was at hand, and Ormonde, as may have been expected, was one of those
faithful friends whom the King ‘delighted to honour.’ He was made Lord
Steward of the Household, Duke of Ormonde in the peerage of Ireland,
Earl of Brecknock and Baron Lantony in that of England, and all his
estates, dignities, and privileges in the sister country of which he
had been deprived, restored to him, though, as far as emolument went,
some were scarcely more than nominal. He walked at the coronation as
Lord Steward, and carried St. Edward’s crown. The Viceroyalty of
Ireland, having been offered to and declined by the Duke of Albemarle,
was next proffered to the Duke of Ormonde, who undertook the thankless
task with eyes sharpened by long experience; and in so doing he
remarked to a friend: ‘Besides many other disadvantages, there are two
proper to me—one of the contending parties believing that I owe them
more kindness and protection than I find myself chargeable with, and
the other suspecting I entertain that prejudice to them from which I
am free. This temper will be attended undeniably in them with clamour
and scandal upon my most equal and wary deportment,’—a prophecy which
was too soon and too exactly fulfilled. The Lord-Lieutenant was
received with great pomp and splendour, and a sum of several thousands
voted to facilitate his acceptance of the dignity; but a year had not
elapsed before a deeply-laid plot was discovered to seize the Castle
of Dublin and the person of his Excellency; and though the principal
conspirators were arrested, and some executed, the arch-traitor Blood,
who was one of them, escaped, with a vow of vengeance in his heart
against the Duke, as will be seen hereafter.
Once more in straits for troops for the King’s service, and money to
pay them, Ormonde wrote to the Duke of Albemarle, asking for five
hundred men, to which request he got the unsatisfactory reply, that
Monk himself had not that number in his whole army upon whose fidelity
he could rely. Ormonde, however, was not discouraged, as we shall see
by an extract from the author already quoted, speaking of all the
difficulties with which the Lord-Lieutenant had to contend. ‘He was
not less indefatigable and prudent than his enemies were
indefatigable, industrious, and artful, but turned his whole thoughts
to raising the distressed kingdom of Ireland, both in character and
circumstances. He gave the greatest encouragement to learning,
fostered trade, and revived the linen manufacture, which had been
founded by Lord Strafford.’ It seems strange that the Irish, who are
among the best and most skilful artificers of any nation, should
scarcely ever have persisted in any manufacture, among the many that
have been set on foot at different times, with the exception of this
branch, in which they have for so many years been paramount. The Duke
also advocated for Ireland the advantages of free trade to all foreign
nations, in peace and war; for no ingratitude on the part of his
countrymen ever induced Ormonde to neglect their interests in matters
ecclesiastical, civil, or military. Added to which, he made the most
liberal sacrifices of his own personal property to advance the
interests of the King and the country he ruled; yet notwithstanding,
he was made the mark for calumny and persecution, in England as well
as in Ireland, and the Duke of Buckingham hated and envied him, and
meditated an impeachment, while Lords Arlington and Shaftesbury were
most inimical to him, neither was he a favourite with the
Queen-Mother, in spite of all the services he had rendered her.
Another formidable adversary was Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine,
afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, the rapacious mistress of Charles
II., who had given her the Lodge in Phœnix Park, Dublin. The
Lord-Lieutenant refused to confirm the grant, stopped the warrant,
declaring that it was the proper summer quarter for himself and his
successors in office. Barbara, as may be expected, never forgave this
interference. Meeting the Duke one day while he was in London, in the
precincts of the Court, she fell on him with abusive and insulting
words, and concluded by saying she devoutly wished she might live to
see him hanged. His Grace listened with a calm, imperturbable smile to
these ravings, and said he was not in such hot haste to put an end to
her Ladyship’s existence; he should be quite content to live long
enough to see her old and ugly. Neither did the faithful friendship
which existed between the Duke and the Earl of Clarendon, whose star
was now waning, redound to the worldly advantage of the former.
He made more than one journey to England to give an account of his
stewardship to the King, as also to look after his own interests, well
knowing what numbers were plotting against him. Burnet, Pepys, Evelyn,
all pay their tribute to the Duke during his residence in London at
this time, when Charles, who esteemed him in his heart, was too weak
to uphold him against his arrogant favourite and his other slanderers.
Pepys says: ‘I do hear that my Lord of Ormonde shall not hold his
government of Ireland any longer, which shows the power of Buckingham
and the poor spirit of the King, and the little hold that any man can
have of him.’ Again: ‘This day I do hear that my Lord Ormonde is to be
declared in Council no more Lord-Deputy of Ireland; his time of
commission having expired, the King is prevailed with to take it out
of his hands, which people do mightily admire’ (how many meanings may
lie in the same word!), ‘saying he is the greatest subject of any
Prince in Christendom, and hath done more for his Prince than any ever
yet did, but he must down, it seems: the Duke of Buckingham carries
all before him;’ and so forth. But the machinations of his enemies
succeeded. Lord Robartes reigned in his stead, while the Duchess went
over to Dublin to break up the establishment, and received an ovation
from the people there. Oxford, of which University the Duke had been
made Chancellor, came forward to show him all the respect he deserved,
but no longer received, at the hands of the weak-spirited Charles,
whom he continued to serve so faithfully. Archbishop Sheldon, speaking
of the Duke’s firmness and temper, which he showed in the melancholy
occasion of his disfavour at Court, says it insured the admiration of
all bystanders beyond everything he had ever done before,—indeed it
was the most glorious part of his life. One of the principal causes of
the King’s coldness was the resolution Ormonde had formed, and from
which he never swerved: he would not truckle to those female harpies
who were ruining the King not only in his pocket, but in the
estimation of his people. So dignified was Ormonde’s demeanour that
Buckingham asked Charles, ‘Will your Majesty answer me one question:
Is it the Duke who is out of favour with the King, or the King with
the Duke? for, upon my word, it is your Majesty who looks most out of
countenance when you are together.’
People who were not cognisant of the real state of affairs at Court
would sometimes ask him to intercede for some favour, which caused him
to reply: ‘I have no longer the power to help, only to hurt.’ One day
Carey Dillon, afterwards Lord Roscommon, came and requested the Duke
to assist him with the King in some private affair, saying, ‘I have no
friends but God and yourself.’ ‘Alas!’ said Ormonde, ‘poor Carey, I
pity thee; thou couldst not have two friends who have less interest at
Court or less respect shown them there.’
The Prince of Orange being over in England, the Duke had been in
attendance on his Highness at a banquet given by the City of London,
and was returning to Clarendon House, where he then lived, in his
coach, which was so large that he had caused iron spikes to be placed
at the back, lest his footmen should get up, and make it too heavy for
the horses; so six of them walked by the side; but, in spite of this
escort, the coach was stopped by the notorious Blood and several
accomplices, who had been on the watch in St. James’s Street. They
dragged out the Duke, and placed him behind a horseman, tightly bound
by a rope, with orders that the prisoner should be conveyed to Tyburn,
while Blood galloped on in front to prepare the gallows, with his own
hands, for the execution of the man he detested. But Ormonde made a
stalwart resistance; he struggled so violently as to impede the
progress of the horseman, and at length, getting his foot under the
stirrup, upset his captor, and they both rolled off together on the
pavement. Meantime the coachman had hastened home, alarmed the
servants, with whom he tore off in pursuit, and by the light (not of
the stars of heaven, but) of the star which the Duke wore, and which
glittered in the flicker of the lamps, they found the struggling pair,
and, rescuing their beloved master, conveyed him home almost
senseless. It was naturally supposed that Blood would suffer condign
punishment; but to the surprise of all—saving, perhaps, the Duke of
Buckingham and the Duchess of Cleveland—the King not only pardoned
him, but gave him later on an estate in Ireland! It was currently
believed at Court that Buckingham had a hand in this attempt on
Ormonde’s life, and Lord Ossory taxed him with it one day at Court.
‘I give you warning,’ said the eager young man, ‘that if my father
comes to a violent death by the hand of a ruffian, or by secret way of
poison, I shall not be at a loss to know who is the author, but
consider you the assassin, and whenever I meet you will pistol you,
though it be behind the King’s chair. And I tell you this in his
Majesty’s presence, that you may know I will keep my word,’—a threat
which the blustering Duke seems to have found himself obliged to put
up with; at all events, it was said that when Blood was tried for
stealing the Regalia, he accused Buckingham on this count; and the
King, whose unreasonable clemency with respect to the villain has
always remained a mystery, sent to beg Ormonde’s forgiveness for
Blood. The Duke replied to the messenger: ‘If the King can forgive him
for stealing his crown, I may easily forgive him for attempting my
life.’
In order to be near his service at Court, the Duke had taken a house
near Windsor, and, being in great favour with the Queen and the
Duchess of York, was often summoned to play at basset with them. One
Sunday, the card-table being brought out, the Queen invited him to
play.
‘I hope your Majesty will excuse me,’ he said.
‘You surely can have no scruples,’ observed the Queen, not best
pleased; ‘nobody else has any.’
‘I beg your Majesty’s pardon,’ was the reply; ‘Christian, and even
Jewish, laws, set apart one day in seven for the service of God, and
cessation from business.’
Undoubtedly at this Court card-playing was a business, and one in no
way profitable to the impoverished state of the Duke’s fortune. We do
not know if it were at Windsor or in London, but, after having been
slighted for so long by the King, Ormonde frequently asked leave to
retire from Court. He one day received the astounding intelligence
that his Majesty would sup with his Grace. The cause of this sudden
step was to announce the Royal intention of reinstating the Duke of
Ormonde in the viceregal power in Ireland, Charles being thereto
instigated, it was said, by the Duke of York, who feared the post
might be offered to the Duke of Monmouth. We are inclined to believe
that it was on this occasion that the Duchess prepared so sumptuous a
repast as to call forth a lengthened description in Carte’s life of
her husband: ‘If she had a fault, ‘twas the height of her spirit,
which put her upon doing everything in a magnificent manner, without
regard for expense.’ Bent on giving his Majesty a noble entertainment,
the Duchess consulted her steward, who expostulated, as in duty bound,
and counselled greater economy; but her Grace drew herself up, and
observed with much dignity: ‘You must allow me to be a better judge of
what is fitting for my own sphere;’ and so the banquet cost over
£2000!—if we may trust the biographer so often quoted. The Duke, who
loved her dearly, never interfered with her financial arrangements,
though he must often have had reason to regret them.
He was once betrayed into a melancholy jest on this subject. The
Duchess had built Dunmore Castle for her jointure-house, at a large
cost, and one day, as the Duke was walking with a friend on the leads
of Kilkenny Castle, which commanded a fine view of the surrounding
country, the new castle and grounds forming a conspicuous object in
the landscape,—‘Your Grace,’ observed his companion, smiling, ‘has
done a great deal here; but yonder you have _done more_.’
‘Alas!’ replied the Duke, ‘my wife has done so much, that she has
undone me.’
The history of his return to power was but a repetition of all that
had gone before. Fresh plots against his authority and his life, fresh
outbreaks of religious strife between Catholics and Protestants,
continued undermining of his interests in England; but no public
trouble could be compared with the crushing sorrow occasioned by the
death of his eldest son, Lord Ossory, in the prime of life, in the
zenith of his reputation. We have no space to enlarge on the merits of
this noble son of a noble father; he has been immortalised in the
pages of that father’s faithful friend, Lord Clarendon. Suffice it to
say, that all England and Ireland sympathised with the afflicted
parents. The Duchess appears never to have entirely rallied, for
though her death did not occur till some years later, her health began
to fail, and she went over to Bath for the benefit of the waters. In
1684, of fever and weakness, this most remarkable woman, the ‘best
helpmate man ever was blessed with,’ died, at the age of sixty-nine,
having married when only fourteen.
Her guardian, Lord Holland, had so far neglected her education, that
she had never even learned to write, but she taught herself by copying
print, which was the reason her letters were never joined together. In
appearance she was tall and well made, but not a beauty; an excellent
capacity for business, good sense and judgment, and, as we have said
before, an undaunted spirit, which fitted her for all the vicissitudes
of her eventful life. Irreproachable in her own conduct, she avoided
the society of the King’s favourites, and ‘would never wait on the
Duchess of Cleveland,’ who was her enemy in consequence. The Duchess
of Portsmouth would take no denial, and when the Ormondes lived near
Windsor would always be calling, and once she sent word she was coming
to dine. The Duchess, on receiving this semi-royal intimation,
despatched her granddaughters, who were staying with her, to London,
and when ‘La Quérouaille’ arrived she found no one to sit with her at
table, with the exception of the Duke and Duchess, and their domestic
chaplain; whereas, when the Duke of York married Lady Anne Hyde, and
few were found to pay her court, the Duchess of Ormonde waited on the
bride, and, kneeling, kissed her hand, as to a Princess of the blood.
Queen Catherine esteemed the Duchess of Ormonde highly, none the less,
doubtless, for the slights she put upon ‘The Castlemaine,’ and made
her a present of her own and the King’s portraits, set in large
diamonds, which their Majesties had exchanged at the Royal marriage.
This jewel was given by the Duke to his grandson’s wife, Lady Mary
Somerset, who was compelled to sell it for subsistence at the
Revolution, when her husband’s estates passed away from him.
The Duke was in England when his wife died, and was inconsolable;
‘indeed, when alone at night, he was almost distracted.’ The only
solace he found was in constant work, and he hurried over to Dublin to
resume his duties; in the meantime, Charles II., who had lately made
him an English Duke, was besieged, as before, with applications once
more to deprive his faithful servant of the Lord-Lieutenancy. For a
while he stood firm, saying he had one of his kingdoms in good hands,
and was resolved to keep it so; and another time, being asked by my
Lord Arlington if the report were true that the Duke was to be
recalled, his Majesty replied with much anger, ‘It is a damned lie!’
But no one could trust in the steadfastness of the ‘Merry Monarch.’
Ormonde’s enemy, Colonel Talbot, made a report on Irish affairs, which
Charles took hold of as a plea for the Duke’s recall. Sir Robert
Southwell wrote to Dublin to give him warning of the King’s decision.
‘They begin early,’ was the reply, ‘to find fault with my conduct,
before I am warm in my post here, or my head recovered from the
agitation of the sea.’
Charles II. died suddenly, but James lost no time in carrying out his
brother’s intention; Ormonde was superseded by Lord Clarendon, the
King’s father-in-law, and he had in turn to make way for Ormonde’s
bitter enemy, Colonel Talbot, who, in 1687, was made Earl of
Tyrconnell and Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. His Majesty paid the Duke
the scanty compliment of asking him to remain in his post at Court,
which he did, and again carried the Crown at the Coronation.
In February 1686 he went to stay a while at Cornbury, a beautifully
situated forest lodge in Oxfordshire, lent him by his friend, Lord
Clarendon, whence he waited on the King at Bristol; and, being
afterwards laid up with gout and rheumatism at Badminton, James
visited him twice in person, and condescended to request him to
continue his place at Court, though unable to attend. The Duke then
proceeded to Kingston Hall, a country house he had hired in
Dorsetshire, where he died.
The constant society of his faithful friends, Sir Robert Southwell,
and the Bishop of Worcester, who had been his domestic chaplain,
cheered his last days, and he took much delight in seeing little Lord
Thurles, his great-grandson, playing about the room, or in taking the
child on his knee to caress him. One day, appearing more than usually
downcast, he was asked the reason. ‘This is the anniversary of the
saddest day of my life,’ replied the Duke,—‘the day on which I lost my
beloved wife.’
He had always been of a religious turn of mind, never entering on any
new duty, or assuming any responsibility, without writing for himself
special prayers to be used on the occasion. He attended family prayers
twice a day up to the very last, received the Sacrament, selecting his
fellow-communicants, and took a tender leave of his servants, thanking
them for their fidelity, and regretting he had nothing to leave them,
beyond a recommendation in his will to his successor. His attendants
were lifting him from one side of the bed to the other when his noble
spirit passed away, gently, silently, without a groan or struggle.
He had eight sons, all of whom he survived, and two daughters: of his
sons, five died very young, and one under peculiar (we are tempted to
say national) circumstances. The boy was taking an airing in the
Phœnix Park, when the horses took fright and ran away, and the _Irish_
nurse, anxious to save the life of her little charge, flung him
headlong from the window!
In appearance the first Duke of Ormonde was tall, well-shaped, and
inclined to _embonpoint_; his complexion was fair, which gained for
him the nickname among the Irish of Bawn. He was plain, but elegant,
in his dress, especially at Court, when people began to be slovenly;
he wore his hat without a button, uncocked, as it came from the block,
after the fashion of his Majesty. But he was given to pomp on state
occasions; the service of the Viceregal Court was simply
splendid,—numbers of coaches, horses, and retainers. In travelling he
always carried his staff of office with him, and when they came to a
town, his gentleman (bareheaded) bore it through the streets, before
his Grace’s coach. He used often to revert in after days to an
incident which might well ‘point a moral’ on the danger of that
offence, so frequently considered venial,—a white lie. One time, when
Lord Ormonde was in France, it was deemed necessary he should go over
suddenly and secretly to Ireland for the King’s service, and he
accordingly embarked in a small boat, on a stormy day. ‘The master
came up to his noble passenger during the voyage, and inquired the
hour, and Lord Ormonde, being very anxious to make as quick a passage
as possible, told the man an hour later than the real time. The
consequence was, that the skipper miscalculated the time of the tide
and the boat was wrecked, split in two on the rocks, and Lord Ormonde
had to take to the cock-boat, and, finally, to be carried ashore on
the shoulders of the seamen. There was no help at hand, for the good
people of Havre were all at church, it being a festival. Thus, in
consequence of a white lie, told with an excellent motive, the whole
crew were nearly drowned, and the delay so great as to endanger the
success of the undertaking in which Lord Ormonde was engaged.
We will end a notice, which has had little that is cheerful or
exhilarating in its pages, with a repartee which the Duke made to a
friend of the family, one Mr. Cottington, who lived near Dublin, and
had a pretty house on the sea-shore. The Duke’s third son, Lord
Gowran, a most genial and popular member of society, who had given his
father much anxiety on account of the laxity of his morals, had
presented Mr. Cottington with a set of the Ten Commandments to place
over the altar in his new chapel at his marine villa. Much delighted,
and doubtless edified, by so appropriate a donation, Mr. Cottington
expressed his gratification to the Duke, who thus answered him: ‘I
think I can guess at the nature of my son’s generosity; he can easily
part with things he does not intend to keep!’
------------------
_No. 9._
PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_Black velvet suit. Battle-axe and armour beside him. His hand rests
on a table. Landscape in background._
------------------
_No. 10._
DUTCH LADY. UNKNOWN.
_Black dress. White ruff and cap. Standing by a table, on which
she rests her hand._
------------------
_No. 11._
MARY TUDOR, QUEEN OF ENGLAND.
_Dress of white and gold brocade. Dark bodice. Small ruff. Her hands
are clasped._
BORN 1516, SUCCEEDED 1553, DIED 1558.
------------------
_No. 12._
CARDINAL TRENTO.
_In Cardinal’s robes. Sitting in an arm-chair._
BORN 1728, DIED 1784.
BY TINTORETTO.
HIEROME Trento came of a noble family in Padua, and, at the age of
eighteen, entered the Order of the Jesuits at Bologna. He was zealous
and pious in his calling, and unambitious by nature, although he
attained to the honours of the Cardinalate. He died in the performance
of his duty, while concluding one of the Lent services in the church
of San Leone, at Venice. His posthumous works, treating of religion
and morality, were published almost immediately after his death.
------------------
_No. 13._
LOUVE VAN WALTA.
He married the daughter of Jarich van Botnia, who was ancestor to Lady
Henrietta Auverquerque, daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and first
wife to the second Earl Cowper.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
NORTH LIBRARY.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
NORTH LIBRARY.
-------
_No. 1._
THE HONOURABLE PENISTON, WILLIAM, AND FREDERIC LAMB, THREE SONS OF THE
FIRST VISCOUNT MELBOURNE.
_In a garden, the eldest in dark satin coat and velvet breeches. His
arm round the youngest child, who is standing on a boulder in a
white frock. He is also supported by the second brother, dressed
in a light-coloured suit. A hat and feathers lying on the ground._
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
THIS picture was painted for Lord Melbourne, to whom it did not give
satisfaction, and he returned it to Sir Joshua. It was engraved by the
title of ‘The Affectionate Brothers.’ Peter Leopold, fifth Lord
Cowper, bought it from the painter’s executors for £800.
------------------
_No. 2._
PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_Black suit._
BY BOL.
------------------
_No. 3._
A LADY IN THE DRESS OF THE REIGN OF HENRY VIII.
------------------
_No. 4._
PORTRAIT. UNKNOWN.
_In armour._
------------------
_No. 5._
RAPHAEL MENGS.
_Greenish coat. Red collar. Own hair._
BORN 1728, DIED 1779.
BY HIMSELF.
BORN at Aussig, in Bohemia, the second son of Ismael Mengs, a native
of Copenhagen, miniature painter to Augustus the Strong, King of
Poland. Ismael brought up his boys as painters; he gave them, when
quite children, nothing but pencils for playthings, keeping them at
work sometimes for sixteen hours a day. After a while the eldest son
rebelled against this close application, and made his escape from
home, taking refuge with the Jesuits at Prague; but Raphael inherited
his father’s love of art, and laboured diligently.