tread the shore, under the burthen of infinite despair, which I once
trod all cheerfulness and joy.’ He fancies the vessels he sees in the
offing were coming to seize him; he shrinks from the precipice of the
cliff on which he walks, though, perhaps, it would be better for him
to be dashed to pieces. A solitary pillar of rock seems an emblem of
himself: ‘Torn from my natural connections, I stand alone, in
expectation of the storm that shall displace me;’ and so on in the
same terrible strain. He begins to suspect his faithful friend Johnson
(whom he no longer calls ‘Johnny’) of wishing to control him, and
writes to Lady Hesketh, as if compelled to do so by stealth: ‘Dear
Weston! I shall never see Weston again, or you either. I have been
tossed like a ball to a far country, from which there is no rebound
for me.’ Johnson now moved his patients to a new residence, Dunham
Lodge, in the neighbourhood of Swaffham, and never slackened in his
attendance on his kinsman,—reading aloud to him for hours a series of
works of fiction, on which Cowper never made any comment, though they
appeared to rivet his attention. He tells Lady Hesketh,
notwithstanding, that he loses every other sentence, from the
inevitable wanderings of his mind. ‘My thoughts are like loose and dry
sand, which slips the sooner away the closer it is grasped.’ Cowper
could not bear now to be left alone, and if he were so for a short
time, he would watch on the hall door steps for the barking of dogs at
a distance, to announce his kinsman’s return. Mrs. Powley, Mrs.
Unwin’s daughter, came with her husband to visit her mother, and was
much touched by the affection which Cowper still manifested for his
Mary, even in moments of the deepest dejection. By degrees he was
induced to listen composedly, both to the reading of the Bible, and
also to family prayers, which at first his companions feared might
excite instead of soothing him. Johnson laid a kind trap in order to
coax the invalid into a renewal of his literary occupations. One day
he designedly mentioned in Cowper’s hearing, that, in the new edition
of Pope’s Homer, by Wakefield, there were some passages in which the
two translations were compared. The next morning he placed all the
volumes of the work in a large unfrequented room, through which Cowper
always passed on his way from his morning visit to Mrs. Unwin; and the
next day Johnson found, to his great satisfaction, that his kinsman
had examined the books, and made some corrections and revisions, an
occupation which Cowper continued for some little time with apparent
interest. But this improvement did not last long: the melancholy
household moved again to Mundsley, and then to Johnson’s own home, at
Dereham, which was considered less dreary than the house of Dunham
Lodge. It was there that, on the 17th of December, Mrs. Unwin,
Cowper’s faithful and devoted Mary, passed away from earth calmly and
peacefully. In the morning of that day, when the maid opened the
shutters, Cowper asked, ‘Is there still life upstairs?’ She died in
the afternoon, and he went up with Mr. Johnson to take a farewell
look; and, after silently gazing on the lifeless form for some time,
he burst into a paroxysm of tears, left the room, ‘and never,’ says
Hayley, ‘spoke of her more.’
Mrs. Unwin was buried by torchlight in the north aisle of Dereham
Church, where a marble tablet was placed to her memory.
After this event there was little improvement, though some
fluctuations, in Cowper’s state. His friends, Lady Spencer, Sir John
Throckmorton, and others, came to visit him, but he showed no pleasure
in seeing them. He occasionally wrote short verses, especially Latin,
suggested to him by Johnson, made revisions and corrections, and a
longer poem, embodying the most gloomy thoughts, ‘The Castaway,’ from
an incident in one of Anson’s voyages, the last and saddest of his
works.
‘For misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another’s case.’
The end was drawing near. Lady Hesketh was too unwell to go to him;
Hayley was in attendance on his dying son; Mr. Rose went to bid him
farewell, and Cowper, who had evinced no pleasure at his arrival,
mourned his departure.
Johnson thought it now incumbent on him to prepare his friend’s mind
for the impending danger, to which Cowper listened patiently. But when
his kinsman thought to soothe him by speaking of the blessed change
from earthly sorrow to the joys of heaven, the unhappy listener broke
forth into wild entreaties that he would desist from such topics.
On the 25th of April 1800, William Cowper expired, so quietly that not
one of the five persons who stood at his bedside was aware of the
exact moment. ‘From that time till he was hidden from our sight,’ says
his faithful and untiring watcher, Johnson, ‘his countenance was that
of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with _a holy
surprise_,’—words of deepest pathos, indissolubly connected with the
poet’s memory. They inspired Charles Tennyson Turner, our Laureate’s
worthy brother, with one of his most beautiful sonnets,—‘On Cowper’s
Death-smile’—
‘That orphan smile, born since our mourner died,
A lovely prelude of immortal peace.’
Cowper lies buried in the church at Dereham, where his cousin Harriet
placed a monument to his memory.
------------------
_No. 8._
A GIRL.
_In a tawny gown and white cap._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
------------------
_No. 9._
EMILY, WIFE OF THE FIFTH EARL COWPER, AFTERWARDS VISCOUNTESS
PALMERSTON.
_Yellowish-green gown. Pearl necklace. Floating scarf. Arms crossed.
She is holding a white hat and feathers. Background, a stormy sky._
BORN 1787, DIED 1869.
BY HOPPNER AND JACKSON.
THE only daughter and youngest child of the first Viscount Melbourne,
by Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke. When only eighteen she
became the wife of Peter Leopold, fifth Lord Cowper, in the same year
that her brother William married Lady Caroline Ponsonby. We are
confident we cannot do better than quote some passages from an
article, published on Lady Palmerston’s death, by an eminent writer,
who was her personal friend: ‘On her marriage, Lady Cowper immediately
took her place amid that brilliant galaxy of beautiful and
accomplished women who continued to form the chief ornament of the
British Court, through successive reigns, till they were gradually
replaced (not outshone) by a younger race.’ He goes on to describe how
Lady Cowper was admired and distinguished in the brilliant seasons of
1814 and 1815, on the occasion of the Royal and Imperial visits to
England. While speaking of later years, after her second marriage, he
says at that time coteries, cliques, and, above all, party
exclusiveness in politics, prevailed. But at Cambridge House there
were no such limitations. All classes—political, diplomatic, literary,
scientific, artistic—found a welcome, even the proverbially dull
‘country cousin,’ who had any claim on Lady Palmerston’s notice; they
were all received with a gracious smile and a kind word by the amiable
hostess. Her country houses bore the same character for hospitality
and variety of attraction as the London dwelling, and foreigners, in
particular, were never tired of recording the delights of Panshanger,
Brocket (to which she succeeded on her brother’s death), and
Broadlands. The same biographer says of Lady Palmerston that she never
forgot a friend, or remembered an injury; and, speaking of her
devotion to her husband: ‘She was most jealous of his reputation, and
proud of his distinction as a Minister. Every night she sat up for him
until his return from the House of Commons, and her many anxieties on
his account were often hurtful to her health.’ After his death, her
circle was almost entirely restricted to her own family and
connections.
Lady Palmerston was esteemed a most excellent ‘_man_ of business,’
managing her vast property and large households with consummate skill.
She died in her eighty-second year.
London in her time was especially rich in courtly beauties, the fame
of whose charms still survives: the Duchess of Rutland, Ladies Jersey
and Tankerville, Charlotte Campbell, and many other names, well known
to those who read the memoirs of the period. Among such formidable
competitors Lady Cowper held her own for grace and beauty, while she
far surpassed most of her contemporaries in intellectual gifts. She
was much attached to her brother, whose upward career was a source of
pride and satisfaction to her. But in early life she evinced no
personal interest in politics.
Lord Cowper died in 1837; his widow married, in 1839, Lord Palmerston,
and from that moment she became immersed in political life, watching
with the keenest interest the public events which were passing around
her.
Her brother, Lord Melbourne, was at this period at the head of the
Government, and ere long her husband was destined to occupy the same
position. Lady Palmerston now formed a _salon_, which continued for
the lapse of many years to constitute one of the greatest attractions
of London society. We use the word _salon_ advisedly, for these
assemblies bore a nearer resemblance, in character and quality, to the
_salons_ of Paris, than most congregations of guests to be met with in
a London drawing-room.
This picture was begun by Hoppner, and finished after his death by
Jackson.
------------------
_No. 10._
BOY.
_In a dark grey coat. Buff waistcoat. White cravat._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
------------------
_No. 11._
GIRL.
_Brown gown. White muslin handkerchief. Large straw hat. Basket on her
arm. She is seated._
BY HOPPNER.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
BILLIARD ROOM.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BILLIARD ROOM.
-------
_No. 1._
FREDERIC HENRY NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.
_Black and gold dress. Ruff. Gold chain. Sword._
BORN 1584, DIED 1647.
BY MYTENS.
THE youngest child of William the Silent, Prince of Orange. Born at
Delft, christened with great rejoicings, and named after his two
godfathers, the kings of Denmark and Navarre. His mother, Louisa de
Coligny, had been early marked out for misfortune; her father, the
brave Gaspard de Chatillon, High Admiral of France, and her first
husband, the Sieur de Teligny, were both victims of the Massacre of
St. Bartholomew. So sad a fate has surely befallen few women, to see a
beloved parent and two husbands fall by the hands of cruel assassins.
When she was first left a widow, Louisa de Coligny escaped into
Switzerland, and after a time became the fourth wife of William the
Silent, Prince of Orange. During their short union, she endeared
herself to her husband and the whole country by the tender care she
bestowed on her step-children. At the time of William’s murder,
Frederic Henry was but an infant. ‘I am left,’ says the unhappy widow,
‘with a six-months’ child, sole pledge of my dead lord, my only
pleasure and consolation.’
A letter to England gives a most pathetic account of a visit paid to
her a short time after the Prince’s murder. ‘I found the Princess,’
says the writer, ‘in a most dark, melancholy little chamber; and it
was a twice sorrowful sight to behold her heaviness and apparel,
augmented by the wofulness of the place; and truly the perplexity I
found her in was not only for the consideration for things past, but
for that which might follow hereafter. The Princess de Chimay was with
her, herself a dolorous lady.’
The widow’s grief had been insulted by the discourse of an unfeeling
preacher at Leyden, who, alluding to the murder of the Prince,
attributed it to the vengeance of God on the ‘French marriage,’ and
the wicked pomp with which the child’s christening had been
solemnised.
Motley’s portrait of Louisa deserves to be transcribed: ‘A small,
well-formed woman, with delicate features, exquisite complexion, and
very beautiful dark eyes, that seemed in after years, as they looked
from beneath her coif, to be dim with unshed tears; remarkable powers
of mind, sweetness of disposition, a winning manner, and a gentle
voice.’
Such a woman soon became dear to the honest Hollanders, and was indeed
a good monitress, not only to her own child, but to Prince Maurice,
who loved and honoured her, and was inclined on most occasions to
listen to her counsels.
She devoted herself in the first years of her widowhood to
superintending the education of Frederic Henry or Henry Frederic, as
he is called by different historians. The Stadtholder, Maurice, seems
to have been much attached to his half-brother, who, while still a
child, proved his apt and willing scholar in the art of warfare. The
boy stood under fire for the first time when only thirteen, and was
with the army when the siege of Nieuport was projected. Now, this
enterprise was considered so hazardous, that Maurice determined his
brother should remain in a place of safety, on whom, in the event of
his own death, the hopes of the nation would be centred. But this
decision was most repugnant to the brave boy’s inclinations, and he
besought the General, with clasped hands and urgent prayers, to allow
him to share in the glory and danger of the day. There was too much
sympathy between those two noble spirits that Maurice should find it
in his heart to withstand the young soldier’s persistent supplication.
He sent for a new suit of armour, in which Frederic, bravely equipped,
side by side with his young kinsman, De Coligny, participated in the
honours of that memorable victory.
In the early days of his government, Maurice had pledged himself to
his stepmother to remain unmarried, by which means her son would
succeed as Stadtholder; but it was supposed that he went further, and
whispered to her that Frederic should inherit a kingly crown if the
Princess would assist him in obtaining the sovereignty, which he
(Maurice) so ardently desired.
In 1605 the young Prince was in command of a body of veterans in an
attack on the Spaniards, at Mühlheim, by the Rhine, when Maurice,
riding up on the opposite shore, perceived with dismay that a panic
had seized the usually steady and valiant troops. He saw his brother
fighting manfully in the thickest of the fray, his gilded armour and
waving orange plumes making him the aim of every marksman. On that
occasion, at all events, Maurice did not ‘keep silence.’ He tore up
and down the bank, taunting and cursing the soldiers who were
deserting their brave young commander, and his loud and angry
expostulations rallied the fugitives, and saved his brother’s life.
When the exiled King and Queen of Bohemia arrived at the Hague, to ask
shelter and protection from the House of Orange, Elizabeth brought in
her train the faithful and favourite Amelia de Solms, a young lady
whose intelligence and beauty made a deep impression on the heart of
Prince Frederic. There is some little difficulty in reconciling the
different accounts, as the Queen speaks of the lovers’ entire
devotion; yet we are told that Maurice threatened Frederic that, if he
did not make up his mind to marry the German lady, he would himself
espouse a Mademoiselle de Merck, by whom he had already had more than
one child, who would in that case be accepted by the law of that land
as legitimate.
The Queen of Bohemia, in writing to an English correspondent, says: ‘I
am sure you heere already of the Prince of Orange’s marriage with one
of my women, the daughter of Count de Solms, who served the King in
Heidelberg. She is verie handsome and goode. She has no money, but he
has enough for both.’
To return to more public matters. A short time after Maurice’s death
the stronghold of Breda was taken by Spinola. This general had
besieged the place for so long, and had been so much disheartened by
plausible reports of the enemy’s resources, that he asked permission
of the Spanish King to raise the siege. The answer was laconic and
peremptory, ‘_Marquez, sumais Breda. Yo el Rei._‘ There was no
questioning such a command, and Spinola prosecuted the attack with
redoubled energy. In the meantime, the garrison was suffering from
hunger and privations of all kinds; and a mutinous spirit was
spreading so fast as to induce the brave governor, Justin of Nassau
(an illegitimate son of William the Silent), to ask the Prince to
allow him to capitulate.
Frederic replied that he considered it advisable to do so, remarking
at the same time that if Spinola did but know the real state of the
case, he would not be likely to grant very honourable terms. This
letter fell into the hands of the enemy, but the writer misjudged his
generous-hearted foe. With the true ‘garbatezza italiana,’ Spinola
(undeterred by the indignant opposition of most of his officers) gave
orders that the Dutch troops should march out with colours flying,
drums beating, and all the honours of war. He also granted them leave
to carry away many valuables, more especially all the personal
property of the late Prince Maurice. Still further to prove his
respect for the courage displayed by the garrison, he watched them as
they sallied forth, lifting his hat with graceful courtesy, and
exchanging salutations with his noble adversaries.
When the King of Bohemia died, he recommended his widow and children
in the most urgent terms to the protection of the States-General and
the Stadtholder, to whom Elizabeth also drew up a memorial, in which,
after speaking of her profound grief, she goes on to say: ‘My first
great resource is in Heaven; next to that Divine trust, I confide in
you; nor will I doubt that to me and my children will be continued
that friendship so long manifested to my lamented consort. It is for
you to shelter those who suffer for truth and righteousness’ sake.’
The Royal petitioner was liberally dealt with, and the generous
allowance which Maurice (whom she called her second father) had
allotted her, was continued.
Frederic, on succeeding to the government, had found the country in a
ferment of religious and political discord; and he endeavoured to
exercise a tranquillising influence both at home and abroad. He would
gladly have made peace with Spain if he could have done so with
honour, but this was impossible; and he took the field fired with all
the military ardour which had ever distinguished the House of Orange.
In his successive campaigns against the Spaniards, he achieved, for
the most part, brilliant victories, possessing himself, one after
another, of places of the greatest importance. But although
distasteful to himself and the country at large, yet, from motives of
policy, he was induced to enter into an alliance with France, and
maintained a frequent correspondence with the Minister, Cardinal
Richelieu. On the surface of things they were friends, but Richelieu
hated the Stadtholder, and was said to have employed Frederic’s own
valet as a spy on his master’s actions. In 1637 the all-powerful
Cardinal, anxious to propitiate Holland, sent the Count de Charnacé as
ambassador to the Hague, who, in the presence of the assembled States,
addressed Frederic as ‘Prince’ and ‘Highness,’ instead of Excellency,
the title he had hitherto borne. The Stadtholder was not insensible to
the distinction, more particularly as the example set by France was
followed by all the Royal houses in Europe.
He further added to the dignity and importance of his family by
uniting his son with the Princess Mary, daughter to Charles I. of
England, a marriage which afforded general satisfaction. There were
great festivities at the Hague on the occasion, and we are told that
‘the Queen of Bohemia and her fair daughters contributed not a little
to enhance the grace and beauty of the Court pageants.’ The Dutch
continued their victories both by sea and land, their naval
engagements in particular being most brilliant. Henry Frederic’s last
feat of arms was to complete the frontier line, which his skill and
valour had helped to ensure to his country; and the Spaniards were at
length compelled to acknowledge the independence of those Provinces
already united. The Stadtholder was not permitted long to enjoy the
improved aspect of affairs. He died in March 1647, during the session
of the Congress of Münster, and was buried with great splendour at the
Hague. He left one son, William, and four daughters, by Amelia de
Solms, who survived him several years, residing at the Hague, where
she had built a fine palace, and amassed a large fortune. Henry
Frederic was of a noble presence, well formed, and robust; his
disposition was modest and temperate, and his manners gracious and
conciliating. He was a scholar, as well as a soldier, and dictated to
one of his officers memoirs of his principal campaigns, which were
much esteemed. He had none of Maurice’s personal ambition, and never
aspired to the sovereignty. But ‘if it were a sin to covet honour, he
was the most offending soul alive.’ His son succeeded him as
Stadtholder, but died at the early age of twenty-four, leaving his
young widow with child, of a Prince, afterwards William III., King of
England.
------------------
_No. 2._
SENATOR OF ANTWERP.
_Black dress. Black skull-cap. White ruff and cuffs. Sitting in an
arm-chair._
BY WILLEBORT.
------------------
_No. 3._
MAURICE OF NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.
_In armour[1], Holding a truncheon. The other hand rests on a table
beside his helmet. Orange plume and sash._
BORN 1567, DIED 1625.
BY MIEREVELDT.
Footnote 1:
ERRATUM: _for_ “In armour” _read_ “In fuller dress than usual.”
THE second son of William, Prince of Orange, surnamed ‘the Silent’ by
Anne of Saxony, who was repudiated on account of her misconduct.
Maurice was born at the Castle of Dillenbourg; his elder brother,
Philip, had been kidnapped from school, and carried to Spain, where he
became (says Motley) so completely Hispaniolised, both in appearance
and inclinations, as to lose all feeling of patriotism. But his filial
love was never eradicated, and on one occasion, when a Spanish officer
presumed to speak slightly of his illustrious father, Philip flung the
offender headlong from the window of the palace, and killed him on the
spot. It was on the 10th of July 1584 that the hand of a hired
assassin cut short the career of one of the greatest and best men that
had ever illuminated the page of history; Maurice was at that time
pursuing his education at Leyden; and the boy’s tutors had received
strict orders not to allow him to stray by the sea-shore, lest his
brother’s fate should befall him, as it was from that place Philip had
been stolen. William had died deeply in debt; he had spent his
revenues in the service of his beloved country, and at his death there
was no ready money for his widow (Louisa de Coligny), the
step-children to whom she was fondly attached, or her own infant son.
The Prince’s effects were sold for the good of his creditors,—plate,
furniture, tapestries, his very clothes; but this done, the
States-General came forward liberally, and settled a good allowance on
the Princess and her charges. For Maurice (whom they selected as his
father’s successor) they provided most generously, and, impressed by
his promising qualities, and the earnestness and decision of purpose
which he early evinced, they offered to place him at the head of the
States Council, a provisional executive board, for the government of
those Provinces comprised in the union. He was doubtless a remarkable
youth. A letter to Queen Elizabeth extols ‘this flaxen-haired, gentle
boy of seventeen years, his towardness, good presence, courage,
singular wit, and learning,’ while another account describes ‘his
chiselled features, full red lips, dark blue eyes (elsewhere they are
called hazel) with a concentration above his years.’ He was
universally pronounced to resemble his maternal grandfather, the
celebrated Maurice of Saxony, both in appearance and character, and in
nowise to favour his mother, who had been pale and deformed. When
offered the important post Maurice took two days to consider; but he
was not one to shrink from responsibility, and his acceptance was
dignified and modest. He had already selected a device and motto, and
nobly did he redeem the pledge in its wider sense: a fallen oak, with
a young sapling springing from it, ‘Tandem fit surculus arbor.’ And
verily the twig soon became a tree, and a noble one.
The country so lately, and now only partially, emancipated from the
detested yoke of Spain, looked anxiously round for alliance with some
foreign power, to assist in opposing King Philip and his formidable
generals.
Negotiations were commenced, and carried on at great length, with
France, to whose king the sovereignty of the Provinces was offered.
Against this measure Maurice made a most spirited and eloquent appeal
to the Council: he dwelt on all the evils which would accrue from such
a step, reminding his hearers of the services which his family had
rendered, and the misfortunes they had undergone in the cause of
patriotism; furthermore, how nearly they had bestowed the sovereignty
on his late father,—beseeching them not to forget the interests of the
house of Nassau; and he concluded by assuring them, that, young and
inexperienced as he was, he trusted that his zeal and devotion might
be of some avail to his country. His speech was much applauded for its
eloquence; but the negotiations with France were not discontinued,
although after a time they were transferred to England. It seems
certain that the youthful ruler indulged in early hopes of securing
the title of King for himself, but, in default of this, he appears to
have leaned to the notion of the government of Elizabeth, in
preference to that of any other alien. She had always been a staunch
upholder of Protestantism, had been generous to his family in
financial matters, and had always expressed herself in friendly terms
towards the house of Orange; besides, England was a powerful and
desirable ally. Notwithstanding all these considerations, Maurice did
not, as he pithily expressed himself, ‘wish to be strangled in the
great Queen’s embrace.’