retreat, that they left a precious booty for the Dutch, in the shape
of ammunition, treasure, and baggage. Amongst other personal property
of the Archduke, his favourite charger fell to the share of an officer
in the Stadtholder’s army, who had often heard the Prince express
great admiration for the horse in question. He therefore lost no time
in presenting his prize to the General. Now, in the possession of Lord
Powerscourt, there is an exquisitely finished cabinet portrait of the
great captain, in gorgeous armour, mounted on a milk-white barb, with
a wondrous luxuriance of mane and tail, which nearly sweep the ground.
We often hear of a horse who seems to take pride in carrying his
master; but here the case is obviously reversed. The rider is proud of
his horse. The Prince evinces an undoubted pride in the milk-white
steed he mounts, and he called upon his favourite painter, Miereveldt,
to immortalise his treasure. With such strong circumstantial evidence,
we may surely take it for granted that Lord Powerscourt’s gem
illustrates our anecdote of the victory of Nieuport.
One more example of our hero’s strategical powers, and we have done.
The taking of Breda was so ingeniously conceived, so bravely executed,
that we cannot pass it over in silence. The grand and strongly
fortified castle which dominated the town of Breda had once been the
residence of the Nassau family, and was indeed, by law, the property
of Prince Maurice. It was in the hands of the enemy, garrisoned by a
large band of Italian soldiers, under the command of the Duke of
Parma, who was however absent at the time of which we are speaking,
the Duke having left a young compatriot in command, Lanza Vecchia by
name. One night, when quartered at the Castle of Voorn, in Zeeland,
Maurice received a mysterious nocturnal visit from a certain boatman
called Adrian, who had once been a servant in the Nassau family, and
was now employed in carrying turf for fuel into the Castle of Breda.
Adrian offered his boat and his services to the Prince, assuring him
that the little vessel could enter the water-gate without suspicion.
The notion was after Maurice’s own heart. He took counsel with
Barneveldt, and it was arranged that the boatman should be at a
certain ferry the next night at twelve o’clock. The carrying out of
this daring scheme was, by Barneveldt’s advice, intrusted to one
Heraugière, a man of undoubted valour, who having fallen into
temporary disgrace, would be most willing (urged his advocate) to
redeem his character with the General. Sixty-eight men were selected
from different regiments, with three officers as his comrades in the
hazardous enterprise, who all proceeded to the rendezvous at the
appointed hour. Adrian himself did not appear. His heart failed him,
and he sent two nephews in his stead, whom he designated as
‘dare-devils.’ It was certainly no undertaking for faint hearts to
embark in. The devoted little band went on board the boat, and stowed
themselves away as best they might under the piles of turf with which
the bark was ostensibly laden. Everything seemed leagued against them:
fog, sleet, large blocks of ice, impeded their progress, while the
weather proved most tempestuous, and the wind contrary.
From Monday night till Thursday morning seventy men lay huddled
together almost suffocated, enduring hunger, thirst, and intense cold
without a murmur, without regret at having undertaken so perilous a
duty. At one time they were compelled to creep out and steal to a
neighbouring castle, in order to procure some refreshment, and it was
not till Saturday morning that they entered the last sluice, and all
possibility of retreat was at an end,—that handful of men, half frozen
with cold, half crippled by confinement to so small a space, to cope
with a whole garrison of vigorous and well-fed soldiers! An officer
came on board to inspect the fuel, of which he said they stood sorely
in need, and went into the little cabin, where the hidden men could
see him plainly, and hear every word he uttered. No sooner had he gone
on shore than the keel struck against some obstruction. The vessel
sprang a leak, and began to fill.
All was surely now lost, and the men who came to unload the boat made
her safe, close under the guard-house, and proceeded with their work.
To add to the soldiers’ danger, the damp and cold had brought on fits
of sneezing and coughing, which it was most difficult to resist. One
of these gallant men, who well deserved his name of ‘Held,’[2] feeling
his cough impossible to control, drew his dagger and besought the
soldier next him to stab him to the heart, lest he should cause the
failure of the enterprise and the destruction of his comrades. But
thanks to the ingenuity of the skipper, this noble fellow lived to
glory in the success of the undertaking, and his name still lives in
the hearts and memory of his countrymen. The dare-devil came to the
rescue; he set the pumps going, which deadened every other sound, and
there he stood, worthy of the sobriquet his uncle had given him,
exchanging jokes with the labourers and the purchasers, and at length
dismissing them all with a few stivers for ‘drink-geld,’ saying it was
much too late to unload any more turf that night.
Footnote 2:
Hero.
So they all departed, excepting the servant of the captain of the
guard, who was most difficult to get rid of, chattering and gossiping,
and complaining of delay.
‘Be content,’ said the skipper, one of those men who must have his
joke, even in moments when life and death are at stake; ‘the best part
of the cargo is at the bottom, and it is reserved for your master. He
is sure to get enough of it to-morrow.’
The dare-devil’s words were verified to the letter; a little before
midnight the Dutch entered the town, killed every man in the
guard-room, and took possession of the arsenal. The garrison fled in
all directions, and the burghers followed their example, young Lanza
Vecchia, although himself wounded, striving in vain to rally his men.
Count Hohenloe, brother-in-law to Maurice, was the first to enter the
town at the head of large reinforcements, shortly followed by the
Prince himself. The despatch sent to Barneveldt was as follows: ‘The
castle and town of Breda are ours. We have not lost a single man. The
garrison made no resistance, but fled distracted out of the town.’
How reluctantly we turn the page whereon Maurice’s golden deeds are
inscribed, and come to a new episode in his life, on which a dark
shadow rests! Little by little the differences of opinion which had
long existed between the Stadtholder and the Advocate Barneveldt
ripened into open enmity. The latter was at the head of the peace
party, while Maurice declared for continuous warfare, in spite of
which a general truce of several years was concluded, beneath which
the Prince’s restless spirit chafed and fretted.
There could also be little doubt that Maurice aimed at a crown, while
Barneveldt was a staunch republican. A more deadly cause of enmity was
now springing up, for the torch of religious discord was aflame in
Holland, between two opposing sects, the Gomarites and the Arminians.
The former accused the latter of being more lax than the Papists,
while the Arminians loudly declared the Gomarites to be cruel and
intolerant, and the God they worshipped unjust and merciless.
For the most part, the clergy, with many of the upper classes, headed
by Maurice and his family, favoured the Gomarites; while Barneveldt,
with the municipal body, upheld the Arminian doctrines. Political and
religious differences waxed fiercer each day that passed, and Maurice
forgot all he owed to the guardian of his youth.
Barneveldt’s star was setting; slander and calumny of all kinds were
busy with the name of this single-minded, large-hearted old man, whom
the Stadtholder did not disdain in his anger to accuse of secret
negotiations with Spain. In a letter to the Prince, Barneveldt bewails
their estrangement, for which he had ‘given no cause, having always
been your faithful servant, and with God’s blessing, so will I
remain.’
He went on to say he had done good service to the State for upwards of
forty years, and as far as religious opinions went, he had never
changed. But neither his public nor private appeals stood him in good
stead: he was denounced as a traitor and a sceptic; libellous
pamphlets, shameful and absurd accusations, were disseminated against
him. One great bone of contention between the two sects was the
convening of a Synod, on which the Stadtholder and the States had
determined. To dissuade the Prince from this step, the Advocate asked
an interview, which was granted. Here is the picture, drawn by a
master hand: The Advocate, an imposing magisterial figure, wrapped in
a long black velvet cloak, leaning on his staff, tall, but bent with
age and anxiety, haggard and pale, with long grey beard, and stern
blue eyes. What a contrast to the florid, plethoric Prince!—in big
russet boots, shabby felt hat encircled by a string of diamonds, his
hand clutching his sword-hilt, and his eyes full of angry menace,—the
very type of the high-born, imperious soldier. Thus they stood and
surveyed each other for a time, those two men, once fast friends,
between whom a gulf was now fixed. Expostulations, recriminations,
passed, Barneveldt strongly deprecating the idea of the Synod, which
he was well assured would only lead to more ill feeling rather than to
any adjustment of differences; in answer to which Maurice curtly
announced that the measure was decided on, and then opposed a stubborn
silence (as was his wont when thwarted) to all the arguments and
eloquence of the Advocate. That meeting was their last on earth.
Not long after this interview, as Barneveldt was one day sitting in
his garden, he was visited by two friends, of authority in the State,
who had come to warn him of the plan that had been formed for his
arrest. He received the intelligence calmly, remarking he knew well
‘there were wicked men about;’ then, lifting his hat courteously, he
added, ‘I thank you, gentlemen, for your warning.’ He continued his
steady course as heretofore, and was accordingly shortly afterwards
arrested on his way to the Session, and lodged in prison; his intimate
friend, the learned Grotius, and several other leading members of the
Arminian community, were imprisoned at the same time. The treatment
which Barneveldt was subjected to in his captivity was most
inconsiderate and severe; indeed, the only mercy vouchsafed to him was
the attendance of his faithful body-servant; he was not allowed
communication with the outer world, although, on more than one
occasion, he contrived to elude the vigilance of his keepers by means
of a few words concealed in a quill or the centre of a fruit. His
books and papers were taken from him; he was denied the assistance of
a lawyer or a secretary to prepare his defence, or even pen and ink
for his own use; and when he asked for a list of the charges which
were to be brought against him, he was refused.
In spite of all these hindrances, when summoned before a ‘packed’
tribunal, his defence was noble, eloquent, and manly, although his
enemies insultingly called it a confession. He was accused of
troubling the Church of God, sowing dissension in the Provinces, and
calumniating his Excellency, and—crowning injustice—was declared a
traitor to his native country. John Olden de Barneveldt!—was there any
one in that Assembly whose love was so profound for his God, his
country, and his Prince? He was not present when the final sentence
was passed, namely, that he should suffer death by the sword, and that
all his goods should be confiscate; but when the news was brought, the
prisoner received it with the calm dignity which always characterised
him.
From ‘my chamber of sorrow’ he wrote a touching farewell (pen and ink
being grudgingly accorded him) to his family, which he signed ‘from
your loving husband, father, grandfather, and father-in-law.’ In all
these relations of life Barneveldt had been dearly loved, and his home
had been the scene of ‘domestic bliss;’ the only paradise that has
survived the fall.
He intrusted the clergyman who ministered to him with a message to the
Prince of Orange, assuring him that he had always loved and served him
as far as it was consistent with his duty to the State, and his
principles. He craved forgiveness if he had ever failed towards him in
any point, and concluded by earnestly recommending his children to the
care of his Excellency.
Maurice received the messenger with tears in his eyes, on his part
declaring that he had always had a sincere affection for Barneveldt,
though there were one or two things he found it hard to forgive, such
as the accusation, which the Advocate brought against him, of aspiring
to the sovereignty; but he did forgive all, and as regarded the
children, he would befriend them as long as they continued to deserve
it. With these poor crumbs of comfort the clergyman went back to the
prison.
It must not be supposed that no efforts were made to save De
Barneveldt: the French Ambassador used all his persuasions and all his
eloquence, the widowed Princess of Orange wrote to her stepson to
entreat him to save his father’s friend, and the friend of his boyhood
and early life; but for the first time Maurice was deaf to the appeal
of Louisa de Coligny, and excused himself from seeing her on frivolous
pretences. Some surprise was expressed that the wife and family of De
Barneveldt did not petition the Stadtholder, and it was even whispered
that if either the wife or daughter-in-law (both women distinguished
by noble birth and noble hearts) had sought an interview with Prince
Maurice, it might have been granted; but they relied on a promise,
perhaps, that no harm should come to the prisoner, even as our
Strafford did, a few years later. The venerable captive prepared for
death, declining an interview with his relations, lest the sight of
those dear ones should unnerve him, and destroy the composure which it
was so essential to maintain, while it was carefully withheld from him
how earnestly his family had desired to see him once more.
The night previous to the execution his good servant took up his post
at the head of his master’s bed to receive his last instructions, but
was warned off by one of the sentinels.
However, no sooner did the surly fellow fall asleep than this faithful
friend, by dint of bribes and persuasions, prevailed on his comrade to
let him return to the bedside. Barneveldt evinced great anxiety
respecting his beloved friend Grotius,[3] fearing he might share the
same fate. He sent tender messages to his family, recommending the
bearer to their protection, and expressed his regret, if, stung by
indignation at the loathsome slanders published against him, he had at
any time spoken too fiercely and vehemently.
Footnote 3:
Grotius was imprisoned for two years, and finally escaped in a case
of books, through the medium of his wife.
The next morning he rose quietly. ‘Come and help me, good John,’ said
he; ‘it is the last time that I shall require your services.’ When the
clergyman entered and asked if he had slept, he said he had not, but
was much soothed and strengthened by the beautiful passages he had
been reading in a French version of the Psalms. Why linger over these
sad details?
In the great hall where the judges were assembled, the prisoner
listened wearily to the long rambling sentence, and demurred several
times at its flagrant injustice. When the clerk had concluded, he
said, ‘I thought, my Lords, the States-General would have had enough
of my life, and blood, without depriving my wife and children of their
property. Is this my recompense for forty-three years of service to
the Provinces?’
The President rose with this cruel reply on his lips: ‘You have heard
the sentence—away, away! that is enough.’
The old man obeyed, leaning on his staff, and, followed by his
faithful John and the guard, he passed on to death on the scaffold,
and, looking down, addressed the mob: ‘Men,’ he said, ‘do not believe
that I am a traitor; I have lived as a patriot, and as a patriot I
will die.’
He himself drew the cap over his eyes, ejaculating, ‘Christ shall be
my guide; O Lord, my Heavenly Father, receive my spirit.’ Then
kneeling down, as he desired, with his face directed towards his home,
he begged the executioner to use all despatch; the heavy sword was
swung, the noble head was struck off at a blow, and the soul of John
Olden de Barneveldt took flight for a land where ingratitude and
injustice are alike unknown.
We are told that the Stadtholder sat in his cabinet with closed doors,
and forbade any one wearing his livery to go abroad, or be seen in the
streets during the execution of the Advocate; nay, it is further
recorded that he evinced some emotion on hearing that all was over.
But sadly did he neglect an opportunity that presented itself, not
very long afterwards, of showing some spark of that generosity which
once characterised him.
Barneveldt had left two sons, both high in position, and in affluent
circumstances, until their father’s sentence reduced them to poverty
and obscurity. The younger son, Governor of Bergen-op-Zoom, was a
wild, turbulent spirit, and had given his family much uneasiness.
Stung to the quick by his father’s wrongs, he laid a plot for the
assassination of the Stadtholder; with some difficulty he prevailed on
his more timid brother to enlist in the same cause, and as Maurice’s
popularity was already on the wane, he found several conspirators not
unwilling to join. The scheme was discovered or betrayed, and all
implicated therein, who had the means of escape, fled; the younger De
Barneveldt was conveyed in a case to the house of a friend at
Rotterdam, whence he started for Brussels, and reached the Court of
the Archduchess Isabella, who took him under her protection. He
afterwards entered his native country with alien troops as a traitor
and a renegade. His less fortunate, less blameable brother, wandered
about from place to place a miserable fugitive, and was at last taken
in the island of Flieland.
On hearing of his capture, his mother’s anguish knew no bounds; she
remained for days tearless, speechless, immoveable; but at length she
roused herself, and, accompanied by her daughter-in-law and infant
grandchild, she went her way to the Stadtholder’s palace.
Bowing the lofty spirit which had hitherto upheld her in all her
misfortunes, she cast herself on her knees, and with all the wild
eloquence of maternal sorrow, she implored mercy for her son.
Maurice received her with cold courtesy, and asked why she had never
raised her voice in behalf of the prisoner’s father. The answer was
worthy the widow of the great patriot:—
‘My husband,’ she said, ‘was innocent; my son is guilty.’
The Prince was unmoved, and coldly replied that it was out of his
power to interfere with the course of justice. The two unhappy women
and the little one, who was so soon to be an orphan, passed out of the
room, and all hope of mercy was at an end. The only clemency shown the
son of Olden de Barneveldt was exemption from the ignominy and anguish
of torture which was inflicted on his fellow-conspirators. The
deportment of this weak-minded man at his trial formed a sad contrast
to that of his illustrious father. When sentence of death had been
passed, he had a last interview with his mother and wife. The latter,
amid all the agony of her grief, exhorted her husband to die as became
his father’s memory and the noble name he bore. These loving commands
were strictly obeyed. The prisoner was calm and composed on the
scaffold, and in a few words he addressed to the people, told them
that evil counsel and the desire for vengeance had brought him to so
sad an end. His last audible word was ‘Patience.’
The days of Maurice of Nassau were also numbered. For a short time the
flame of popularity flickered; but his reputation had suffered, not
only by his injustice, but by his severity to the widow and family of
a man to whose memory his very opponents in religion and politics were
now beginning to render tardy justice. On one occasion the Stadtholder
was deeply mortified, when, crossing the public square of a large
town, amid a concourse of citizens, he was allowed to do so without
the slightest sign of recognition, without the lifting of a single
hat, or the raising of one shout in his honour. No man said, ‘God
bless him;’—he who was wont to ride down the streets amid deafening
cries of ‘Long live Prince Maurice!’
He was thwarted and opposed in many of his favourite measures by the
very party he had so strenuously upheld. He was more especially
mortified when they refused the subsidies he asked for the
prolongation of the war with Spain, and, though successful in his
attempt on Bergen-op-Zoom, he failed before Antwerp, while the
reverses of the Protestant army in Germany weighed heavily on his
mind. He received the exiled King and Queen of Bohemia at the Hague
with generous hospitality, and sympathised truly in their misfortunes;
but the successes of his great rival, the Marquis Spinola, which he
was now powerless to withstand, seemed the culminating point to his
distress. His last days were embittered by the knowledge that his
beloved stronghold of Breda, on the recovery of which he had expended
so much ingenuity, and run such enormous risks, thirty-four years
before, was now hotly besieged by the great Italian general, and he
himself unable to lift a finger in its defence. Maurice of Nassau
became thin and haggard, and fits of sleeplessness reduced his
strength,—he who his life long had slept so heavily that two gentlemen
were stationed in his bedchamber to awake him in any case of
emergency. He died in the spring of the year 1625.
Maurice, Prince of Orange, had announced his intention early in life
never to marry, a resolution to which he adhered; but he was a man of
pleasure, and not very refined in his tastes. He left several natural
children, of whom one, M. de Beverweert by name, was distinguished,
and held a high office under Government. Maurice’s chief pastime was
chess, at which (singular as it may appear) he was not very skilful.
His customary antagonist was a captain of the guard, one De la Caze,
greatly his superior in the game; but as the Prince hated defeat, and
would burst forth into fits of fury when worsted, his prudent
adversary was frequently induced to allow his Excellency to be
victorious in their trials of skill. On these propitious occasions the
Prince’s good-humour knew no bounds, conducting the officer to the
outer door, and bidding the attendants light, and even accompany him
home. The captain, whose income depended chiefly on his skill at games
of chance, was sorely put to it in the choice of winning and losing,
of times and of seasons.
Maurice merited the name of ‘the Silent’ more than his father; and
when he did speak, says La Houssaye (whose Memoirs throw great light
on the history of the time), ‘Il se servoit toujours, de petites
fraizes gauderonnées.’
He was of a dry and caustic humour, and showed especial contempt for
what he considered coxcombry in dress. He used to rally the French
gentlemen in particular on the lightness of their apparel, observing
they would rather catch cold than conceal their figures. He
depreciated the use of tight riding-boots, which prevented the
horseman from vaulting into his saddle, and set an example of
simplicity, sometimes amounting to shabbiness, in his own attire.
We have given elsewhere the description of his usual dress. La
Houssaye says, ‘Je l’ai toujours vu habillé de la même sorte, de la
même couleur, ce qui étoit brune, couleur de musc.’ He blamed the
Italian mode of horsemanship, with all their curvetings and
caracolings, which, he said, were dangerous, and lost no end of time.
Maurice left behind him a glorious reputation, but a heavy blot rests
on his escutcheon.
------------------
_No. 4._
SIR ANTONIO MORO.
_Black suit and ruff. Black cap._
BORN 1512, DIED 1588.
BY HIMSELF.
HE was a native of Utrecht, and a disciple of John Schoorel, who was
distinguished not only as a painter, being a pupil of Mabuse, but as a
poet and orator. Moro travelled in Italy, and studied the great
masters. He painted historical and sacred subjects, but excelled in
portraits, and followed the style of Holbein. Cardinal Granvelle
recommended him to Charles V., for whom he painted Prince Philip,
afterwards Philip II. of Spain. The Emperor gave Moro a commission to
the Court of Portugal, to execute the portraits of King John III., his
wife, Catherine of Austria, and the Infanta Mary, afterwards Queen of
Spain. Sir William Stirling, in his delightful work on Spanish
painters, says, ‘Moro’s pencil made that marrying monarch, Philip II.,
acquainted with the forms and features of his two first wives, the
Maries of Portugal and England.’ For the three Portuguese pictures the
painter received six hundred ducats, besides a costly gold chain,
presented to him by the nobles of the country, and other gifts. But
when he went to England to take sittings of Queen Mary (the betrothed
of Philip of Spain), Antonio was remunerated still more magnificently.
He received one hundred pounds (then esteemed a large sum) for the
Queen’s likeness, and a splendid chain of gold, with a pension of one
hundred pounds a quarter on his appointment as painter to the Court.
He remained in England during the whole of Mary’s reign, and both the
Queen and her husband sat to him several times. He also painted
numbers of the courtiers and nobility, but, from omitting to annex the
names, the identity of many of his characteristic portraits is lost.
Horace Walpole regrets this neglect in his notice of Moro, and says
truly, ‘The poorest performer may add merit to his works by
identifying the subjects, and this would be a reparation to the
curious world, though it would rob many families of imaginary
ancestors.’
When Queen Mary died, Moro, or More, as he was called in England,
followed King Philip to Spain, where he remained for some time in high
favour. He left the country suddenly, and the cause of his departure
has been differently accounted for by different writers. The version
of the story most currently believed is as follows:—King Philip
frequented the artist’s studio, and one day, as he was standing beside
the easel, his Majesty familiarly placed his hand on Moro’s shoulder.
The painter turned round abruptly, and smeared the Royal hand with
carmine. The attendants stood aghast at this breach of etiquette; but
the King appeared to treat the matter as a jest. It was not long,
however, before Moro received a warning from his patron that the
officers of the Inquisition were on his track, and that he was in
imminent danger of arrest on the plea of having ‘bewitched the King.’
One thing was certain, that the fact of an alien standing so high in
Philip’s favour had aroused a feeling of ill-will and jealousy among
the courtiers, who would probably lay hold of any pretext to effect
the favourite’s ruin. Moro fled to Brussels, where he was warmly
welcomed by the Duke of Alva, then Governor of the Low Countries; here
he painted the portrait of the brave but cruel commander, and of one
or two of his mistresses. It was rumoured that Philip invited him to
return to Spain, and that Alva intercepted the letters, being
unwilling to part with the great artist. Be this as it may, Moro never
again put himself in the power of the Inquisition, but passed the
remainder of his days in ease, and even opulence. He had amassed a
good fortune by his works in all parts of Europe, and the Duke of Alva
made him receiver of the revenues of West Flanders, an appointment
which is said to have so elated Moro that he burned his easel and
destroyed his painting tools; but we are not bound to believe a story
so unlikely.
He died at Antwerp, while engaged in painting the Circumcision for the
Cathedral of that city. Sir Antonio was remarkable for the refinement
of his manners and the dignity of his bearing. He painted several
portraits of himself, one of which represents him as a tall stately
man, with a frank open countenance, red hair and beard, dressed in a
dark doublet, with slashed sleeves, a massive chain round his throat,
and a brindled wolf-hound by his side.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
SMALL DINING-ROOM.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SMALL DINING-ROOM.
-------
_No. 1._
THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM LAMB, SECOND SON OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE, TO WHOM HE SUCCEEDED.
_Nude child playing with a wolf._
BY MRS. COSWAY.
------------------
_No. 2._
GEORGE AUGUSTUS FREDERICK, SIXTH EARL COWPER.
_Black coat. White waistcoat. Loose cloak._
BORN 1806, DIED 1856.
BY LUCAS.
THE eldest son of the fifth Earl, by Emily, only daughter of the first
Viscount Melbourne. He went from a preparatory school at Mitcham to
Eton, and thence to Trinity College, Cambridge. On leaving the
University, he entered the Royal Horse Guards, Blue, and became M.P.
for Canterbury. In Lord Palmerston’s first Administration Lord
Fordwich was appointed Under-Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs,—an office the arduous duties and grave responsibility of
which proved too much for his health, which was never very strong, and
he accordingly sent in his resignation at the end of a few months. In
1833 he married Lady Anne Florence, Baroness Lucas, eldest daughter of
Earl de Grey, and two years after he retired from public life
altogether. He succeeded his father in 1837. Lord Cowper was a staunch
Whig, and always supported his party in the House, otherwise he took
no leading part in politics; he was extremely popular, in spite of a
certain diffidence which never wore off in his contact with public and
official life, or general society. Perhaps it might be said (in the
case of a man of his great wealth and exalted position) to have
enhanced the charm of his refined and engaging manners and
proverbially musical voice. He enjoyed society, of which he was a
cheerful and agreeable member, and few houses were more celebrated for
their delightful reunions than Panshanger, near Hertford.
The circumstances attending Lord Cowper’s death were most unexpected
and painful. He was Lord-Lieutenant of the county of Kent, a post that
was in some measure irksome to him, as it entailed frequent residence
in a neighbourhood where he had few acquaintances,—with the exception
of Lord Sydney, one of his most valued and intimate friends. These two
noblemen had arranged to go down together to Maidstone at the time of
the Sessions, on the occasion of the reorganisation of the militia.
But at the eleventh hour Lord Sydney was prevented accompanying his
friend, as his presence was required in London in his capacity of Lord
Chamberlain.
The Lord-Lieutenant therefore went down alone, and while transacting
business in court he was taken suddenly ill, removed to the governor’s
residence in the gaol, and died the same evening, apparently unaware
of his danger.
Lady Cowper had some friends dining with her in St. James’s Square,
when she was summoned in all haste to Maidstone. She started
immediately, accompanied by her brother-in-law, William Cowper (the
present Lord Mount Temple), and the family physician, Dr. Ferguson.
But, alas! they arrived too late, for all was over.
The death of a man so much esteemed in public, so tenderly beloved in
private life, caused a profound sensation; and, says the friend to
whom we are indebted for these particulars, ‘few men have ever been
more widely and deeply lamented.’ Lord Cowper left two sons and three
daughters:—
The present Earl; the Honourable Henry Cowper, M.P. for Hertford;
Lady Florence, married to the Honourable Auberon Herbert,
brother of the Earl of Carnarvon; Adine, married to the
Honourable Julian Fane, fifth son of the eleventh Earl of
Westmoreland, both deceased; and Amabel, married to Lord
Walter Kerr, second son of the seventh Marquis of Lothian.
------------------
_No. 3._
THE HONOURABLE GEORGE LAMB, FOURTH SON OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE.
_As the infant Bacchus. A nude child._
BORN 1784. DIED 1834.
BY MRS. COSWAY.
HE was the fourth and youngest son of the first Viscount Melbourne, by
Elizabeth Milbanke. Educated at Eton and Cambridge. Called to the bar,
and went the Northern Circuit for a short time; but the law was not to
his taste: he preferred the pursuit of literature, and took great
interest in the drama. He became an active member of the Committee of
Management of Drury Lane Theatre, with Lords Essex and Byron, and the
Honourable Douglas Kinnaird, for colleagues. He was the author of some
operatic pieces and fugitive poems, and he also published a
translation of Catullus. In the year 1819 George Lamb stood for
Westminster, on the Whig interest, against the Radicals; the contest
lasted fifteen days, and Lady Melbourne, a keen politician, exerted
herself in the canvass, and was much pleased at her son’s return by a
large majority. At the general election in 1820 he had to relinquish
his seat, but in 1826 he was returned for Dungarvan (through the
interest of the Duke of Devonshire), which borough he represented in
four Parliaments. In Lord Grey’s Administration Mr. Lamb was appointed
Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department. In 1809 he married
Mademoiselle Caroline Rosalie Adelaide de St. Jules, who was reputed
to be a natural daughter of the Duke of Devonshire. George Lamb died
at Whitehall in 1834; his two elder brothers, Lords Melbourne and
Beauvale, survived him. He left no children.
------------------
_No. 4._
ANNE FLORENCE DE GREY, BARONESS LUCAS IN HER OWN RIGHT, WIFE OF
GEORGE, SIXTH EARL COWPER.
_In widow’s weeds._
BORN 1806, DIED 1880.
BY FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R.A., _afterwards_ P.R.A.
SHE was the eldest daughter and co-heir of Thomas Philip, Earl de
Grey, K.G., by Lady Henriette Cole, daughter of the first Earl of
Enniskillen. She married in 1833 George Augustus, sixth Earl Cowper,
and was left a widow, in 1856, by the sudden and unexpected death of
her husband. We cannot do better than transcribe the moral portraiture
of the late Lady Cowper, sketched by the hand of one who knew her
well, appreciated her highly, and who, moreover, bore a strong
resemblance to her in many moral and intellectual gifts:—
‘I think I can sum up Lady Cowper’s leading attributes in three
words—wit, wisdom, and goodness. In the relationship of daughter,
wife, and mother she left nothing to be desired; as a hostess she was
pre-eminently agreeable, being a most delightful companion; she had
lived with all that was politically and socially distinguished in her
day, and had read all that was worth reading in modern literature. She
derived keen enjoyment from “the give and take” of discussion; her
opinions were decided, and their expression fresh and spontaneous:
into whatever well it was lowered, the bucket invariably came up
full!’
‘In her latter days, even under the pressure of failing health, her
conversational powers never flagged; she was most brilliant in the
freshness of morning, and shone conspicuously at the breakfast-table,
thereby rendering that repast far more animated than is usually the
case. Her sallies, though never ill-natured, were often unexpected and
startling, which added a zest to her discourse, and gained for her the
title of ‘The Queen of Paradox.’
Her loss was deeply felt and mourned, not only in her own family, but
in the wider range of what is termed social life.
------------------
_No. 5._
FAMILY GROUP.
GEORGE, _third Earl Cowper; in a green coat, pink waistcoat, and
breeches_. MR. GORE, _playing on the violoncello; dark blue coat,
yellow breeches_. COUNTESS COWPER, _pale pink gown_. MRS. GORE,
_grey gown; one daughter in blue, the other in white brocade_.
MISS EMILY GORE _at the harpsichord_.
BY ZOFFANY.
COUNTESS COWPER was the daughter of Charles Gore, Esquire, of
Southampton. Her parents took her to Italy for her health, where the
family resided for a long time. Mr. Gore is supposed to have been the
original of Goethe’s ‘travelled Englishman’ in _Wilhelm Meister_. Mrs.
Delany, in one of her amusing letters, mentions the meeting of Lord
Cowper and Miss Gore at Florence, ‘when little Cupid straightway bent
his bow.’
They were married at Florence, and on that occasion Horace Walpole
condoles with Sir Horace Mann on the prospect, as he would lose so
much of the society of his great friend, Lord Cowper. Both Lady Cowper
and her husband were in high favour at the Grand-Ducal Court of
Tuscany, and the former was a great ornament of the brilliant (but by
no means straight-laced) society of the day. Miss Berry speaks in very
high terms of Miss Gore, who resided with her married sister. Three
sons were born to the Cowpers in Florence. In her later days the
Countess took up her abode at a villa a little way out of the city.
She survived her husband many years, and was said to have been
plundered by her servants. Indeed, this most interesting picture is
supposed to have been stolen at the time of her death. It was
purchased in 1845 by the Honourable Spencer Cowper (for the trifling
sum of £20), who made it a present to his brother, the sixth Earl.
------------------
_No. 6._
KATRINE CECILIA COMPTON, WIFE OF THE PRESENT EARL COWPER.
_Dark red velvet gown._
BY EDWARD CLOFFORD.
The eldest daughter of William, present and fourth Marquis of
Northampton. Married in 1870 to the present and seventh Earl Cowper.
------------------
_No. 7._
THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM LAMB, AFTERWARDS SECOND VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_As a youth. Black coat trimmed with fur._
BORN 1779, DIED 1848.
BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
WILLIAM, second Lord Melbourne, was born March 15, 1779. His father
and mother were friends of the Prince of Wales, and lived in that
brilliant Whig circle of which Fox and Sheridan were the political
ornaments, and the Duchess of Devonshire the Queen of Beauty. It is
difficult now to realise the spirit of that society, in which
dissipation and intellectual refinement were so singularly combined.
Drunkenness among the men was too frequent to be considered
disgraceful, and even those who passed for being sober took their two
or three bottles a day. Conversation was habitually interlarded with
oaths; gambling, to such an extent as to cripple the largest fortunes,
was the common amusement of both sexes; and morality in other respects
was in a low state. But joined with this there was that high sense of
personal honour, which in England, and still oftener in France, has,
at other times, been united with similar manners. There was more than
this. There was a spirit of justice and generosity—even of
tenderness—and in some cases a delicacy of feeling which we are
accustomed now to associate only with temperance and purity. There was
also a very cultivated taste, derived from a far more extensive
knowledge of the Classics than is to be found in these days; a love of
poetry and history; and, above all, an enthusiastic worship of
liberty.
How came this strange worship of liberty among this exclusive and
luxurious aristocracy? Originally, perhaps, as the result of faction.
Excluded from power and deprived of popularity by misfortunes and
mistakes, which it would take too long to mention, the Whigs had been
driven in their adversity to fall back upon their original principles.
The debating instinct of their great Parliamentary leader seized upon
the cry of liberty as a weapon of warfare in the House of Commons, and
the cause which he advocated was so congenial to his frank and
generous nature that he embraced it enthusiastically and imparted his
enthusiasm to his friends. I must not pursue these thoughts further,
but the circumstances of a man’s early life have such influence in
moulding his character that, even in such a slight sketch as this, it
may not have been out of place to call attention to the state of that
society, with its vices and its redeeming qualities, in the midst of
which William Lamb grew up.
He went to Eton in 1790, and to Cambridge in 1796. In 1797 he was
entered at Lincoln’s Inn, but without leaving Cambridge. In 1798 he
won a prize by the oration on ‘The Progressive Improvement of
Mankind,’ which was alluded to by Fox in the House of Commons.
In 1799 he went to Glasgow to Professor Millar’s, from whose house he
wrote during this and the following year several letters to his
mother, which still exist. They show the keenest interest in politics,
and an enthusiastic admiration for the French; and they are not
entirely free from a slight taint of that apparent want of patriotism
which infected the Liberal party at that time, and which did it such
irreparable damage. It is only fair to say that there is an entry
written in a notebook a few years later showing how keenly he
appreciated and lamented this political error, and throughout the
whole course of the Peninsular War he expresses the warmest wishes for
the success of the British arms, and for those of our allies in
Germany.
His career at the bar was brief and uneventful, and by the death of
his elder brother he shortly became heir-apparent to his father’s
title and property.
We now come to a most important event—important to all men—in his case
particularly so, and attended with almost unmitigated evil.
On June 3, 1805, was solemnised the marriage of William Lamb and Lady
Caroline Ponsonby. It is heartless, unnecessary, and altogether wrong
to expose the dreariness, the pain, and the ridicule of an
ill-assorted marriage. Too many particulars of this unhappy union have
already found their way into print. Lady Caroline was a woman of
ability, and, I suppose, a certain amount of charm; but nobody who
reads her works, or her letters, or the accounts of her conduct, can
doubt that she was partially insane. Of her husband it is enough to
say that whatever his faults may have been of over-indulgence at
certain times—and perhaps an occasional outbreak of passionate temper
at others—he was, on the whole, singularly tender, kind, and
considerate. He was always honourable and gentlemanlike, and he bore
his burden with a brave and manly spirit. But for twenty years his
life was embittered, his ability depressed, and even his credit with
the world temporarily impaired.
I have said that the evil which attended his marriage was almost
unmitigated; but there was one compensation. He was driven into
seclusion. Whole days were passed in his library, and it was during
these years that he acquired habits of reading which were never
afterwards abandoned, and that he accumulated much of that vast store
of learning—that large knowledge of all subjects, ancient and modern,
sacred and profane—which formed a continual subject of astonishment to
those who knew him in later life.
After endless quarrels and reconciliations, they were regularly
separated in 1825; but he occasionally visited her, and was with her
at her deathbed two years later, when they were finally reconciled, to
quarrel no more.
Though he was member of the House of Commons for many years, and
occasionally spoke, he cannot be said to have acquired any distinction
in that assembly; but his abilities had always been recognised by
leading men, as is shown by the fact that he twice refused office
during that period.
His public career began in 1827, when he accepted, in Canning’s
Administration, the post of Chief Secretary in Ireland.
It is difficult to form a just opinion of him as he appeared to his
contemporaries at this time. Mr. M’Culloch Torrens has done justice to
his high character, his clear intellect, and his broad, sound, and
sensible views of men and things. Lord Melbourne’s relations must
always feel grateful to Mr. Torrens for so clearly bringing forward
this side of his nature, and perhaps also for not attempting to
delineate those characteristics which require to be touched with a
more delicate hand. The uncontrolled flow of humour, of originality
and mischief, might easily have been perverted in the description into
buffoonery or jauntiness, from which no man was ever more free. The
paradoxes might have appeared as an ambitious effort to astonish and
to draw attention, when considered separately from the simple and
spontaneous manner in which they were uttered. They were saved from
this, as all good paradoxes are, not only by the manner, but by each
one of them containing some portion of the truth, which is generally
overlooked, and which was then, for the first time, presented to the
mind in a striking and unexpected way.
But though any attempt to describe the charm of Lord Melbourne’s
society would probably lead to disastrous failure, and must not,
therefore, be attempted, it is important to bear in mind that this
extraordinary charm was the one great feature that remained impressed
upon the minds of all who had communication with him.
Sparkling originality, keen insight into character, a rich store of
information on every subject always at hand to strengthen and
illustrate conversation, exuberant vitality, and, above all, the most
transparent simplicity of nature, these, from what I have heard, must
have been his principal characteristics. I am bound to add that he
often shocked fastidious people. He seldom spoke without swearing, and
he was often very coarse in his remarks. There was, indeed, in his
language and in his whole character, not only a wayward recklessness
which was natural to him, but a touch of cynical bitterness that
contrasted strangely with the nobleness and generosity of the original
man. The nobleness and generosity were, I say, original. The scenes
which surrounded him in his early years, and still more, that unhappy
married life to which I have already alluded, may account for the
remainder.
I must add that this charm of manner and conversation was set forth to
the utmost advantage by a beautiful voice and a prepossessing personal
appearance. He was tall, strong, and of vigorous constitution,
brilliantly handsome, even in old age, with a play of countenance to
which no picture, and certainly not this very indifferent one by
Hayter, does the smallest justice.
It may easily be believed that with such a people as the Irish a man
like this immediately became extremely popular; and the solid
abilities of a genuine statesman were speedily recognised by his
colleagues.
Even at this period, with Lord Wellesley as Viceroy, the principal
business in Ireland was transacted by the Chief Secretary, though this
Minister was not then, as he has frequently been since, in the
Cabinet. Lord Wellesley, accustomed to a far different position in
India, was occasionally somewhat sore at the false relation in which
he stood to his nominal subordinate, though this was made as endurable
as possible by the tact and fine feeling of William Lamb, who was
constantly reminding the Ministers in England of the consideration due
to a veteran statesman, whom fate had placed in so disagreeable an
office, and offering to send back despatches to be rewritten.
The short Administrations of Canning and Goderich were uneventful in
Ireland, and early in that of the Duke of Wellington, Lamb resigned.
He came away with an increased reputation. His extreme facility of
access, and his delight in talking openly with people of all parties,
had made him much liked—and even his very indiscretions seem to have
told in his favour.
On July 22, 1828, he became Lord Melbourne by the death of his father.
In Lord Grey’s Administration of 1830 he was made Home Secretary. His
appointment to so important an office without any public reputation as
a man of business, and without any Parliamentary distinction, show
conclusively what a high opinion had been formed of his abilities by
those in authority. But by the world at large he seems to have been
still looked upon as an indolent man, and to have caused some surprise
by the vigour and ability which he displayed in dealing with the very
serious disturbances which at this time broke out in many parts of the
country. This unexpected vigour, joined with the calmness and good
sense which he was already known to possess, made his reign at the
Home Office very successful; and he had an opportunity of particularly
distinguishing himself by his firmness and discretion in dealing with
a monster deputation from the Trade Unions shortly before he was
called to fill a still higher position.
In 1834, on the resignation of Lord Grey, he was sent for by the King.
He formed a Government from his existing colleagues, and from that
period, with the exception of a short interval, he remained Prime
Minister of England for seven years.
The political history of these seven years has been written over and
over again. It was a history to which the Liberal party cannot look
back with much satisfaction, and the memory of the Prime Minister
suffers unjustly in consequence. It was one of those strange periods
of reaction which are so familiar to the student of English political
life, when the country was becoming daily more Conservative in its
views and feelings. Then, as at other similar periods, the Liberals
were obstinately unwilling to believe the fact. While the bulk of the
electors were ever more and more anxious for repose, ardent
politicians were racking their brains for new stimulants, and seeking
what reforms they could propose, and what institutions they could
attack, in order to rouse the flagging energies of their supporters.
They mistook a real wish to be left quiet for a disgust at not being
led forward, and as the activity of Lord Melbourne in his Cabinet was
chiefly displayed in restraining the restlessness of the more
impetuous of his colleagues, he became responsible, in the eyes of
some, for the want of progress; while the nation at large accused him,
in common with the rest of his Government, of continually taking up,
without serious consideration or depth of conviction, any policy which
might be likely to bring a momentary popularity to the Ministry.
In regard to this last accusation, we must remember that Lord
Melbourne was only one of the governing committee of the
country—_primus inter pares_. It is a very strong and very popular
Prime Minister alone who can be more than this. His influence, as I
have said, is believed to have been a restraining one. We know the
mistakes to which he was a party, but we shall never know how many he
may have prevented.
After all said against it, this period of seven years was neither
unfruitful in wise legislation nor inglorious to the country. Without
endangering peace, we maintained the high position of England in
Europe; and though many measures were prematurely introduced, and
hastily abandoned, a long list may be made of very useful ones which
were passed.
What were Lord Melbourne’s real political convictions? Some have said
that he was in his heart a Conservative. He was undoubtedly less
advanced in his opinions than many of his colleagues, and he sometimes
exhibited a half-laughing, half-sorrowful disbelief in the result
expected by others from constitutional changes. This, coupled with a
love of mischief and a delight in startling people, made him appear
less advanced than he was—as when he said about Catholic Emancipation,
that all the wise men in the country had been on one side of the
question, and all the fools on the other, and that the fools had
turned out to be right after all; when he told some ardent reformers
that the men who originated the Reform Bill ought to be hung on a
gallows forty feet high; and when he remarked to Lord John Russell
that he did not see that there was much use in education. These
remarks, however, did not express his real convictions. His was
essentially that kind of mind which sees clearly both sides of a
question. His position would naturally have been very near the
border-line which divides the two parties, and on which it is
impossible for any public man in England permanently to stand, but it
would have been, under any circumstances, on the Liberal side of that
line.
As leader of the House of Lords he was, on the whole,
successful—certainly not the reverse. But he had the misfortune to be
opposed and most bitterly attacked, during a great part of his
Administration, by the two greatest orators of the day, and he
received little support from his own side. Of his speaking it has been
said that if it had been a little better, it would have been quite
first-rate. He never prepared a speech, and he hesitated a good deal,
except when under the influence of excitement. But at his worst he was
always plain, unpretending, and sensible; and his voice and appearance
were of themselves sufficient to command attention. When roused he
could be forcible, and even eloquent for a few minutes, and he always
gave the impression that he only wanted rousing to become so. The most
powerful of his opponents never could feel sure that he might not at
any moment receive a sudden knock-down blow, and both Brougham and
Lyndhurst more than once experienced this.
On the accession of the Queen in 1837, Lord Melbourne found himself
suddenly placed in a most trying and most responsible position. This
is the part of his career which is best known, and in which his
conduct has been most appreciated; and I do not think there is any
other instance on record of the confidential and affectionate
relations subsisting between a Sovereign and a Minister so interesting
to dwell upon. It is difficult to say to which of the two these
relations were productive of the greatest benefit. Her Majesty was
indeed fortunate in finding such a counsellor; his large-minded
fairness, his impartial appreciation of the motives and feelings of
all parties in the State—that philosophical power of seeing both sides
of a question, to which I have alluded, and which perhaps stood in his
way as a party leader,—were, under present circumstances, of unmixed
advantage. His vast political and historical knowledge supplied him
with ready information on every subject, which I need hardly say he
imparted in the most agreeable manner; and his judgment, stimulated by
the gravity of the situation, enabled him to give sound advice, at
least on all the deeper and more important matters which properly
belonged to his position. To the Minister himself this new stimulant
was invaluable. His life had never quite recovered from the blight
cast upon it in his early manhood. He had long suffered from want of
an object for which he really cared; his thoughtful temperament too
much inclined him in his serious moments to realise the vanity of all
things; but he now found a new interest which animated his remaining
years of activity, and which afterwards solaced him in illness, in
depression, and intellectual decay.
Nobly did the Queen repay this chivalrous devotion and this unselfish
solicitude for her welfare. Her clear intellect readily assimilated
his wisdom, and her truthful and just nature responded sympathetically
to his enlightened and generous views. And there was no ingratitude or
subsequent neglect to mar the harmony of the picture, for to the last
hour of his existence her kindness and attention were without a break.
Her Majesty has been fortunate in many of her advisers—fortunate more
particularly in her illustrious husband,—but such is the force of
early impression, that, perhaps, no small part of the sagacity and the
virtue which have signalised her reign may be traced to the influence
of Lord Melbourne.
This little biographical notice must now be concluded. In 1841 his
Administration came to an end. In the autumn of 1842 he had a
paralytic stroke. He recovered, and lived till 1848, and was able to
take his place in the House of Lords, and to appear in society. But
his sweet temper was soured, and his spirits became unequal; his
bright intellect was dimmed, and his peculiarities assumed an
exaggerated form. He had been so famous in earlier days for the
brilliancy of his conversation, that even after his illness people
remembered and repeated what he said. This has done his reputation
some injury, and the stories told about him do not always convey a
correct impression of his ability or his charm.
The life which I have attempted to sketch was an eventful one, and
Lord Melbourne took no small share in the movements of his time. But
it seems to have been the impression of all who met him, that he might
have done much more than he ever did, and that he was a far abler and
greater man than many who have filled a larger space in history.
C.
------------------
_No. 8._
ELIZABETH MILBANKE, WIFE OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_Pale violet gown._
BY ROMNEY.
------------------
_No. 9._
THE HONOURABLE PENISTON LAMB, ELDEST SON OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE.
_Tawny coat. White cravat. Powder._
BORN 1770, DIED 1805.
BY ROMNEY.
HE was the eldest child of the first Lord Melbourne, and his birth was
a source of great joy to both his parents. But from his earliest years
Peniston was the idol of his father, whom he resembled in many points,
both moral and physical; indeed, it was said no flattery was sweeter
to Lord Melbourne’s ear than to be assured of this resemblance. The
mother was very fond of her first-born; but as he grew on in years,
and his tastes developed, Lady Melbourne was mortified to find that
Peniston evinced no predilection for politics or public life; and,
finding in her second son William’s tastes more congenial with her
own, it was plain to see that William was the mother’s darling.
Peniston showed no jealousy; he was gentle-hearted and engaging; every
tenant on the estate, every servant in the house, every dog and horse
in the stable, loved him. He was a capital shot, and rode well to
hounds, while quite a little fellow; and Lord Melbourne was never
tired of telling how ‘Pen’ had led the field, or put his pony at the
stiffest bullfinch. His brothers were among his most devoted
worshippers; and in their happy romping days at Brocket, Peniston was
never tired of joining in their frolics, though with a certain dignity
becoming a senior. How exquisitely is this characteristic demeanour
portrayed in the beautiful picture of the three boys by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, which he named ‘The Affectionate Brothers,’ described in a
late page.
In 1793 Lord Melbourne vacated his seat in Parliament, and Peniston
represented Newport, and afterwards Hertfordshire county, in the
House. He had never been very strong, and being suddenly attacked by
an illness, for which the physicians could in no way account, he
expired, to the despair of his father, the grief of his whole family,
and the deep regret of the county. Reynolds, Romney, Mrs. Cosway, and
Stubbs, were all called on to perpetuate the handsome form and
features of this darling of the household.
------------------
_No. 10._
THE HONOURABLE HARRIET AND EMILY LAMB, CHILDREN OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE.
_White frocks. Pink sashes. Harriet has a cap on her head._
BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
HARRIET died young. Emily was successively the wife of Lord Cowper and
Lord Palmerston. In later days she remembered perfectly romping on the
floor with her little sister, who had just snatched her cap off her
head, when the door opened, and their mother came in accompanied by a
gentleman in black, who was very kind, and said, ‘Nothing can be
better than that;’ and he painted the little girls just as he had
found them. Lawrence, then a very young man, was on a visit at
Brocket.
------------------
_No. 11._
ELIZABETH, WIFE OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_In a small carriage, drawn by grey ponies. She wears a white cloak
and hat. Her father_, SIR RALPH MILBANKE, _in the centre; grey
coat, blue and yellow waistcoat. Her brother_, JOHN MILBANKE;
_grey horse; pale blue coat, buff waistcoat, breeches, and
top-boots_. LORD MELBOURNE _on a brown horse; dark blue coat,
yellow breeches. All the gentlemen wear tri-corne hats._
BY STUBBS.
------------------
_No. 12._
ELIZABETH, WIFE OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_White muslin dress. Blue bow._
BY HOPPNER.
------------------
_No. 13._
PETER LEOPOLD FRANCIS, FIFTH EARL COWPER.
_Peer’s Parliamentary robes._
BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
------------------
_No. 14._
THE HONOURABLE EMILY LAMB, AFTERWARDS COUNTESS COWPER, AND VISCOUNTESS
PALMERSTON.
_White dress. Coral necklace._
AGED SIXTEEN.
BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
------------------
_No. 15._
THE HONOURABLE PENISTON LAMB, ELDEST SON OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE.
_With his horse Assassin, and his dog Tanner. Dismounted. Dark coat,
leathers, and top-boots. Brown horse, stretching towards a small
black-and-tan
dog._
BY STUBBS.
------------------
_No. 16._
GEORGE AUGUSTUS NASSAU, THIRD EARL COWPER.
_Dark blue coat. Scarlet waistcoat and breeches. Shoes with buckles._
BY RAPHAEL MENGS.
------------------
_No. 17._
HENRY COWPER, ESQUIRE, OF TEWIN WATER.
_Black coat. White cravat._
DIED 1825 (?).
BY JACKSON.
GRANDSON to Spencer Cowper (the celebrated Judge), and Deputy-Clerk of
the Parliaments for many years. There is an entry in Mary Countess
Cowper’s diary (wife of the Chancellor) in December 1714: ‘Monsieur
Robethon received the grant of the King of Clerk of the Parliament
after Mr. Johnson’s death for anybody he would name. He let our
brother Spencer Cowper have it in reversion after Mr. Johnson’s death
for his two sons for £1800.’ It was held in succession by the family
for several years. The reader of the poet Cowper’s life will remember
the tragical incident connected with this particular appointment.
------------------
_No. 18._
THOMAS PHILIP, BARON GRANTHAM, BARON LUCAS, EARL DE GREY, K.G.
_Brown coat trimmed with fur. White waistcoat. Black cloak._
BORN 1786, DIED 1859.
AFTER ROBINSON.
HE was the eldest son of Thomas Robinson, second Lord Grantham (of
that name), by Lady Mary Yorke, second daughter of the second Earl of
Hardwicke. Succeeded to the barony of Grantham on the death of his
father, and to the earldom of De Grey on the death of his maternal
aunt (who was Countess De Grey in her own right), and at the same time
he assumed the surname of De Grey, in lieu of that of Robinson. In
1805 he married the beautiful Lady Henrietta Cole, fifth daughter of
the first Earl of Enniskillen. He was appointed First Lord of the
Admiralty, and Privy Councillor during Sir Robert Peel’s
Administration of 1834 and 1835, and on the return of Peel to power in
1841 Lord De Grey went to Ireland as Viceroy. Here he made himself
remarkable by his extreme hospitality and the splendour of his
establishment, while he discharged the more essential and difficult
duties of his office with zeal and ability. His departure in 1844
(when he resigned on account of his health) was much regretted, while
Lady De Grey left a name which was long remembered in Dublin, not only
for the charm of her manners and the beauty of her person, but for the
encouragement which she afforded to native talent and manufactures. On
leaving Ireland Lord De Grey retired from official life, and contented
himself with voting in Parliament as a Liberal Conservative. He became
Lord-Lieutenant of Bedfordshire, Knight of the Garter, and
aide-de-camp to the Queen. He was a member of many scientific and
industrial institutions, Fellow of the Royal Society, and of the
Society of Antiquarians, etc. He had several children, of whom only
two daughters survived,—Anne Florence, who married the sixth Earl
Cowper, and Mary, married to Captain Henry Vyner. Lord De Grey died in
1859, when the barony of Lucas devolved on his eldest daughter, and
his other titles on his nephew, now Marquis of Ripon. He was a man of
undoubted talent, and occupied himself in carrying out designs as an
architect, decorator, and landscape gardener. When he inherited the
houses of Wrest, in Bedfordshire, and the fine mansion in St. James’s
Square, on the death of his aunt, the Countess De Grey, he pulled down
the former, and rebuilt it, according to his own designs, in the style
of a French château. The pictures which adorn the walls were painted
expressly for him; the tapestry, which lends so rich a colouring to
the interior of Wrest, was woven under Lord De Grey’s immediate
direction in the ateliers of the Gobelins; while the rich gilding,
cornices, and ceilings were all executed under his supervision, and do
the greatest credit to his taste and ingenuity. He also supplemented
the plans, and enlarged the ornamentation of the already beautiful
gardens and pleasure-grounds which surround the house.
------------------
_No. 19._
THE HONOURABLE PENISTON LAMB, ELDEST SON OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE.
_Red coat. Grey hat and feathers lying on the table. Caressing a dog._
------------------
_No. 20._
THE HONOURABLE FREDERICK LAMB, AFTERWARDS FIRST LORD BEAUVALE AND
THIRD VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_Blue coat. White jabot._
BORN 1782, DIED 1853.
BY CHANDLER.
HE was the third son of the first Viscount Melbourne, by Elizabeth,
daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke. He entered the diplomatic service at
an early age, was successively attached to the British Legation at
Palermo, and the Embassy at Vienna, where in the year 1813 he became
Minister Plenipotentiary, _ad interim_, until the arrival of Lord
Stewart, afterwards Marquis of Londonderry. From September 1815 he was
Envoy to Munich until 1820, and two years later he was appointed Privy
Councillor, and subsequently G.C.B. (civil), in consideration of his
diplomatic services. He was successively Minister to Madrid and
Ambassador at Vienna, and retired on a pension in 1841, having
previously been elevated to the Peerage by the title of Baron
Beauvale. On the death of his brother William in 1848 (some time First
Lord of the Treasury), the Viscountcy of Melbourne devolved on him.
Lord Beauvale married at Vienna in 1841 the daughter of Count
Maltzahn, the Prussian Minister at the Austrian Court. He had no
children, and his large property was inherited by his only sister,
Viscountess Palmerston. He died at his country house, Brocket Hall, in
Hertfordshire, in 1853.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
LADY COWPER’S SITTING-ROOM
AND
LORD COWPER’S STUDY.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LADY COWPER’S SITTING-ROOM.
-------
Francis Thomas de Grey Cowper, Earl Cowper, Viscount Fordwich, County
Kent, Baron Cowper of Wingham, Kent, in the Peerage of Great
Britain; Baron Butler of Moore Park, Herts, and Baron Lucas of
Crudwell, Wilts, in the Peerage of England; Baron of Dingwall,
County Ross, Peerage of Scotland; Privy Councillor, Knight of the
Garter, and Prince and Count of the Holy Roman Expire;
Lord-Lieutenant and Custos Rotulorum of Bedfordshire; Colonel of
the First Herts Rifle Volunteers, etc.
BORN 1834, SUCCEEDED TO THE EARLDOM IN 1856, AND TO THE BARONY OF
LUCAS IN 1880.
BY GEORGE F. WATTS, R.A.
THE eldest son of the sixth Earl Cowper by the eldest daughter and
coheiress of Earl De Grey. He was educated at Harrow and Christ
Church, where he was first class in Law and Modern History. From 1871
till 1873, Captain of the Gentlemen-at-Arms; from 1880 till 1882 he
was Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. Having married in 1870 Mary Katrine
Compton, eldest daughter to the fourth Marquis of Northampton. In 1871
Lord Cowper established his claim to the baronies of Butler and
Dingwall, obtaining an Act of Parliament for the reversal of the
attainder of those titles. Few Englishmen can boast among their
ancestry names more celebrated on the pages of history,—the names of
men who, differing in class, country, and characteristics, have each
swayed the destiny of nations,—the Patriot Stadtholder of Holland, the
Royalist Viceroy of Ireland, and the Protector of England, the late
Lady Cowper being a lineal descendant of one of Cromwell’s daughters.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LORD COWPER’S STUDY.
-------
_No. 1._
THE HONOURABLE SPENCER COWPER, DEAN OF DURHAM.
_Canonicals. White bands._
BORN 1712, DIED 1774.
HE was the second son of the Lord Chancellor Cowper by his second
wife, who mentions ‘our little Spencer,’ with great affection, in her
Diary, when sick of some infantine complaint. He married, in 1743,
Dorothy, daughter of Charles, second Viscount Townshend, by whom he
had no children. He was buried in the Cathedral at Durham.
-------------------------
_No. 2._
THE HONOURABLE EDWARD SPENCER COWPER, M.P.
_Black coat. White cravat._
BORN 1779, DIED 1823.
THE third son of George, third Earl Cowper; born at Florence; came
over to England for his education with his two elder brothers. Resided
at Digswell, county Herts; represented Hertford in Parliament.
Married, in 1808, Catherine, youngest daughter of Thomas March
Philipps of Garendon Park, county Leicester. His widow married again
the Rev. D. C. A. Hamilton.
-------------------------
_No 3._
JOHN CLAVERING, ESQUIRE OF CHOPWELL, COUNTY DURHAM.
_Crimson velvet coat, lined with blue silk. White cravat._
HE was brother to Mary, Countess Cowper, wife of the Chancellor, who
makes frequent mention of him in her Diary. At his death his nephew
Earl Cowper annexed the name of Clavering to his own patronymic, and
inherited the fortune and estates of his maternal uncle.
-------------------------
_No. 4._
WILLIAM COWPER, AFTERWARDS FIRST EARL, AND LORD CHANCELLOR, AS A
YOUTH.
_Slashed sleeves. Brown mantle._
-------------------------
_No. 5._
MARY CLAVERING, WIFE TO THE FIRST EARL, LORD CHANCELLOR COWPER.
_Yellow satin gown. Holding a book. Fountain in the background._
BORN 1635, DIED 1724.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
THE daughter of John Clavering, Esquire of Chopwell, county Durham, a
younger branch of an ancient Northumbrian family, all Jacobite in
their tendencies. Mary Clavering and William Cowper became acquainted
in consequence of some law transactions, on which she had occasion to
consult him at his chambers. Their marriage took place shortly after
he was appointed Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. ‘The wooing was not
long a-doing;’ but it was far from being calm or uninterrupted in its
progress; and though Lady Cowper’s Diary, from which most of our
materials are taken, does not commence till 1714, when she began her
Court life, yet she goes back several years to tell us how many
adverse influences were at work to prevent the union, which proved so
well assorted. How my Lord, being a widower when the Queen gave him
the Seals, it was no wonder (particularly as he was still young and
very handsome) that the young women laid out all their snares to catch
him. Lady Harriet de Vere especially marked him as her prey. This
lady, daughter of the last Earl of Oxford of that family, was very
poor, and of a damaged reputation. She had made several advances to my
Lord through her kinswoman, Mrs. Morley, but finding nothing come of
it, set a spy on his actions, and dogged his steps to find out the
cause of this coldness, which turned out to be no other than pretty
Mistress Mary Clavering; upon which a clandestine correspondence was
begun,—letters purporting to be from some great personage, and
threatening him with the ruin of his official prospects if he married
the lady in question. The first letter came the day before the
marriage; but as the union was kept a secret, the plotters still
continued to prosecute their schemes. ‘And so for months my Lord had a
letter of whole sheets every day to tell him I was a mean wretch and a
coquette, and the like, and how that one night the Lord Wharton (a
noted profligate) had said to my Lord Dorchester at the theatre, “Now
let us go and hear Molly Clavering sing the opera all over again.”
Which was a lie, for I never did play in any public company, but only
at home when visitors asked me.’ Some time afterwards the Lord Keeper
agreed to accompany one Mrs. Weedon (who said she had a fine lady to
recommend to him), in order to discover who his clandestine
correspondents were, and found his suspicions confirmed, for Lady
Harriet de Vere and Mistress Kirke were the very ladies who waylaid
and ogled him whenever he came out of chapel. Lady Harriet was full of
‘airs and graces,’ which were of no avail. She told Lord Cowper that
the Queen was very anxious she should be married, and had promised to
give her a dowry of £100,000, upon which the gentleman replied, on
that score he durst not presume to marry her, as he had not an estate
to make a settlement answerable to so large a fortune. At length they
pressed him so hard, he was forced to confess he was already married,
and that, in spite of all their abuse, he could only find one fault in
his wife, and that was that she played the harpsichord better than any
other woman in England. Now Lady Cowper says she never would have told
this story had she not thought it incumbent upon her to do so, when
the Duchess of St. Albans (Lady Harriet de Vere’s sister) recommended
Mrs. Kirke as a fit person to be bedchamber woman to the Princess of
Wales. For some reason, public or private, perhaps a combination, the
Lord Keeper kept his marriage a secret at first. In one of his letters
to his wife (with whom he kept up a brisk and affectionate
correspondence) he says: ‘December, 1706. I am going to visit my
mother, and shall begin to prepare her for what I hope she must know
in a little time.’ In another letter he gives an account of a cold,
dark journey, and how his only consolation was to think her journey
was shorter, and by day-light, so that he was not in fear for what he
was most concerned for.
In answer to her declaring she disliked grand speeches, he agrees, and
thinks the truest love and highest esteem are able to give undeniable
proofs of themselves; therefore he shall depend for ever on making
love to her that way. A little later he writes playfully about the
lady he has carried into the country (presumed to be a fat old
housekeeper); and hopes that the picture of his ‘dear life’ may soon
be finished, so as to console him in some measure in his next
banishment. He begs her not to imagine from anything that may look a
little trifling or cheerful in his letters, that his mind is
constantly in that tune: ‘’Tis only when I enjoy this half
conversation with you, who, I assure you, are the only satisfaction
that I propose to my hopes in this life.’ Again, he cannot go to rest
without expressing his concern and amazement at her collecting ‘so
much disquiet from so harmless a passage,—’tis my want of skill, if it
was not the language of a lover.’ He writes at great length to dispel
his dear love’s ‘melancholy fancy,’ and values no prospect in life as
the continuance of her favour, and the unspeakable satisfaction he
shall ever derive from doing her all the good in his power; and so on.
The Diary of Mary, Lady Cowper, was published from private documents
at Panshanger in 1864, and, though fragmentary, is very interesting.
It commences with the accession of George I.; and the writer tells us
she had been for some years past (apparently through the medium of
Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough) in correspondence with Caroline of
Anspach, Princess of Wales, who had written to her most kindly. Lord
and Lady Cowper were both strongly in favour of the Hanoverian
succession, the wife having embraced her husband’s political opinions
in contradistinction to those of her father. On the arrival of the
Royal Family, Lady Cowper was kindly received, but the offer of her
services was evasively answered by the Princess, so much so that she
took it for granted ‘Her Royal Highness had had so many applications
on the subject that she could not take me into her service. I
therefore resolved not to add to the number of her tormentors, and
never mentioned the thing any more.’ She was confirmed in her opinion
when she heard that two ladies had been already appointed, and she
well knew ‘that the necessity of affairs often forces Princes to act
contrary to their inclinations.’ The coronation took place in October
1714, and thither Lady Cowper went with Lady Bristol (herself a
candidate for a post in the Princess’s household), who told her
companion she well knew that she (Lady Cowper) was to get an
appointment. The two ladies found the peeresses’ places so full that
they had to seek accommodation elsewhere, and Lady Cowper settled
herself next the pulpit stairs, when Lady Northampton and Lady
Nottingham came hand in hand; and the latter ‘took my place from me,
and I was forced to mount the pulpit stairs. I thought this rude; but
her ill-breeding got me the best place in the Abbey, for I saw all the
ceremony, which few besides did, and never was so affected with joy in
my life.’ Here follows an amusing account of how Lady Nottingham broke
from her place, and kneeled down in front, which nobody else did,
facing the King, and repeating the Litany. ‘Everybody stared, and
thought she had overdone the High Church part. The Lords over against
me, seeing me thus mounted, said to my Lord “that they hoped I would
preach,” upon which he answered “that he believed I had zeal enough
for it,” whereupon Lord Nottingham made some malicious remark, said
with such an air, that, joined with what Lady Nottingham had done that
day, and some other little passages that had happened, opened my eyes,
and showed me how that family maligned me.’ She takes occasion to
mention that the ladies not walking in procession had no gold medals.
Lady Dorchester stood next to her—Catherine Sedley, whom James II.
made a peeress, and who was reported to have said, ‘I wonder for what
quality the King chooses his mistresses; we are none of us handsome,
and if we have wit, he has not enough to find it out.’[4] And when the
Archbishop went round asking the consent of the people, she turned and
said: ‘Does the old fool think that anybody here will say no to his
question, where there are so many drawn swords?’
Footnote 4:
Charles II. said his brother’s mistresses were imposed upon him by
his confessor as a penance.
The Princess asked Lady Cowper if Lady Essex Robartes had delivered a
message, and, being answered in the negative, ‘Her Royal Highness went
on to tell me I had made a conquest, and seeing me blush, continued,
“It is M. Bernstorff, who never was in love in his life before, and it
is so considerable a conquest that you ought to be proud of it; and I,
to please him, have ordered him to make you a compliment from me.”’
Baron Bernstorff was indeed a good friend to have at Court, being at
that time German Minister and prime favourite of George I., who
consulted him on every appointment of every kind. He waited on Lady
Cowper the same evening, and told her she was appointed ‘Dame du
Palais,’ and was to kiss hands next day.
A friendship was formed, which withstood many a change and chance, and
more than one misunderstanding. On the Baron taking leave, the lady
intrusted him with her lord’s treatise, _An Impartial View of the
State of Parties_, which she herself had translated into French, and
transcribed for his Majesty’s perusal, who was no English scholar.
‘Great discussion whether the Princess, on going into the city, was to
kiss the Lady Mayoress (and quoting of precedents); but as her late
Majesty had not done so, it was arranged neither should the Princess.’
The new Lady-in-Waiting was in attendance when Her Royal Highness went
to the Lord Mayor’s Show. ‘Poor Lady Humphrys made a sad figure in her
black velvet, bawling to her page to hold up her train, being loath to
lose the privilege of her Mayoralty. But the greatest jest of all was
that the King and Prince had been told that the Lord Mayor had
borrowed her for that day only. I had much ado to convince them of the
contrary, though he by marriage is a sort of relation of my Lord’s
first wife.’ Query, was that a sequiter? ‘They agreed’ (Lady Cowper is
quite right to record any occasion on which the King and his son were
of the same mind) ‘that if he had borrowed a wife, it would have been
a different one from what she was.’
_October 30th_ (Diary).—‘The Prince’s birthday: the Court splendid;
the ball opened by him and the Princess. She danced in slippers
(heelless shoes) very well; but he better than any one.’
Lord and Lady Cowper, from their relative positions, had often to keep
company that cannot have been very palatable to so well-conducted a
pair. ‘Supped at the Lord Chamberlain’s (the Duke of Shrewsbury); Lord
and Lady Wharton and Madame Kielmansegge to wait on the King. Another
evening; I was mightily amused; but I could not but feel uneasy at
some words I overheard the Duchess of Bolton say in French, which led
me to believe the two foreign ladies were no better than they should
be.’ This remark alludes to Madame Kielmansegge, the daughter of the
Countess Platen (who had been mistress to the Elector, George I.’s
father), and wife of General Kielmansegge, after whose death she was
created Countess of Darlington by the King. Horace Walpole paints a
frightful picture of ‘the Ogress,’ whose appearance terrified him when
a boy. The Duchess of Shrewsbury was an Italian lady, of wit and
talent, whom Lady Cowper found it impossible to dislike as much as her
lord, for she was very entertaining, though she would sometimes exceed
the bounds of decency. Many members of the Princess’s own household
were themselves of very doubtful reputation, and we find the name of
Mademoiselle de Schulenberg of frequent recurrence in the Diary, a
lady who had been maid of honour to the Electress Sophia, the King’s
mother, and was afterwards created Duchess of Munster and Duchess of
Kendal.
_November 8th_ (Diary).—‘My birthday [she was twenty-nine]. God grant
that the rest of my life may be passed according to his will, and in
his service.’ High play was the order of the day at both Courts, and
the Princess and her ladies sat down every night to stake more than
they possessed, while the King was often very angry with those who
would not gamble. ‘I played at basset as low as I could, for which I
was rallied; but I told my mistress I only played out of duty, and
nobody could think ill of me if, for the sake of my four children, I
desired to save.’
From numerous entries in the Diary, it would appear that Lady Cowper
was averse to spreading slanderous reports, which were daily poured
into her ear, from party feeling, respecting many ladies of whom she
had no reason to think ill; but the quarrels and cabals at Court were
endless, and daily increasing; and she was sometimes drawn into a
dispute from feelings of just indignation, such as when my Lady
Nottingham accused Dr. Clarke (the famous controversialist, whom
Voltaire called _un moulin à raisonnement_) of being a heretic. But on
being pressed to quote the passage on which she founded so heavy a
charge, her ladyship threw up her head and replied, she never had, nor
did she ever intend, to look into his writings. Then said Lady Cowper,
‘What, madam! do you undertake to condemn anybody as a heretic, or to
decide upon a controversy, without knowing what it is they maintain or
believe? I would not venture to do so for all the world. All this
happened before the Princess, and was not likely to advance Lady
Nottingham’s wish to be governess to the young Princesses.’ Taking
leave of her Royal mistress at the end of her week of waiting, she
says: ‘I am so charmed with her good qualities, that I feel I never
can do enough for her. I am come to Court with the fixed determination
never to tell a lie, and she places more confidence in what I say than
in any one else on that account.’ This was in the first year of Lady
Cowper’s service. Unfortunately her enthusiasm in this quarter was
destined to be modified. It was evidently always a pleasure to her to
bring the name of any one in whom she was interested before the Royal
notice. She told the Prince of Wales that she never failed to drink
his health at dinner, ‘which made him smile and say, He did not wonder
at the rude health he had enjoyed since he came to England; but I told
him I and my children had constantly pledged him before his arrival,
by the name of “Young Hanover, Brave!” which was the title Mr.
Congreve (the poet) had given him in a ballad. The Prince, however,
was not learned in English literature, and asked who Mr. Congreve was,
which gave me an opportunity of saying all the good of him that he
deserved.’ She also bestirred herself to get places under Government
for her relations, who were for the most part very ungrateful; so much
so, that she could not help answering rather pettishly, ‘that the next
time they might get places for themselves, for I would meddle no
more.’ And her lord was so angry with them, he was for depriving the
offender of a commissionership he had himself bestowed at Lady
Cowper’s instigation; ‘but I soothed him, and told him after all I did
them good for conscience’ sake.’ The Lady-in-Waiting and her Royal
mistress had many a laugh together in these early days over some of
the eccentricities of Court life. Such, for instance, as when Madame
Kielmansegge came to complain to the Princess that the Prince had said
she had a very bad reputation at Hanover. The Princess did not think
it likely—the Prince seldom said such things; but Madame cried, and
declared people despised her in consequence, and she drew from her
pocket a certificate, written and signed by her husband, General
Kielmansegge, to say she was a faithful wife, and he had never had any
reason to suspect her. The Princess smiled, and said she did not doubt
it, but that it was a very bad reputation that wanted such a
supporter. Another specimen was Madame Tron, the Venetian
ambassadress, ‘who says, now she is come into a free country, she will
live and go about like other people. But the Italian husband is more
jealous than the German, and often beats his wife, which she is grown
used to, and does not care about, unless he spoils her beauty. So she
goes by the name of “La Beauté, sans Souci.” But she has been heard to
exclaim, when he is chastising her, with a very Italian accent, “Oh
prenez garde à mon visage!”’ ‘Lady Essex Robartes (daughter of Lord
Nottingham) is just beginning her long journey to Cornwall, which she
does with great fear.’
We cannot refrain from quoting Lady Cowper on the drama, when the
Princess consulted her respecting the propriety of being present at
the representation of ‘The Wanton Wife,’ or, as it was afterwards
called, ‘The Amorous Widow,’ written by Betterton,—the Duchess of
Roxburghe having given her opinion that nobody could see it with a
good reputation. ‘I had seen it once, and few I believe had seen it so
seldom; but it used to be a favourite play, and often bespoke by the
ladies. I went with my mistress, who said she liked it as well as any
play she had ever seen; and it certainly _is not more obscene than all
comedies are_. It were to be wished our stage were chaster, and I
hope, now it is under Mr. Steele’s direction, that it will mend;’ from
which observation we may conclude that, at least in the particular of
morals, our English stage has not deteriorated. It was evident the
Lady-in-Waiting’s influence was high at this moment, since the Duchess
of Roxburghe begged her to try and prevent Sir Henry St. John from
being made a peer. It was he of whom the anecdote is told, that when
his son was created Lord Bolingbroke, he said to him: ‘Ah, Harry, I
always thought you would be hanged, and now I find you will be
beheaded.’
Lady Cowper was apparently overpowered not only with solicitations to
procure places for friends and acquaintances, but sometimes intrusted
by her husband with messages of public importance to the Prince and
Princess, or that still greater personage, Baron Bernstorff; and she
seems to have carried out her mission with much discretion on more
than one occasion, as we before remarked. The fair lady and her
friend, the German baron, came to high words. He told her sharply one
day, ‘“My Lord est beaucoup trop vif, et vous êtes beaucoup trop vive
de votre côté. Les ministres se plaignent beaucoup de my Lord Cowper.
Ils disent qu’il leur reproche trop souvent, les fautes qu’ils ont pu
commettre.” The wife replied, “Notre seul but est de bien servir de
roi.” He repeated his words, and then said with great violence,
“Croyez moi, vous êtes trop vifs, tous les deux, cela ne vaut rien,
cela tourne en ruine.” I believe it was the first time that an English
lady, who had bread to put into her mouth, had been so treated. I knew
whence all this storm came; and plainly saw our enemies had got the
better.’
This was the time to which we have alluded in the notice of the Lord
Chancellor. Now, although more especially at this time Lady Cowper was
very desirous that her husband should retain office, for she ‘would
rather live with him in a garret up three pair of stairs, than see him
suffer,’ yet she always answered with spirit when the subject of his
resignation was discussed. ‘Mrs. Clayton came in and told me it was
reported that Lord Cowper was going to lay down. I answered, They say
he is to be turned out, and they need not have given themselves the
trouble; if they had but hinted to my Lord they were weary of him, he
would have laid down. They know he has done it already, which is more
than ever will be said of them.’ Though a courtier in the literal
sense of the word, Lady Cowper disdained to trim and truckle, as most
of her colleagues did.
She had carried herself towards the mighty baron with distant dignity,
since the passage of arms to which we have alluded. He made his niece,
Mademoiselle Schütz, his ambassador, to complain of having been
treated distantly and coldly, never being allowed to see Lady Cowper
alone of late, and so forth. When permitted to renew his visit, he
expostulated with her on her believing that he was willing to oust her
husband; and upon her saying she understood it was so destined by the
Ministry, the baron made a world of asseverations of how he was
incapable of injuring the Lord Chancellor, that the King had the
greatest possible kindness for him, and that none could take his place
from him but God alone, and so forth. Upon which Lady Cowper tossed
her head and observed, ‘One must be fond of a place before you fear to
lose it, and it was too painful a place to be fond of.’ Then the baron
retorted that Lord Cowper was peevish and difficult, and so thought
the King, and he begged her ladyship would use her best arguments to
soften and make him more compliable;—which she certainly did, though
she did not let Bernstorff into the secret, for, at least at this time
of day, she was most unwilling to see her husband vacate the Woolsack.
The Mademoiselle Schütz to whom an allusion has been made, is thus
described: ‘She was a pretty woman, and had good qualities, but was
withal so assuming that she was mightily hated at Court. The Prince
disliked her most especially, but I saw her very often.’ Too often, as
it proved in the sequel, for the Fraülein made herself most obnoxious
after a bit, coming at all hours, when not wanted, to the Cowpers’
house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and ‘writing at every turn, which is
very troublesome. I wish she had as many occupations as I have. I had
a letter from her to offer to come and stay with me; I thank her for
nothing. I had enough of her impertinence last night.’ Another time
she insists on the loan of a costly pearl necklace, which the
Lady-in-Waiting wanted to wear herself (not being overstocked with
jewels), at the birthday; now it is a ‘lace head’ to go to Court in;
now she wishes for a set of gold ribbons as a gift. ‘Commend me to a
modest assurance. It lifts one out of many a pinch, I find. Lady
William Powlett complained of her too, “she is very importunate, and
always on the spunge.” I fell a-laughing, and said, “I was very glad
it had come to anybody’s share besides mine.”
On the 5th of December in this year (1715), the Diary records the
entrance into London of the Jacobite prisoners who had been taken at
the battle of Preston,—their arms tied, and their horses led by
soldiers. The mob insulted them, carrying a warming-pan before them in
ridicule of the Pretender, and saying many spiteful things, which some
of the prisoners returned with spirit. ‘The chief of my father’s
family was among them, Clavering of Callalee, who is above seventy
years old. I did not see them come into town, nor let any of my
children do so. I thought it would be insulting to several relations I
had there, though almost everybody else went to see them. I forgot to
say M. Bernstorff made me a strange offer, through his niece, to let
my cousin Tom Forster escape on the road, if I had a mind to it.’ This
gentleman was knight of the shire for Northumberland, and was a
general in the Jacobites’ army; he had proclaimed the Pretender at
Warkworth. He was imprisoned in Newgate, but eventually escaped.
Lord Widdrington, who was impeached at the same time as Lord
Derwentwater, was also a connection of hers; and she gives this as a
reason she could not go to the State trials, although her Lord
presided as Lord High Steward, an appointment which vexed her much.
She gives the order of procession, with many servants, and coaches,
one with six horses, Garter King at Arms, Usher of the Black Rod, etc.
etc. Lady Cowper did not seem to take the same delight in the
melancholy pageant as most of the fine world did, for she says, ‘I was
told it was customary to have fine liveries on such an occasion, but
had them all plain. I think it very wrong to make a parade on such an
occasion as putting to death one’s fellow-creatures. The Princess came
home much touched with compassion. What a pity that such cruelties
should be necessary! My Lord’s speech on pronouncing sentence was
commended by every one, but I esteem no one’s commendation like Dr.
Clarke’s, who says, “’tis superlatively good, and that it is not
possible to add or diminish one letter without hurting it.”’
Many entries in the Diary now speak of Lord Cowper’s continued
illness, and how he had again a mind to quit office. His wife, who in
spite of all the squabbles and ‘unpleasantness’ she describes, was
still in high favour with the Prince and Princess, and was not
insensible to the splendour and amusements of a Court life, loved her
Lord above all such considerations, and told him she ‘would never
oppose anything he had a mind to do,’ and, ‘after arguing calmly on
the matter, I offered, if it would be any pleasure done him, to retire
with him into the country, and what was more, never to repine at doing
so, though it was the greatest sacrifice that could be made him. I
believe he will accept.’ But a little while after she says, ‘My Lord
is better, and not so much talk of retiring, though I laid it fairly
in his way.’
The troublesome Fraülein Schütz seemed to have chosen this time of
anxiety to be more importunate than ever about loans of jewels and
finery: ‘When she asked me for my diamonds, saying she had less
scruple in doing so because I look best in a state of nature, and
jewels do not become me! Commend me to the assurance of these
foreigners!’
On a similar occasion Lady Cowper makes some very moral reflections,
slightly tempered by a dash of pardonable vanity. After an excuse for
wearing an emerald necklace, which had been lent her lest she should
disoblige her friend, she meant also to wear her own pearls in her
hair, though she don’t care one brass farthing for making herself
fine, and hopes always to make it her study rather to adorn her mind
than to set off a vile body of dust and ashes!
The advice given to Mrs. Collingwood, the wife of one of the Jacobite
prisoners, must have shocked the feelings of so loving a wife as Mary
Cowper. Mr. Collingwood, a Northumberland gentleman, was under
sentence of death, when his wife wrote to an influential friend to
intercede in his behalf. Here is the answer: ‘I think you are mad when
you talk of saving your husband’s life. Don’t you know you will have
£500 a year jointure if he’s hanged, and not a groat if he’s saved?
Consider, and let me know. I shall do nothing till then.’ There was no
answer to the letter, and Collingwood was executed.
About this time great exertions were made to induce the King to
reprieve some (at least) of the prisoners, and Lady Cowper was
evidently instrumental in gaining that of Lord Carnwath, who would
otherwise have suffered with Lords Kenmure and Derwentwater. She gave
a letter from the imprisoned nobleman to the Princess, who wept on
reading it, and sent word in answer that if Lord Carnwath would
confess, she would give him her honour he should be saved, but that
was the only way. Now, though the King was not over partial to ‘cette
Diablesse de Princesse,’ as he often called her, yet the violent
language and opinions she sometimes held were not altogether without
their influence on the Royal mind. Lord Nithisdale escaped by the
connivance of his devoted wife, and Lord Carnwath was reprieved. ‘God
grant us peace to heal all our divisions, and to take away the rancour
that is among us.’ ‘Lord Nithisdale’s escape confirmed; I hope he’ll
get clear off; I never was better pleased at anything in my life, and
I believe everybody is the same.’
_March 1._—The Princess of Wales’s birthday. ‘I am ill, but must go to
wish her many years of health and happiness, which I unfeignedly do,
for she’s a most charming delightful friend as well as mistress.’ Her
Royal Highness said M. Bernstorff had been urging the Prince to agree
to Lord Cowper being made President of the Council, which the Prince
refused to do, unless assured that Lord Cowper wished it. ‘I said Lord
Cowper was ready to quit, if they found anybody better to put in his
room, but would never change that of which he could acquit himself
with honour, for that he could not perform at all.’
Party ran so high in this year (1716), that even a meteorological
phenomenon—‘a light so great that from my windows I could see people
walk across Lincoln’s Inn Fields though there was no moon’—was pressed
by Whigs and Tories into their interests,—the former saying it was
God’s judgment on the horrid rebellion, the latter that it was a mark
of vengeance on the Whigs for the late executions. Mr. Gibson, the
antiquary, says it has ever since been spoken of as ‘Lord
Derwentwater’s lights.’ Lady Cowper was coming home in her chair on
the night in question, and her bearers were so frightened that she was
forced to let her glass down and preach to them all the way to comfort
them. She observes that if anybody had overheard the dialogue they
could not have helped laughing.
Lady Cowper’s chairmen were apparently not very efficient altogether;
she twice complains of the shifts she was put to in consequence of
their drunkenness, and her having to come home in the first hackney
she could find. Another time she lost her servants altogether, and had
to borrow the Duchess of Shrewsbury’s chair. The bickerings and
altercations between the Court ladies were interminable, more
especially between the German and English; and no wonder, when the
Germans talked as one of their great ladies did, saying that ‘English
ladies did not look like women of quality, but pitiful and sneaking,
holding their heads down, and always seeming in a fright, whereas
foreigners hold up their heads and hold out their bosoms, and look
grand and stately;’ upon which Lady Deloraine replies, ‘We show our
quality, madam, by our birth and titles, not by sticking out our
bosoms.’
The Diary tells us that on May the 29th, those who disliked the
reigning family wore green boughs, and on June the 10th (the
Pretender’s birthday) white roses. Nothing now but cabal and intrigue,
petty Court jealousies, bitter hatred and enmity among the political
parties, the ins and the outs, and unseemly quarrels between the two
highest in rank in the country.
It was settled that the King was to go to Hanover for at least six
months, the question of the Regency during his absence being the worst
bone of contention of all. But we have treated this subject more at
large in the notice of Lord Cowper, who was constantly peacemaking and
pouring good counsel into the ears of the Prince of Wales.
Diary.—‘For my part, I thought it so absolute a necessity to the
public good to keep all things quiet, that I did heartily and
successfully endeavour to conceal everything that tended to disunion,
little thinking at the time it could ever be called a crime to keep
things quiet.’
It was finally settled that the King was to go to Hanover, to which
His Majesty looked forward with pleasure, greatly alloyed by the
necessity of making his son Regent. Always jealous of him, he could
not bear the idea of the Prince of Wales playing at King. When it was
arranged that the Prince should be appointed to the Regency during His
Majesty’s absence, there were as many restrictions put upon him as
possible. In this summer (1716) the Court went to reside, with much
splendour, at Hampton Court Palace, and the Diary leads us to believe
there was some little enjoyment to be derived from that comparative
retirement. But even here the spirit of unrest followed them: Lord
Townshend, who came down frequently on public business, treated the
Princess with so little respect, and paid such court to Mrs. Howard
(to curry favour with the Prince) that both Lord and Lady Cowper
expostulated with him, so effectually indeed as to prevail on the
Minister to change his demeanour, ‘which brought the Princess into
perfect tranquillity.’ Not for long, however, for when Lord Sunderland
arrived to take leave, before joining the King at Hanover, he fell out
with the Princess walking in the long gallery which looks on the
gardens; and he talked so loud that Her Royal Highness desired him to
speak lower, for the people in the garden would overhear him. ‘Let
them hear,’ cries my Lord. The Princess answered, ‘Well, if you have a
mind, let ‘em, only you shall walk next to the window, for in the
humour we are both in, one of us must jump out, and I am resolved it
sha’n’t be me.’ But for such stormy interludes, and the constant
disquietude which the presence of Mrs. Howard (nor of her alone), must
have occasioned the Princess, the time passed pleasantly enough, in
Wolsey’s picturesque old palace, so lately increased in magnitude by
the additions of Sir Christopher Wren. The gardens and pleasances too
had been much improved and enlarged, for Queen Mary’s delectation, and
the Princess, who was a great walker, spent many hours under the leafy
shades of the lime grove, and wandering among the dark yews and
evergreens.
Diary.—‘The Prince and Princess dined every day in public in Her Royal
Highness’s apartments. The Lady-in-Waiting served at table, but my
ill-health prevented me doing that service. In the afternoon my Royal
mistress saw company, and read or writ till evening, when she walked
in the garden for two or three hours together, and would go to the
pavilion at the end of the bowling-green (which runs parallel with the
river) to play there, but after the Countess of Buckenburgh fell and
put her foot out, the Princess went there no more, but played in the
green gallery. The Duchess of Monmouth was often with us, and the
Princess loved her mightily, and, certainly, no woman of her years
ever deserved it so well. She had all the fire and life of youth, and
it was marvellous to see that the many afflictions she had suffered
had not touched her wit and good-nature, but at upwards of threescore
she had both in their full perfection.’ We cannot resist inserting
this generous testimony to one who was distinguished by Royal favour
at a time when petty jealousies and intense rivalry were at their
height. Their Royal Highnesses left Hampton Court with part of their
retinue by water, and as they glided along in a Royal barge, Lady
Cowper thought ‘nothing in the world could be pleasanter than the
passage, or give one a better idea of the richness and happiness of
the kingdom.’ A break now occurs in the Diary, which began 1714, and
which we have followed up to October 1716. That portion which
concerned the next four years is not forthcoming, and the editor gives
us a clue to the reason. In a memorandum by the Chancellor’s daughter,
Lady Sarah, she copies a letter written to the postmaster at Hertford:
‘It is reported that at the time of the trial of the Bishop of
Rochester Lord Cowper offered to be bail for him, which was so
resented by a certain person of distinction that he moved for a
warrant to search his Lordship’s house. News of this was sent to Lady
Cowper, and though the report was to be despised, yet my mother had so
many hints and intimations sent her by different people of a design to
attack my father and try to involve his character in the examination
then on foot, relating to Layer’s plot, that she took fright for some
papers she had drawn up by way of diary, also some letters belonging
to the Prince and Princess, which she had in her hands, relating to
the quarrel in the Royal Family, that, not being able to place them in
safety, in a hurry she burned such as she thought likely to do most
harm.’ This is a reasonable explanation of the disappearance of the
records of 1717, 1718,and 1719. In 1718 Lord Cowper resigned office,
to the great regret of all well-thinking persons of whatever party,
the details of which will be found in the Chancellor’s life. The feuds
in the Royal Family had augmented in frequency and violence during
these four years, and Lady Cowper resumes her narrative at a time when
the scandal of these quarrels was so great as to render a
reconciliation imperative on public grounds. Lord Cowper himself had
lost much of the King’s favour by his adherence to the Prince, and the
fair Lady-in-Waiting herself had to undergo many cold looks, and, what
must have been more trying to such a steadfast nature as hers, the
caprice and wayward moods of the mistress she still loved and served
most loyally. New influences were at work, and new favourites on the
scene. As to the reconciliation, though made a subject of public
rejoicing, it was hollow enough. The King lost few opportunities of
slighting his son and daughter-in-law, and he plagued her much,
particularly on the vexed question of the custody of her children, who
had been removed from her care. But we are anticipating. The Diary
re-opens with a visit from Mr. Secretary Walpole (afterwards Sir
Robert) to the Princess of Wales, with offers of reconciliation from
the King, April 9, 1720. The Princess referred him to Lord Cowper, who
lost no time in hastening to the Royal presence to discuss the matter.
The conditions were most unpalatable to the Prince and Princess, who
were ‘in great anguish.’ They both asked the advice of Lord and Lady
Cowper, and took that of Mr. Secretary Walpole. Among many leading men
of the day, whom the Lady-in-Waiting had no reason to love, were that
Minister and Lord Townshend in particular, and she did not approve of
Walpole’s confession to my Lord, that he did almost everything through
the medium of the Duchess of Kendal, who was ‘virtually Queen of
England.’ Lady Cowper also complains that her mistress has been taught
to suspect her all the winter, and that the Prince scarcely looks at
her, and she marvels how Walpole has got such a hold of them that they
only see through his eyes, and no longer recognise their real friends.
Would not the leafy shades of Cole Green form a pleasant contrast to
this vortex of antagonism?—so at least thought Lord Cowper, ‘who is
sick of the whole affair, and goes out of town to hear no more of it,
and it is more than odds, if he is not pleased with his treatment,
that he will carry me with him.’
Grand rejoicings in honour of this reconciliation. Lady Cowper goes to
congratulate the Prince and Princess: ‘The square full of coaches, the
guards before the door, everything gay and laughing, everybody
kissing, and wishing of joy. When I wished the Prince joy he embraced
me, with all his old heartiness, five or six times, and the Princess
burst into a loud laugh, and said: “Sir, I do think you two always
kiss on great occasions.” All the town feignedly or unfeignedly happy.
I kissed Lord Cowper on coming home, and said: “Well, I thank God your
head is your own, and that is more than could be said six months
ago.”’ And then she alludes to all the intrigues that were being
carried on, and says: ‘There was not a rogue in the town but was
engaged in some scheme and project to undo his country.’
The King still very distant to his son and daughter-in-law (with
occasional variations of humour), and speaking of the pending change
of Ministry, asked angrily if the Whigs could not come back, without
the Prince of Wales. We have mentioned in Lord Cowper’s life how many
overtures were made to him to return and resume office on the return
of the Whigs to power. He came to his wife’s bedside one Sunday
morning to let his ‘dear girl’ into his secrets,—how that he had
thought with her to take service again, and that he had always
considered a reconciliation so necessary, that it would help to make
everything in its own condition again. And ‘I did think to accept of
that offer made me, of my friend Kingston’s place, who has behaved
himself so shamefully to me, that it would be a piece of justice upon
him.’ But that, on further consideration, all his reasons for quitting
office subsisted still. ‘I am old and infirm, and rich enough, and am
resolved not to enslave myself to any power upon earth. At
five-and-fifty it is time to think of making life easy. My infirmities
will not let me struggle with knaves and fools. My tranquillity will
content me more than all they can give me, under their power and
influence.’ His wife said all she could to dissuade him from this
decision, and he agreed with some of her arguments, but declared he
thought any reproach better than the loss of his tranquillity, and
that his resolution was taken. But to show he was not out of humour,
he would ask for the key which had been promised Lady Cowper, and that
he would accept a place in the Cabinet, but neither place nor pension,
for he was resolved to live a freeman and an Englishman.
We have inserted this characteristic speech of Lord Cowper’s here,
rather than in the notice appropriated to him, because it was made in
private to his wife, and is recorded in her Diary. No wonder that
after such a conversation, Lady Cowper was often tempted to answer the
Princess and others with some degree of asperity when they insinuated
that her lord was a place-hunter. The day before the new Ministry came
in, she was in attendance on the Princess, and the new Lord Chancellor
was there. ‘I dare say, Lady Cowper,’ said Her Royal Highness,
laughing, ‘you are glad to see the purse in that hand.’ ‘Yes, truly,’
she replied; ‘I am right glad, and hope it will remain there until
that hand is as weary of it as ours was.’
Diary.—‘Lord Cowper invited to the ministerial dinner; does not mean
to go. Great hugging and kissing between the two old and the two new
Ministers. They walk all four with their arms round one another to
show they are all one.’ Now, though Lord Cowper could not be persuaded
to change his resolution as regarded himself, he was most desirous to
obtain the post of Mistress of the Robes for his wife, to whom the
Princess had promised it, and who seemed best fitted by position,
politics, and character, in all the Court. But the King wished the
Duchess of St. Albans to remain, and that lady had ‘locked up the key
in her cabinet, and did not intend to resign, unless compelled to do
so.’ Lord Cowper waited several times on the Princess with the
intention of urging his wife’s claim, but Her Royal Highness gave him
no opportunity, and the lady was sorely aggrieved. ‘The Princess not
willing to give me the key, yet she promised it. And when the King
asked for some one else, she said: “Remember the obligations I am
under to Lady Cowper, no one else can have it.” But now, she says,
“Lady D. [Deloraine?] will be disobliged.” What claim has she?—is it
for flying all over Richmond with the Prince?’
‘A new clamour for the Duchess of St. Albans. I am quite sick of this
usage. Why did the Princess promise me the key, if she had not the
power to give it? To what purpose such dissimulation? Sure she thought
me a tame fool, who was to be easily imposed on, and who had not her
interest at heart. The Germans used to call her, “Une grande
comédienne:” I say no; if actors played their parts in such a manner
they would be hissed off the stage, and must starve. She has
disobliged the two best friends she ever had.’ Here follows a little
bit of natural petulance. ‘There is indeed a great advantage in going
to the drawing-room to be used as ill as Lord Sunderland pleases; he
has undoubtedly taken care to betray his master for at least thirty
pieces of silver; it were well if he would follow out the whole
example, and go and hang himself.’ Alas for the change in Mary
Cowper’s opinion of Caroline of Anspach, and her surroundings! She
gives us a sarcastic speech made by the Archbishop of Canterbury
(Wake), showing to the Princess his opinion of the state of public
matters and public men at that crisis, which we therefore insert:—
‘Madam, we must now wish ourselves and the world joy. First of this
happy reconciliation, and next of the honour, integrity, and
disinterestedness of the Ministers, as well as their wisdom and
virtue. They would be matchless were they not equalled by the two
great governors of this Court, Townshend and Walpole. What glorious
things must we not expect from the conduct of the first in the
Ministry and the two last here? What happiness for the people to be
under such directors! and what a glorious figure we must make all the
world over when we are influenced by such counsels!’
‘No, sure, my Lord,’ answered the Princess, somewhat meekly; ‘those
men are not our only advisers—what do you make of Lord Cowper?’
‘Oh! madam,’ replied the Archbishop, ‘he is not fit to be put on a
level with such great men.’ Then the Archbishop asked her plainly if
the Duchess of St. Albans was to have the key?
‘No, never!’ she said; ‘though she is always tormenting me about it.’
‘My Lord into the country for good; leaves me to get everything ready.
Busy packing all day. The Princess asks why Lord Cowper leaves London;
and answer, “To avoid importunity, and be quiet.” “And what makes you
go so soon?” “Because he commands me, madam, and I have nothing to do
but to obey.”’
The Cowpers still kept up their friendship with Baron Bernstorff, who
was himself subject to the most capricious treatment in high places,
and the German Baron, and the Lady-in-Waiting had many long
discussions on political matters.
They were agreed on many subjects, and above all in abhorrence of the
South Sea Scheme, which was then the great topic of the day. ‘Go into
the country, nothing material there.’ But she ‘came back to go to the
birthday of our most gracious King.’ ‘Waited on the Princess to Court,
where was one of the greatest crowds I ever saw; it being greatly
increased by our new Lords and Masters of the South Sea, who had more
court made to them than the Ministers themselves.’
As a climax to the confusion that reigned between the rival Courts,
the Lord Chamberlain, the Duke of Newcastle, chose to celebrate His
Majesty’s birthday-night by getting drunk, in consequence of which the
ladies of the Princess’s household had no places, but ‘stood in the
heat and crowd all night.’ The Duchess of Shrewsbury scolded aloud,
which only elicited insulting answers from the great official, and so
indignant were the Princess’s ladies, that they all went home, with
the exception of my Lady Dorset.
Here is another mention of the Chamberlain: ‘Newcastle stood before me
both day and night. If I had not seen his face I should have known who
it was, it being his peculiarity to turn his back upon those he has
any obligations to.’ Another incident in Lady Cowper’s Court life
shows the Princess of Wales could be flippant as well as capricious,
but her attendant was a match for her. ‘She had a mind to be out of
humour with me, and put on a frown. The King turned his back to me who
was playing. But a sudden curiosity took him, and he turned his face
round, and had his eyes fixed on me all night so intently, without
being angry, that it was talked about. The Princess said to me next
morning, that the King could not help liking me as well as ever; and
that she saw plainly by his manner that I could do what I pleased, and
that it was my own fault if I did not rule them all. I answered, for
the thing itself I did not believe it at all, and, supposing it were
true, power was too dear bought when one was to do such dishonourable
work for it.’
_July 5._—‘My waiting concluded without my having had any opportunity
of saying one word to the Princess alone, without the door being
open;’—her Royal mistress, whom she so much loved, and by whom, but a
short time ago, she had been trusted, and consulted on every subject,
public or private. It is probable Lady Cowper found much truth in a
passage in one of the Duchess of Marlborough’s letters to her, though,
as far as one could tell, her Grace’s taste did not always incline to
private life! ‘I don’t wonder that you find it melancholy to be away
from your Lord and children, for though the Princess is very easy and
obliging,’—this was as early as 1716,—‘I think any one who has common
sense or honesty must needs be weary of everything one meets with at
Court. I have seen a good many, and lived in them many years, but I
protest I was never pleased but when I was a child; and after I had
been a maid of honour some time at fourteen I wished myself out of the
Court as much as I wished to come into it before I knew what it was.’
We have been tempted step by step into lengthening our record of Mary,
the first Countess Cowper, not only because we have authentic records
of herself, and the Court she adorned, from her own pen, but because
in those records we find so much nature and simplicity of style, so
many evidences of her sterling qualities, her many accomplishments and
excellent judgment, the whole tempered by playful sallies and
pardonable petulance. A modest and well-conducted woman in a vicious
Court, and uncontaminated by the immorality of those with whom she was
compelled to associate; the worthy wife of a good and great man, whose
loss she could not endure. She closed his eyes, and four months
afterwards she once more lay by his side in their last resting-place.
Lord Cowper died in October 1723, and ‘in the latter end of December,’
says Lady Sarah Cowper, ‘my mother grew much weaker, and extremely
ill. She lost her appetite, and at times her memory, so that she would
speak of my father as if living, ask for him, and expect him home.
When she recollected his death, it was with so lively a grief as if it
had just happened. In short, she had really what is so often talked
of, so seldom seen, a broken heart. She died on the 5th of February
1724.’
She expected him home; he did not come, and so she went to join him in
‘the Court of Heaven.’
------------------
_No. 6._
WILLIAM VISCOUNT FORDWICH, AFTERWARDS SECOND EARL COWPER, SON AND HEIR
OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR.
_Blue velvet coat. White cravat. Powder._
------------------
_No. 7._
MRS. GORE.
_White flowered brocade. Lace cap._
She was the wife of Charles Gore, Esq. Her daughter married George,
third Earl Cowper, whose acquaintance they made at Florence, where Mr.
Gore and his family were residing.
------------------
_No. 8._
GEORGIANA CAROLINA, SECOND WIFE OF THE SECOND EARL COWPER.
_Grey gown. Blue bows._
BORN 1716, DIED 1780.
SHE was the younger daughter of John Lord Carteret, afterwards Earl
Granville. Her sponsors were King George II. and his Queen, hence her
baptismal names. In 1733-4 a contemporary paper announces her
marriage:—‘The bride, a beautiful young lady, with a portion of
£30,000, to the Hon. John Spencer, brother to the Duke of Marlborough,
and grandson to Sarah, Duchess Dowager of Marlborough.’ John, or
‘Jack,’ as he was familiarly called, was one of those reckless
spirits, who, in the days of which we are speaking, went by the name
of ‘Rattlebrains,’ being very wilful, merry, extravagant, and the best
company in the world! Better to laugh, talk, or drink, than to
transact any business with. By this description it will be seen that
between him and his aged grandmother there were many points of
resemblance, and in consequence the Duchess was very partial to her
scapegrace grandson. They fell out, it must be confessed, over and
over again, but Jack always contrived to coax, cajole, or joke himself
back into favour. On one festive occasion, when Sarah was presiding at
the head of her own table at Althorp, supported by a crowd of
daughters, sons-in-law, grandchildren, and what not, in the pride of
wealth, relationship, and splendid surroundings, she said aloud, ‘Here
am I, the root, encircled by my branches.’
‘True,’ says mischievous Jack, at the bottom of the table, in a
whisper to his neighbour; ‘pity that the root should not be in its
proper place, under ground.’ The young man to whom the sally was
addressed was thrown into such convulsions of laughter that the
Duchess’s curiosity was aroused, and she insisted on knowing the cause
of so much mirth. Few people dared to gainsay the aged virago, and
certainly not this timid youth; thus questioned, he had neither the
courage nor the imagination for a false or evasive answer, and he
blurted out the bare truth. The Duchess rose in a fury. ‘Leave the
room, Jack,’ said she; ‘leave the house, and never darken my doors
again.’ The culprit obeyed with an air of mock submission, and on
reaching the door he turned, and with a profound salutation, quitted
the apartment. But in another moment his head appeared above the sill
of the window, which was open. He cleared it at a bound, vaulted into
the room, and knelt at his grandmother’s feet. It was the window, not
the door! A perfect reconciliation ensued; and so completely was Jack
forgiven, that the Duchess settled a considerable annuity on him,
pending the large fortune and estates he would inherit by her will, in
addition to those left in trust for him by his grandfather the Duke.
Mrs. Delany, in her amusing diaries and letters, published of late
years by Lady Llanover, to whom many thanks are due for the same,
speaks constantly of her cousin Georgiana Granville, with an obvious
pride in the relationship. She says, in writing to her sister, ‘You
will expect to hear some account of our cousin Spencer. The marriage
took place between eight and nine o’clock at night. The guests were
very distinguished,—the Dukes and Duchesses of Marlborough and
Bedford, Sir Robert and Lady Worsley, the bride’s grandparents, and
numerous members of their family, Lord Morpeth, Colonel Montagu, etc.
etc. After they were married, they played a pool of commerce, then
retired between twelve and one, and went next day to Windsor Lodge.
They are to return on Monday, to what was Mr. Percival’s lodging in
Conduit Street. Georgiana was dressed in white satin, embroidered in
silver, her laces very fine, and the jewels the Duchess of Marlborough
gave her, magnificent. Frequent allusions are made by the writers of
the day to these famous jewels in which Mrs. Spencer ‘sparkled.’ Then
follows a catalogue of the bride’s wedding bravery, of laces and linen
very fine, and flowered silks, such as would rouse the envy of many a
lover of old brocade in modern times; a pink and silver poudesoy, a
blue damask night-gown, and rich brocades, all stiff with embroidery.
John Spencer dying, his widow contracted a second marriage with Lord
Cowper, and Mrs. Delany speaks of the union as being a very happy one,
for ‘Georgiana is much attached to her new Lord and his children, and
it is warmly reciprocated.’ Horace Walpole, in describing the gorgeous
sight which the coronation of George III. and his Queen presented,
gives an amusing account of the preparations for the same among the
ladies: how several were dressed overnight, and reposed in armchairs,
with watchers beside them to wake up the sleepers when in danger of
ruffling their garments or tumbling their headdresses. Walpole
conveyed Ladies Townshend, Hervey, Hertford, and Anne Conolly, with
Mrs. Clive, to see the show in his deputy’s house at the gate of
Westminster Hall. Says Lady Townshend, ‘I should like to go to a
coronation, for I have never seen one.’ ‘Why,’ remarked Horace, ‘you
walked at the last.’ ‘Yes, child,’ was the candid reply, ‘but I saw
nothing; I only looked to see who was looking at me.’ There seemed to
have been a great stir among the Countesses, who all objected to
associate with Lady Macclesfield. Horace again: ‘My heraldry was much
more offended with the ladies who did walk, than with those who walked
out of place, but I was not so furiously angry as my Lady Cowper. She
flatly refused at first to set a foot with my Lady Macclesfield, and
when at last compelled to do so she set out at a round trot’ (to
distance her companion?), ‘as if she designed to prove the antiquity
of her family by walking as lustily as a maid of honour of Queen
Guinevere.’ Mrs. Delany writes later on, ‘Lady Cowper is very much
pleased at her son being made an Earl, and all the more as the honour
was entirely unsolicited.’ Lord Spencer was a generous and dutiful
son, and when his mother once more became a widow, he gave her a
charming house at Richmond, fully furnished, where she was very
hospitable to Mrs. Delany and that branch of her family, as well as to
the relations and connections of both her husbands. Here her ‘cousin’
frequently mentions meeting Lady Spencer and her mother, Mrs. Poyntz,
Anne Maria Mordaunt, who had been maid of honour to Queen Caroline,
and governess to the Duke of Cumberland. Lady Cowper’s letters are
lively and genial. In one, dated New Year’s Day, she says, ‘Last
evening came Lord Montagu (only son of the Earl of Cardigan, created
Baron Montagu). He spent most of the evening alone with me, and I
played on the guitar, and sang to him. I hope we may not be talked
about, for he is quite alive, I assure you, although he is fourscore
struck, as the Duchess of Marlborough used to say.’ Georgiana retained
her good looks to a very advanced age, for Mrs. Delany says, not long
before her death, ‘I saw Lady Cowper yesterday. She is still the
Glastonbury Rose.’ During her last illness, which was of some
duration, her daughter-in-law, Lady Spencer, was unremitting in her
attentions, driving over daily from her home at Wimbledon to Richmond,
sometimes twice in the twenty-four hours, and often passing the night
by the sufferer’s bedside.
------------------
_No. 9._
LADY SARAH COWPER.
_Black gown. Pink ribbons._
DIED 1758.
THE daughter of the first Earl, Lord Chancellor Cowper, by his second
wife, Mary Clavering. Mrs. Delany in her lively and good-natured
gossip makes frequent mention of Lady Sarah, with whom she became well
acquainted, her ‘cousin Carteret’ being Lady Sarah’s sister-in-law.
This was Georgiana Carteret, Lady Cowper, of whom we have just given a
notice.
‘I envy you, says Mrs. Delany, writing to a friend, ‘for living in the
neighbourhood. There is quite a happy nest of brothers and sisters.
Lady Sarah has taken a little cottage to be near Lord Cowper, to whom
she is tenderly attached. We had a delightful day when we drank tea at
Panshanger, and we walked through a beautiful wood, Mrs. Poyntz and
her daughter being of the party. Her daughter had married Lord
Spencer, Lady Cowper’s son by her first husband. Lord and Lady Cowper
took us to Cole Green, a good large house, with nothing in it except,
oh! such a picture!’ This is an allusion to the magnificent portrait,
by Vandyck, of Count John of Nassau Siegen and his family. Lady Sarah
did not long enjoy the facilities which her little cottage afforded of
constant intercourse with her relatives. She fell into bad health,
which entailed great suffering, and died in 1758, making a sad gap in
the happy family circle.
------------------
_No. 10._
LADY CAROLINE SEYMOUR.
_Low black gown. White sleeves._
Daughter of the second Earl Cowper by his first wife. Married to Henry
Seymour, Esq.
------------------
_No. 11._
WILLIAM LAMB, SECOND VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_Dark coat. Blue tie._
BY PARTRIDGE.
PASSAGE OPPOSITE LADY COWPER’S BOUDOIR.
SIR PENISTON LAMB, FIRST VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_Head in pastel._
BORN 1745, DIED 1828.
HE was the son of Sir Matthew Lamb of Brocket Hall, county Hertford
(originally in the possession of the Winnington family), by Charlotte,
daughter of the Right Honourable Thomas Coke, and sister and heir of
Charles Coke, who died suddenly at Geneva, leaving a very large
fortune. Sir Peniston Lamb, besides inheriting half a million at his
father’s death, came in for a considerable sum, the savings of his
uncle, the Bishop of Peterborough, and to his accumulated wealth he
added considerably by his alliance with the beautiful heiress, Miss
Milbanke, in 1769.
He was a member of the House of Commons for many years; and in 1770 he
was created an Irish Peer by the title of Baron Melbourne of Kilmore,
county Cavan; in 1780 he was made a Viscount. He was handsome,
gentlemanlike, genial, fond of the country and of sport, but had no
love for study. On the contrary, he was illiterate for a man in his
position; and one or two of his early love-letters to the celebrated
actress, Mrs. Baddeley, have been quoted as examples of bad grammar
and spelling. He was very popular in society, both in London and the
country. But, for his own taste, he preferred his shooting or hunting
parties to the brilliant reunions of Melbourne House, and was the idol
of the neighbourhood round Brocket. He sat in the House of Commons for
many years, but when his eldest son was old enough, he willingly made
way for ‘Pen.’ He was one of the most indulgent of husbands, as we
have said in Lady Melbourne’s Life, and used to declare he had given
his wife her dowry back in diamonds. He was a most tender father, his
health being much affected at the time by his son Peniston’s untimely
death. The Prince of Wales prevailed on him to turn part of his park
into a race-course, for he was easily persuaded to comply with the
wishes of others, and was very kind to his eccentric daughter, Lady
Caroline Lamb, who was fond of him in her own peculiar way. Lord
Melbourne survived his wife some years, and died peacefully; carefully
and tenderly nursed by his son William, and his daughter, Lady Cowper.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
CORRIDOR.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CORRIDOR.
-------
_No. 1._
HEAD BY REMBRANDT.
------------------
_No. 2._
MALE PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_Black suit and cap. White ruff._
BY FERDINAND BOL.
------------------
_No. 3._
MALE PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_Black and white dress. White ruff. Coat of arms in corner._
BY PORBUS THE ELDER.
------------------
_No. 4._
MISS JACKSON.
_Fawn-coloured frock. Large straw hat lying on the ground._
BY WILLIAM JACKSON, R.A.
SHE was the daughter of the artist, who was born in 1730 at Exeter,
where his father was a tradesman. Began life as a musician and teacher
of music, but took to painting, and became a Royal Academician. He at
first tried his hand at landscapes, but preferring portraiture, became
a skilful copyist, being especially successful in the works of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, and Gainsborough, who was very friendly to him.
Jackson died in 1803.
------------------
_No. 5._
LADY OF THE HOUSE OF NASSAU.
_Black dress braided with gold. White bow. Stand-up ruff._
------------------
_No. 6._
ANNE, COUNTESS COWPER. A HEAD.
SHE was the daughter of Charles Gore, who resided with his wife and
family at Florence, where Lord Cowper (the third Earl) made her
acquaintance, and married her. Mrs. Delany mentions her cousin, Lady
Cowper, having received a commission from the betrothed lover to buy
jewels for his intended; at the same time he sends his stepmother a
portrait in water-colours of Miss Gore, as a Savoyard peasant. ‘Pretty
enough, but I should think it cannot do her justice, as it certainly
does not answer to her reputation for great beauty.’ She became one of
the leaders of the brilliant society at Florence, where she was very
much admired, particularly at the Grand-Ducal Court. She survived her
husband many years, living for the most part in a villa outside the
walls, where she died at an advanced age. Lady Cowper was said to have
been much imposed upon, and even robbed by her dependants in her
latter days.
------------------
_No. 7._
THREE CHILDREN OF THE FIRST EARL COWPER, LORD CHANCELLOR.
_The eldest, who is standing, is dressed in a red frock and white
skirt. The two younger children, who are sitting, are in pink,
with white pinafores._
------------------
_No. 8._
JARICH VAN BOTNIA.
_Black suit, trimmed with ermine._
He was ancestor of Lady Henrietta Auverquerque, first wife of the
second Earl Cowper.
------------------
_No. 9._
LADY. UNKNOWN.
_Black and white dress. Cap._
------------------
_No. 10._
LUITS VAN BOTNIA.
_Black and white gown. Ruff. Peaked cap. Gold chain._
She was the daughter of Jarich Van Botnia, and wife of Louve Van
Walta.
------------------
_No. 11._
HENRY BENNET, EARL OF ARLINGTON, HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER.
BORN 1618, DIED 1685.
BY SIR PETER LELY.
THE family was settled in Berkshire, when, towards the close of the
sixteenth century, two brothers Bennet went to London, and
respectively made their fortunes by successful commercial
undertakings. From the elder descended a certain Sir John Bennet,
living at Dawley, county Middlesex, who married Dorothy, daughter of
Sir John Crofts of Saxham, county Norfolk. The subject of this notice
was their second son. He was educated under the paternal roof till he
went to Oxford, and was entered a student at Christ Church, where he
took his degree as B.A. and M.A., and was much esteemed both as
scholar and poet. He remained some time at the University, where he
was still a resident when the Court arrived in 1644.
He was presented to King Charles, and soon after entered the army as a
volunteer. Lord Digby, then Secretary of State, took a fancy to young
Bennet, and appointed him Under-Secretary. But this post did not
interfere with his military duties; he was ever in the field ‘when
honour called,’ and was so severely wounded at Andover, in an
engagement near that town, as to be invalided for a long time. He was
indeed dangerously ill, and there is little doubt that it was in one
of these encounters that he received the scar by which he is so well
known in all his portraits.
Deeply attached to the Royal cause, on the termination of the war
Bennet went to France, and on into Germany and Italy, never losing
sight of the hope of once more joining and serving the house of
Stuart. In 1649 he was summoned to Paris by James Duke of York, to
fill the post of private secretary.
King Charles, writing to his brother, says: ‘You must be very kind to
Harry Bennet, and communicate freely with him, for as you are sure
that he is full of duty and integrity to you, so I must tell you that
I shall trust him more than any about you, and cause him to be
instructed in those businesses of mine, when I cannot write to you
myself.’
In 1658 Sir Henry Bennet, Knight, was sent as Ambassador to Madrid.
Clarendon says it was at the instigation of Lord Bristol, but at this
time there was strife between the new ambassador and his former
patron. Henry Bennet, with all the zeal that usually characterises a
recent convert to Catholicism, was very anxious that his Royal master
should make his profession to the same faith, whereas Digby, or rather
the Earl of Bristol (as he had become), though himself a Roman
Catholic, considered that such a step would be ruinous to Charles’s
interests. Great bitterness in consequence existed between Bristol and
Bennet, increased by the jealousy excited in the mind of the former
with regard to the latter’s mission, being under the impression that
he himself was far better fitted for the post.
Sir Henry, however, seems to have pleased most parties in his
diplomatic capacity; and at the Restoration the King gave him the
office of Privy Purse, and made him his constant companion. Bennet was
well calculated to suit the taste of the Merry Monarch. Burnet tells
us he had the art of observing the King’s humour, and hitting it off,
beyond all the men of his time; and Clarendon gives us a clue to one
of the reasons, when he mentions that ‘Bennet filled a principal
place, to all intents and purposes, at the nightly meetings’ (alluding
to the King’s jovial suppers in Lady Castlemaine’s apartments), ‘added
to which, he was most lively and sparkling in conversation.’
In 1662 Charles bribed Sir Edward Nicholas to resign his Secretaryship
of State (and that with a considerable sum), that he might bestow the
vacant post on his favourite. The contrast between Bennet’s entire
submission to the Royal will, and the honest rectitude of the
Chancellor (Clarendon), increased the King’s dislike to that worthy
servant of the Crown, on whose downfall Bennet rose still higher.
In 1663 he was raised to the Peerage as Lord Arlington, whereupon
Clarendon threw some ridicule on the choice of the title, taken from
an obscure village in Middlesex, which had once belonged to Bennet’s
father, but was now in the possession of another family.
While at the head of public affairs, no measures of any importance
were undertaken, with the exception of the first Dutch war.
In 1670 was formed the famous Cabal Ministry (spoken of more fully in
our notice of Lord Shaftesbury) which Arlington consented to join, and
of which his title formed one of the initials.
So notoriously now did he consult the King’s wishes rather than the
public good, that he was rewarded in 1672 by the dignity of Baron
Thetford and Earl of Arlington, and later invested with the Garter. He
was sent on an embassy to Utrecht, in company with the Duke of
Buckingham and Lord Halifax (which was productive of no good results),
and afterwards turned his attention to the overthrow of the Cabal, in
the breaking up of which he was most instrumental. He however fell
into great disrepute with both Catholics and Protestants about this
time, the Duke of York (on the passing of the Test Act) loading him
with every kind of abuse, while the opposite side charged him with
endeavouring to introduce Popery.
The Duke of Buckingham was loud in censure of Lord Arlington, who was
impeached, and, after making a long defence, acquitted by a small
majority. He held office for some time longer, and advocated a treaty
of peace with the Dutch, but soon after resigned office, having
received (it was said) a _douceur_ from his successor of several
thousands.
In 1674 he was named Chamberlain of the Household, in recompense (so
ran the Royal declaration) ‘of his long and faithful services, and
particularly of his having discharged the office of principal
Secretary of State to his Majesty’s entire satisfaction.’
Lord Arlington’s wish to be again employed in public affairs was not
gratified till 1675, when he once more went on a diplomatic mission to
Holland, in company with the Earl of Ossory. Lady Arlington and Lady
Ossory were sisters, and members of the house of Nassau. This was his
last appearance in public life. Burnet says that ‘Arlington entirely
mistook the character of William, Prince of Orange,’ with whom he had
to deal, speaking to him in a dictatorial manner, which was not at all
agreeable to that Prince, although he was then young in years.
Arlington still held a place in the Royal household, but he had fallen
into disgrace, and the King encouraged and enjoyed any jest, or
ridicule, at the expense of his former boon companion. Nothing
delighted Charles more than to see some of his courtiers put a black
patch upon their noses, and strut about with a long white staff, in
imitation of ‘Harry Bennet.’
James II. did not remove him from his post in the household, but he
only survived the new accession a few months, dying in July 1685.
Lord Arlington was buried at Euston, in Suffolk; his wife was the
daughter of Lewis de Nassau, Count of Beverwoort and Auverquerque (a
natural son of Maurice of Nassau, Prince of Orange), by Elizabeth,
Countess Horn. She had two sisters, Mauritia, married to Colin, Earl
of Balcarres, and the second to the gallant Earl of Ossory. An only
child was born to Lord and Lady Arlington,—Isabella, who married in
1672 Henry Fitzroy, natural son of Barbara Villiers, Duchess of
Cleveland, afterwards created Earl of Euston and Duke of Grafton.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
LARGE DINING-ROOM.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LARGE DINING-ROOM.
_All the pictures in this room are full-length portraits by Vandyck._
-------
_No. 1._
ANNE LADY RICH.
_Black dress. White sleeves. Gold-coloured scarf. Curls. Standing
by a table near a window. Dark red curtain._
BY VANDYCK.
SHE was the only daughter of William, second Earl of Devonshire, by
his wife, Lady Christian Bruce, renowned alike for her loyalty, her
wisdom, and her wealth. Lady Anne Cavendish married Robert, Lord Rich,
son and heir to Robert, Earl of Warwick.
------------------
_No. 2._
PHILIP, LORD WHARTON.
_Red doublet embroidered with gold. Dark red breeches. Yellow boots.
Hat under his arm. Holds a stick. Red curtain and garden in the
background._
BORN 1613.
BY VANDYCK.
THE family of Wharton derive the name from a ‘fair lordship’ on the
river Eden, county Westmoreland.
Grainger, in speaking of this picture in the Wrest collection, says of
Lord Wharton that he was in the service of the Parliament during the
civil war in the reign of Charles I., but that courage was undoubtedly
not his shining point. ‘Like his grandson Duke Wharton, he could
better exercise his tongue than his sword.’
Walker says of him, that at the battle of Edgehill, where he was the
colonel of a regiment of Roundheads, his Lordship was found hidden in
a ditch, but we are bound to take such testimonies _cum grano_. He was
the fourth Baron, of decidedly puritanical views, and, whether a good
soldier or not, he was constantly with the army, and his political
life was an eventful one. He sat in Parliament for many years, and was
summoned to attend the treaty of Ripon, together with several other
Peers, among those who were the least obnoxious at that time to the
popular party. Lord Wharton was also one of the so-called
Commissioners who went to Edinburgh at the meeting of the Scotch
Parliament. After the Restoration he was sent to the Tower, together
with the Duke of Buckingham and Lords Salisbury and Shaftesbury,
‘charged with contempt of the authority, and being, of Parliament,’
for having called in question the Parliament meeting after a very long
prorogation. In this case the Duke of Buckingham petitioned the King,
and the captive Peers were soon set at liberty, with the exception of
Lord Shaftesbury. But Lord Wharton’s chief characteristic seems to
have been his high esteem of the matrimonial state, since he married
three times. His first wife was Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Richard
Wandesford, Knight, in the county of York, by whom he had an only
daughter, married to Robert Bertie, Lord Willoughby d’Eresby,
afterwards Earl of Lindsay. His second wife was Jane, daughter and
heir to Arthur Goodwin, upper Winchenden, county Bucks, by whom he had
six children. His third spouse was the daughter of William Carre,
Groom of the Bedchamber to James I., who was widow of Edward Popham.
By her he had one son, William, killed in a duel.
------------------
_No. 3._
MADAM KIRKE.
_Tawny-coloured gown. White sleeves with lace. Pearl necklace. Fair
curls. Standing by a table. Garden in the background._
BY VANDYCK.
SHE was one of the dressers to Queen Henrietta Maria,—‘a situation for
which she competed with Mistress Neville,’ says Grainger, and gained
the preference. When King Charles I. left Hampton Court, he desired
Colonel Whalley to give Mistress Kirke a picture of the Queen, which
appeared to betoken she had been faithful to their Majesties in times
of trouble.
------------------
_No. 4._
PORTRAIT OF A MAN UNKNOWN.
_Dressed in black._
BY VANDYCK.
------------------
_No. 5._
THREE BROTHERS OF THE HOUSE OF BALBI.
_They are standing on a flight of steps between two columns, feeding a
bird. The eldest wears a red and gold doublet, red stockings,
white collar and cuffs, holding a black hat. The second boy in a
black and gold suit, holds his youngest brother by the hand, who
is dressed in a white and gold frock._
BY VANDYCK.
THIS charming picture was bought by the grandfather of the present
Lord Cowper, Lord de Grey, but we are unable to identify the children,
or the date at which it was painted, doubtless during one of Vandyck’s
visits to Genoa; neither have we any authority for the supposition,
but it appears more than probable that the beautiful Marchesa Balbi,
in Mr. Holford’s splendid collection at Dorchester House, is the
mother or sister-in-law of these noble boys.
------------------
_No. 6._
DIEGO MESIA FELIPE DE GUZMAN, MARQUEZ DE LEGANES.
_Black dress. White collar. Order._
BY VANDYCK.
HE was the son of Diego Mesia de Obando, by Elizabeth, daughter of the
Count D’Olvares. From early youth he showed an aptitude for military
and diplomatic affairs; and in 1626 he was created Marquez de Leganes,
and sent by Philip IV. in command of the Spanish forces in the
Netherlands; and the ensuing year the King further employed him in
negotiations respecting the proposed annexation to Spain of some of
the disputed Provinces. Leganes was a companion in arms of the
celebrated Cardinal Infant, Ferdinand, son of Philip III., by whose
side he fought at Nordlingen, and contributed not a little to that
decisive victory gained by the Imperialists over the Swedes and Duke
Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar. It was in allusion to this battle that the
pious Canon Antonio Calderon, in his funeral oration on the Cardinal,
after extolling the virtues and valour of this warlike prelate,
reminded his hearers that Nordlingen was the place ‘where the heretic
Luther preached his most pestilential doctrines.’ On the death of the
Archduchess Clara Eugenia, Ferdinand succeeded to the Government of
the Spanish Netherlands, and thither Leganes followed him, but was
summoned to Milan in 1636, on his appointment as Governor of that
city. Northern Italy was at that time the theatre of constant warfare,
and Leganes distinguished himself in frequent encounters with the
French, the Piedmontese, and the Savoyards. The Valteline especially
was torn by internal discord, the result of religious differences
between the Protestants and the Catholics; while the position of the
country made it an object of desire and contention among foreign
powers. Leganes had his hands full in that direction, both as regarded
military operations and negotiations with the French, who disputed the
territory. On the death of the Duke of Savoy, the Emperor Ferdinand
employed the Milanese Governor to oppose the election of the widowed
Duchess as Regent for her son’s dominions; after which Leganes invaded
Piedmont, took Vercelli, Asti, Crescentine, and some smaller towns;
marched on Turin, where he was unsuccessful; and then attacked Casale,
a stronghold of much importance, where he was beaten back with great
loss by the French, under Comte Simon d’Harcourt. This failure was a
source of terrible mortification to the Spanish General; but the
future had consolation in store for him. His Italian campaign at an
end; he marched into Catalonia, and there had his revenge on his old
enemies, and the Comte d’Harcourt himself, by wresting from them the
town of Lerida, which had been some time in the occupation of the
French. While thus engaged in active service, intrigues were being
carried on at the Court of Spain against Leganes, and imputations were
cast on his military conduct, from which he had great difficulty in
defending himself. In spite, however, of the machinations of his
enemies, he was named Generalissimo of the Forces, and despatched
against the Portuguese in 1646. His death took place in 1655. He had
to wife Philippina, daughter of the famous commander, Ambrogio
Spinola, who had done such gallant service for the Spaniards in the
Netherlands and elsewhere. In the wars of Northern Italy he had been
less successful; and the mortification he experienced from several
discomfitures, combined with the slights put upon him by the reigning
King of Spain, from whose predecessor he had received the highest
marks of favour, was said to have accelerated the death of the great
commander.
In the collection of the engraved portraits by Vandyck there is a
spirited likeness of the Marquis de Leganes, with a Latin inscription
enumerating his many titles. In addition to those already mentioned,
he was Lord of the Bedchamber to the King of Spain, Grand Commander of
the Order of the Lion, Privy Councillor of State and War, President of
the Council in Flanders, and Captain-General of Artillery.
------------------
_No. 7._
ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF SOUTHAMPTON.
_White satin gown. Blue scarf. Pearl necklace. Fair hair. Landscape
seen through window in the background._
BY VANDYCK.
SHE was the daughter of John Vernon of Hodnet, county Salop, and
married Henry Wriothesley, third Earl of Southampton, brother in arms
of Robert, Earl of Essex, under whom he served in his foreign
campaigns; and in one engagement in which he had distinguished
himself, Lord Southampton was knighted by his general’s hand on the
field, ‘before he could sheathe his sword, or wipe the sweat from his
brow.’ His adhesion to Lord Essex, when that nobleman fell under her
Majesty’s displeasure, nearly cost Lord Southampton his life; but he
was more prudent than his friend, for he made submission, and asked
mercy of Elizabeth, while Essex, who disdained to follow a similar
course in his own case, interceded with the Queen for his former
comrade. Southampton’s life was spared; but he was kept a close
prisoner in the Tower till the accession of King James, when he was
set at liberty.
Lord Southampton had two sons, the eldest of whom accompanied him to
the Low Countries on military service, where they were both attacked
by fever. Young Lord Wriothesley died, to the inexpressible grief of
his father, who, travelling home with the loved remains ere he was fit
to move, was delayed by a relapse, and expired at Bergen-op-Zoom.
Lady Southampton survived her Lord many years. We hear of her, 1647,
giving shelter to King Charles on his escape from Hampton Court. She
was staying at her son’s country house, at Titchfield, in Hampshire,
where the King, who was riding for his life, thought best to take
refuge, while he sent messengers to Portsmouth to inquire for a ship
that ought to have been in waiting there, but which failed him. Lord
Southampton, a zealous loyalist, and devoted personal friend of
Charles’s, was absent from home, but his mother, the aged Countess,
was a woman of courage and fidelity, and as deeply attached to the
Royal cause as her son. To her the King felt no hesitation in
declaring himself, and claiming her protection; and in that safe
custody he remained several days, before proceeding to the Isle of
Wight, where he was retaken by the rebels.
------------------
_No. 8._
LORDS JOHN AND BERNARD STUART.
_One boy has long curling auburn hair. He wears a white satin vest,
and hose, silk stockings, and buff shoes. Blue mantle over one
shoulder; his foot is on the base of a pedestal. The other brother
wears a crimson dress, with a tawny yellow mantle over his left
arm. Dark buff boots._
BOTH killed in action, within a few years of each other. Esmé Stuart,
Duke of Richmond and Lennox, had seven sons, all of whom he survived,
and, on his death, the title merging in the person of his Royal
kinsman, Charles II., his Majesty bestowed it on his natural son, by
Louise de la Querquaille, Duchess of Portsmouth, ancestor of the
present Duke.
Lord John Stuart was the eldest son of Duke Esmé. Grainger, in his
description of the portrait in question, speaks most highly of his
noble disposition and courage, which ‘he carried indeed to rashness.’
A devoted loyalist, at the battle of Cheriton Down he was charging
up-hill in command of a troop of light horse to attack Sir William
Waller’s army, when he fell into an ambuscade, having had two horses
killed under him. He lay, pierced by innumerable wounds, amidst
hundreds of his own men; he was, however, carried off the field while
still living (as was Sir John Smith, brother to Lord Carrington), and
conveyed first to Reading, and the next day still further on the road,
in order to be within help of skilful surgeons. But the gallant youth
did not survive the second dressing of his wounds. He was buried at
Christchurch, Oxford, as was a younger brother, killed at the battle
of Edgehill. Lord Clarendon, speaking of Lord John, says that he was
early bent on a military career, being ‘of a tough and choleric
disposition,’ and caring little for the ‘softnesses of social life.’
Yet he must have been of a loveable nature, for his death was deeply
regretted. Lord Bernard was the youngest son of Duke Esmé. He
commanded the gallant troop known as the King’s Bodyguard, consisting
of the most eminent Royalists in both Houses of Parliament, and,
indeed, in all England. Their servants formed another troop under Sir
William Killigrew, and invariably followed their lords and masters to
the field. At the battle of Cropedy Bridge, where the King commanded
in person, Lord Bernard secured the safety of his Majesty, who was in
imminent peril, by charging two bodies of the Roundhead horse, and
bearing the brunt of the enemy’s cannon, by remaining stationary in an
open field, to cover the free passage of the King. He also
distinguished himself greatly at the battle of Naseby, among other
engagements, and in consideration of his services was created Earl of
Lichfield, an honour he did not long enjoy. He was killed at the
battle of Rowton Heath, near Chester, having once more come to the
assistance of his Royal master and kinsman. Young Lord Lichfield was
deeply regretted. The Duke of Richmond’s seven gallant sons all served
in the King’s army, and three of them died, like gallant Cavaliers, on
the field of battle.
------------------
_No. 9._
RACHEL, SECOND WIFE OF THOMAS, LAST EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON.
_She is seated in the clouds, habited in blue floating drapery. In her
right hand she holds a wand; her left rests on a sphere. A skull
lies at her feet._
BY VANDYCK.
HER father, the Marquis de Ruvigny, came of a noble Huguenot family in
France, and her brother was at one time head of the Protestant party
in that country. But in spite of his religious opinions, he was much
in favour, not only with Louis XIV., but also with Cardinal Mazarin.
He eventually went to England on a diplomatic mission, where he
settled with his family. One of his sons was killed at the battle of
the Boyne, the other was created Earl of Galway by William III. We do
not know the date of Rachel de Ruvigny’s marriage, but take it for
granted that young Wriothesley made her acquaintance on his first
visit to France. His elder brother dying of fever, Thomas, the second
son, succeeded to the earldom of Southampton on the death of his
father. His wife bore him two sons, who both died _v. p._, and three
daughters, the second being Rachel, the faithful and devoted wife of
William, Lord Russel, who was beheaded.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
STAIRCASE.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
STAIRCASE.
-------
_No. 1._
JOHN HUGHES.
_Violet coat. Wig._
BORN 1677, DIED 1720.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
HE was born at Marlborough, in Wiltshire, but went to London, where
his father resided, when quite young; and, being of a delicate
constitution, received his education at private schools. He showed an
early predilection for the gentle arts of poetry, music, and drawing,
yet, when he came to man’s estate, these tastes, which never left him,
did not prevent his filling the posts he held under Government with
credit, and proving himself a good man of business. He had an
appointment in the Ordnance Office, and was secretary to several
Commissions for the purchase of lands for the better securing of the
Royal Docks and Yards of Portsmouth, Chatham, and Harwich. He found
leisure in the midst of his public duties to devote a considerable
time to the acquisition of modern languages, with which he
supplemented his previous knowledge of Greek and Latin. His first
poetic effusion was inspired by the Treaty of Ryswick, and was very
popular. He wrote many translations and imitations of classical
authors, together with such productions as ‘The Court of Neptune,’—an
ode on the return of King William from Holland; and many monodies,
elegies, and panegyrics, chiefly in honour of royal personages, which
would now be considered but dreary reading. For all that he was much
esteemed by the literati of the time, being intimate with Addison,
Pope, Rowe, etc.; and Johnson tells us that Addison consulted with
him, and even at one time asked his co-operation, in the matter of his
tragedy of Cato, which, it appears, was finished, and put on the stage
at the instigation of John Hughes. He was also much favoured by men of
high standing and position, and when Lord Wharton was made
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, he offered our author an appointment in
the sister country. Hughes declined, although at the time in very poor
circumstances; but he had another true friend and patron,—the Lord
Chancellor Cowper, in whose family he had been tutor. Lord Cowper not
only made Hughes secretary for the Commission of the Peace, but, on
his own removal from office, recommended him to the notice of his
successor. Hughes was now in comparatively affluent circumstances, but
his failing health prevented his enjoyment of life. He had consumptive
tendencies, and grew gradually weaker. His last work was a drama
entitled ‘The Siege of Damascus,’ which set the fashion of sieges
innumerable. He completed it a short time before his death, with a
dedication to Lord Cowper; but he had no strength to attend the
rehearsals, or energy to resist the emendations, alterations, and
innovations thrust upon him by the worshipful company of players. The
first night of his tragedy’s representation was the last of the
author’s life; they brought him word that ‘The Siege’ was progressing
satisfactorily; but by that time his thoughts were fixed on the new
life which was opening before him, and he made no remark, but passed
silently away. Many of his works were published during his life; many
more after his death. He was a constant contributor to the
_Spectator_, the _Guardian_, and similar periodicals; and Steele wrote
an eulogistic paper on his death. Two letters which passed between
Swift and Pope may perhaps help to enable us (if we accept their
testimony) in assigning Hughes a place as an author. The Dean writes:
‘A month ago a friend sent me over the works of John Hughes in prose
and verse. I never heard of the man in my life, yet I find your name
as a subscriber. He is far too grave a poet for me, and I think among
the mediocrists in prose, as well as verse.’ Pope replies: ‘To answer
your question about Hughes: what he wanted in genius he made up in
honesty; but he was of the class you think him.’
Only a few weeks before his death he sent Lord Cowper the picture of
which we are now treating, having been painted for him by Sir Godfrey
Kneller,—a very favourable specimen of the artist’s handiwork. Lord
Cowper acknowledges the gift in these words:—
‘Sir, I thank you for your most acceptable present of your picture,
and assure you that none of this age can set a higher value on it than
I do, and shall, while I live,—though I am sensible posterity will
outdo me in that particular. I am, with the greatest esteem and
sincerity, sir, your most affectionate and obliged humble servant,
‘COWPER.
‘_January 24th, 1720._‘
------------------
_No. 2._
MARY, WIFE OF THE FIRST EARL COWPER.
_Sitting in a garden. Red dress, trimmed with lace. Holding her
scarf._
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
------------------
_No. 3._
SARAH, LADY COWPER.
_Red dress, Blue scarf. White sleeves._
SHE was the daughter of Sir Samuel Holled, Knight, merchant of London,
wife of Sir William Cowper, second baronet, and mother of the Lord
Chancellor. She was an eccentric woman, ill favoured and ill tempered,
in constant collision with her husband, her sons, and her servants,—in
fact, to a certain extent, the terror of the household. She wrote a
voluminous diary, still in the possession of her descendant, the
present Lord Cowper,—a strange mixture of pious reflections, together
with anecdotes more remarkable for breadth than point. Towards the end
of her life she became more placable in disposition. She had two
sons,—William, the first Earl, and Spencer, the celebrated judge.
------------------
_No. 4._
FREDERIC, LORD BEAUVALE.
_Brown velvet suit. Blue cravat. Black cloak, trimmed with fur.
Leans against a column, holding his hat._
BY PARTRIDGE.
------------------
_No. 5._
ARNOLD JOOST VAN KEPPEL, LORD OF THE VOORST IN HOLLAND, EARL OF
ALBEMARLE, K.G.
_In complete armour. Wig, Holding a baton. Blue riband._
BORN 1674, DIED 1718.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
THE subject of this notice derived his origin from one ‘Walter,’ a
knight who flourished in the year 1179. He was one of the seven
imperial vassals of Guelderland, who exercised sovereign rights, each
in his several domain.
Surnames were not known in the middle of the twelfth century. Walter
Van Keppel was probably among the first who made the addition to his
baptismal appellation. Towards the close of the century it became
customary for each knight to call himself after the spot of ground on
which his principal castle was situated. Accordingly, our Walter
assumed the name of an islet on the river Issel, on which he created
his Hoofdslot, which Hoofdslot is now occupied by the descendants of a
female branch of the family. Passing over a long line of ancestors, we
arrive at Oswald Van Keppel, Lord of the Voorst, who (the genealogists
show) bore sixteen quarterings of nobility on his escutcheon. Oswald
dying in 1685, his son, Arnold (whose portrait is under consideration)
succeeded to the lordship of Voorst. He was now thirteen years of age,
Page of Honour to William of Orange, Stadtholder, and the youngest,
liveliest, and handsomest of the five Dutch noblemen who landed with
their illustrious countryman at Torbay on the memorable 5th of
November 1688. On his accession to the English throne, William III.
raised his page to the confidential post of amanuensis, and from that
time never slackened in his partiality and friendship. In 1695, on
Keppel’s attaining his majority, he was created Earl of Albemarle,
Viscount Bury, and Baron Ashford, and, shortly afterwards, Knight of
the Garter. Mackay, in his _Characters_, describes the new Peer as
‘King William’s constant companion in all his diversions and
pleasures,’ and as being after a time intrusted with affairs of the
greatest importance. He was beautiful in person, open and free in
conversation, and very expensive in his manner of living. ‘About this
time,’ says Bishop Burnet, ‘the King set up a new favourite, Keppel, a
gentleman of Guelder, who was raised from a page to the highest degree
of favour that any person had ever obtained about the King. By a quick
and unaccountable progress he engrossed the Royal favour so entirely
that he disposed of everything in the King’s power. He was a cheerful
young man, that had the art to please, but was so much given to his
own pleasure, that he could scarce subject himself to the attendance
and drudgery that were necessary to maintain his post; he had not,
however, yet distinguished himself in anything. He was not cold or
dry, as the Earl of Portland was thought to be, who seemed to have the
art of creating enemies to himself, and not one friend; but the Earl
of Albemarle had all the arts of Court, and was civil to all.’ If this
spoiled child of nature and fortune counted his Court duties as
drudgery, the same could not be said of his military avocations. He
studied the art of war under his Royal patron, one of the most
consummate captains of the day. So satisfied was the teacher with the
capacity of his pupil, that he not only initiated him into the secrets
of his strategy, but imparted to him no small share in the execution
of his projects,—a confidence which, although placed in so young a
man, the King never had reason to repent.
In the year of his elevation to the Peerage, Albemarle accompanied the
King on the memorable campaign which ended in the surrender of Namur
to William III., who left his friend behind for the transaction of
some necessary business in that town, whilst he proceeded to his
Palace of the Loo, before returning to England. Here the news of
Albemarle’s sudden and alarming illness so distressed the King that he
sent his own physician, the eminent Dr. John Radcliffe, to the
sufferer’s assistance. Albemarle soon recovered under the good
doctor’s skilful care; and so delighted was the King to have his
favourite restored to health, that he acknowledged Radcliffe’s
services in the most munificent manner. In addition to his travelling
expenses, the Doctor received £400 and a magnificent diamond ring;
Radcliffe was also offered a baronetcy, but he declined, on the plea
of having no son to inherit the title. In 1698 Lord Albemarle received
a grant of 100,000 confiscated acres in Ireland, which grant, however
(as in the case of Lord Athlone and others), the Commons of England
very properly refused to ratify. The following year the King sent some
of the most skilful British artificers to Holland to decorate and
beautify the house and grounds of the Voorst, at a cost of £50,000.
What this large sum would represent in these days, the writer does not
feel competent to hazard an opinion.
In 1701 Lord Albemarle married Gertrude, daughter of Adam van der
Duen, Lord of Gravemoor, whose descent is traced by the genealogists
of Guelderland to Alphert, ninth Lord of Bridesden, and through him to
Siegfried, son of Arnulf, Count of Holland, who died in 999.
The Treaty of Ryswick, in 1697, had procured for Europe a few years’
suspension of hostilities; but in 1702 broke out the Spanish War of
Succession, when Albemarle was sent on a mission to Holland by Royal
command, but was soon recalled in hot haste to England to his dying
master’s bedside.
‘The King,’ says Macaulay, ‘was sinking fast.’ Albemarle arrived at
Kensington exhausted by hasty travel, and William bade him rest for
some hours. He then summoned him to make his report. It was in all
respects satisfactory: the States-General were in the best temper; the
troops, the provisions, the magazines were all in good order;
everything was in readiness for an early campaign. William received
the intelligence with the calmness of a man whose work is done; he was
in no illusion as to his danger. ‘I am fast advancing,’ he said, ‘to
my end.’
To Albemarle he gave the keys of his closet and private drawers. It
was now about seven in the morning. The Bishop knelt down and said the
customary prayer: when it was ended, the King was no more. By a
codicil to the Royal will, Albemarle came into possession of the
lordship of the Breevervoorst and 200,000 guelders.
In June 1702 an heir was born to the house of Keppel, who was named
William, after the child’s patron, and Anne, after the reigning
sovereign, who stood godmother in person. Shortly after the birth of
this son, Lord Albemarle returned to his native country, where he
passed the greater part of his time, and took his place as a member of
the Assembly of the States-General.
We have not space to do more than glance at his military career.
Suffice it to say that he served with distinction successively under
four of the greatest commanders of their day,—William III., Marshal
Auverquerque, the Duke of Marlborough, and Prince Eugène of Savoy; all
of whom in turn bore public testimony to his merits as a soldier.
In 1712 he was, on the recommendation of the Duke of Marlborough,
appointed to the command of the Dutch forces, and on the death of
Queen Anne he was sent by the States-General to congratulate George I.
on his accession to the British throne. The new monarch, accompanied
by his son, the Duke of Gloucester (afterwards George II.), was Lord
Albemarle’s guest at the Voorst on his first day’s journey towards his
new kingdom. In 1717 Albemarle was nominated by the nobles of Holland
to compliment Peter the Great on his visit to their country, and he
accompanied the Czar in great state to the city, which his Imperial
Majesty had first entered as a journeyman carpenter! Arnold Keppel,
first Earl of Albemarle, died the following year, and was succeeded by
his son, William Anne, Viscount Bury. The portrait of which we are now
speaking is a replica of one in the possession of the original’s
great-great-grandson, the present bearer of the title. There are
several other likenesses in England of this distinguished man, among
which may be noted one at Woburn Abbey, that came into the Russell
family in consequence of the marriage of Lady Elizabeth Keppel
(daughter of the second Earl of Albemarle) with the Marquess of
Tavistock in 1764.
A.
------------------
_No. 6._
WILLIAM LAMB, SECOND VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_Black coat. Hand resting on a table._
BY SIR GEORGE HAYTER, R.A.
------------------
_No. 7._
GEORGE, THIRD EARL COWPER.
_Blue velvet coat. Blue and gold waistcoat, and breeches. Sword. Stick
in one hand, Holds his hat in the other above his head, as if in
the act of saluting. Landscape in background._
BY ZOFFANY.
He was the first Prince of the Holy Roman Empire in the Cowper family.
------------------
_No. 8._
JAMES BUTLER, FIRST DUKE OF ORMONDE.
_In the robes of the Garter. A wand in his hand._
BORN 1610, DIED 1688.
BY SIR PETER LELY.
THE biographer of the second Duke thus alludes to the antiquity of the
family:—‘It is sufficient for the honour of the house of Ormonde that
its original is too ancient to be traced, and that its first descents,
even after it became considerable for its possession, power, and
alliances, cannot be ascertained.’
According to the above-quoted author, the immediate ancestor of the
family, Theobald Walter, accompanied King Henry II. to Ireland about
the year 1171, when Roderick, King of Connaught, and many other petty
Princes, yielded up their sovereignty to the English monarch. Theobald
Walter did Henry good service in the new country, and received as a
reward such extensive grants of lands, as determined him to take up
his residence in Ireland; and from that time forth the fortunes of the
family have been bound up with those of the sister island. The post of
Chief Butler (hereditary) was also assigned him, with a further grant
of what was called ‘the prisage of wine,’ which entitled Theobald and
his descendants to one tun of wine out of nine brought by any ship
into Irish ports. In 1315 Edmund le Botillier (it is an open question
if the name were derived from the office) was created Earl of Carrick,
as a recompense for his loyal services to Edward II. He was Guardian
and Governor of the kingdom of Ireland; and henceforth his descendants
in the succeeding reigns were almost invariably connected with the
government of that country, whether as Lords-Deputy, Lords-Justices,
or Lords-Lieutenant.
Lord Carrick’s son married the King’s cousin, and was in 1322 created
Earl of Ormonde. He had also the rights of a Palatine in the county of
Tipperary conferred on him,—rights which were taken away and restored
again and again in the troubled times of that ever troubled country.
Few families in any part of the world have been more remarkable for
the vicissitudes of fortune than the Butlers. The seventh Earl of
Ormonde died without sons, and left his two daughters very large
fortunes; the youngest married Sir William Boleyn, and was grandmother
to Queen Anne of that name.
Sir Piers Butler, a distant relative, became heir to the Irish
estates, but King Henry VIII., at the instigation of his
father-in-law, Sir Thomas Boleyn, prevailed upon him (chiefly, it is
said, by conferring on him the title of Ossory) to relinquish the
earldom of Ormonde in favour of the said Sir Thomas, on whose death,
however, a few years afterwards, the rightful Earl of Ormonde resumed
his title. We are induced to give these details in consequence of the
strange coincidences which befell the heads of this family in
different reigns.
Thomas, the tenth Earl, a man of undaunted courage, who began his
military career at an early age, was a great favourite with Queen
Elizabeth, and for a time with King James I. ‘His courage in the field
and his spirit in private occurrences were remarkable. He always held
the Earl of Leicester at defiance, and did not scruple to charge him
to the Queen as a knave and coward.’ There is an amusing anecdote told
of the two noblemen meeting one day at Court, in the antechamber.
After the usual exchange of civilities, says Lord Leicester, ‘My Lord
Ormonde, I dreamed of you last night.’ ‘What could you dream of me?’
inquired the other. ‘That I gave you a box on the ear,’ was the
rejoinder. ‘Oh,’ exclaimed Lord Ormonde; ‘do you not know that dreams
are always interpreted by contraries?’ and with that he bestowed a
hearty cuff on the Royal favourite. This one-sided satisfaction
entailed on Ormonde a visit to the Tower; but he was soon released.
The Queen had a great fancy for him, in spite of Lord Leicester’s
enmity, and used to call him her ‘black husband.’ His dark complexion
had gained for him in Ireland the nickname of ‘Dhuiv,’ or ‘the Black.’
He was three times married: first to Elizabeth, daughter and heiress
to Thomas, Lord Berkeley; secondly to Elizabeth, daughter of Lord
Sheffield; and thirdly to Ellen, daughter of Lord Barry and widow of
Lord Poer, whom he married when he was old and blind. He had children
by his second wife only,—a son, who died in boyhood, and a daughter,
Elizabeth. This young lady married, by her father’s wish, her cousin,
Lord Tulleophelim, who died very shortly afterwards without children.
King James I. obliged the aged Earl of Ormonde, much against his will,
to bestow the hand of his widowed daughter on one of his own Scotch
favourites, Sir Richard Preston, whom he first created Baron Dingwall,
and afterwards, in (what his Majesty was pleased to call) right of his
wife, Earl of Desmond, an act which caused universal dissatisfaction
in Ireland,—so time-honoured a title to be bestowed on an alien. Not
content with this deed of injustice, James ordained that Preston
should become possessed of the bulk of the Irish property which
Thomas, Earl of Ormonde, had bequeathed to his successors in the
title. At his death in 1614, the King used every endeavour to persuade
Sir Walter Butler (who became eleventh Earl) to yield up his rights in
favour of Lord Desmond, but, with the true spirit of his race, he
showed a bold front to the tyrant, in consequence of which he was
thrown into the Fleet prison, where he remained in captivity for eight
years. His eldest son, Lord Thurles, married Elizabeth, daughter of
Sir John Poyntz, of Iron Acton, county Gloucester, by whom he had
James, first Duke of Ormonde, and several other children.
The subject of our notice was born in 1610 at Newcastle House, in
Clerkenwell, belonging to the Duke of that title, but inhabited at the
time by Lady Thurles’s father, Sir John Poyntz. The infant was nursed
by a carpenter’s wife at Hatfield, and remained in her charge, when
his parents returned to Ireland, till he was three years old, when
they sent for him; and the Duke used in after years to relate that he
could call to mind, even at that tender age, how he had been carried
in arms through the streets of Bristol, and what he then noticed on
the bridge. He appears to have had a most retentive memory, for he
also recollected being taken to visit Thomas, the aged Earl of
Ormonde, who was living at his estate of Carrick-upon-Suir, and who
felt a great interest in the child, not only as his future heir, but
on account of his former friendship with Sir John Poyntz. The Duke
often spoke in his later life of the impression his kinsman had made
on him: a grand old man, with sightless eyes and long white beard,
wearing his George round his neck, which he never laid aside, whether
sitting in his chair or lying on his bed. He would take the boy on his
knees and caress him, this last year of his life, for Earl Thomas died
in 1614. James lived on in Ireland with his father and mother, till
the unfortunate death of the former, who was drowned off the Skerries
on his voyage to England in 1619, _v.p._
The little Lord Thurles accompanied his mother to London the following
year, and went to school at Finchley, under a Roman Catholic priest,
who educated him in his own creed,—the actual Earl of Ormonde and all
the younger branches of the family adhering to the Church of Rome. But
Thurles was a ward of the Crown, and the King removed him from
Finchley, and transferred him to Lambeth Palace, to be brought up as a
Protestant, under Abbott, Archbishop of Canterbury. The Primate
troubled himself very little as regarded the youth’s education,
probably because he received no allowance whatever, even for the
maintenance of his pupil. To the young Lord himself James only doled
out the paltry sum of forty pounds a year for all expenses. The
biographer of the second Duke, in alluding to these circumstances,
says that ‘intelligence found means to supply the want of education.’
Even after his marriage Lord Thurles studied Latin, from his uncle’s
domestic chaplain, when on a visit to Iron Acton. He also acquired a
knowledge of the Irish language, which he found of the greatest
service to him during his government, enabling him to communicate
personally with the Irish chiefs. He became, indeed, in every way a
most accomplished gentleman; his grandfather, the stout-hearted Earl
of Ormonde, had endured imprisonment and hardship of all kinds rather
than submit to the unjust demands of the King, or surrender his lawful
rights, but at the expiration of eight years he was released, and a
great portion of his estates restored to him,—upon which he hired a
house in Drury Lane, and sent for his grandson from Lambeth Palace to
come and reside with him. Lord Thurles was delighted with his
emancipation from the dull atmosphere of the Primate’s roof. He mixed
in all the gaieties of the town, and took especial pleasure in
theatrical representations and in the society of the leading members
of the profession. He was also a frequent attendant at Court, by the
express wish of Lord Ormonde, who left him in London to make his way
in the world, while he returned to Ireland to look after the property,
which had been long neglected. The circumstances attending the
marriage and courtship of Lord Thurles were of so romantic a nature,
that we are induced to give them in detail, although reluctant to
record a stumble on the threshold of so noble a career. It was at
Court that he first saw his cousin, Lady Elizabeth Preston, daughter
to Lord Dingwall and Desmond, already mentioned, by Lady Elizabeth
Butler. She was a ward of the King’s, who had placed her under the
care of Henry, Earl of Holland, who held an office at Court. Though
very young, she had a perfect knowledge of all the family disputes,
and had been much influenced in Lord Thurles’s favour by the advice of
her kinsman, Lord Mountgarret, who not only highly commended the young
man, but pointed out to the heiress that their union would be a means
of reconciling all former difficulties. When the cousins met at Court,
Elizabeth ‘liked the person of the young Lord, which was very
handsome, his mien and manner witty, insinuating; and the vivacity of
his parts, with the sprightly turn of his wit, made the conversation
most pleasing to her.’ This was remarked on, and the King admonished
Lord Thurles not to meddle with his ward. The secret of this was that
the Duke of Buckingham had arranged with Lord Desmond that his nephew,
Lord Feilding, should espouse Lady Elizabeth Preston, with a remainder
to their heirs of her father’s titles. The said Earl of Desmond had
also received from the King the power over the wardship and marriage
of Lord Thurles, so that there seemed but little hope of the union on
which the cousins had set their hearts. But Elizabeth had the spirit
of her race. Her affections were irrevocably fixed, and she was in a
humour to say with the beautiful bride of Van Artevelde:—
‘Me shall no earthly potentate or prince
Toss, like a morsel of his broken meat,
To any suppliant: be they advised
I am in wardship to the King of kings,
God and my heart alone dispose of me.’
Now Lord Holland was inclined to further Lord Thurles’s suit, actuated
thereto, it was said, by pecuniary inducements; but the Royal commands
were not to be disobeyed, openly at least. There was one in the house,
however, who was in a position to assist the lovers, and that was Lady
Isabella Rich, Lord Holland’s daughter, Elizabeth’s chosen friend, and
sister in all but name,—a lovely, sharp-witted girl of her own age.
She admitted Lord Thurles every day, at all hours, in a clandestine
manner; nor did her parents object or interfere, but allowed her to
make a feint of herself receiving the young man’s addresses; and
implicit trust was placed by all parties in Isabella’s rectitude.
Alas for the compact! which we must believe was begun in good
faith. Lord Thurles, as we have said, was young, handsome,
agreeable,—captivating, in fact, and the _rôle_ of confidante is
proverbially dangerous. In an evil hour he forgot his loyalty to
his betrothed, and Isabella forgot her friend, herself, her duty,
and all but her infatuation for the man who was playing a double
part by the two girls. Few romances can outdo this real history in
sensational incident. Lord Desmond was drowned about the same time
as his wife died, and the latter left as her last injunction that
Elizabeth should marry her cousin, and thus restore the property
to the rightful branch,—for Lady Desmond had never been easy in
her mind over these unlawful acquisitions. Buckingham was
assassinated, and King Charles I. gave the Royal consent to the
union of the cousins; ‘and so,’ says the biographer of the great
Duke of Ormonde (who, by the way, makes very light of this
episode), ‘the marriage was joyously celebrated, and everybody
content.’ We are not informed how the unfortunate Lady Isabella
fared on the occasion; her content could not have been great; but
the _dénouement_ remains to be told, and though, as a matter of
dates, it should come much later, we think it advisable to finish
the concluding acts of the drama in this place.
Several years afterwards, when Lord Ormonde was in Paris, he went to
the Academy to visit a handsome and intelligent youth, whom he had
sent thither for his education; whereupon he sat down, and wrote a
long description of the boy to Lady Isabella (then the wife of Sir
James Thynne of Longleat), being a subject in which they had a common
interest. As ill-luck would have it, he at the same time indited a
letter to his wife, and misdirected the covers. While Lady Ormonde was
making the discovery that she had been cruelly deceived and betrayed
by the two people she at that time loved best in the world, Lady
Isabella came in, and found her reading the fatal letter.
Tears, sobs, caresses—an agitating scene—ensued. Isabella humbled
herself before the woman she had so grievously injured, and sought by
every means of fascination that she possessed, to soften her just
resentment. Lady Ormonde, generous and high-minded, almost beyond
belief, raised the suppliant, who was kneeling at her feet, with the
promise not only of forgiveness, but of unchanging friendship,—a
promise nobly kept, as we shall see later. Scarcely more marvellous is
the fact, for we cannot doubt the evidence, that Lady Ormonde not only
never upbraided her husband, but from that day kept a profound silence
on the subject. Nor was this all. Some time afterwards, when Lady
Ormonde was residing with her children at Caen, she received a letter
from Lady Isabella, who had again got herself into hot water,
recalling her promise of unchanging friendship, and asking for
shelter. The generous-hearted exile not only welcomed her old
companion to share her small house and straitened means, but allowed
her to remain for nearly two years under her roof, during which time
Lord Ormonde was a constant visitor. The destinies of the two women,
who had been early friends, but whose characters were diametrically
opposed, were strangely entangled,—Lady Isabella, being described in a
contemporary journal as ‘one of those rattle-brained ladies,’ was most
eccentric, to say the least of it, and full of ‘strange vagaries;’
while Lady Ormonde was remarkable for sound sense and judgment, and
for her dignified and stately deportment. We make an extract bearing
on this subject from the Life of Roger Boyle, Lord Broghill,
afterwards Earl of Orrery. This nobleman, who, like his father and his
brothers, was a zealous Royalist, was surprised one day at receiving a
summons from the Protector, who bluntly offered him a high command in
the army in Ireland under Government. Broghill gave for answer that
nothing should induce him to take arms against the King, his master.
‘No one asked you to do so,’ was the angry retort; ‘I offer you the
alternative of serving England against the Irish insurgents, or
proceeding without delay to the Tower of London.’
The first choice was the most palatable, and Broghill returned to
Ireland, where he continued to give proofs of his courage and martial
skill. Between him and Lord Ormonde there had been some disagreement,
but they were reconciled, and Broghill ever afterwards remained the
fast friend of both husband and wife, and, standing high in the
Protector’s favour, in consequence of his military services, more than
one opportunity presented itself of being useful to them. He had come
over from Ireland, when the Protector sent for him, and thus addressed
him: ‘If you are still interested in my Lord Ormonde’s safety, you had
better advise him to leave London. We know all about him, where he is,
what he is doing, and he had best absent himself.’
The hint was given and taken, and Lord Ormonde left England
accordingly. A short time elapsed, when one day Lady Ormonde was much
distressed at receiving a domiciliary visit from one of Cromwell’s
functionaries, who ransacked the house, and carried away every paper
he could find. She immediately sent for her faithful friend, and
besought him to intercede once more in her behalf. Broghill lost no
time; he hurried off to Whitehall, and found the autocrat in a
towering passion. ‘You have undertaken, indeed,’ he said, ‘for the
quietness of a fine person. I have allowed my Lady Ormonde £2000 a
year out of her husband’s estates, because they were sufferers in
Ireland. But I find she is a wicked woman, and I promise you she shall
pay for it.’ It was some time before Lord Broghill could gain a
hearing, but when he was permitted to speak, he asked what proof could
be adduced of Lady Ormonde’s guilt, upon which Cromwell threw him a
letter, that certainly left no doubt of the writer’s Royalist
tendencies and disaffection to the existing Government. ‘This was
found,’ said the Protector, ‘in searching the escritoire at Lord
Ormonde’s house.’ Lord Broghill could not help laughing. ‘But this,’
he observed, ‘is not the writing of my Lady Ormonde.’ ‘Indeed,’
rejoined Cromwell angrily, ‘and pray who wrote these lines?’ Bent on
saving his friends, Lord Broghill not only explained the letter was
from Lady Isabella Thynne (between whom and Lord Ormonde there had
been undoubted love passages), but he produced some other letters from
the same lady to identify the handwriting, and further proceeded to
relate several anecdotes of a most lively nature respecting her, which
turned all Cromwell’s wrath into merriment, and he laughed
immoderately. Broghill’s judicious conduct had gained his friends’
cause.
We have forestalled events in order to finish the romance of which
Lady Isabella Thynne was the heroine, and we must now turn back to the
year 1629, being that of the marriage. Lord Thurles took his bride to
the house of his maternal uncle, in Gloucestershire, where they
remained a year, and then proceeded to Carrick, in Ireland, where his
grandfather lived, and where he began his military career by
purchasing a troop of horse. He went to Scotland, and then to England,
and succeeding to the title of Ormonde on Earl Walter’s death,
returned to Ireland in 1633. There he began a life of activity, which
never ceased from that time forward. Many passages in Carte’s Life of
the ‘great Duke’ tend to confirm our previous remark, that Irish
history, more than that of any other nation, verifies the saying, ‘Que
l’histoire se répète.’
Great were the expectations raised all over the kingdom, in 1623, of
important matters to be done on the coming over of a new Lord-Deputy,
endowed with a larger measure of authority, etc. This was Lord
Wentworth, who arrived in Dublin in July 1633. Lord Ormonde did not
delay to repair thither, in order to pay his respects to my Lord
Wentworth, who, chancing to observe him from a window, as he was
crossing the Castle-yard, observed to the standers-by, ‘If I possess
any skill in physiognomy, that young man will be the chief of his
family.’
At the outset of their acquaintance, an incident occurred which
threatened to make a breach between these two high spirits, but,
instead thereof, cemented a friendship, which was only terminated by
the untimely death of Lord Strafford. During the session of the Irish
Parliament, the Lord-Deputy had found it advisable to prohibit the
Lords wearing their swords, lest, in the heat of argument, they might
have recourse to sharper weapons than those of eloquence. The order
was obeyed in every instance, save that of my Lord Ormonde, who, when
the Usher of the Black Rod insisted on his disarming, replied angrily,
marching on in a stately manner, and taking his seat in the House,
‘You shall have no sword of mine, except through your body.’ On being
summoned before the Lord-Deputy for this open act of insubordination,
he proudly drew forth the King’s warrant for his admission to the
Privy Council. The Lord-Deputy was satisfied, and the two noblemen
became fast friends. When evil days fell on Strafford, and the Irish
Parliament joined the English in hastening his downfall, Lord Ormonde
pleaded his cause in the Upper House with so much reason and eloquence
as to bias a considerable party in Strafford’s favour, at least for a
time. The letters which passed between them during the latter’s
imprisonment were couched in the most affectionate terms. Writing from
the Tower, the captive tells his friend that he has recommended him to
the King for the Lord-Deputyship of Ireland; and later he writes:
‘There is so little rest given to me, my noble Lord, that I have
scarce time to eat my bread. Your Lordship’s favours to me in my
afflictions are such as have and shall level my heart at your foot so
long as I live.’
On the eve of his execution, Strafford intrusted Archbishop Usher with
some last requests to the King, amongst which was the earnest hope
that the Earl of Ormonde should have his vacant Garter. The offer was
made; but Lord Ormonde declined, saying that his loyalty needed no
such stimulus, and that the honour might be more advantageously
bestowed for the King’s service.
At the breaking out of the Irish rebellion, the King wished to appoint
him Lord-Deputy, but was overruled by the Parliament, which had
resolved on Lord Leicester. He was however selected by the
Lords-Justices in Ireland for the chief command of the forces in that
country. The appointment was an excellent one. He was successful
against the rebels for a considerable period, and his services were
(for a time) duly appreciated by the English Commons, who voted a
large sum of money to purchase him a jewel of great value. They also
recommended him to the King for the Garter, an honour that was
bestowed later on a most deserving knight. Ormonde was indeed as
chivalrous as he was brave, keeping good faith with his savage
adversaries; and a noble answer given by him is worthy to be recorded
here. One of the native chiefs threatened to take reprisals on Lady
Ormonde and his family. ‘My wife and dear ones,’ said the General,
‘are in your power; but for myself, I should never be dastardly enough
to revenge any offence they received on the women and children of my
enemies.’
After a while his popularity began to wane, and he became a mark for
jealousy and calumny on both sides of St. George’s Channel. The
Lords-Justices thwarted him in his campaigns, and stinted him in
supplies, and the Lord-Deputy Leicester never let slip an opportunity
of doing him an evil turn, both in public and private. The King,
however, remained his staunch friend, and wrote him a most flattering
letter, renewing his command of the army, and raising him to the grade
of a Marquis. The account of the Irish rebellion would, and indeed
has, filled many a large volume, and concerns history rather than
biography. We cannot do more than glance at events, in which Lord
Ormonde himself bore so distinguished a part. After giving the most
striking proofs of valour, patriotism, and loyalty in his encounters
with the insurgents, under difficulties of almost unparalleled
hardship, want of supplies, provisions, and the like, he found himself
compelled to agree to a cessation of arms for twelve months. The news
of this treaty was received with much disapprobation in England, and
was represented by the enemies of Ormonde and of the King, as ‘an
unseasonable and unnecessary concession;’ but Charles was duly
impressed with the honour and ability of his faithful servant, and
resolved to make him Lord-Lieutenant in the stead of Lord Leicester.
The gallant General was unwilling to accept the post, but was
persuaded to do so, ‘without much hope, indeed, of serving the Crown,
or remedying many of the disorders.’
During his tenure of office, political and religious factions were at
their height in this most unhappy country, and intrigues on both sides
of St. George’s Channel were carried on against the Lord-Lieutenant,
paralysing his efforts, till he had no choice but to conclude a
peace,—a peace that was no peace. Conspiracies of all kinds were
hatched,—and one in particular was discovered, the aim of which was to
seize the person of Lord Ormonde in his own castle of Kilkenny, whence
he escaped with much difficulty to Dublin, where he was besieged by
the insurgents. He held out till all his supplies were exhausted, and
he had lost every hope of redress. The King was a prisoner in the
hands of the Roundheads, who had sent over Commissioners to Ireland;
there was no choice left for Ormonde but to surrender to the Irish, or
English rebels. He chose the latter alternative, and, delivering up
the keys to the Commissioners, embarked for England, followed by the
prayers and good wishes of the well-affected among the citizens, but
more especially of the poorer clergy, whose wives and children had
been saved from starvation by his bounty and that of his excellent
wife. He reached England, went first to Iron Acton, gained a pass from
General Fairfax which gave him access to the King (then a prisoner in
his own palace of Hampton Court), and hired a lodging at
Kingston-on-Thames, in order to remain in the vicinity. He had
frequent intercourse with his Royal master, who fully appreciated all
his devoted friend and subject had dared and done for his service, and
reiterated his opinion that no one else was qualified to fill the post
of Viceroy of Ireland. But this view of the case did not fall in with
the notions of those in authority, and Ormonde received intimation to
the effect that it would be advisable for him to leave England, which
he accordingly did, and, crossing to Dieppe, proceeded to Paris, to
join the Queen, Henrietta Maria, and the Prince of Wales.
While residing in the French capital, Lord Ormonde kept up a
continuous correspondence with the loyalists in Scotland, and more
especially with the influential leaders in Ireland. There had existed
a feud between the Lords Ormonde and Inchiquin and Lord Broghill,
General of the Horse, but it was not difficult to bring about a
reconciliation between three devoted servants of the Crown. Lord
Ormonde was at length prevailed on by the wishes of the Queen and
Prince, as also by the earnest solicitations of the Royalists in
Ireland, to return to that country, and resume his post as
Lord-Lieutenant. He had, during his stay in Paris, entered into
communication with many leading members of the Roman Catholic
religion, with a view to a pacification between the two opposing
creeds on his return, and had also endeavoured to raise at the French
Court a sufficient sum to insure him proper supplies; but in this
respect he was wofully disappointed, and he landed in Cork with the
miserable sum of thirty French pistoles in his military chest.
Everything was against him in Dublin,—the hands of the
Parliamentarians, Cromwell’s emissaries spread far and wide over the
country, while Prince Rupert, who commanded a Royalist fleet on the
coast, was less assistance than detriment to the cause, from his
unceasing jealousy and rivalry of other officials. The news of the
King’s execution was received with consternation by his partisans in
Scotland and Ireland, and with profound grief by Lord Ormonde, who
caused the Prince of Wales to be instantly proclaimed, and wrote off
to him urging the advisability of his coming over in person,—a scheme
which was not carried out. The Lord-Lieutenant was now engaged in
negotiations of a pacific nature with the so-called ‘old Irish party’
(headed by Phelim O’Neill, and other leading Roman Catholics), and he
concentrated all his energies on gaining possession of Dublin. But the
death of O’Neill, the arrival of Cromwell with a large body of troops,
and the number of desertions, all conduced to render his position
untenable. He only waited for the King’s sanction to leave Ireland,
and once more embarked for France, where, after a most tempestuous
voyage, he joined his wife and children at Caen, and passed many
months between that temporary home and Paris, where he finally joined
the king, as a regular attendant, after Charles’s escape from the
battle of Worcester.
Ormonde was now reduced to the greatest straits, having but one
pistole a week for his board, and being obliged ‘to go afoot, which is
not considered reputable in Paris;’ added to which, his wife found it
impossible to live on at Caen, even in the modest style to which she
had lately been accustomed; and the King had nothing to spare out of
his scanty pittance to assist his friends. In these trying
circumstances, it was arranged that Lady Ormonde should go to England
in person, and endeavour to gain some redress from Parliament. It was
no agreeable errand, but the lady was well qualified to act with
spirit and determination, tempered by tact; and she did not shrink
from the undertaking.
Her dignity of demeanour and her courage were proverbial. It had been
said of her that she had the spirit of old Earl Thomas; and she knew
how to inspire Cromwell with respect. In her interviews he always
treated her with the greatest consideration, and accompanied her
downstairs to her coach or chair, although she was kept long in
suspense about her financial demands, and the great man often answered
her arguments by a shrug of the shoulders. It may not come into the
proper place, as far as dates are concerned, but, speaking of her
relations with the Protector, we must allude to an audience she had of
him later. Cromwell was very jealous of the growing power and
popularity of Lord Ossory, and although he had already granted him a
pass to travel beyond seas, he suddenly thought it safer to have him
seized, and sent to the Tower. His mother immediately proceeded to
Whitehall, or wherever Cromwell was holding his reception at the time,
and asked her son’s freedom, saying she knew not who were his
accusers, or of what crime they accused him, but that she would answer
with her life for her son’s innocence. Cromwell begged to be excused
giving her an answer, but observed he had much more reason to be
afraid of her than of anybody else.
‘I desire no favour,’ said the noble petitioner aloud, before the
hundreds who were present on the occasion, ‘but do consider it strange
that I, who have never been implicated in any plot, and never said a
word against the Protector, should be considered so terrible a
person!’
‘No, madam, that is not exactly the case,’ replied Oliver; ‘but your
worth has gained you so great an influence over all the commanders of
our party, and we know so well your power over the other side, that it
is in your Ladyship’s breast to act what you please.’
The incident speaks well for both parties, and Oliver, with all his
faults, had learned to respect a noble woman when he encountered one,
being blest as he was in his wife and mother. After many delays and
heartburnings, the Parliament authorised Lady Ormonde to receive from
the Irish Commissioners a yearly income for herself and children of
£2000 out of her own inheritance, together with the house of
Donnemore, near Kilkenny, for their residence.
Here she took up her abode, and never saw her Lord again till the
Restoration. The treaty which was concluded between the Protector and
the Court of France rendered it imperative on the English King to
leave Paris, and, accordingly, accompanied by Ormonde, he proceeded to
Spa (to meet his sister, the Princess of Orange), and afterwards to
Aix-la-Chapelle and Cologne.
From the latter place he despatched Lord Ormonde to Paris on an errand
of trust and difficulty. The young Duke of Gloucester had been sent to
the French capital with a hardly-wrung permission from Oliver to
pursue his education under the auspices of his mother, who had pledged
her word to the King not to tamper with the boy’s religion,—an oath
which Henrietta Maria evidently thought ‘more honoured in the breach
than the observance.’
She accordingly separated the Duke from his Protestant tutor, and
placed him under the care of a Jesuit priest, where she frequently
visited him, and by alternate coaxing and threatening strove to bring
her child over to her own creed. The boy stood firm, and declared he
would never disobey his father’s last injunctions, but the Queen’s
menace of never seeing his face again grieved his affectionate nature
so much as to injure his health. Ormonde arrived in Paris, armed with
the King’s authority to convey the Duke of Gloucester to Cologne, but
the necessary funds for travelling expenses were not forthcoming, so
the Duke went to reside for a time in Paris with Lord Hatton, a firm
Royalist and faithful Protestant. Lord Ormonde was not one to be
baffled in any undertaking in which he was engaged: he pawned his
Garter, and the jewel which the Parliament had given him, to defray
the cost of the journey; and he set out with his young charge,
travelling for safety _via_ Antwerp, where he was like to have died of
a fever. At length, however, he placed the youth under the protection
of the King, his brother, and they remained together till the
Restoration took them to England.
So temperately and judiciously had Lord Ormonde conducted this affair,
that the King was deeply grateful to him, and he still kept a
tolerable hold on the good graces of the Queen, and was, indeed,
afterwards instrumental in bringing about a reconciliation between
mother and son. He was now employed in several diplomatic missions of
importance, especially with the Court of Spain, and he ventured into
England, at the risk of life and freedom, in order to communicate with
the Royalists at home. He landed on the coast of Essex in disguise,
and went to London, where he lay _perdu_, only venturing out at
nightfall, and running the gauntlet of many dangers and adventures,
which were not without some charm for a man of his spirit.
We cannot refrain from alluding to an incident, which, though in
reality trivial, has a laughable side, and there has been little that
is laughable to record in the life of Lord Ormonde. He often changed
his lodgings, and was constantly reconnoitring the premises with a
view to escape, changing his clothes, generally lying down dressed. He
had an aversion to wearing a periwig, so a friend gave him a dye to
turn his own hair black, but the lotion was badly mixed, and the
ingredients deleterious, so that poor Lord Ormonde’s head was not only
scalded, but his hair came out in party-coloured patches of every
variegated hue, more likely to attract than elude observation.
He returned to Paris, having proved, what was already undoubted, his
courage and zeal to the King’s service, but with no other good result.
His presence in the French capital was almost as dangerous as it had
been in London, for Cromwell had set a price upon his head, and the
Cardinal Mazarin, who was then Prime Minister, was by no means
insensible to the charms of money.
The liberality of Lord Ormonde, even in his straitened circumstances,
had like on one occasion to have been productive of unfortunate
results, and the incident teaches a lesson of the necessity of
studying the peculiar manners and customs of foreign countries in
contradistinction to our own. Lord Ormonde was much respected and
courted by the French nobility, to one of whom he paid a visit near
St. Germains, and on his departure, according to the well-known
English fashion of ‘vails’ or parting gifts, he presented the _maître
d’hôtel_ with ten pistoles, being the whole contents of his purse.
Riding onward, as we may imagine rather disconsolately, the Marquis
was startled by the sound of wheels driving furiously; and, looking
back, perceived his late host’s coach gaining on him. He reined in his
steed, sprang from the saddle, and embraced his friend, who alighted
at the same moment. Lord Ormonde was surprised at a decided coldness
in the Frenchman’s manner and tone of voice, as he said, ‘After you
left the château, I heard a great disturbance among the servants of my
household, and, inquiring into the cause, found them all quarrelling
over their share of the money which your Lordship, for some
inexplicable motive, had given to my _maître d’hôtel_. I am come to
ask if you found any fault with your treatment in my house?’
‘On the contrary,’ warmly responded Lord Ormonde.
‘Then why did you treat it as an inn? I pay my servants well to wait
on me and my guests. I do not know, my Lord, if this be the custom in
your country, but assuredly it is not so with us. Here are the ten
pistoles, which I have rescued from my servants’ grasp; you must
either take them back at my hands, or else your Lordship must give me
on the spot that satisfaction which no gentleman can refuse another.’
We may believe the affair turned into one of laughter rather than of
‘honour,’ when Lord Ormonde explained that in his country such
amenities were invariably practised by guests at leave-taking.
The King of England was now at Brussels, hampered and entangled by
fruitless negotiations with foreign powers, and he sent for his right
hand, Lord Ormonde.
Short cuts are proverbially dangerous, and so thought the Marquis,
who, taking horse, rode from Paris, _via_ Lyons and Geneva, through
the Palatinate to Brussels, where he joined the King, who, failing in
his Spanish views, had formed an idea of marrying the daughter of
Frederic Henry, the Stadtholder. But the Dowager Princess of Orange,
who was very powerful at her son’s Court, opposed the design so
strongly that the match was prevented.
Meanwhile Lord Ormonde’s eldest son, the Earl of Ossory, fell in love
with Emilia, daughter of Louis de Nassau, Lord of Auverquerque, a
natural son of Maurice, Prince of Orange. Louis was much esteemed,
both for character and position, and had considerable weight in the
Assembly of the States. At first he was persistent in his demands that
Lord Ormonde should come forward with good settlements, but, being
made to understand the state of Irish affairs, he was content to
accept what Lord Ossory’s mother (who could deny nothing to her
first-born) contrived to spare out of her hardly gained pittance.
Moreover, he found the young couple were devotedly attached, and that
Ossory had refused a more advantageous marriage with the daughter of
the Earl of Southampton, in consequence of his preference for Emilia;
and so the marriage was arranged, Lord Ormonde himself nothing loath
that his son’s happiness should be assured by a connection which he
hoped might also prove beneficial to the King’s interests. One of Lord
Ossory’s daughters married Auverquerque, Earl of Grantham, and their
daughter, Henrietta (eventually sole heiress to her grandfather),
married the second Lord Cowper. From this lady the present Earl lays
claim, not only to titles and estates, but to a lineal descent from
the illustrious patriot, William the Silent.
Better times were in store, of however short duration. The Restoration
was at hand, and Ormonde, as may have been expected, was one of those
faithful friends whom the King ‘delighted to honour.’ He was made Lord
Steward of the Household, Duke of Ormonde in the peerage of Ireland,
Earl of Brecknock and Baron Lantony in that of England, and all his
estates, dignities, and privileges in the sister country of which he
had been deprived, restored to him, though, as far as emolument went,
some were scarcely more than nominal. He walked at the coronation as
Lord Steward, and carried St. Edward’s crown. The Viceroyalty of
Ireland, having been offered to and declined by the Duke of Albemarle,
was next proffered to the Duke of Ormonde, who undertook the thankless
task with eyes sharpened by long experience; and in so doing he
remarked to a friend: ‘Besides many other disadvantages, there are two
proper to me—one of the contending parties believing that I owe them
more kindness and protection than I find myself chargeable with, and
the other suspecting I entertain that prejudice to them from which I
am free. This temper will be attended undeniably in them with clamour
and scandal upon my most equal and wary deportment,’—a prophecy which
was too soon and too exactly fulfilled. The Lord-Lieutenant was
received with great pomp and splendour, and a sum of several thousands
voted to facilitate his acceptance of the dignity; but a year had not
elapsed before a deeply-laid plot was discovered to seize the Castle
of Dublin and the person of his Excellency; and though the principal
conspirators were arrested, and some executed, the arch-traitor Blood,
who was one of them, escaped, with a vow of vengeance in his heart
against the Duke, as will be seen hereafter.
Once more in straits for troops for the King’s service, and money to
pay them, Ormonde wrote to the Duke of Albemarle, asking for five
hundred men, to which request he got the unsatisfactory reply, that
Monk himself had not that number in his whole army upon whose fidelity
he could rely. Ormonde, however, was not discouraged, as we shall see
by an extract from the author already quoted, speaking of all the
difficulties with which the Lord-Lieutenant had to contend. ‘He was
not less indefatigable and prudent than his enemies were
indefatigable, industrious, and artful, but turned his whole thoughts
to raising the distressed kingdom of Ireland, both in character and
circumstances. He gave the greatest encouragement to learning,
fostered trade, and revived the linen manufacture, which had been
founded by Lord Strafford.’ It seems strange that the Irish, who are
among the best and most skilful artificers of any nation, should
scarcely ever have persisted in any manufacture, among the many that
have been set on foot at different times, with the exception of this
branch, in which they have for so many years been paramount. The Duke
also advocated for Ireland the advantages of free trade to all foreign
nations, in peace and war; for no ingratitude on the part of his
countrymen ever induced Ormonde to neglect their interests in matters
ecclesiastical, civil, or military. Added to which, he made the most
liberal sacrifices of his own personal property to advance the
interests of the King and the country he ruled; yet notwithstanding,
he was made the mark for calumny and persecution, in England as well
as in Ireland, and the Duke of Buckingham hated and envied him, and
meditated an impeachment, while Lords Arlington and Shaftesbury were
most inimical to him, neither was he a favourite with the
Queen-Mother, in spite of all the services he had rendered her.
Another formidable adversary was Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine,
afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, the rapacious mistress of Charles
II., who had given her the Lodge in Phœnix Park, Dublin. The
Lord-Lieutenant refused to confirm the grant, stopped the warrant,
declaring that it was the proper summer quarter for himself and his
successors in office. Barbara, as may be expected, never forgave this
interference. Meeting the Duke one day while he was in London, in the
precincts of the Court, she fell on him with abusive and insulting
words, and concluded by saying she devoutly wished she might live to
see him hanged. His Grace listened with a calm, imperturbable smile to
these ravings, and said he was not in such hot haste to put an end to
her Ladyship’s existence; he should be quite content to live long
enough to see her old and ugly. Neither did the faithful friendship
which existed between the Duke and the Earl of Clarendon, whose star
was now waning, redound to the worldly advantage of the former.
He made more than one journey to England to give an account of his
stewardship to the King, as also to look after his own interests, well
knowing what numbers were plotting against him. Burnet, Pepys, Evelyn,
all pay their tribute to the Duke during his residence in London at
this time, when Charles, who esteemed him in his heart, was too weak
to uphold him against his arrogant favourite and his other slanderers.
Pepys says: ‘I do hear that my Lord of Ormonde shall not hold his
government of Ireland any longer, which shows the power of Buckingham
and the poor spirit of the King, and the little hold that any man can
have of him.’ Again: ‘This day I do hear that my Lord Ormonde is to be
declared in Council no more Lord-Deputy of Ireland; his time of
commission having expired, the King is prevailed with to take it out
of his hands, which people do mightily admire’ (how many meanings may
lie in the same word!), ‘saying he is the greatest subject of any
Prince in Christendom, and hath done more for his Prince than any ever
yet did, but he must down, it seems: the Duke of Buckingham carries
all before him;’ and so forth. But the machinations of his enemies
succeeded. Lord Robartes reigned in his stead, while the Duchess went
over to Dublin to break up the establishment, and received an ovation
from the people there. Oxford, of which University the Duke had been
made Chancellor, came forward to show him all the respect he deserved,
but no longer received, at the hands of the weak-spirited Charles,
whom he continued to serve so faithfully. Archbishop Sheldon, speaking
of the Duke’s firmness and temper, which he showed in the melancholy
occasion of his disfavour at Court, says it insured the admiration of
all bystanders beyond everything he had ever done before,—indeed it
was the most glorious part of his life. One of the principal causes of
the King’s coldness was the resolution Ormonde had formed, and from
which he never swerved: he would not truckle to those female harpies
who were ruining the King not only in his pocket, but in the
estimation of his people. So dignified was Ormonde’s demeanour that
Buckingham asked Charles, ‘Will your Majesty answer me one question:
Is it the Duke who is out of favour with the King, or the King with
the Duke? for, upon my word, it is your Majesty who looks most out of
countenance when you are together.’
People who were not cognisant of the real state of affairs at Court
would sometimes ask him to intercede for some favour, which caused him
to reply: ‘I have no longer the power to help, only to hurt.’ One day
Carey Dillon, afterwards Lord Roscommon, came and requested the Duke
to assist him with the King in some private affair, saying, ‘I have no
friends but God and yourself.’ ‘Alas!’ said Ormonde, ‘poor Carey, I
pity thee; thou couldst not have two friends who have less interest at
Court or less respect shown them there.’
The Prince of Orange being over in England, the Duke had been in
attendance on his Highness at a banquet given by the City of London,
and was returning to Clarendon House, where he then lived, in his
coach, which was so large that he had caused iron spikes to be placed
at the back, lest his footmen should get up, and make it too heavy for
the horses; so six of them walked by the side; but, in spite of this
escort, the coach was stopped by the notorious Blood and several
accomplices, who had been on the watch in St. James’s Street. They
dragged out the Duke, and placed him behind a horseman, tightly bound
by a rope, with orders that the prisoner should be conveyed to Tyburn,
while Blood galloped on in front to prepare the gallows, with his own
hands, for the execution of the man he detested. But Ormonde made a
stalwart resistance; he struggled so violently as to impede the
progress of the horseman, and at length, getting his foot under the
stirrup, upset his captor, and they both rolled off together on the
pavement. Meantime the coachman had hastened home, alarmed the
servants, with whom he tore off in pursuit, and by the light (not of
the stars of heaven, but) of the star which the Duke wore, and which
glittered in the flicker of the lamps, they found the struggling pair,
and, rescuing their beloved master, conveyed him home almost
senseless. It was naturally supposed that Blood would suffer condign
punishment; but to the surprise of all—saving, perhaps, the Duke of
Buckingham and the Duchess of Cleveland—the King not only pardoned
him, but gave him later on an estate in Ireland! It was currently
believed at Court that Buckingham had a hand in this attempt on
Ormonde’s life, and Lord Ossory taxed him with it one day at Court.
‘I give you warning,’ said the eager young man, ‘that if my father
comes to a violent death by the hand of a ruffian, or by secret way of
poison, I shall not be at a loss to know who is the author, but
consider you the assassin, and whenever I meet you will pistol you,
though it be behind the King’s chair. And I tell you this in his
Majesty’s presence, that you may know I will keep my word,’—a threat
which the blustering Duke seems to have found himself obliged to put
up with; at all events, it was said that when Blood was tried for
stealing the Regalia, he accused Buckingham on this count; and the
King, whose unreasonable clemency with respect to the villain has
always remained a mystery, sent to beg Ormonde’s forgiveness for
Blood. The Duke replied to the messenger: ‘If the King can forgive him
for stealing his crown, I may easily forgive him for attempting my
life.’
In order to be near his service at Court, the Duke had taken a house
near Windsor, and, being in great favour with the Queen and the
Duchess of York, was often summoned to play at basset with them. One
Sunday, the card-table being brought out, the Queen invited him to
play.
‘I hope your Majesty will excuse me,’ he said.
‘You surely can have no scruples,’ observed the Queen, not best
pleased; ‘nobody else has any.’
‘I beg your Majesty’s pardon,’ was the reply; ‘Christian, and even
Jewish, laws, set apart one day in seven for the service of God, and
cessation from business.’
Undoubtedly at this Court card-playing was a business, and one in no
way profitable to the impoverished state of the Duke’s fortune. We do
not know if it were at Windsor or in London, but, after having been
slighted for so long by the King, Ormonde frequently asked leave to
retire from Court. He one day received the astounding intelligence
that his Majesty would sup with his Grace. The cause of this sudden
step was to announce the Royal intention of reinstating the Duke of
Ormonde in the viceregal power in Ireland, Charles being thereto
instigated, it was said, by the Duke of York, who feared the post
might be offered to the Duke of Monmouth. We are inclined to believe
that it was on this occasion that the Duchess prepared so sumptuous a
repast as to call forth a lengthened description in Carte’s life of
her husband: ‘If she had a fault, ‘twas the height of her spirit,
which put her upon doing everything in a magnificent manner, without
regard for expense.’ Bent on giving his Majesty a noble entertainment,
the Duchess consulted her steward, who expostulated, as in duty bound,
and counselled greater economy; but her Grace drew herself up, and
observed with much dignity: ‘You must allow me to be a better judge of
what is fitting for my own sphere;’ and so the banquet cost over
£2000!—if we may trust the biographer so often quoted. The Duke, who
loved her dearly, never interfered with her financial arrangements,
though he must often have had reason to regret them.
He was once betrayed into a melancholy jest on this subject. The
Duchess had built Dunmore Castle for her jointure-house, at a large
cost, and one day, as the Duke was walking with a friend on the leads
of Kilkenny Castle, which commanded a fine view of the surrounding
country, the new castle and grounds forming a conspicuous object in
the landscape,—‘Your Grace,’ observed his companion, smiling, ‘has
done a great deal here; but yonder you have _done more_.’
‘Alas!’ replied the Duke, ‘my wife has done so much, that she has
undone me.’
The history of his return to power was but a repetition of all that
had gone before. Fresh plots against his authority and his life, fresh
outbreaks of religious strife between Catholics and Protestants,
continued undermining of his interests in England; but no public
trouble could be compared with the crushing sorrow occasioned by the
death of his eldest son, Lord Ossory, in the prime of life, in the
zenith of his reputation. We have no space to enlarge on the merits of
this noble son of a noble father; he has been immortalised in the
pages of that father’s faithful friend, Lord Clarendon. Suffice it to
say, that all England and Ireland sympathised with the afflicted
parents. The Duchess appears never to have entirely rallied, for
though her death did not occur till some years later, her health began
to fail, and she went over to Bath for the benefit of the waters. In
1684, of fever and weakness, this most remarkable woman, the ‘best
helpmate man ever was blessed with,’ died, at the age of sixty-nine,
having married when only fourteen.
Her guardian, Lord Holland, had so far neglected her education, that
she had never even learned to write, but she taught herself by copying
print, which was the reason her letters were never joined together. In
appearance she was tall and well made, but not a beauty; an excellent
capacity for business, good sense and judgment, and, as we have said
before, an undaunted spirit, which fitted her for all the vicissitudes
of her eventful life. Irreproachable in her own conduct, she avoided
the society of the King’s favourites, and ‘would never wait on the
Duchess of Cleveland,’ who was her enemy in consequence. The Duchess
of Portsmouth would take no denial, and when the Ormondes lived near
Windsor would always be calling, and once she sent word she was coming
to dine. The Duchess, on receiving this semi-royal intimation,
despatched her granddaughters, who were staying with her, to London,
and when ‘La Quérouaille’ arrived she found no one to sit with her at
table, with the exception of the Duke and Duchess, and their domestic
chaplain; whereas, when the Duke of York married Lady Anne Hyde, and
few were found to pay her court, the Duchess of Ormonde waited on the
bride, and, kneeling, kissed her hand, as to a Princess of the blood.
Queen Catherine esteemed the Duchess of Ormonde highly, none the less,
doubtless, for the slights she put upon ‘The Castlemaine,’ and made
her a present of her own and the King’s portraits, set in large
diamonds, which their Majesties had exchanged at the Royal marriage.
This jewel was given by the Duke to his grandson’s wife, Lady Mary
Somerset, who was compelled to sell it for subsistence at the
Revolution, when her husband’s estates passed away from him.
The Duke was in England when his wife died, and was inconsolable;
‘indeed, when alone at night, he was almost distracted.’ The only
solace he found was in constant work, and he hurried over to Dublin to
resume his duties; in the meantime, Charles II., who had lately made
him an English Duke, was besieged, as before, with applications once
more to deprive his faithful servant of the Lord-Lieutenancy. For a
while he stood firm, saying he had one of his kingdoms in good hands,
and was resolved to keep it so; and another time, being asked by my
Lord Arlington if the report were true that the Duke was to be
recalled, his Majesty replied with much anger, ‘It is a damned lie!’
But no one could trust in the steadfastness of the ‘Merry Monarch.’
Ormonde’s enemy, Colonel Talbot, made a report on Irish affairs, which
Charles took hold of as a plea for the Duke’s recall. Sir Robert
Southwell wrote to Dublin to give him warning of the King’s decision.
‘They begin early,’ was the reply, ‘to find fault with my conduct,
before I am warm in my post here, or my head recovered from the
agitation of the sea.’
Charles II. died suddenly, but James lost no time in carrying out his
brother’s intention; Ormonde was superseded by Lord Clarendon, the
King’s father-in-law, and he had in turn to make way for Ormonde’s
bitter enemy, Colonel Talbot, who, in 1687, was made Earl of
Tyrconnell and Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. His Majesty paid the Duke
the scanty compliment of asking him to remain in his post at Court,
which he did, and again carried the Crown at the Coronation.
In February 1686 he went to stay a while at Cornbury, a beautifully
situated forest lodge in Oxfordshire, lent him by his friend, Lord
Clarendon, whence he waited on the King at Bristol; and, being
afterwards laid up with gout and rheumatism at Badminton, James
visited him twice in person, and condescended to request him to
continue his place at Court, though unable to attend. The Duke then
proceeded to Kingston Hall, a country house he had hired in
Dorsetshire, where he died.
The constant society of his faithful friends, Sir Robert Southwell,
and the Bishop of Worcester, who had been his domestic chaplain,
cheered his last days, and he took much delight in seeing little Lord
Thurles, his great-grandson, playing about the room, or in taking the
child on his knee to caress him. One day, appearing more than usually
downcast, he was asked the reason. ‘This is the anniversary of the
saddest day of my life,’ replied the Duke,—‘the day on which I lost my
beloved wife.’
He had always been of a religious turn of mind, never entering on any
new duty, or assuming any responsibility, without writing for himself
special prayers to be used on the occasion. He attended family prayers
twice a day up to the very last, received the Sacrament, selecting his
fellow-communicants, and took a tender leave of his servants, thanking
them for their fidelity, and regretting he had nothing to leave them,
beyond a recommendation in his will to his successor. His attendants
were lifting him from one side of the bed to the other when his noble
spirit passed away, gently, silently, without a groan or struggle.
He had eight sons, all of whom he survived, and two daughters: of his
sons, five died very young, and one under peculiar (we are tempted to
say national) circumstances. The boy was taking an airing in the
Phœnix Park, when the horses took fright and ran away, and the _Irish_
nurse, anxious to save the life of her little charge, flung him
headlong from the window!
In appearance the first Duke of Ormonde was tall, well-shaped, and
inclined to _embonpoint_; his complexion was fair, which gained for
him the nickname among the Irish of Bawn. He was plain, but elegant,
in his dress, especially at Court, when people began to be slovenly;
he wore his hat without a button, uncocked, as it came from the block,
after the fashion of his Majesty. But he was given to pomp on state
occasions; the service of the Viceregal Court was simply
splendid,—numbers of coaches, horses, and retainers. In travelling he
always carried his staff of office with him, and when they came to a
town, his gentleman (bareheaded) bore it through the streets, before
his Grace’s coach. He used often to revert in after days to an
incident which might well ‘point a moral’ on the danger of that
offence, so frequently considered venial,—a white lie. One time, when
Lord Ormonde was in France, it was deemed necessary he should go over
suddenly and secretly to Ireland for the King’s service, and he
accordingly embarked in a small boat, on a stormy day. ‘The master
came up to his noble passenger during the voyage, and inquired the
hour, and Lord Ormonde, being very anxious to make as quick a passage
as possible, told the man an hour later than the real time. The
consequence was, that the skipper miscalculated the time of the tide
and the boat was wrecked, split in two on the rocks, and Lord Ormonde
had to take to the cock-boat, and, finally, to be carried ashore on
the shoulders of the seamen. There was no help at hand, for the good
people of Havre were all at church, it being a festival. Thus, in
consequence of a white lie, told with an excellent motive, the whole
crew were nearly drowned, and the delay so great as to endanger the
success of the undertaking in which Lord Ormonde was engaged.
We will end a notice, which has had little that is cheerful or
exhilarating in its pages, with a repartee which the Duke made to a
friend of the family, one Mr. Cottington, who lived near Dublin, and
had a pretty house on the sea-shore. The Duke’s third son, Lord
Gowran, a most genial and popular member of society, who had given his
father much anxiety on account of the laxity of his morals, had
presented Mr. Cottington with a set of the Ten Commandments to place
over the altar in his new chapel at his marine villa. Much delighted,
and doubtless edified, by so appropriate a donation, Mr. Cottington
expressed his gratification to the Duke, who thus answered him: ‘I
think I can guess at the nature of my son’s generosity; he can easily
part with things he does not intend to keep!’
------------------
_No. 9._
PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_Black velvet suit. Battle-axe and armour beside him. His hand rests
on a table. Landscape in background._
------------------
_No. 10._
DUTCH LADY. UNKNOWN.
_Black dress. White ruff and cap. Standing by a table, on which
she rests her hand._
------------------
_No. 11._
MARY TUDOR, QUEEN OF ENGLAND.
_Dress of white and gold brocade. Dark bodice. Small ruff. Her hands
are clasped._
BORN 1516, SUCCEEDED 1553, DIED 1558.
------------------
_No. 12._
CARDINAL TRENTO.
_In Cardinal’s robes. Sitting in an arm-chair._
BORN 1728, DIED 1784.
BY TINTORETTO.
HIEROME Trento came of a noble family in Padua, and, at the age of
eighteen, entered the Order of the Jesuits at Bologna. He was zealous
and pious in his calling, and unambitious by nature, although he
attained to the honours of the Cardinalate. He died in the performance
of his duty, while concluding one of the Lent services in the church
of San Leone, at Venice. His posthumous works, treating of religion
and morality, were published almost immediately after his death.
------------------
_No. 13._
LOUVE VAN WALTA.
He married the daughter of Jarich van Botnia, who was ancestor to Lady
Henrietta Auverquerque, daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and first
wife to the second Earl Cowper.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
NORTH LIBRARY.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
NORTH LIBRARY.
-------
_No. 1._
THE HONOURABLE PENISTON, WILLIAM, AND FREDERIC LAMB, THREE SONS OF THE
FIRST VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_In a garden, the eldest in dark satin coat and velvet breeches. His
arm round the youngest child, who is standing on a boulder in a
white frock. He is also supported by the second brother, dressed
in a light-coloured suit. A hat and feathers lying on the ground._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
THIS picture was painted for Lord Melbourne, to whom it did not give
satisfaction, and he returned it to Sir Joshua. It was engraved by the
title of ‘The Affectionate Brothers.’ Peter Leopold, fifth Lord
Cowper, bought it from the painter’s executors for £800.
------------------
_No. 2._
PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_Black suit._
BY BOL.
------------------
_No. 3._
A LADY IN THE DRESS OF THE REIGN OF HENRY VIII.
------------------
_No. 4._
PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_In armour._
------------------
_No. 5._
RAPHAEL MENGS.
_Greenish coat. Red collar. Own hair._
BORN 1728, DIED 1779.
BY HIMSELF.
BORN at Aussig, in Bohemia, the second son of Ismael Mengs, a native
of Copenhagen, miniature painter to Augustus the Strong, King of
Poland. Ismael brought up his boys as painters; he gave them, when
quite children, nothing but pencils for playthings, keeping them at
work sometimes for sixteen hours a day. After a while the eldest son
rebelled against this close application, and made his escape from
home, taking refuge with the Jesuits at Prague; but Raphael inherited
his father’s love of art, and laboured diligently.
In 1740 Ismael took him to Rome, where the same rigid course of study
was enforced; the youth was constantly locked up in the Vatican with
his work cut out for him,—to copy Raphael, Michael Angelo, or the
antique the whole day long, with a loaf of bread and a pitcher of
water. On the days passed at home, the father kept his son a prisoner
in the same manner, and would go out for hours on his own concerns,
with the key of the room in his pocket. These early lessons of
industry and application bore ample fruit in the future life of this
indefatigable painter. Returning to Dresden, the young man’s miniature
copies of Raphael, and some excellent portraits in pastel, pleased
King Augustus so much that he appointed Raphael Mengs his
Painter-in-Ordinary, with a considerable salary. To his Majesty’s
surprise, and the great displeasure of Count Brühl, Raphael declined,
on the plea that he was too young for such a post. Rome had great
attractions for him, and thither he returned. He painted a ‘Holy
Family,’ which gained him much credit, the original of Our Lady being
a beautiful girl, Margaret Guazzi by name, the child of poor parents,
and as good as she was beautiful. The young painter became a proselyte
to the Roman Catholic faith, and married his lovely model, nor had
ever cause to repent his choice. He remained at Rome several years,
painting assiduously, and studying in the Hospital of San Spirito; it
was in obedience to his father’s wishes that he returned to Dresden,
with much regret, and was obliged by so doing to forfeit many
advantageous commissions. Old Ismael, whose nature was violent and
cruel, repaid his son’s devotion by turning him, his wife, and infant
child into the streets on some trifling disagreement. The story came
to the King’s ears, and he once more offered the rejected post to
young Mengs, with an increased salary, a house, and carriage. This
time the Royal bounty was accepted with gratitude, for Raphael was now
a husband and a father. The King was at that time employed in building
the Catholic church at Dresden, where the Royal Family still carry on
their separate worship,—it being one of the few (is it not the only?)
capitals where the Court and the subjects profess a different creed.
Raphael Mengs painted the lateral altars, and had a commission for the
high altar-piece; but the longing was upon him, in no way singular, to
return to Rome, and he pleaded that he would execute the order far
better in Italy. He repaired thither, and, after making a copy of the
school of Athens for the Earl of Northumberland, he began his
altar-piece for Dresden. ‘The Seven Years’ War now broke out, and
Augustus was deprived of his electorate, and found himself unable to
continue Mengs’s salary. The failure of this income, added to his own
improvidence, plunged our artist into poverty; he was obliged to take
any orders that offered, and accept any terms proposed, in order to
keep the wolf from the door. The fresco which he executed for the
monks in the Church of Sant’ Eusebio brought him little pay indeed,
but great increase of popularity. He did not carry out a commission he
had received from King Augustus to go to Naples and paint the Royal
Family, supposing the order to be cancelled; but the Duke of Censano,
Neapolitan Minister to the Papacy, urged him to fulfil it, and wrote
to Naples, specifying the prices which the now popular painter had
received in Saxony. Just as he was starting for Naples, rumours were
set afloat which troubled Mengs exceedingly; he was assured that a
picture which had been ordered for the Chapel-Royal at Caserta was not
required, and that the King and Queen declined to sit to him on
account of his prices being reckoned exorbitant. He was perplexed how
to act, when the arrival of the Polish Minister from Naples set his
mind at rest. Count Lagnasco assured him that the altar-piece for
Caserta was daily expected, and that the King and Queen had never
demurred at the prices, but were only displeased at the delay. He
therefore hastened to Naples, but, on his arrival, found the King and
Queen on the eve of embarkation for their new kingdom of Spain, and
too much engrossed by their preparations to give him sittings. They,
however, commanded a portrait of their son Ferdinand, about to ascend
the vacant throne of Naples. The jealousy of his brother artists made
the fair city insupportable to Mengs, and he again took his way to
Rome, where he was very popular, and had plenty of work. He adorned
the beautiful Villa Albani with classical frescoes, and painted
numerous pictures, chiefly for English and Neapolitan patrons. Charles
III., King of Spain, hearing him highly spoken of, now proposed to
Raphael Mengs to enter his service, with a large salary, a house, and
carriage, and all materials for painting provided; also a free passage
for himself and family on a Spanish vessel sailing from Naples.
Mengs accepted, and was kindly received by the King, but soon found he
had to encounter the bitter hatred of all the artists in the Spanish
capital. Giaquinto, an Italian, who had hitherto enjoyed the Royal
favour, was so disgusted at the success of Mengs, that he abandoned
the field, and, leaving Spain in dudgeon, returned to his own country.
Mengs was now employed in the decoration of the new palace, and
painted the Gods of Olympus in the bedchamber of the King, Aurora in
that of the Queen, and Morning, Noon, Evening, and Night in the
apartments of the Infanta, besides numerous easel pictures.
He was also appointed honorary member of the Academy of St. Ferdinand,
where, being desirous of instituting new regulations and bringing
about reforms, he provoked much ill-will, and being himself of a hot
and hasty temper, bickerings and disagreements ensued without number.
Altogether, Raphael Mengs was far from happy during his sojourn at
Madrid; the climate was most injurious to his health, which declined
daily, yet he never slackened in his toil, but worked unremittingly
from dawn till dusk, and often far into the night. He had already
despatched his wife and family to Rome, and now asked permission to
join them. Suffering and melancholy, he proceeded on his solitary way,
and was delayed some time at Monaco by increased illness; at length he
arrived in his beloved Rome, where the affection of his dear ones and
the warmth of the climate partially revived him. He now turned his
attention chiefly to sacred subjects, and in loving memory of his
favourite Notte di Coreggio in the Dresden Gallery, executed a
Nativity on the same plan, where all the light emanated from the Holy
Child; introducing his own portrait as one of the adoring shepherds.
Pope Clement XIV. gave Mengs a labour of love to perform, and in that
light he considered it, for he stipulated that he should receive no
payment: this was to decorate the walls of the hall destined for the
reception of the papyrus rolls in the Vatican. To work beneath the
same roof which his illustrious namesake had sanctified, was indeed a
glory!
Although enfeebled in health, Mengs was comparatively content, both in
the matter of his residence and his work; but he received a warning
from Madrid that his leave of absence had been too long exceeded, and
it required all the kind intercession of Don Joseph de Azara, Spanish
Envoy at Rome, and Mengs’s great friend, to intercede with the King on
this score. At last there was a compromise, Mengs agreeing to go to
Naples to paint the portraits of the reigning King and Queen for the
gallery at Madrid. But his industry seemed on this occasion to forsake
him; when in Naples he was very dilatory over his commission, and
spent his time in buying coins and vases to add to his collection; and
on his return to Rome he had only finished the heads. Then he had to
conclude his work in the Vatican, and take leave of the Pope, who gave
him a rosary of lapis-lazuli and a set of medals struck during his
Pontificate. So little was Mengs in haste to reach Spain that he
stopped by the way at Florence to paint the Grand Duke and Duchess,
with many other portraits.
He arrived at Madrid, and recommenced his labours in the palace, to
the great satisfaction of King Charles; went to Aranjuez, where he
worked both in the palaces and the churches; but relapsed into bad
health, and became so ill that the kind-hearted monarch would no
longer detain him, and sent him back to Rome,—‘with,’ says Sir William
Stirling, ‘a stipend far beyond his requirements, and a fame far
beyond his merits.’ Charles also settled dowries on the daughters of
Raphael Mengs; but alas! he had not been long at home before his good
and beautiful wife died; and he strove to console himself by working
harder than ever.
The winter was unusually severe, his studio was overheated, and the
bad air increased his malady. His frame became emaciated, and his
features so ghastly as to attract the notice of every one. One of his
pictures, purchased by an Englishman, met with a strange fate:
despatched to England by sea, the vessel was taken by a French
cruiser, and the picture sent to Paris. Eventually Louis XVI. sent it
as a present to the Empress Catherine of Russia.
In spite of the expostulations of his children, Mengs now put himself
into the hands of a German quack, and, to follow his directions
without opposition, took a lodging by himself, first in Via Condotti,
and then in the Gregoriana.
A nun at Narni had lately gained great popularity by selling a
decoction of holy jessamines, by which she worked miraculous cures. To
a strong dose of this medicine the quack doctor added a still more
efficacious dose of antimony, and thus indeed relieved the poor
painter from all further suffering, physical or mental. He worked to
the last, and died in June 1779, being buried at San Michele, on the
Janiculan Hill, followed by the Professors of the Academy of St. Luke.
Don Joseph de Azara, knowing his friend’s tastes, erected a cenotaph
to his memory, adorned with a bronze portrait, close to the monument
of his illustrious namesake and idol, the divine Raphael. By nature
Mengs was choleric and melancholy, more prone to be ruffled by the
petty ills of life than satisfied by his success, which is generally
allowed to have been far above his deserts. He was self-willed even to
arrogance in his opinions. Finding fault with some Venetian pictures
Pope Clement had bought, his Holiness remarked they had been much
admired by other artists. ‘Ah,’ replied Mengs, ‘they praise what is
above their powers; I despise what is below mine.’
He was severe on other Art writers, and especially on the works of Sir
Joshua Reynolds; Azara said he was very truthful, and tells how on one
occasion Mengs declared he had never taken a pinch of snuff, though in
so doing he would have redeemed a collection of valuable snuff-boxes,
the presents of many grandees, from the clutches of the Custom-House
officers, who seized them as merchandise. Yet he practised a hoax on
his friend Winckelman, and allowed him to publish in his book the
description of a ‘Ganymede’ by Mengs, which the painter had passed off
on the Professor as an antique. He was a faithful and affectionate
husband, a tender and loving father, and gave his children a good
education,—but little beside, for, with all the riches he had
acquired, he was both extravagant and improvident, and at his death he
only left his collections of coins and casts, bequeathed to the King
of Spain, and a number of engravings, which were bought by the Empress
of Russia. Mengs’s eldest daughter, Anna Maria, was a successful
portrait-painter; married to Manuel Salvador Camoni, a member of the
Academy of San Fernando, she died at Madrid in 1798. He would not
allow his sons to become painters, ‘for,’ said he, ‘if they were
inferior to me, I should despise them; if superior, I should be
jealous of them.’ One of his sons became a soldier in the service of
Spain. Mengs wrote much on the subject of Art, had great command of
language, and was a good linguist.
This picture was painted expressly for the third Earl Cowper.
------------------
_No. 6._
CHARLES JAMES FOX.
_Dark coat. White cravat._
BY HOPPNER.
------------------
_No. 7._
FATHER OF JAMES NORTHCOTE THE PAINTER.
_Dark coat. White hair. Red curtain._
BY HIS SON.
NOTWITHSTANDING that he exercised the modest trade of a watchmaker in
his native town of Plymouth, Northcote boasted of a long pedigree, and
maintained that his family was of very good standing in the county.
But his pride did not prevent his wishing his son James to follow the
same trade, while the young man had set his heart on being a painter.
In the notice of the future Royal Academician’s life, we shall find
every particular connected with James’s rise to eminence. Among his
numerous works, he painted the portrait in question of the father who
had done all in his power to thwart his son’s artistic proclivities.
This picture was bought at Northcote’s sale by the fifth Earl Cowper.
------------------
_No. 8._
SARAH, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.
_Red gown, bordered with white fur._
BORN 1658, DIED 1744.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
THE youngest daughter of Richard Jennings, Esq. of Sundridge, near St.
Albans, by the daughter and heir of Sir Gifford Hornhurst. When quite
young she went to Court, where her sister Frances (afterwards Lady
Tyrconnell) was already remarkable, as much for the laxity of her
conduct as for her beauty. Sarah’s features may not have been as
regular as those of her sister, but her countenance was most
expressive, her complexion beautiful, and the profusion of her fair
hair, formed a most attractive combination. Amidst her crowd of
adorers, the young, handsome, and insinuating Colonel Churchill stood
pre-eminent; he was poor, and by many accused of avarice already, yet
he preferred the portionless girl to a rich heiress with a plain face,
when the match was suggested to him.
Sarah Jennings was a woman of inordinate ambition and iron will, and
she made use of her close friendship with the Princess (afterwards
Queen) Anne to rise in the world and push her husband’s fortunes, even
before his own distinguished talents had insured his eminence. The
tyranny which the high-spirited, hot-tempered Lady of the Bedchamber
exercised over her Royal mistress for many years are matters too well
known to be here recapitulated. The romantic correspondence between
‘Mrs. Morley’ and ‘Mrs. Freeman,’ showing the manner in which Queen
Anne, even after her marriage, gave herself up to the dominion of her
favourite, until the self-imposed yoke became intolerable, and was
suddenly and completely severed, are historical facts bound up with
public events. The Duchess of Marlborough was supplanted by her own
_protégée_, Mrs. Masham, and peremptorily dismissed, in spite of
‘rages, prayers, and scenes.’ Voltaire says: ‘Quelques paires de gants
qu’elle refusa à la Reine, un verre d’eau qu’elle laissa tomber sur la
robe de Madame Masham, changèrent la face de Europe!’—alluding to the
political changes which followed the downfall of Sarah. In her latter
days her temper became ungovernable; she quarrelled with her husband,
her son-in-law, her grandchildren; and on one occasion, when the Duke,
wishing to pacify her rage, complimented her on her long fair hair,
which was still luxuriant, the furious lady cut it off, and flung it
in her husband’s face! At his death a long coil of golden tresses was
found in the Duke’s drawer. Sarah survived her husband twenty years,
and, in spite of her age (it must be remembered she was very rich),
had many suitors, amongst them the Duke of Somerset and Lord
Coningsby. To the latter, after reminding him she was sixty-three, she
replied: ‘Were I only thirty, and you could lay the world at my feet,
I would never bestow on you the heart and hand which belonged
exclusively to John, Duke of Marlborough.’
Lady Cowper (the Chancellor’s wife) saw a great deal of the Duchess at
Court; they exchanged constant visits, and corresponded, but Lady
Cowper had no opinion of her Grace; she describes her trying to make
mischief by repeating ill-natured speeches, and goes on to say: ‘She
is certainly an ill woman, and does not care what she says of anybody,
to wreak her malice or revenge.’
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_No. 9._
CHARLOTTE, COUNTESS FAUCONBERG.
_Peeress’s robes._
SHE was the only daughter of Sir Matthew Lamb, and sister to Peniston,
first Viscount Melbourne. Married in 1766 Henry Belasyse, second Earl
Fauconberg, a Lord of the Bedchamber, and Lord-Lieutenant of the North
Riding of Yorkshire. They had four daughters, co-heiresses; but the
title is extinct.
------------------
_No. 10._
PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_Man in blue velvet coat, braided._
------------------
_No. 11._
UNCERTAIN.
_Dark coat. White cravat._
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_No. 12._
ROBERT HARLEY, EARL OF OXFORD.
_Black and gold dress._
BORN 1661, DIED 1724.
STUDIED under the famous Dr. Birch (who boasted of the number of
statesmen he had educated), and showed great promise. In 1688 he
raised a troop of horse for the service of William of Orange, whom he
joined, but who showed him no particular favour. Harley sat in
Parliament, but waited for office till 1704, when Queen Anne gave him
a seat in the Council, and made him Secretary of State. He was much
opposed to Godolphin and Marlborough, and made common cause with the
Queen’s new favourite, Mrs. Masham, to overthrow the power of the
Whigs.
The Ministers insisted on his dismissal, but Anne stood by him as long
as she could; when Harley was compelled to resign, the Queen said to
him: ‘You see the unfortunate condition of monarchs,—they are obliged
to give up their friends to please their enemies;’ but so high was
Anne’s opinion of Harley, that she constantly consulted him on public
affairs, when out of office.
On the downfall of the Whig Administration, he was made Chancellor of
the Exchequer, and Treasurer.
He was much censured, even by his own party, for some of his financial
measures, by which, however, he enriched the Royal coffers. In March
1711, an event happened that made a great noise, and rendered Harley
the hero of the day. A French adventurer, called Bourlie, or the
Marquis de Guiscard and Langalleve, was a shifty individual, who acted
first as a spy of England against France, and then of France against
England, being in the pay of both. His intrigues were discovered, and
he was brought before the Privy Council. Believing that Harley had
been instrumental in his detection, he resolved to be revenged. While
waiting his turn for examination, he found means to secrete about his
person a penknife which was lying on the table, among some papers. No
sooner was he brought forward than he rushed in a fury upon Harley,
and stabbed him several times, the Minister falling senseless on the
ground, covered with blood. A scene of confusion ensued, and the Duke
of Buckingham, drawing his sword, wounded the assassin, who was
conveyed to Newgate, where he died in a few days, either from the
effect of the sword-thrusts, or by his own hand.
The event seemed to have revived Harley’s popularity: both Houses
presented an address to the Queen, assuring her that Harley’s loyalty
had brought this attack upon him, etc. etc., and when he reappeared in
the House, a brilliant reception awaited him; and a Bill was passed
making an attempt on the life of a Privy Councillor a felony which
deprived the offender of benefit of clergy. In the same year, Robert
Harley, being then Lord High Treasurer, was created Baron Wigmore, and
Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, and next year he received the Garter, and
became Prime Minister of England.
Lords Oxford and Bolingbroke at first worked together to withstand the
power of the Opposition, and to bring about the pacification of
Europe; and the Peace of Utrecht added to the popularity of the
ministerial party. But dissensions arose between Bolingbroke and the
Premier, and recriminations and fresh intrigues, in which Mrs. Masham
was implicated, all of which belong to England’s political history.
Oxford was deprived of all his offices, and accused of plotting in
favour of the Pretender. The Queen died, and in 1715 he was sent to
the Tower, on an accusation of high treason. He was imprisoned for two
years, and on his release gave himself up to the enjoyment of art and
literature; he formed a magnificent library, which cost him a fortune,
not only from the splendour of the works themselves, but on account of
their sumptuous binding. His collection of MSS., called after him the
Harleian MSS., which was afterwards greatly increased by his son, is
now one of the glories of the British Museum; it was purchased by the
Government after the second Lord Oxford’s death.
Few men have been more eulogised on the one hand, and reviled on the
other, but he has been unanimously described as a kind patron of men
of letters.
It was Harley who brought into operation the measure known to
posterity as ‘The South Sea Bubble,’ which entailed ruin on numbers;
and in spite of much opposition he also established State lotteries.
Lord Oxford was twice married: first to Elizabeth, daughter of Thomas
Foley, of Whitley Court, county Worcester, by whom he had one son and
two daughters; and secondly, to Sarah, daughter of Thomas Myddleton,
Esq., who was childless.
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_No. 13._
FIELD-MARSHAL HENRY OF NASSAU, LORD OF AUVERQUERQUE.
Father of the first Earl of Grantham, grandfather of
Henrietta, wife to the second Earl Cowper.
------------------
_No. 14._
LADY ANNE COLLETON.
_Blue gown, trimmed with white lace._
DIED 1740.
BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.
SHE was the second daughter of the first Earl Cowper, by his second
wife, Mary Clavering. She married, in 1731, James Colleton, Esq. of
Haynes Hill, county Berks, grandson of Sir James Colleton, Bart.
------------------
_No. 15._
LADY MILBANKE.
_White gown. Holding a pink scarf._
She was the daughter and heir of John Hedworth, Esq., M.P., wife of
Sir Ralph Milbanke, of Halnaby, M.P., and mother of the first
Viscountess Melbourne.
------------------
_No. 16._
ELIZABETH, WIFE OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_Light-coloured gown. White veil. Scarf. Coaxing her baby, who is
seated on a cradle beside her._
DIED 1818.
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
She was the only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, of Halnaby Hall,
county York. In 1769 she married Sir Peniston Lamb, Bart., M.P., who
was created Viscount Melbourne in 1770. She was a beautiful young
woman of twenty when she first went to London, and took the town by
storm. She was as much admired for her vivacity as her beauty, and Sir
Joshua Reynolds speaks of her as figuring at one of the fashionable
masquerades of the day in domino and tricorne hat, as ‘a pretty
fellow’ or maccaroni, with the Duchess of Ancaster and Lady Fordyce,
and a charming portrait, in possession of Lord Southampton, represents
her in this costume. Lady Melbourne persuaded her husband to buy a
house in Piccadilly from Mr. Fox (father of Charles James), who had
been a friend of Sir Matthew Lamb, next door to Burlington House,
which cost a large sum. Lady Melbourne called it after her husband’s
title, and took the greatest delight in furnishing and adorning the
interior, on which work she employed Cipriani, Wheatley, the humorous
designer Rebecca, and all the best decorative artists of the day. The
society was as brilliant as the walls which encircled them; and
Royalty, fashion, beauty, and talent flocked to the receptions at
Melbourne House, whose master, bent on pleasing his beautiful wife,
threw open his gates with lavish hospitality. Sir Joshua was an
intimate, as well as a general guest, and thus had many opportunities
of studying the form and features which he afterwards immortalised in
the picture that heads this notice. It was painted in 1770, just after
Sir Peniston Lamb’s elevation to the peerage and the birth of his
eldest son.
No sooner was the London house completed, than Lady Melbourne turned
her attention to the embellishment of her husband’s country seat in
Hertfordshire, where, in company with her chosen friend, Mrs. Damer
(alike charming as a woman and an artist), she planned and arranged
the internal decorations of Brocket Hall. Wheatley was again called
in, and, with the assistance of Mortimer, painted the ceilings with
allegorical subjects. The two ladies were also much addicted to the
pastime of private theatricals, as was their mutual friend, the
beautiful Duchess of Devonshire; while such names as Sheridan, Fox,
Horace Walpole, and other celebrities, figured as actors and authors
in Lady Melbourne’s company. It was here, doubtless, that Lord
Egremont (then a youth) imbibed that love of art, and that taste for
the society of artists, which made him so noble and munificent a
patron, to the end of a long life. He was a great friend of the
Melbournes, and loved to see his ‘three young lambs’ gambolling over
the greensward in his spacious park at Petworth.
Lady Melbourne was very popular with the Royal Family, and one day the
Duke of York called on her, and in the course of conversation became
very enthusiastic in his admiration of Melbourne House. He confessed
he was weary of his own at Whitehall, and would gladly move into her
neighbourhood. The lady laughed, and said, for her part, she often
wished to exchange the chimes of St. James’s Church for those of
Westminster Abbey; and they talked on, half jestingly, half in
earnest, till the possibility of an exchange of residence was mooted.
It appeared strange, but perhaps the amateur house-decorator was lured
by the prospect of new walls to beautify, fresh fields to conquer.
Before the Duke took his leave, he had gained her Ladyship’s promise
to discuss the subject with her husband: ‘For you know, dear Lady
Melbourne, you always have your way with everybody, especially with my
Lord.’
His Royal Highness was right: if Lord Melbourne raised any objection
at first, it was soon overcome; the consent of the Crown was gained,
the bargain was struck, the house at Whitehall became Melbourne House,
and the residence in Piccadilly, York House, afterwards changed to the
Albany, where, in the oldest portion and principal apartments of that
paradise of bachelors, the decorations of Cipriani and his colleagues
may still be admired.
All contemporary writers speak of Lady Melbourne as a leader of
fashion and an ornament of society; Horace Walpole, in particular,
alludes to her frequently, ‘in wonderful good looks,’ at the Prince of
Wales’s birthday ball at Carlton House, and again at the French
Ambassador’s, where it was so hot he was nearly stewed, but ‘the
quadrilles were surprisingly pretty, especially that one in which Lady
Melbourne, Lady Sefton, and Princess Czartorisky figured, in blue
satin and gold, with collars mounted _à la reine Elizabeth_.
In 1805 her eldest son died; but the mother seems to have been
consoled by the promise of future greatness shown by her second son,
William, who early evinced a taste for public life, which harmonised
with Lady Melbourne’s views. She took a great interest in political
affairs, was a staunch Whig, and at the time of Charles Fox’s famous
election, she displayed as much zeal and enthusiasm as her rival
beauty, the Duchess of Devonshire. William Lamb’s marriage with the
daughter of Lord Bessborough, which enlarged his connection with all
the principal Whig families, was a source of great pleasure to Lady
Melbourne. It was a pity, with her political predilections, she did
not survive to see her favourite son and her daughter’s second husband
each rise to the coveted position of Prime Minister of England.
We have no authority for stating in what light Lady Melbourne viewed
her daughter-in-law’s infatuation for Lord Byron; but we know, from
his own letters, that he entertained a great admiration for herself.
He had never met with so charming a woman. ‘If she had only been some
years younger, what a fool she would have made of me!’ With her he
kept up unvarying friendly relations during all the vicissitudes of
his love and hate passages with Lady Caroline. One day he called on
Lady Melbourne, and asked her advice and sympathy. She was a model
confidante, and had once given it as her opinion, that few men could
be trusted with their neighbours’ secrets, and scarcely any woman with
her own. Byron assured her he was wearied with his way of life, that
he wished to marry and reform, and settle down at Newstead, and asked
if she would assist him in his choice of a wife. Lady Melbourne
smiled, and said she thought she knew of the very woman to suit
him—her near kinswoman, Miss Milbanke, daughter of Sir Noel Milbanke,
heiress to a large fortune, and a peerage in her own right, as Lady
Wentworth,—no great beauty, but not uncomely, well brought up, well
educated, and amiable. Byron was quite satisfied, but, as may be
expected, when Lady Caroline heard of it, she was furious. ‘The girl
has a bad figure, is given to statistics, and goes regularly to
church,—a pretty wife for a poet!’ The lady refused the man, of whose
moral character she had heard a sorry account; but he persisted, and
the marriage took place in 1816,—an ill-fated union, as might have
been expected, a fact but too well known. Lady Melbourne’s health
began to fail; she drooped gradually, till one day the sentence was
pronounced in her hearing—she had but a short time to live. She heard
the announcement with calmness, took an affectionate leave of those
she loved, and addressed some parting admonitions to her beloved
William, which he never forgot. Lady Melbourne died on the 6th April
1818, at Whitehall, and was buried at Hatfield Church. Her son
Frederick was absent from England at the time.
This portrait was brought from Brocket, where it once hung at the end
of the ball-room. It was engraved by the title of ‘Maternal
Affection.’
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_No. 17._
LADY CAROLINE LAMB.
_White gown. Blue bows. Crop of fair hair._
BORN 1788, DIED 1828.
BY HOPPNER.
SHE was the only daughter of the first Earl of Bessborough, by Lady
Henrietta Spencer, daughter of the first Earl Spencer. She was in
Italy when a child, with her mother, but, on their return to England,
Lady Bessborough being in very delicate health, Lady Caroline was
intrusted for a time to the care of her aunt, the beautiful Duchess of
Devonshire. Throughout her life she kept a diary, and she gives a
detailed record of her early days at Devonshire House. The children
saw very little of their elders, and were brought up with a strange
mixture of luxury and laxity. The nursery table was covered with
dainties, and served with goodly plate, but the young lords and ladies
were allowed to run wild backwards and forwards between the servants’
apartments in search of sweetmeats and ‘goodies.’ Caroline’s education
was little cared for, her knowledge circumscribed, and she only
believed in two classes of society,—aristocrats and beggars. At ten
years old she could scarcely write, and could not spell at all; but
she composed verses, ‘which were pronounced splendid in the family,
and everybody petted me, especially my cousin Hartington (afterwards
Duke of Devonshire), who was my constant companion. My chief delight
consisted in polishing my specimens of Derbyshire spar, washing my
dog, and breaking in a pony.’ Caroline was transferred from Devonshire
to Spencer House, to live with her grandmother, and the change did not
suit her small ladyship. ‘How well I remember the grand housekeeper,
in a hoop and ruffles, who presided over seventy servants.’ Under Lady
Spencer’s roof, of whom the poet Cowper speaks so highly, and to whom
Horace Walpole, with his usual sneer, alludes as ‘the goddess of
wisdom,’ it may be imagined the girl was subjected to a discipline
which was so different from the liberty of Devonshire House that she
soon broke out into open rebellion. ‘I was indeed very naughty, and
used to give way to such paroxysms of rage that a physician was called
in. Dr. Warren forbade all study, and desired that my brain should lie
fallow. I believe he feared for my reason. I was very fond of music,
and cried when I had to give it up. My governess was too severe, my
relations too indulgent.’ It was not until Lady Caroline was fifteen
that she tried to make up for lost time. As regarded her education,
she showed great aptitude for languages,—French, Italian, Latin, ‘and
I had even mastered enough Greek to enable me to enjoy a classical
play, when taken to speech-day at Harrow, where my brother was at
school.’ She could recite an ode of Sappho to admiring listeners at
Devonshire or Spencer House, and was much praised and petted. She
piqued herself on her unconventionality, and would plunge into
intimacy, or manifest her aversion in the most unequivocal manner.
Among the frequent guests at Spencer House was William Lamb, the
second son of Lord Melbourne. It would seem strange that the vigilance
of the young lady’s relations should not have been awakened by the
growing intimacy between her and the captivating younger son. Well
bred, well born, with a ringing laugh and an inexpressible charm,
which never forsook him in advanced life amid the turmoil of politics,
William Lamb had everything to recommend him but a birthright,—and had
it not been settled in the family that Caroline was to make a
brilliant marriage? Lady Caroline, who loved to record her own
adventures, writes to her friend and confidante, Lady Morgan, not very
long before her death, recalling her past life: ‘I fell in love, when
only twelve years old, with a friend of Charles Fox,—a friend of
liberty, whose poems I had read, whose self I had never seen, and,
when I did see him, at thirteen, could I change? I was more attached
than ever. William Lamb was beautiful, and far the cleverest person
then about, the most daring in his opinions, in his love of liberty
and independence. He thought of me but as a child; yet he liked me
much. Afterwards he wished to marry me, and I refused him because of
my temper.’ In another letter she says: ‘I was a fury. He asked me a
second time, and this time he was not refused, for I adored him.’ The
lady’s relations were reconciled to the match, possibly influenced in
some slight degree by the consideration that William Lamb had become
heir to a large fortune and a peerage, in consequence of the death of
his elder brother.
Marriages never come single in a family. Lamb’s sister Emily was
already engaged, and in the year 1805, within a month of each other,
the brother was united to Lady Caroline Ponsonby, and the sister to
Lord Cowper. Mr. Lamb and his wife passed the early days of their
married life between Brocket (Lord Melbourne’s) and Panshanger (Lord
Cowper’s) Houses in Hertfordshire; and when the London season began,
Lady Caroline contributed not a little to the former attractions of
Melbourne House, where she and her husband took up their abode.
Society was at variance as to the bride’s merits; her eccentricities
amused many of the guests, and affronted others,—for some people are
indignant when merely called upon to stare at what is said to them.
The Prince of Wales, an _habitué_ of Melbourne House, was one of those
who encouraged Lady Caroline in her wayward and wilful moods; her
startling speeches, her flighty coquetry, her sudden quarrels, and as
sudden reconciliations, whether with her husband or any other member
of the community, were a great source of amusement to his Royal
Highness. Miss Berry speaks of meeting the Prince at Lady Caroline
Lamb’s in the year 1808. She says in her Diary: ‘It was an immense
assembly. We came away at half-past twelve, and had to walk beyond the
Admiralty to our carriage. Many of the company did not leave till past
three; the Prince of Wales had supped below, in Lady Melbourne’s
apartments, and remained till past six. Sheridan was there, and quite
drunk.’ It would appear by these remarks that Lady Melbourne had
vacated a suite of apartments in favour of her daughter-in-law, who
received on her own account, as in another passage in Miss Berry’s
correspondence there is mention, ‘I am going to Lady Caroline Lamb’s
to-night. She gives a party, to be convenient for hearing what is
going on, about this famous motion in the House of Peers.’ But Lady
Caroline was of too romantic a turn of mind to be absorbed by
politics; she had always some small flirtation on hand, and her
admirers were frequently under age. We read in the Life of the late
Lord Lytton some very early passages between him and this mature
object of his adoration,—assignations entered into, notes passing
clandestinely, engagements to dance broken off and renewed with
playful inconstancy. Excitement, even on so small a scale, seemed
necessary to the lady’s existence; she would have been bored to death
without it. The novelist admired his goddess enough to put her in
print, and describes the compassion she displayed one day, when,
finding a beggar who had met with an accident, she insisted on his
being lifted, rags and all, into the carriage beside her, when she
drove the cripple to his destination.
But a luminary was about to appear on the horizon, which was destined
to eclipse all lesser lights. Here is her own account of her first
acquaintance with Lord Byron: ‘Rogers, who was one of my adorers, and
extolled me up to the skies, said to me one evening, “You must know
the new poet.” He offered to lend me the proofs of _Childe Harold_ to
read. That was enough for me. Rogers said, “He has a club foot, and
bites his nails.” I said, “If he were as ugly as Æsop I must know
him.” Lady Westmoreland had met Byron in Italy; she undertook to
present him. I looked earnestly at him, and turned on my
heel,’—conduct which the poet afterwards reproached her with. London
had gone mad about him. All the ladies were pulling caps for him. He
said once ostentatiously: ‘The women positively suffocate me.’ That
night the entry in Lady Caroline’s Diary was—‘Mad, bad, and dangerous
to know.’ She declared at first she had no intention of attracting
him, but she confesses how she had come in from riding one windy,
rainy day, all muddy and dishevelled, and had been conversing with
Moore and Rogers in that plight, when Byron was announced, and she
flew out of the room to beautify herself. ‘Lord Byron wished to come
and see me at eight o’clock, when I was alone. That was my
dinner-hour. I said he might. From that moment, for many months, he
almost lived at Melbourne House.’
Lord Hartington, Lady Caroline’s favourite cousin, expressed a wish to
have some dancing of an evening at Whitehall, as his stepmother (Lady
Elizabeth Foster) objected to anything of the kind at Devonshire
House, and accordingly for a time the drawing-room at Melbourne House
was turned into a ball-room. But as Lord Byron’s lameness cut him off
from the quadrilles and waltzes, this arrangement did not suit him,
and his word being law with Lady Caroline, the dancing was soon
discontinued. It was a strange flirtation between the poet and the
poetaster. The lady would lie awake half the night composing verses,
which she would repeat the next day to the great man, in the fond hope
of a few crumbs of praise, a commodity of which Byron was very
sparing, he being a great deal more taken up with giving utterance to
his own effusions. Lady Caroline was often mortified, Lord Byron often
wearied,—at least so it would appear. Lord Holland came up to them one
evening as they were sitting side by side as usual, with a silver
censer in his hand. ‘I am come,’ he said, ‘Lady Caroline, to offer you
your due.’ ‘By no means,’ she returned in a tone of pique; ‘pray give
it all to Lord Byron. He is so accustomed to incense that he cannot
exist without it.’
A recent biography describes the situation well when it says: ‘He grew
moody, and she fretful, when their mutual egotisms jarred.’ William
Lamb’s wife was certainly not formed to make home happy. One day she
extolled his generosity and lack of jealousy; another, she accused him
of apathy and indifference with regard to her flirtations. Her conduct
was marked by alternate tenderness and ill-temper: there could be no
doubt of her affection for her invalid boy, yet her treatment of him
was spasmodic and fitful,—now devoted, now neglectful. More than once
a separation had been agreed upon, and Mr. Lamb had even gone so far
as to forbid his wife the house, and believed she was gone. He went to
his own room, locked himself in, and sat brooding over his troubles.
It was growing late, when he was attracted by the well-known sound of
scratching at the door, and he rose to let in his favourite dog. But
lo! the intruder was no other than his wife, who, crouching on the
floor, had made use of this stratagem to gain admittance. Half
indignant, half amused, he did not long resist the glamour which this
eccentric woman knew how to throw around him. Peace was restored for a
short time, but not for long; another explosion, a violent domestic
quarrel, occurred one night in London. Lady Caroline went out, called
a hackney coach, and in her evening dress—a white muslin frock, blue
sash, and diamond necklace—drove to the house of a physician, whom she
scarcely knew. She describes with great unction the surprise and
admiration of the assembled guests, ‘who took me for a child, and were
surprised at my fine jewels.’
It was her cherished vanity to be taken for a young unmarried girl.
Her relations were much alarmed at her disappearance. Lady Spencer
sent to Lord Byron’s house, who disclaimed all knowledge of the
truant. After creating a great excitement in the good doctor’s
drawing-room, the lady returned home, to enjoy another scene and
another reconciliation. Her mother, Lady Bessborough, who was in very
delicate health, was deeply concerned at her daughter’s conduct, the
conjugal quarrels, and the intimacy with Lord Byron, which was so much
talked of in the world. ‘Poor dear mamma was miserable; she prevailed
on me at length to go to Ireland with her and papa.’ On their
departure, Lord Byron wrote to his dearest Caroline a most peculiar
letter, abounding, indeed, in high-flown protestations, assuring her
he was hers only, hers entirely; that he would with pleasure give up
everything for her, both here and beyond the grave; that he was ready
to fly with her, when and whenever she might appoint, etc.; at the
same time reminding her of her duty to her husband and her mother—a
most wonderful mixture of false sentiment and shallow feeling, which
could only have deceived one so blinded as the recipient. ‘Byron
continued to write to me while I was in Ireland. His letters were
tender and amusing. We had arrived at Dublin, on our way home, when my
mother brought me a letter from him,—such a letter!—I have published
it in _Glenarvon_. It was sealed with a coronet, but neither the
coronet nor the initials were his; they were Lady Oxford’s.’ Lady
Caroline was beside herself with rage and jealousy; she fell ill. They
were detained at ‘a horrid little inn’ at Rock. She arrived in England
in the most excited frame of mind. Byron complains of her proceedings,
which were of a most melodramatic nature; she went to see him, dressed
as a page; she vowed she would stab herself, and wished some one would
kill him;—‘in short,’ says the poet, ‘the Agnus is furious; you can
have no idea what things she says and does, ever since the time that I
(really from the best motives) withdrew my homage. She actually writes
me letters threatening my life.’ We have no reference at hand to note
when these lines were written, but we believe after his marriage:—
‘They’ll tell thee, Clara, I have seemed
Of late another’s charms to woo,
Nor sighed nor frowned as if I deemed
That thou wert vanished from my view.
Clara, this struggle to undo
What thou hast done too well for me,
This mask before the babbling crowd,
_This treachery, is truth to thee_,’—
a peculiar and ambiguous form of reasoning, by which it appeared Lady
Caroline was not convinced.
Byron’s well-known stanzas, ‘Farewell! if ever fondest prayer,’ were
said to have been addressed to Lady Caroline when he left England for
ever, having quarrelled with his wife as well as with his friend. The
poem was not calculated to conciliate the lady, and it was not long
before she heard from a third person that Byron had spoken slightingly
of her to Madame de Staël and others. She accordingly sat down, and
wrote him a long account of the childish revenge she had taken, by
burning his effigy in a bonfire, with her own hands.
In her Diary she gives a touching account of her useless endeavours to
pique or persuade her poor boy into cheerfulness, and how, when he saw
her look of disappointment, he would come and sit beside her, take her
hand, and look wistfully into her face. She had consulted many
physicians, she said, and now she would consult a _metaphysician_.
Some time ago she had met Godwin, the author, and taken one of her
sudden fancies for him. She now sat down and asked him to come and pay
her a visit at Brocket; she wished to have some conversation with him
about her son, and indeed about her own unsettled and discontented
state of mind. ‘When I saw you last under painful circumstances, you
said it rested with myself to be happy. I fear you can only think of
me with contempt. My mind is overpowered with trifles. Would you
dislike paying me a little visit? I hold out no allurements; if you
come, it can only be from friendship. I have no longer the excuse of
youth and inexperience for being foolish, yet I remain so. I want a
few wise words of advice. No one is more sensible of kindness from a
person of high intellect. I have such an over-abundance of activity,
and nothing to do. I feel as if I had lived five hundred years, and am
neither better nor worse than when I began. I conduce to no one’s
happiness; on the contrary, I am in the way of many. All my beliefs
and opinions are shaken as with small shocks of moral earthquake; it
is as if I were in a boat without chart or compass.’ Surely she was
not wise in her selection of a navigator.
Godwin obeyed the summons, but, as might have been expected, brought
no consolation in his train. Lady Caroline would often in her
correspondence eulogise her husband in very high terms, and call him
her guardian angel, and there is no doubt she was proud of him; but
his very forbearance and good-humour were often a source of
irritation, and she would upbraid him with treating her as a child,
though, in reality, nothing flattered her more than to be so
considered, and in some of her early caricatures (for she often amused
herself in that way) she represents herself carried about in Mr.
Lamb’s arms as a little girl. Her father-in-law, easy-going as he was,
blamed her for her extravagance, and called her ‘her _laviship_.’
‘Indeed I think I am a good housewife,’ she writes to Lady Morgan,
‘and have saved William money; but he says, “What is the use of saving
with one hand if you scatter with the other?” What is the use—that is
what I am always saying—what is the use of existing at all?’
This unwholesome excitement tended to increase the natural
irascibility of her character. In her Diary she records petty quarrels
with her servants and other inmates of the house. She at length took
to authorship as a consolation, and gives an odd account of the manner
in which her literary labours were carried on. She had a companion,
who began by acting as her amanuensis, but after a time she decided on
having an expert copyist. Even so commonplace an arrangement must be
carried out in a melodramatic manner. She wrote the book, unknown to
all, except to Miss Welsh, in the middle of the night. ‘I sent for old
Woodhead to Melbourne House. I dressed Miss Welsh elegantly, and
placed her at my harp, while I sat at the writing-table, disguised in
the page’s clothes. The copyist naturally took Miss Welsh for Lady
Caroline, and expressed his astonishment that a schoolboy of that age
(I looked about fourteen) could be the author of _Glenarvon_. Next
time he came I received him in my own clothes, and told him William
Ormond, the young author, was dead. When the book was finished, I sent
it to ‘William, who was delighted.’ (Query.) _Glenarvon_ disappointed
the public, not so much on account of its literary shortcomings, which
might have been anticipated, but from its lack of sufficient allusions
to the separation of Lord and Lady Byron, though there was no scarcity
of abuse of the hero. The story was too feeble and vapid to cause much
sensation, yet the authoress found publishers willing to accept
further works from the same pen, and _Graham Hamilton_ and _Ada Reis_
followed.
Lord Byron, writing from Venice, speaking of _Glenarvon_, says: ‘I
have seen nothing of the book but the motto from my “Corsair”:—
“He left a name to all succeeding times
Linked with one virtue and a thousand crimes.”
If such be the posy, what must the ring be?—the generous moment
selected for the publication! I have not a guess at the contents.’ A
little while after, Madame de Staël lent him the book, when he went to
see her at Coppet. ‘It seems to me that if the author had told the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, the romance would
not only have been more romantic, but more interesting. The likeness
is not good; _I did not sit long enough_.’
Besides her novels, Lady Caroline sent contributions to Annuals and
Magazines, breathing eternal love and dire remorse:—
“Weep for what thou’st lost, love,
Weep for what thou’st won,
Weep for what thou didst not do,
And more for what thou’st done.”
She often amused herself by setting her own compositions to music very
prettily.
We are not told in what manner Lady Caroline received the tidings of
Byron’s death, but we have a detailed account of her driving one
summer’s day on the Great North Road, not far from Brocket, in an open
carriage, accompanied by her husband, when, at a turn in the road,
they came upon a long and melancholy procession. It proved to be the
funeral of a peer, from the fact that the hearse was preceded by a
horseman bearing a coronet on a cushion. The lady stopped her carriage
and asked the question whose funeral it was. ‘We are taking Lord Byron
to Newstead to be buried,’ was the reply. The shock was terrible. Lady
Caroline reached home, more dead than alive, and fell into a species
of trance, from which the waking was slow and tedious. She would sit
for hours with her hands clasped on her lap, silent and listless; and
it was long before she could be prevailed on to resume her usual
occupations, or busy herself with her books, music, or drawing. When
the invalid was a little better, change of air and scene was
prescribed, and she was sent abroad. She wrote from Paris to Lady
Morgan, asking her to look in a cabinet, in a certain room at
Melbourne House, where she would find a miniature[5] of Lord Byron:
‘Pray send it me without delay.’ Coming back to England, she again
took up her abode at Brocket, where her husband often visited her,
although his official and Parliamentary duties were a sufficient
reason for his residing mostly in London. When he went over to Ireland
as Chief Secretary, he kept up a regular correspondence with his wife
(now a confirmed invalid), and with those to whose care she was
consigned. In Dublin he was a frequent visitor at the house of Lady
Morgan, who was much attached to Lady Caroline, to give her news of
his wife’s health, or show her some of the letters he received from
Brocket,—such, for instance, as, ‘My dearest William,—Since I wrote
last I have been a great sufferer. Tapping is a dreadful sensation, it
turns me so deadly cold and sick.... But everybody is so good to me.
All the members of both our families, Emily, and Caroline have been to
see me, and the whole county has called to inquire. My dear brother,
too, has been with me, and is coming again. He reads to me, which is
so soothing; but what pleased me most of all was your dear letter, in
which you said you loved me and forgave me.’
Footnote 5:
Lady Caroline Lamb bequeathed this portrait to Lady Morgan, at whose
death it was sold by auction.
In proportion as her bodily health failed, so did the sufferer become
more and more gentle, patient, and grateful for kindness. The evil
spirit had been cast out. She grew so much worse that it was deemed
advisable to remove her to London for the benefit of medical advice.
On the 26th of January 1828, Lady Morgan received a letter from Mr.
William Ponsonby (afterwards Lord De Mauley), to announce his sister’s
death. ‘From the beginning of her illness,’ he says, ‘she had no
expectation of recovery, and only felt anxious to live long enough to
see Mr. Lamb once again. In this she was gratified, and was still able
to converse with him, and enjoy his society. But for the past three
days it was apparent that her strength was rapidly declining, and on
Sunday night, at about nine o’clock, she expired without a struggle. A
kinder or more tender heart never ceased to beat, and it was a great
consolation to her and to us that her mind was fully prepared and
reconciled to the awful change. She viewed the near approach of death
with calmness, and during her long and severe sufferings her patience
never forsook her, or her affectionate consideration for those around
her. Mr. Lamb has felt and acted as I knew he would on this sad
occasion.’
The friendship of the brothers-in-law had never been interrupted.
Although fully prepared for a great change in his wife’s appearance,
William Lamb was more shocked than he expected to be. The short time
that intervened between his return and her death was marked by
tenderness on his part and affection on hers; and in after years the
widower always spoke of ‘Caroline’ with gentleness and forbearance.
Lady Morgan thus describes her friend’s appearance: ‘A slight tall
figure, dark lustrous eyes, with fair hair and complexion; a charming
voice, sweet, low, caressing, which exercised a wonderful influence
over most people. She was eloquent also, but had only one
subject—herself. She was the slave of imagination and of impulse.’
------------------
_No. 18._
NATHANIEL CLIFFORD.
_Brown coat. White cravat._
He was a man of letters, a friend of Lord Chancellor Cowper.
------------------
_No. 19._
THREE BROTHERS OF THE HOUSE OF NASSAU.
_Two in armour. One in a velvet coat._
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SMOKING-ROOM.
-------
THE WITCHES ROUND THE CAULDRON.
BEING PORTRAITS OF LADY MELBOURNE, THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, AND MRS.
DAWSON DAMER.
BY ANNE SEYMOUR DAWSON DAMER.
IN the notice of Lady Melbourne we have alluded to that lady’s taste
for private theatricals, _tableaux vivants_, and other dramatic
entertainments, and to the merry meetings on those festive occasions.
This sketch is an interesting record of one such. Lady Melbourne knew
where to select talent and beauty: the Duchess of Devonshire, daughter
of the first Earl Spencer, by Georgina, daughter of Stephen Poyntz,
Esq. of Midgham, near Newbury, was a beauty, a wit, and, above all, a
politician. A tribute was once paid to her charms, to our mind, better
worth remembering than the widespread story, so often told, so often
delineated, in the caricatures of the day, of how her Grace bartered a
kiss to a butcher, in exchange for his vote in favour of the fair
Whig’s political idol, Charles James Fox. The anecdote to which we
give the preference is as follows: One day, when proceeding to the
poll, the crowd was so dense, and the mob pressed so heavily against
the coach panels, that her Grace, usually so fearless, became alarmed,
and, stretching out her fair head, she requested a rough and shabby
member of the community to keep back a little, and induce the others
to do the same. The man, an undoubted Irishman, stared at the charming
vision for a moment, with his short pipe suspended between his
fingers, and then burst forth, ‘God bless yer, and that I shall, and
anything else in life, so as I may light my pipe at your eyes.’
Lady Melbourne was also a beauty, as her many portraits show, without
the testimony of posthumous fame, and her features were decidedly more
regular than those of her captivating friend. Mrs. Damer was also much
admired, and in such circumstances we can easily imagine what prettily
turned compliments were paid, what flattering contrasts drawn, between
these three bewitching witches, who met, and met again, not on a
‘blasted heath,’ but in the sylvan shades of Brocket, and the midnight
hags whom Shakespeare drew, ‘so wizen, and so wild in their attire’!
The artist, Anne Seymour, was the daughter of the Hon. Hugh Seymour
Conway, brother of the Marquis of Hertford. She married, in 1767, the
Hon. John Damer, eldest son of the first Lord Milton. The union was
far from happy, and in 1776 the eccentric and restless-minded husband
shot himself. Mrs. Damer, who had no children to engross her time and
thoughts, now gave herself up to the study and enjoyment of art, for
which purpose she travelled in Italy, France, and Spain, mastering the
languages of the countries through which she passed; and, benefiting
by the treasures of painting and sculpture which they afforded her,
she became a proficient with her brush and her chisel, and executed
many admirable works, too numerous to be mentioned, being a frequent
exhibitor at the Royal Academy. In politics Mrs. Damer emulated her
friends, Lady Melbourne and the Duchess of Devonshire, being a staunch
Whig, while on the boards of Brocket and White Hall she displayed much
talent as an actress. When her cousin and friend, Lord Orford, died,
he bequeathed Strawberry Hill to her, with a handsome annual sum for
its maintenance, and there she lived for some years. In 1828 she died
at her house in Upper Brook Street, and, by her own desire, was buried
at Sundridge. Her sculptor’s tools and apron, together with the ashes
of a favourite dog, were placed with her in her coffin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
PICTURES NOT PLACED.
[Illustration]
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PICTURES NOT PLACED.
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PENSIONARY JOHN DE WITT.
_Black velvet gown. Long hair._
------------------
ADMIRAL CORNELIUS DE WITT.
_Leather jerkin. Own hair. Holds a truncheon. One arm akimbo._
JOHN DE WITT was born at Dort in 1625. He was educated in the Latin
School of Dort, was at Leyden for four years with his brother
Cornelius, two years older than himself, travelled with him in France
and England, and in 1648 went to study law and mathematics at the
Hague.
It may be as well to begin by briefly depicting the political
situation of the Dutch Provinces at this period.
They had for some time been divided into two parties. One was headed
by the Prince of Orange, composed of the old nobility and of the lower
orders both in town and country, and supported by the bulk of the
clergy. The other consisted mainly of the higher classes in the large
towns. The differences between the two parties were numerous, but may
chiefly be described as having reference to War, Trade, and Religion.
The House of Orange, by the line it had taken at a critical moment
against Philip II., by the indomitable constancy of its Princes, and
by their vast political and military talents, had been the principal
instrument of the liberation of the Netherlands from the dominion of
Spain; but their enemies accused them of continuing the war for the
sake of their own aggrandisement much longer than was necessary, and
of thus squandering the resources and weakening the energies of the
State. They complained of the heavy burdens laid upon commerce, and of
the losses sustained by the mercantile interest, owing to the insecure
condition of the seas. As to religion, the wealthier burgesses
belonged for the most part to the Arminian, or what we may perhaps
call the Broad Church party, and were ardently in favour of
toleration, while their opponents leaned strongly for support upon the
rigid and persecuting Calvinists. In addition to the causes of
disagreement which I have mentioned, was the conflict between the
authority of the Union, on the one hand, and, on the other, the
individual rights of each particular Province. These provincial rights
were more especially insisted upon by those who opposed the House of
Orange in the Province of Holland itself, for they complained that
though Holland paid more towards sustaining the public burdens than
all the other Provinces put together, she was constantly outvoted and
overruled on the most important subjects of public policy.
This is as full an account as our limits will permit of the subjects
of dispute between the party of the House of Orange and the
Opposition. The Opposition, we must bear in mind, derived its chief
strength from the rich merchants and the magistrates of the large
towns. These magistrates were elected by close corporations, and were
chosen in each town, generation after generation, from a small number
of select families. It was to one of the most considerable of these
families in the town of Dort that John de Witt belonged; he had thus
the advantages and the disadvantages of having his political party
already decided for him by the accident of his birth, and the less
doubtful good fortune of finding an open access to public life.
It was while De Witt was studying at the Hague that the struggle
between the two parties in the State was brought to a crisis. Peace
had at last been made with Spain; but it was expected that the young
Prince of Orange, William II., who had just succeeded to his father,
would soon break it. Fearing this, the Provincial Government of
Holland, which was in the hands of the burgess oligarchy, refused to
pay its share of the expenses of the troops, and directed certain
numbers to be disbanded. The Prince obtained an order from the
States-General of the United Provinces to go with a deputation to the
different towns of Holland and forbid the local authorities from
obeying the directions of the Provincial Government. At Dort, which
was the first place he visited, he was thwarted by Jacob de Witt,
John’s father, ex-burgomaster, and one of the principal men in the
town. On returning to the Hague, he summoned Jacob de Witt and five or
six others of the leading deputies, and put them in prison. Meanwhile,
he attempted to seize Amsterdam. The attempt failed; but the
municipality of that city, in order to avert a civil war, agreed to
abandon all further opposition to the Prince, who was now
all-powerful; but at the moment of his triumph he fell ill of the
small-pox and died. His only son was not born till a week afterwards.
The rich middle-class oligarchical party now found itself raised by
fortune from complete prostration to the supreme direction of affairs.
Whether they could maintain their position might well have been
doubted. They had many difficulties to contend with; they had against
them the large circle of personal adherents of the House of Orange,
all the distinguished soldiers, many of the distinguished admirals,
the ancient nobility, and the mass of the common people. They were few
in number, and none of them had yet shown any particular ability. It
is in circumstances like these that the appearance of a remarkable man
affects the current of history. Such a man appeared at this moment in
John de Witt, who had just received his first official appointment as
Pensionary of Dort. Born, as we have seen, in the very centre of the
faction which was now dominant, he obtained at once, and without an
effort, their full confidence. On the other hand, his just and
impartial nature, conspicuous from the very first, the consummate
ability which he gradually developed, and, above all, his commanding
resolution, raised and sustained the weak party to which he belonged.
His influence extended far beyond its narrow circle, and his name is
associated with one of the most prosperous times in the history of his
country.
It was not, however, for some years that De Witt filled more than a
subordinate position. Meanwhile the new Government proved itself both
feeble and unfortunate. It was compelled by the fundamental principles
of the party to push provincial independence to an extreme that almost
disintegrated the Union. The office of Captain-General, which had
largely contributed towards holding the Union together, was abolished,
for it would assuredly have fallen into the hands of the House of
Orange. The provincial office of Stadtholder remained vacant for the
same reason. Business had never been rapidly conducted by the Dutch;
but now it could hardly be conducted at all. The first result of this
state of things was drifting into a war with England, against the
wishes and interests of both nations, particularly of the Dutch. Nor
was the war carried on in a manner creditable to the authorities at
home. The ships were ill-fitted and ill-provisioned, the instructions
were confused, and nothing but the genius and conduct of the admirals,
Van Tromp and De Ruyter, saved the country from overwhelming
calamities. In spite of the most desperate fighting that ever took
place at sea, and of some brilliant victories by the Dutch, they were
overmatched, blockaded, and very nearly reduced to starvation. The
ablest men in the country had for some time seen the folly of the war
and the necessity for putting an end to it. But the breakdown in the
machinery of government, which made it difficult to carry on the war
with vigour, made it almost impossible to conclude a peace. It was now
that De Witt, appointed Grand-Pensionary of Holland, began to play a
leading part. On the one hand, he commenced building a new fleet of
larger and better ships; on the other, he started negotiations with
Cromwell, at this time Lord Protector of England. The difficulties in
his way, both in prosecuting the war and in making peace, were almost
inconceivable. He had no actual power in his hands; nothing but moral
influence. Every measure had to be debated in each of the Assemblies
of the Seven Provinces. It was then brought before the States-General,
whose members had no authority to decide any new point without
referring it back to their constituents; even when the States-General
had come to a decision, there was no means of binding the dissentient
minority. It is an under-statement of the case to say that no
diplomacy ever exercised throughout Europe by Cardinal Richelieu, by
William III. of England, by Metternich, or by Talleyrand, was vaster
or more intricate than that required by De Witt to bring about the end
he had in view. His difficulties were the greater that the bulk of the
nation thoroughly detested the new Government. The Orange party among
the lower classes were almost as violent now as they became later in
1672, and De Witt went about in danger of his life. At last, by
incredible exertion and dogged resolution, joined with admirable tact
and temper, by impenetrable secrecy, and, it must be confessed, by a
certain amount of duplicity, he attained his objects. The new fleet
was begun, and shortly afterwards peace was concluded on better terms
than might have been expected.
Still greater duplicity was shown in carrying out a secret agreement
whereby the State of Holland bound itself to exclude for ever any
members of the House of Orange from the office of Stadtholder. Was
this really forced upon De Witt by Cromwell? Was his own judgment
warped by prejudice? Or was it one of those sacrifices to the passions
of a party, which, in a time of excitement, are occasionally demanded
even from the most upright Minister? It was accomplished in a most
discreditable manner; the storm it raised when it became known shook
the Seven Provinces to their very foundation. Its immediate effect,
when that storm subsided, was to confirm the power of the class which
held the reins of Government; but the measure was pregnant with future
mischief.
By the tact and tenacity shown in these proceedings, De Witt had
raised himself to so high a position that he never again had quite the
same herculean labours to go through in carrying out his measures;
but, in order to judge his abilities fairly, we must always remember
that on every occasion when it was necessary to act, obstacles
somewhat of a similar nature had to be overcome.
A cordial understanding with England lasted till the Restoration in
1660, far more cordial, indeed, than with France.
Up to this time, almost from the commencement of its existence, it had
been the policy of the Dutch Republic to maintain an alliance with
France. But the French had come to consider this alliance so necessary
to the Republic that they had felt themselves able to treat their
allies in a most supercilious manner. Their armed ships had for some
time been in the habit of seizing and plundering Dutch merchantmen. It
had been impossible to obtain redress till, in 1657, Admiral de Ruyter
had orders from his Government to make reprisals, and took two of the
King’s ships. A French envoy was sent to demand satisfaction. A
rupture seemed imminent, but matters were smoothed over, and the
United Provinces came out of the difficulty without loss of credit.
In the meantime much alarm had been created in Holland by the ambition
of Charles Gustavus of Sweden, who had engaged in a successful war
with Poland, and afterwards attacked Denmark. Denmark was in alliance
with the United Provinces, and, moreover, it was necessary for the
trade of Holland in the Baltic, which was very considerable, that the
balance of power in the North should be preserved. After many
negotiations, and an abortive attempt to make a treaty with Sweden,
the Dutch assisted Denmark with a powerful fleet and a small body of
troops. They had an obstinate naval engagement, by which Copenhagen
was saved, and in the following year they destroyed some of the
largest of the Swedish men-of-war, which they succeeded in surprising
and outnumbering. Charles Gustavus died suddenly, and peace was soon
afterwards made.
A desultory war had all this time been going on with Portugal, in
order to obtain compensation for losses sustained by the Dutch in
Brazil, which does not come within our limits to describe. This war
was chiefly carried on in the East Indies, where the Dutch conquered
the rich island of Ceylon. Peace was finally made with Portugal in
1661, Portugal paying a heavy indemnity for the Brazil losses.
In all these matters De Witt had become more and more the principal
mover. As to home affairs, his reputation, and the power which was
derived from it, were not confined to his own province of Holland, for
we find him about this period chosen by the nobility, first of
Friesland, and then of Overyssel, to settle their internal disputes.
The office of Grand-Pensionary was a five years’ appointment. It had
been renewed to De Witt in 1658, and in 1663 it had become such a
matter of course that he should fill it, that even his opponents gave
a tacit consent to his remaining. Having proved himself necessary, it
was impossible that he should not continue to hold the most honourable
place in the Government. Not that his place as Grand-Pensionary gave
him any real power. I have already remarked, and it is important to
bear in mind, that by the strange system now prevailing, no official
whatever possessed more than a moral influence. Whenever anything of
importance was to be done, some person was appointed for that
particular purpose, and this person was now almost always either De
Witt or his brother, generally the former. For instance, there was at
this time a dispute between the Prince of East Friesland and his
subjects, which threatened to be serious. John de Witt was at once
appointed to go at the head of a deputation to mediate between the
contending parties. I need hardly add that his mediation was at once
successful; and there was soon to be a still greater scope for the
display of his abilities, as a war with England was impending.
Charles II. was now on the throne of England, and there was a natural
antagonism between him, as uncle to the Prince of Orange, and the
party which now governed Holland. Besides this, the English nation had
always been jealous of the commercial prosperity of the Dutch, and
they had not yet become sufficiently aware of the extent to which the
power of France was increasing, or the necessity for a Dutch alliance
in order to check it.
We cannot be surprised, therefore, that this war should have broken
out; it began on the coast of Africa, and soon became general. De Witt
was, of course, at once appointed Chief Commissioner for the direction
of the navy, and by his personal exertions at Amsterdam and other
places he succeeded in fitting out a considerable fleet, very
differently equipped and provisioned to what had been the case in the
war with Cromwell. This fleet, however, under the command of Opdam,
engaged the English in the beginning of June 1665, and suffered a
tremendous and most disastrous defeat. Opdam was killed, and the other
admirals were at daggers drawn with each other. Such was the general
confusion and discouragement, and such the general instinct to turn to
De Witt in any great emergency, that though he had never yet had any
military or naval experience whatever, the chief command was at once
thrust upon him. He knew well how invidious his position would be, and
it was in spite of the earnest persuasion of his personal friends to
the contrary, that, at the call of duty, he accepted the office.
The fleet had been driven into the Texel, and was shut in there by a
contrary wind. To Holland, who depended for her very existence upon
supplies from abroad, and whose East Indian ships at this very moment
required protection for their safe passage, it was absolutely
necessary that the fleet should at once put to sea. But the seamen
unanimously represented that as the wind then stood this was
impossible. De Witt, though no sailor, was a great mathematician. He
had read deeply and written ably on the subject, and he was now to put
his knowledge to practical use. He proved by calculation that it was
just possible, even with this adverse wind, to sail out by one
passage, then called the Spaniards’ Gat. The pilots now declared that
in the Spaniards’ Gat there was not more than ten feet of water, and
that this was not sufficient. De Witt took a boat, personally sounded
it, and found everywhere a depth of at least twenty feet. He himself
superintended the carrying out of the largest ship in the fleet, and
was followed by all the rest.
He now had to exercise his diplomatic abilities in order to reconcile
the two admirals under his command—De Ruyter and the younger Van
Tromp. He succeeded in smoothing down their mutual animosities, and in
attaching them both personally to himself. But the sailors still
grumbled, not unnaturally, at being commanded by an unknown and
inexperienced landsman, and it was not till a violent storm arose that
he had an opportunity of winning their esteem. For two days and two
nights, without food and without rest, he remained on deck, infusing
courage into others, as only a really brave man can do, working
himself, and, what seems to have been unusual, forcing his officers
also by his example to work with their own hands. He gradually became
the idol of the men, showing particular concern for their comfort and
welfare, while, at the same time, by his tact and good management, he
avoided giving any offence to the officers.
This expedition, however, does not seem on the whole to have been very
successful, probably on account of the roughness of the weather. On
his return he found the people violently irritated by false reports of
the intermeddling of himself and the other deputies whom he had taken
with him. He was particularly supposed to have thwarted De Ruyter,
but, unfortunately for his enemies, De Ruyter happened at this time to
come to the Hague, and to choose for his lodgings the house of the
very man who was reported to have behaved so ill. De Ruyter wrote a
letter to the States, not only vindicating, but warmly praising him.
De Witt also wrote an elaborate account of all his proceedings; the
tide of opinion changed. He received an enthusiastic vote of thanks,
and the offer of a large present, which he declined.
De Witt only left the fleet in order to plunge deep into the tangled
thicket of negotiation. Louis XIV. was indeed nominally an ally, but
he was very slack and very procrastinating; delighted to see his two
neighbours tearing each other to pieces, and not anxious to help the
Dutch more than he was obliged. Denmark was making perfidious
overtures, first to England, and then to Holland. De Witt eventually
succeeded in forming an alliance with her, and also with Brandenburg,
but for a long time she required watching with constant attention.
Meanwhile Charles II. had induced the Bishop of Münster to invade the
United Provinces with 8000 men. The Bishop proved to be a bad general,
was threatened by Brandenburg in his rear, and was induced by De Witt
to leave the country before he had done much harm. But Holland had
received a warning to which she ought to have attended. The army was
evidently no longer the same as in the old days of Maurice and
Frederick Henry. There were ugly stories of incompetent officers, and
of men unwilling to expose themselves to the fire of the enemy. But
peace was made with the Bishop; men’s minds were diverted by the
fierce fighting which was going on at sea; and all this was hushed up,
and forgotten for a time.
All parties in the State were now united in a vigorous prosecution of
the war. De Witt, who, as I have said, seems to have been the one man
besides his brother who looked after everything, had taken care that
the education of the young Prince of Orange should not be neglected.
Though he opposed with all his might intrusting him with the offices
held by his ancestors, he was magnanimous enough to provide that, if
he did obtain them, he should be qualified to fill them. The two
factions seemed now, in the face of a common danger, to have been for
the moment reconciled. A large and well-furnished fleet took the sea
in the summer of 1666 under De Ruyter and the younger Van Tromp; on
June I they met the English, under Prince Rupert and the Duke of
Albemarle. One of those desperate sea-battles took place which form
the peculiar feature of the period of which we are writing. The
English were outnumbered, but not more so than they have been in many
of the most decisive of their victories over other nations. For four
days the desperate struggle continued, and it ended in what the Dutch
called a victory, and the English a drawn battle. On July 25 another
engagement took place. The English, who had by this time been
reinforced, were now successful, but only after the most desperate
fighting. Van Tromp had become separated from De Ruyter, either from
accident or by design; but De Ruyter kept his station till night
against overwhelming numbers, and next morning moved sullenly away,
frequently exclaiming, ‘My God! is there not one among all these
bullets which will put an end to my miserable life?’
Not only were the Dutch defeated, but dissension of the most violent
nature broke out between the two admirals, and among all the officers
of the fleet. The Provinces were in consternation; De Witt was sent
out to endeavour to put things straight. Van Tromp’s commission was
taken from him, and some of the captains were punished; but the most
guilty are said to have escaped on account of their family
connections.
Both nations were now beginning to be desirous of peace. Holland had
been reduced to great distress, and Charles had found the war attended
with little glory and much expense. De Witt, afraid of the intrigues
of the Orange party, refused to receive an Ambassador at the Hague,
but negotiations were begun at Paris. It was agreed as a basis that
each country should retain whatever possessions they at the moment
had. This was, on the whole, favourable to England, but some trifling
matters remained to be adjusted, and England meanwhile proposed
immediate disarmament. De Witt, knowing the character of King Charles,
and seeing his opportunity, persuaded the States to refuse. Charles,
as he expected, thinking the matter virtually settled, and wanting his
money for other purposes, made no preparations for the coming year. De
Witt, however, equipped a large fleet, which he despatched, early in
the summer, under the command of his brother Cornelius, straight to
the Thames. Sheerness was taken, and the Dutch sailed up the river.
The Medway was guarded by a chain drawn across it, and by three ships
of war; the chain was broken, and the ships burnt. Three more ships
were burnt at Chatham; the Dutch guns were heard in London, and there
was general consternation. Charles immediately sent orders to give way
upon all the points still insisted on by the Dutch, and peace was
signed at Breda.
Thus ended the war between England and Holland. We may console our
national pride by feeling that our ill success was as much owing to
our own imbecile Government as to the merits of our enemy, but it will
be impossible to refuse a tribute of admiration to the latter. We have
grown so accustomed since, in reading of our many glorious wars, to
look with pride upon the map, and to compare our own small island with
the large proportions of our various opponents, that it almost amuses
us, now that it is so long ago, for once to observe the contrary, and
to remember that we were formerly defied and held at bay by a country
of almost exactly the same size as Wales.
I have said that it was some time before England and Holland
recognised the fact, to us so obvious, that it was the common interest
of both countries to join together against France. The rising power of
that country, and the ambition displayed by her King, now began to
open the eyes of her neighbours. Even Charles II. was for a few years
persuaded to adopt the course required by reason; after some
preliminary negotiation, Sir William Temple was sent to the Hague,
where, with a celerity quite unexampled in anything at that time
dependent on the movements of the Dutch Government, he concluded a
Triple Alliance between England, Holland, and Sweden. This was carried
out by De Witt. He had for some time been convinced of the necessity
for it, but he had great difficulties in his way, as some of the
Provinces were in favour of the suicidal policy of an agreement with
France for the division of the Spanish territory in Flanders; De Witt
only carried his point by a breach of the Constitution. He persuaded
the States-General to sign the treaty at once, instead of referring it
back to the local Assemblies, as they were in strictness bound to do.
Had he not felt sure of his position with the people, he could only
have done this at the risk of his head; but there was no danger. He
was at this moment at the very height of popularity and fame. There is
some interest in contemplating a great man at such a moment,
particularly when there is in the background a dark shadow of
impending fate. The interest is in this instance increased by the
modest dignity of the hero; there is something very striking in the
picture drawn by Temple of the life and habits of one who at this
period shone prominently among the most conspicuous figures in
Europe,—his simple dress, his frugal house-keeping, and his single
servant. He lived upon a salary of £300 a year, shortly to be
increased to £700; and he steadily refused all presents from the
State; accepting with difficulty a small one of £1500 from the rich
families of his own Province. His third term of office now expired: he
was again elected for a fourth period of five years; it was to be the
last time.
We are now to witness first the decline, and then the sudden close, of
this memorable career. De Witt’s popularity with the multitude was
never more than a temporary matter; the Prince of Orange was now
growing up, and had already displayed more than ordinary ability. He
was admitted into the Council, and he gathered round him a
considerable party—not large enough to assume the management of
affairs, but sufficiently so to cause division and weakness. On the
other hand, the party of burgomasters and rich citizens—the burgess
oligarchy, as we have called it—to which De Witt properly belonged,
and which had brought him into power, became divided within itself,
one portion only giving him undeviating support. De Witt had ceased,
to a certain extent, to be a party man, and every Minister in a
Constitutional Government who does this runs the risk of being
deserted by his followers. We have seen that, even in the height of
his power, he was unable to procure the punishment of the aristocratic
sea-captains who had misbehaved, and he was now equally unsuccessful
in his attempts to remodel and reorganise the army, which was largely
officered from the same class. But perhaps he did not push his
attempts in this direction with as much vigour as he ought, for he
relied largely upon diplomacy for preventing the necessity of
employing any army at all.
Louis meanwhile applied all his energy and skill to dissolve the
Triple Alliance. He certainly succeeded in persuading the Dutch to
enter into negotiations, but to this De Witt only consented with the
utmost reluctance, evidently because he could not help himself; or we
may feel pretty sure that he would have succeeded in keeping his
country firm to its true interest. In England, however, things were
very different: it was the time of the Cabal—the worst and most
profligate Ministry we have ever had. By bribery of the Ministers, by
the promise of a large subsidy to the King, and with the help of the
beautiful Duchess of Portsmouth, whom he sent over for the purpose,
Louis persuaded our Government suddenly to reverse their whole policy,
to break all their engagements, and to declare war against the United
Provinces.
The French were already prepared. An army of 130,000 men, commanded,
under the King, by Condé, Turenne, Luxembourg, and all the most
distinguished generals of France, advanced upon the frontier. The
Dutch troops were panicstricken and demoralised; the army had, as we
know, been allowed to get into a very unsatisfactory condition. De
Witt had relied chiefly upon the navy for maintaining the greatness of
his country; but he had not been insensible to the deficiencies of the
other branch of the service. He had, as I have said, tried hard, but
not hard enough, to remedy them. His party had always been pledged to
the reduction of the troops in order to keep down the taxation; the
adherents of the House of Orange, who comprised the best officers of
the country, had been unwilling to serve under the present Government,
and the Government had been equally unwilling to employ them. On the
other hand, the rich citizens, whose political support was the main
prop of the Administration, had insisted upon all the best commands
being conferred upon their sons and other relations, who were too
often utterly incompetent. The French passed the Rhine with only a
faint show of opposition, and, scattering their enemies before them,
marched almost to the very suburbs of Amsterdam. In the meantime the
Prince of Orange had been made, first Captain-General of the United
Provinces, and then Stadtholder of Holland and Zealand; his partisans
were everywhere triumphant, and his opponents, particularly after a
gallant but indecisive naval engagement, and a vain effort by De Witt
to make peace, were utterly crushed and discredited. Now comes the
tragic termination of our story. Cornelius de Witt had just
distinguished himself highly in the sea-fight of Solebay, but, on the
testimony of one of the most infamous of mankind, he was accused of
the preposterous charge of attempting to poison the Prince of Orange.
He was put to the torture, which he endured with heroic constancy, and
nothing could be wrung from him. But he was sentenced to be banished.
John de Witt, whose assassination had already been attempted a short
time before, went to convey his brother out of prison, and start him
on his journey. The prison was besieged by an armed mob, who blockaded
the door, and eventually broke into the room, where they found the two
brothers—Cornelius in bed, shattered by the torture which he had
recently undergone, and John, sitting upon the foot of the bed, calmly
reading his Bible. Cornelius, whose fiery and impetuous nature formed
a contrast to the composure and self-control of John, rose, in spite
of his weakness, and angrily bade the intruders begone. John, having
tried in vain to reason with them, put his arm round his brother, and
assisted him to descend the stairs. In the courtyard they were hustled
by the crowd, separated, and eventually murdered,—John, as he fell,
covering his face, like Cæsar, with his cloak.
The end of De Witt’s political career was disastrous, and it is not
easy to assign to him his proper place among the statesmen of the
world. I think, however, it should be on the whole a high one; as to
actual work done, he merely showed that Holland could maintain her
proud position independently of the House of Orange. The great men of
that House, who came before and after him, under whom the United
Provinces were created a nation, and obtained a world-wide renown,
under whom, in a death-struggle with first one and then the other,
they successfully resisted all the strength of the two mightiest
monarchies in the world—those Princes, William the Silent, Maurice,
and William III., have thrown De Witt rather into the shade. It is
only when we take into account the difficulties he had to contend with
that his rare abilities become fully apparent. One of his biographers
has invidiously compared his character with that of Cromwell, who led
a rival Republic at about the same time. But it seems to me that there
are no materials for a comparison; what De Witt might have done as the
all-powerful chief of a large and well-disciplined army is an unknown
quantity. On the other hand, how would the great Protector, with his
irritable temper and his unintelligible speeches, have succeeded in
doing the work of De Witt? We must remember that Cromwell at the most
critical period only saved himself and his country by turning out half
his Parliament into the street. He cut the Gordian knot; while De Witt
was compelled to be continually untying it. There is a good simile,
supposed to have been used by an illustrious statesman of the present
day as regards his own position, but far less applicable to him than
to the Pensionary: ‘De Witt was like a man out hunting upon a mule.’
C.
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INDEX OF PORTRAITS.
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[Illustration]
INDEX OF PORTRAITS.
-------
_Where there is more than one Portrait of the same Person,
the first number refers to the Page containing the notice of
the Life._
ALBEMARLE, FIRST EARL OF, 399
ARLINGTON, EARL OF, WIFE AND DAUGHTER, 374
AUSTRIA, ARCHDUCHESSES OF, 39
AUVERQUERQUE, FIELD-MARSHAL, 199, 455
BALBI BROTHERS, 384
BEAUVALE, LORD, 398
BOTNIA, JARICH VAN, 373
—— LUITS VAN, 374
BURKE, EDMUND, 69
CLAVERING, JOHN, 334
CLIFFORD, NATHANIEL, 474
COLLETON, LADY ANNE, 456
COWPER, LADY, 398
—— LADY CAROLINE, 211
—— EDWARD, THE HONOURABLE, 334
—— HENRY, OF TEWIN WATER, 324
—— JOHN, 117
—— SARAH, LADY, 366
—— SPENCER, JUDGE, 119
—— SPENCER, THE HONOURABLE, DEAN OF DURHAM, 333
—— WILLIAM, SIR, FIRST BARONET, 115
—— —— SECOND BARONET, 119
—— WILLIAM, THE POET, 229
« _EARLS_— »
COWPER, FIRST EARL, LORD CHANCELLOR, 126, 173
—— AS A YOUTH, 335
—— SECOND EARL, 147
—— THIRD EARL, 148, 308, 324, 404
—— FOURTH EARL, 152
—— FIFTH EARL, 152, 323
COWPER, SIXTH EARL, 303
—— SEVENTH EARL, 331
« _WIVES OF THE EARLS COWPER_— »
COWPER—OF THE FIRST EARL, 335, 398
—— —— SECOND EARL, 362
—— —— THIRD EARL, 308, 372
—— —— FIFTH EARL, 265
—— —— SIXTH EARL, 307
—— —— SEVENTH EARL, 228, 309
DAMER, MRS. DAWSON, 475
DOLCE, CARLO, WIFE OF, 64
ESTE, D’, ELEANORA, 65
FAUCONBERG, CHARLOTTE, COUNTESS OF, 452
FIAMMINGO, 63
FORDWICH, VISCOUNT, 361
FOX, CHARLES JAMES, 84, 449
GORE, FAMILY OF, 308
—— MRS., 361
GREY, DE, EARL, 325
HOBBES, THOMAS, 98
HUGHES, JOHN, 395
JACKSON, MISS, 372
KIRKE, MADAM, 383
LAMB, EMILY, THE HONOURABLE, 322, 323
—— FREDERICK, THE HONOURABLE, 327, 441
—— GEORGE, THE HONOURABLE, 306
—— HARRIET, THE HONOURABLE, 322
—— PENISTON, THE HONOURABLE, 320, 324, 327, 441
—— WILLIAM, THE HONOURABLE, 310, 303, 441
—— LADY CAROLINE, 461
LEGANES, MARQUEZ DE, 385
MARLBOROUGH, SARAH, DUCHESS OF, 450
MARY, QUEEN OF ENGLAND, 436
MELBOURNE, FIRST VISCOUNT, 367, 322
—— SECOND VISCOUNT, 367, 403
—— VISCOUNTESS, 457, 320, 322, 323
MENGS, RAPHAEL, 442
MILBANKE, LADY, 456
—— SIR RALPH, 322
MILBANKE, JOHN, 322
MORO, SIR ANTONIO, 297
NASSAU, THREE BROTHERS OF THE HOUSE OF, 474
—— JOHN, COUNT OF NASSAU SIEGEN, AND FAMILY, 153
NORTHCOTE, JAMES, R.A., 111
—— HIS FATHER, 449
NORTHUMBERLAND, EARL OF, 49
ORANGE, FREDERIC HENRY OF NASSAU, PRINCE OF, 271
—— MAURICE OF NASSAU, PRINCE OF, 278
—— WILLIAM, PRINCE OF, 162
ORMONDE, FIRST DUKE OF, 404
OXFORD, EARL OF, 453
PALMER, MISS, 225
RETZ, CARDINAL DE, 92
REYNOLDS, SIR JOSHUA, P.R.A., 213
—— MRS. SAMUEL, 212
RUYTER, ADMIRAL DE, 159
SARTO, ANDREA DEL, 39
SEYMOUR, LADY CAROLINE, 367
SHAFTESBURY, EARL OF, 163
SOMERS, EARL, 173
SOUTHAMPTON, ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF, 387
—— RACHEL, COUNTESS OF, 391
STUART, LORDS JOHN AND BERNARD, 389
TRENTO, CARDINAL, 437
TROMP, ADMIRAL VAN, 204
TURENNE, FIELD-MARSHAL, 3
VANDYCK, ANTHONY, 53
WALTA, LOUVE VAN, 437
WHARTON, LORD, 382
WITT, DE, BROTHERS, 481
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REST ✤ PRAY ✤ SLEEP
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ The Erratum on page 278 was, in the original, an entire page
inserted at this point. It was changed to a footnote.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
○ The name of “Lord Somers” is spelled with an “overbar” on the
letter “m”. This cannot be reproduced in the text version, so the
overbar is omitted.
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