When I went up to Trinity in 1842, I used to see a great deal of the princess.... [I was then] a freshman full of admiration for my College of which I used to boast. One day the old princess shewed me the picture, ... and asked if I thought it would look well in the Hall. On my saying what a boon it would be, she very graciously said “You can tell Mr Whewell that I will leave it to the College through you, and I hope you will see this picture placed in a good position.” At her death I took it down to Trinity where I was still an undergraduate.
The portrait of queen Mary on the other side of the dais is a Spanish copy of Antonio Moro’s famous picture which hangs in Madrid. The original is said to have been given to Philip after his engagement to her; it presents her as a woman of strong character but far from beautiful. When the marriage took place, it was unkindly said by a Spanish courtier that whatever were the faults of his master, it must at least be admitted that he recognized the obligation of a gentleman to keep his word.
Of other pictures in the hall those of Tennyson (1809–92) painted in 1890 by G. F. Watts, of the earl of Essex (1566–1601) painted in 1590, of Isaac Newton (1642–1727) painted in 1725 by John Vanderbank, and of Francis Bacon (1561–1626) copied from Van Somer’s portrait in Gray’s Inn are [109] ]specially noticeable. Newton and Barrow (together with Pearson who is mentioned below) played a leading part in the intellectual life in the University towards the close of the seventeenth century, but I need not talk here about this. Barrow, who was a mathematician and divine, had a ready wit. When, previous to his admission to holy orders, he was examined on his faith, the dialogue is said to have been as follows:—Chaplain: Quid est fides? Barrow: Quod non vides. Chaplain: Quid est spes? Barrow: Magna res. Chaplain: Quid est caritas? Barrow: Magna raritas. On which his questioner retired in dudgeon, and reported that there was a candidate for ordination who would only give him “rhyming answers to moral questions”: but the bishop had the sense to recognize that truths can be expressed in rhyme as well as in prose, and Barrow was ordained.
A very pleasing picture is that reputed to be of Byron: this looks like a Raeburn, though it is ascribed to Thomas Lawrence: its history is doubtful, but the absence of any peculiarity in the ear is prima facie evidence that it is not of Byron. Another striking portrait is that of W. H. Thompson (1810–1886) painted in 1881 by Hubert von Herkomer. When Thompson saw the completed portrait of himself, he is said to have remarked, “Do I really look as if I held the world so cheap” and in a print of it in the house of one of my friends, this is inscribed [110] ]on the frame. I ought also to call attention to the window portrait of Richard, duke of York (1411–60), the father of Edward IV and Richard III, which probably comes to us from King’s Hall.
Among other paintings, which at present hang on the hall panelling, are portraits of the following famous members of our College:—Edward White Benson (1829–96) archbishop of Canterbury, Isaac Hawkins Browne (1706–60), Arthur Cayley (1821–95), the earl of Derby (1826–93), Michael Foster (1836–1907), Francis Galton (1822–1911), the earl of Halifax (1661–1715), Fenton John Anthony Hort (1828–92), Richard Claverhouse Jebb (1841–1905), Joseph Joachim (1831–1907) the musician, Thomas Jones (1756–1807), Joseph Barber Lightfoot (1828–89) bishop of Durham, Frederick Denison Maurice (1805–72), James Clerk Maxwell (1831–79), viscount Melbourne (1779–1849), Matthew Raine (1760–1811), Adam Sedgwick (1785–1873), Henry Sidgwick (1838–1900), Charles John Vaughan (1816–97), Brooke Foss Westcott (1825–1901) bishop of Durham, John Westlake (1828–1908), and William Whewell (1794–1866).
Of these, Raine, Jones, Halifax and Hawkins Browne lived in the eighteenth century. The last-named is known to fame through having caused a change in the family reigning in the two Sicilies. In fact, coming to Naples in his travels he danced [111] ]at a court ceremony “with such inconceivable alacrity and vigour” as to provoke universal amusement and amazement: in particular the queen’s laughter was so immoderate that a miscarriage ensued. On such events may the histories of dynasties and empires turn! He is described on this occasion as pirouetting in a “dress of volcano silk with lava buttons”: perhaps it is in this costume that he is depicted on our walls. Having related this anecdote I must in fairness add that he was a poet of considerable ability, a good talker in an age when the standard of conversation was high, and an excellent judge of wine. Most of the portraits are, however, of celebrities of the Victorian age. Of these, Melbourne and Derby were politicians; Benson, Hort, Lightfoot, Vaughan, and Westcott represent the church; Westlake was a lawyer; Jebb a scholar; Maurice and Sidgwick represent ethical philosophy; while Cayley, Foster, Galton, Maxwell, Sedgwick, and Whewell, were men of science.
Among the canvasses above the panelling are portraits of Richard Bentley (1662–1742) the scholar, Edward Coke (1549–1634) the lord chief justice, Cowley (1618–67) the poet, John Dryden (1631–1701) the poet, the earl of Macclesfield (1666–1732), John Pearson (1613–86) bishop of Chester, Robert Smith (1689–1768) the mathematician, and John Wilkins (1614–72) bishop of Chester. Wilkins is [112] ]now almost unknown but he wrote some interesting books, notably one on the ciphers employed in the civil war of the seventeenth century. Another work of his on the possibility of a journey to the moon, provoked the duchess of Newcastle to ask him where she could find a place to bait if she tried the journey: “Madam,” said he, “of all the people in the world I least expected that question from you, who have built so many castles in the air that you may lie every night in one of your own.”
The pictures in the large combination room of Isaac Newton by Thomas Murray, and of Matthew Prior (1664–1721) by Godfrey Kneller are good: the former came to us from a descendant (Mrs Ring) of Newton’s favourite niece, and its history is given in a letter from Charles Simeon to Mansel, master of the College at the time of the gift. The other canvasses are too big for a private apartment, but the portraits of the “proud” duke of Somerset (1662–1748) by Nathaniel Dance, the marquess of Granby (1721–70) by Joshua Reynolds, the duke of Gloucester by John Opie, the marquess of Camden (1759–1840) by Thomas Lawrence, the duke of Grafton (1760–1844) also by Lawrence, and the duke of Sussex (1773–1843) by James Lonsdale, are of some repute: to these there was added in 1915 a portrait of Arthur J. Balfour by P. A. Laszlö de Lombros.
[113]
]Of the peers mentioned above the names of Granby and Somerset are still well known. Granby fought in the Culloden campaign, was colonel of the blues (horse guards) at Minden, 1759; commander of the British contingent in the campaigns of 1760, 1761, and 1762; and in 1766 became commander-in-chief of the army. Delighting in danger, which even when in supreme command he deliberately sought, brave to a fault, an excellent cavalry leader, rich and lavishly generous, he was the idol of the public, and witnesses to his popularity remain in the numerous public-houses scattered far and wide over England which bear his name and arms. Somerset was of a very different type, being a stupid man whose power was chiefly derived from his enormous landed possessions. To the Somerset properties he added, by his marriage with the sole heiress of the earls of Northumberland, the great estates of the Percies. He held the chancellorship of the University for the extraordinary term of sixty years. His title of the “proud duke” commemorates only his arrogance, and was derived from the fact that even to speak to anyone in a menial position was regarded by him as a condescension. His servants were trained to understand his wishes by signs, and numerous footmen surrounded him when in the streets so as to avoid the risk that any people of the lower classes should approach or address him. [114] ]Perhaps the best known of the stories of his pretensions refers to his remark to his second wife who once called his attention to something by touching him with her fan (or according to another version kissed him without asking his leave), “Madam,” said he, drawing himself apart, “my first wife never dared to take such a liberty, and she was a Percy.” As another illustration of his character I may add that he deprived one of his daughters of £20,000 because she had sat down in his presence without asking his leave.
In the lodge there are numerous portraits of former masters of the College, and obviously this is the proper place for such a collection. It is not complete, twelve past masters being unrepresented, but portraits of two of these (namely Wilkins and Pearson) hang in the hall. The most notable picture in this series is that of Nevile, which is properly given the place of honour over the mantelpiece in the dining room which he built. He holds a paper in his right hand, and I like to think that this is intended to suggest the letter which Elizabeth on her death-bed entrusted to him to take to Scotland, informing James VI of that kingdom that she designated him as her successor. In this room too are portraits of Porson and Thompson with whose memories so many excellent academic stories are associated, but I must not linger over these. In [115] ]the drawing room the most striking portraits are those of queen Elizabeth by Mark Gerrard, the duke of Gloucester (1776–1834) in his undergraduate robes by George Romney, and queen Mary probably by Hans Eworth. The painted panels in the entrance hall often escape attention, but are worth looking at, especially in the case of the portraits of Edward III, Henry VII, Elizabeth of York, Mary of Scotland, Edward VI, and queen Mary. The collection of portraits, formed by Dr Butler, of Trinity men who have held judicial appointments is also interesting, but is not generally accessible to visitors.