LIBRARY.
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 ye Parts beyond ye 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 ye 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 ye 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, ye whole Harvest of your Life will be Weeds: if well husbanded, it will yeild you a profitable return in ye 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 ye 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 Som̅ers 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 Som̅ers), 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 Som̅ers 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 Som̅ers, 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 Som̅ers, 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 Som̅ers 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 Som̅ers; 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 Som̅ers, 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 Som̅ers (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.
ANTE-LIBRARY.
