Chapter C (5)

We have no authority for stating in what light Lady Melbourne viewed
her daughter-in-law’s infatuation for Lord Byron; but we know, from
his own letters, that he entertained a great admiration for herself.
He had never met with so charming a woman. ‘If she had only been some
years younger, what a fool she would have made of me!’ With her he
kept up unvarying friendly relations during all the vicissitudes of
his love and hate passages with Lady Caroline. One day he called on
Lady Melbourne, and asked her advice and sympathy. She was a model
confidante, and had once given it as her opinion, that few men could
be trusted with their neighbours’ secrets, and scarcely any woman with
her own. Byron assured her he was wearied with his way of life, that
he wished to marry and reform, and settle down at Newstead, and asked
if she would assist him in his choice of a wife. Lady Melbourne
smiled, and said she thought she knew of the very woman to suit
him—her near kinswoman, Miss Milbanke, daughter of Sir Noel Milbanke,
heiress to a large fortune, and a peerage in her own right, as Lady
Wentworth,—no great beauty, but not uncomely, well brought up, well
educated, and amiable. Byron was quite satisfied, but, as may be
expected, when Lady Caroline heard of it, she was furious. ‘The girl
has a bad figure, is given to statistics, and goes regularly to
church,—a pretty wife for a poet!’ The lady refused the man, of whose
moral character she had heard a sorry account; but he persisted, and
the marriage took place in 1816,—an ill-fated union, as might have
been expected, a fact but too well known. Lady Melbourne’s health
began to fail; she drooped gradually, till one day the sentence was
pronounced in her hearing—she had but a short time to live. She heard
the announcement with calmness, took an affectionate leave of those
she loved, and addressed some parting admonitions to her beloved
William, which he never forgot. Lady Melbourne died on the 6th April
1818, at Whitehall, and was buried at Hatfield Church. Her son
Frederick was absent from England at the time.

This portrait was brought from Brocket, where it once hung at the end
of the ball-room. It was engraved by the title of ‘Maternal
Affection.’

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_No. 17._

LADY CAROLINE LAMB.

_White gown. Blue bows. Crop of fair hair._

BORN 1788, DIED 1828.

BY HOPPNER.

SHE was the only daughter of the first Earl of Bessborough, by Lady
Henrietta Spencer, daughter of the first Earl Spencer. She was in
Italy when a child, with her mother, but, on their return to England,
Lady Bessborough being in very delicate health, Lady Caroline was
intrusted for a time to the care of her aunt, the beautiful Duchess of
Devonshire. Throughout her life she kept a diary, and she gives a
detailed record of her early days at Devonshire House. The children
saw very little of their elders, and were brought up with a strange
mixture of luxury and laxity. The nursery table was covered with
dainties, and served with goodly plate, but the young lords and ladies
were allowed to run wild backwards and forwards between the servants’
apartments in search of sweetmeats and ‘goodies.’ Caroline’s education
was little cared for, her knowledge circumscribed, and she only
believed in two classes of society,—aristocrats and beggars. At ten
years old she could scarcely write, and could not spell at all; but
she composed verses, ‘which were pronounced splendid in the family,
and everybody petted me, especially my cousin Hartington (afterwards
Duke of Devonshire), who was my constant companion. My chief delight
consisted in polishing my specimens of Derbyshire spar, washing my
dog, and breaking in a pony.’ Caroline was transferred from Devonshire
to Spencer House, to live with her grandmother, and the change did not
suit her small ladyship. ‘How well I remember the grand housekeeper,
in a hoop and ruffles, who presided over seventy servants.’ Under Lady
Spencer’s roof, of whom the poet Cowper speaks so highly, and to whom
Horace Walpole, with his usual sneer, alludes as ‘the goddess of
wisdom,’ it may be imagined the girl was subjected to a discipline
which was so different from the liberty of Devonshire House that she
soon broke out into open rebellion. ‘I was indeed very naughty, and
used to give way to such paroxysms of rage that a physician was called
in. Dr. Warren forbade all study, and desired that my brain should lie
fallow. I believe he feared for my reason. I was very fond of music,
and cried when I had to give it up. My governess was too severe, my
relations too indulgent.’ It was not until Lady Caroline was fifteen
that she tried to make up for lost time. As regarded her education,
she showed great aptitude for languages,—French, Italian, Latin, ‘and
I had even mastered enough Greek to enable me to enjoy a classical
play, when taken to speech-day at Harrow, where my brother was at
school.’ She could recite an ode of Sappho to admiring listeners at
Devonshire or Spencer House, and was much praised and petted. She
piqued herself on her unconventionality, and would plunge into
intimacy, or manifest her aversion in the most unequivocal manner.
Among the frequent guests at Spencer House was William Lamb, the
second son of Lord Melbourne. It would seem strange that the vigilance
of the young lady’s relations should not have been awakened by the
growing intimacy between her and the captivating younger son. Well
bred, well born, with a ringing laugh and an inexpressible charm,
which never forsook him in advanced life amid the turmoil of politics,
William Lamb had everything to recommend him but a birthright,—and had
it not been settled in the family that Caroline was to make a
brilliant marriage? Lady Caroline, who loved to record her own
adventures, writes to her friend and confidante, Lady Morgan, not very
long before her death, recalling her past life: ‘I fell in love, when
only twelve years old, with a friend of Charles Fox,—a friend of
liberty, whose poems I had read, whose self I had never seen, and,
when I did see him, at thirteen, could I change? I was more attached
than ever. William Lamb was beautiful, and far the cleverest person
then about, the most daring in his opinions, in his love of liberty
and independence. He thought of me but as a child; yet he liked me
much. Afterwards he wished to marry me, and I refused him because of
my temper.’ In another letter she says: ‘I was a fury. He asked me a
second time, and this time he was not refused, for I adored him.’ The
lady’s relations were reconciled to the match, possibly influenced in
some slight degree by the consideration that William Lamb had become
heir to a large fortune and a peerage, in consequence of the death of
his elder brother.

Marriages never come single in a family. Lamb’s sister Emily was
already engaged, and in the year 1805, within a month of each other,
the brother was united to Lady Caroline Ponsonby, and the sister to
Lord Cowper. Mr. Lamb and his wife passed the early days of their
married life between Brocket (Lord Melbourne’s) and Panshanger (Lord
Cowper’s) Houses in Hertfordshire; and when the London season began,
Lady Caroline contributed not a little to the former attractions of
Melbourne House, where she and her husband took up their abode.
Society was at variance as to the bride’s merits; her eccentricities
amused many of the guests, and affronted others,—for some people are
indignant when merely called upon to stare at what is said to them.
The Prince of Wales, an _habitué_ of Melbourne House, was one of those
who encouraged Lady Caroline in her wayward and wilful moods; her
startling speeches, her flighty coquetry, her sudden quarrels, and as
sudden reconciliations, whether with her husband or any other member
of the community, were a great source of amusement to his Royal
Highness. Miss Berry speaks of meeting the Prince at Lady Caroline
Lamb’s in the year 1808. She says in her Diary: ‘It was an immense
assembly. We came away at half-past twelve, and had to walk beyond the
Admiralty to our carriage. Many of the company did not leave till past
three; the Prince of Wales had supped below, in Lady Melbourne’s
apartments, and remained till past six. Sheridan was there, and quite
drunk.’ It would appear by these remarks that Lady Melbourne had
vacated a suite of apartments in favour of her daughter-in-law, who
received on her own account, as in another passage in Miss Berry’s
correspondence there is mention, ‘I am going to Lady Caroline Lamb’s
to-night. She gives a party, to be convenient for hearing what is
going on, about this famous motion in the House of Peers.’ But Lady
Caroline was of too romantic a turn of mind to be absorbed by
politics; she had always some small flirtation on hand, and her
admirers were frequently under age. We read in the Life of the late
Lord Lytton some very early passages between him and this mature
object of his adoration,—assignations entered into, notes passing
clandestinely, engagements to dance broken off and renewed with
playful inconstancy. Excitement, even on so small a scale, seemed
necessary to the lady’s existence; she would have been bored to death
without it. The novelist admired his goddess enough to put her in
print, and describes the compassion she displayed one day, when,
finding a beggar who had met with an accident, she insisted on his
being lifted, rags and all, into the carriage beside her, when she
drove the cripple to his destination.

But a luminary was about to appear on the horizon, which was destined
to eclipse all lesser lights. Here is her own account of her first
acquaintance with Lord Byron: ‘Rogers, who was one of my adorers, and
extolled me up to the skies, said to me one evening, “You must know
the new poet.” He offered to lend me the proofs of _Childe Harold_ to
read. That was enough for me. Rogers said, “He has a club foot, and
bites his nails.” I said, “If he were as ugly as Æsop I must know
him.” Lady Westmoreland had met Byron in Italy; she undertook to
present him. I looked earnestly at him, and turned on my
heel,’—conduct which the poet afterwards reproached her with. London
had gone mad about him. All the ladies were pulling caps for him. He
said once ostentatiously: ‘The women positively suffocate me.’ That
night the entry in Lady Caroline’s Diary was—‘Mad, bad, and dangerous
to know.’ She declared at first she had no intention of attracting
him, but she confesses how she had come in from riding one windy,
rainy day, all muddy and dishevelled, and had been conversing with
Moore and Rogers in that plight, when Byron was announced, and she
flew out of the room to beautify herself. ‘Lord Byron wished to come
and see me at eight o’clock, when I was alone. That was my
dinner-hour. I said he might. From that moment, for many months, he
almost lived at Melbourne House.’

Lord Hartington, Lady Caroline’s favourite cousin, expressed a wish to
have some dancing of an evening at Whitehall, as his stepmother (Lady
Elizabeth Foster) objected to anything of the kind at Devonshire
House, and accordingly for a time the drawing-room at Melbourne House
was turned into a ball-room. But as Lord Byron’s lameness cut him off
from the quadrilles and waltzes, this arrangement did not suit him,
and his word being law with Lady Caroline, the dancing was soon
discontinued. It was a strange flirtation between the poet and the
poetaster. The lady would lie awake half the night composing verses,
which she would repeat the next day to the great man, in the fond hope
of a few crumbs of praise, a commodity of which Byron was very
sparing, he being a great deal more taken up with giving utterance to
his own effusions. Lady Caroline was often mortified, Lord Byron often
wearied,—at least so it would appear. Lord Holland came up to them one
evening as they were sitting side by side as usual, with a silver
censer in his hand. ‘I am come,’ he said, ‘Lady Caroline, to offer you
your due.’ ‘By no means,’ she returned in a tone of pique; ‘pray give
it all to Lord Byron. He is so accustomed to incense that he cannot
exist without it.’

A recent biography describes the situation well when it says: ‘He grew
moody, and she fretful, when their mutual egotisms jarred.’ William
Lamb’s wife was certainly not formed to make home happy. One day she
extolled his generosity and lack of jealousy; another, she accused him
of apathy and indifference with regard to her flirtations. Her conduct
was marked by alternate tenderness and ill-temper: there could be no
doubt of her affection for her invalid boy, yet her treatment of him
was spasmodic and fitful,—now devoted, now neglectful. More than once
a separation had been agreed upon, and Mr. Lamb had even gone so far
as to forbid his wife the house, and believed she was gone. He went to
his own room, locked himself in, and sat brooding over his troubles.
It was growing late, when he was attracted by the well-known sound of
scratching at the door, and he rose to let in his favourite dog. But
lo! the intruder was no other than his wife, who, crouching on the
floor, had made use of this stratagem to gain admittance. Half
indignant, half amused, he did not long resist the glamour which this
eccentric woman knew how to throw around him. Peace was restored for a
short time, but not for long; another explosion, a violent domestic
quarrel, occurred one night in London. Lady Caroline went out, called
a hackney coach, and in her evening dress—a white muslin frock, blue
sash, and diamond necklace—drove to the house of a physician, whom she
scarcely knew. She describes with great unction the surprise and
admiration of the assembled guests, ‘who took me for a child, and were
surprised at my fine jewels.’

It was her cherished vanity to be taken for a young unmarried girl.
Her relations were much alarmed at her disappearance. Lady Spencer
sent to Lord Byron’s house, who disclaimed all knowledge of the
truant. After creating a great excitement in the good doctor’s
drawing-room, the lady returned home, to enjoy another scene and
another reconciliation. Her mother, Lady Bessborough, who was in very
delicate health, was deeply concerned at her daughter’s conduct, the
conjugal quarrels, and the intimacy with Lord Byron, which was so much
talked of in the world. ‘Poor dear mamma was miserable; she prevailed
on me at length to go to Ireland with her and papa.’ On their
departure, Lord Byron wrote to his dearest Caroline a most peculiar
letter, abounding, indeed, in high-flown protestations, assuring her
he was hers only, hers entirely; that he would with pleasure give up
everything for her, both here and beyond the grave; that he was ready
to fly with her, when and whenever she might appoint, etc.; at the
same time reminding her of her duty to her husband and her mother—a
most wonderful mixture of false sentiment and shallow feeling, which
could only have deceived one so blinded as the recipient. ‘Byron
continued to write to me while I was in Ireland. His letters were
tender and amusing. We had arrived at Dublin, on our way home, when my
mother brought me a letter from him,—such a letter!—I have published
it in _Glenarvon_. It was sealed with a coronet, but neither the
coronet nor the initials were his; they were Lady Oxford’s.’ Lady
Caroline was beside herself with rage and jealousy; she fell ill. They
were detained at ‘a horrid little inn’ at Rock. She arrived in England
in the most excited frame of mind. Byron complains of her proceedings,
which were of a most melodramatic nature; she went to see him, dressed
as a page; she vowed she would stab herself, and wished some one would
kill him;—‘in short,’ says the poet, ‘the Agnus is furious; you can
have no idea what things she says and does, ever since the time that I
(really from the best motives) withdrew my homage. She actually writes
me letters threatening my life.’ We have no reference at hand to note
when these lines were written, but we believe after his marriage:—

‘They’ll tell thee, Clara, I have seemed
Of late another’s charms to woo,
Nor sighed nor frowned as if I deemed
That thou wert vanished from my view.
Clara, this struggle to undo
What thou hast done too well for me,
This mask before the babbling crowd,
_This treachery, is truth to thee_,’—

a peculiar and ambiguous form of reasoning, by which it appeared Lady
Caroline was not convinced.

Byron’s well-known stanzas, ‘Farewell! if ever fondest prayer,’ were
said to have been addressed to Lady Caroline when he left England for
ever, having quarrelled with his wife as well as with his friend. The
poem was not calculated to conciliate the lady, and it was not long
before she heard from a third person that Byron had spoken slightingly
of her to Madame de Staël and others. She accordingly sat down, and
wrote him a long account of the childish revenge she had taken, by
burning his effigy in a bonfire, with her own hands.

In her Diary she gives a touching account of her useless endeavours to
pique or persuade her poor boy into cheerfulness, and how, when he saw
her look of disappointment, he would come and sit beside her, take her
hand, and look wistfully into her face. She had consulted many
physicians, she said, and now she would consult a _metaphysician_.
Some time ago she had met Godwin, the author, and taken one of her
sudden fancies for him. She now sat down and asked him to come and pay
her a visit at Brocket; she wished to have some conversation with him
about her son, and indeed about her own unsettled and discontented
state of mind. ‘When I saw you last under painful circumstances, you
said it rested with myself to be happy. I fear you can only think of
me with contempt. My mind is overpowered with trifles. Would you
dislike paying me a little visit? I hold out no allurements; if you
come, it can only be from friendship. I have no longer the excuse of
youth and inexperience for being foolish, yet I remain so. I want a
few wise words of advice. No one is more sensible of kindness from a
person of high intellect. I have such an over-abundance of activity,
and nothing to do. I feel as if I had lived five hundred years, and am
neither better nor worse than when I began. I conduce to no one’s
happiness; on the contrary, I am in the way of many. All my beliefs
and opinions are shaken as with small shocks of moral earthquake; it
is as if I were in a boat without chart or compass.’ Surely she was
not wise in her selection of a navigator.

Godwin obeyed the summons, but, as might have been expected, brought
no consolation in his train. Lady Caroline would often in her
correspondence eulogise her husband in very high terms, and call him
her guardian angel, and there is no doubt she was proud of him; but
his very forbearance and good-humour were often a source of
irritation, and she would upbraid him with treating her as a child,
though, in reality, nothing flattered her more than to be so
considered, and in some of her early caricatures (for she often amused
herself in that way) she represents herself carried about in Mr.
Lamb’s arms as a little girl. Her father-in-law, easy-going as he was,
blamed her for her extravagance, and called her ‘her _laviship_.’
‘Indeed I think I am a good housewife,’ she writes to Lady Morgan,
‘and have saved William money; but he says, “What is the use of saving
with one hand if you scatter with the other?” What is the use—that is
what I am always saying—what is the use of existing at all?’

This unwholesome excitement tended to increase the natural
irascibility of her character. In her Diary she records petty quarrels
with her servants and other inmates of the house. She at length took
to authorship as a consolation, and gives an odd account of the manner
in which her literary labours were carried on. She had a companion,
who began by acting as her amanuensis, but after a time she decided on
having an expert copyist. Even so commonplace an arrangement must be
carried out in a melodramatic manner. She wrote the book, unknown to
all, except to Miss Welsh, in the middle of the night. ‘I sent for old
Woodhead to Melbourne House. I dressed Miss Welsh elegantly, and
placed her at my harp, while I sat at the writing-table, disguised in
the page’s clothes. The copyist naturally took Miss Welsh for Lady
Caroline, and expressed his astonishment that a schoolboy of that age
(I looked about fourteen) could be the author of _Glenarvon_. Next
time he came I received him in my own clothes, and told him William
Ormond, the young author, was dead. When the book was finished, I sent
it to ‘William, who was delighted.’ (Query.) _Glenarvon_ disappointed
the public, not so much on account of its literary shortcomings, which
might have been anticipated, but from its lack of sufficient allusions
to the separation of Lord and Lady Byron, though there was no scarcity
of abuse of the hero. The story was too feeble and vapid to cause much
sensation, yet the authoress found publishers willing to accept
further works from the same pen, and _Graham Hamilton_ and _Ada Reis_
followed.

Lord Byron, writing from Venice, speaking of _Glenarvon_, says: ‘I
have seen nothing of the book but the motto from my “Corsair”:—

“He left a name to all succeeding times
Linked with one virtue and a thousand crimes.”

If such be the posy, what must the ring be?—the generous moment
selected for the publication! I have not a guess at the contents.’ A
little while after, Madame de Staël lent him the book, when he went to
see her at Coppet. ‘It seems to me that if the author had told the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, the romance would
not only have been more romantic, but more interesting. The likeness
is not good; _I did not sit long enough_.’

Besides her novels, Lady Caroline sent contributions to Annuals and
Magazines, breathing eternal love and dire remorse:—

“Weep for what thou’st lost, love,
Weep for what thou’st won,
Weep for what thou didst not do,
And more for what thou’st done.”

She often amused herself by setting her own compositions to music very
prettily.

We are not told in what manner Lady Caroline received the tidings of
Byron’s death, but we have a detailed account of her driving one
summer’s day on the Great North Road, not far from Brocket, in an open
carriage, accompanied by her husband, when, at a turn in the road,
they came upon a long and melancholy procession. It proved to be the
funeral of a peer, from the fact that the hearse was preceded by a
horseman bearing a coronet on a cushion. The lady stopped her carriage
and asked the question whose funeral it was. ‘We are taking Lord Byron
to Newstead to be buried,’ was the reply. The shock was terrible. Lady
Caroline reached home, more dead than alive, and fell into a species
of trance, from which the waking was slow and tedious. She would sit
for hours with her hands clasped on her lap, silent and listless; and
it was long before she could be prevailed on to resume her usual
occupations, or busy herself with her books, music, or drawing. When
the invalid was a little better, change of air and scene was
prescribed, and she was sent abroad. She wrote from Paris to Lady
Morgan, asking her to look in a cabinet, in a certain room at
Melbourne House, where she would find a miniature[5] of Lord Byron:
‘Pray send it me without delay.’ Coming back to England, she again
took up her abode at Brocket, where her husband often visited her,
although his official and Parliamentary duties were a sufficient
reason for his residing mostly in London. When he went over to Ireland
as Chief Secretary, he kept up a regular correspondence with his wife
(now a confirmed invalid), and with those to whose care she was
consigned. In Dublin he was a frequent visitor at the house of Lady
Morgan, who was much attached to Lady Caroline, to give her news of
his wife’s health, or show her some of the letters he received from
Brocket,—such, for instance, as, ‘My dearest William,—Since I wrote
last I have been a great sufferer. Tapping is a dreadful sensation, it
turns me so deadly cold and sick.... But everybody is so good to me.
All the members of both our families, Emily, and Caroline have been to
see me, and the whole county has called to inquire. My dear brother,
too, has been with me, and is coming again. He reads to me, which is
so soothing; but what pleased me most of all was your dear letter, in
which you said you loved me and forgave me.’

Footnote 5:

Lady Caroline Lamb bequeathed this portrait to Lady Morgan, at whose
death it was sold by auction.

In proportion as her bodily health failed, so did the sufferer become
more and more gentle, patient, and grateful for kindness. The evil
spirit had been cast out. She grew so much worse that it was deemed
advisable to remove her to London for the benefit of medical advice.
On the 26th of January 1828, Lady Morgan received a letter from Mr.
William Ponsonby (afterwards Lord De Mauley), to announce his sister’s
death. ‘From the beginning of her illness,’ he says, ‘she had no
expectation of recovery, and only felt anxious to live long enough to
see Mr. Lamb once again. In this she was gratified, and was still able
to converse with him, and enjoy his society. But for the past three
days it was apparent that her strength was rapidly declining, and on
Sunday night, at about nine o’clock, she expired without a struggle. A
kinder or more tender heart never ceased to beat, and it was a great
consolation to her and to us that her mind was fully prepared and
reconciled to the awful change. She viewed the near approach of death
with calmness, and during her long and severe sufferings her patience
never forsook her, or her affectionate consideration for those around
her. Mr. Lamb has felt and acted as I knew he would on this sad
occasion.’

The friendship of the brothers-in-law had never been interrupted.
Although fully prepared for a great change in his wife’s appearance,
William Lamb was more shocked than he expected to be. The short time
that intervened between his return and her death was marked by
tenderness on his part and affection on hers; and in after years the
widower always spoke of ‘Caroline’ with gentleness and forbearance.

Lady Morgan thus describes her friend’s appearance: ‘A slight tall
figure, dark lustrous eyes, with fair hair and complexion; a charming
voice, sweet, low, caressing, which exercised a wonderful influence
over most people. She was eloquent also, but had only one
subject—herself. She was the slave of imagination and of impulse.’

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_No. 18._

NATHANIEL CLIFFORD.

_Brown coat. White cravat._

He was a man of letters, a friend of Lord Chancellor Cowper.

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_No. 19._

THREE BROTHERS OF THE HOUSE OF NASSAU.

_Two in armour. One in a velvet coat._

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SMOKING-ROOM.

-------

THE WITCHES ROUND THE CAULDRON.

BEING PORTRAITS OF LADY MELBOURNE, THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, AND MRS.
DAWSON DAMER.

BY ANNE SEYMOUR DAWSON DAMER.

IN the notice of Lady Melbourne we have alluded to that lady’s taste
for private theatricals, _tableaux vivants_, and other dramatic
entertainments, and to the merry meetings on those festive occasions.
This sketch is an interesting record of one such. Lady Melbourne knew
where to select talent and beauty: the Duchess of Devonshire, daughter
of the first Earl Spencer, by Georgina, daughter of Stephen Poyntz,
Esq. of Midgham, near Newbury, was a beauty, a wit, and, above all, a
politician. A tribute was once paid to her charms, to our mind, better
worth remembering than the widespread story, so often told, so often
delineated, in the caricatures of the day, of how her Grace bartered a
kiss to a butcher, in exchange for his vote in favour of the fair
Whig’s political idol, Charles James Fox. The anecdote to which we
give the preference is as follows: One day, when proceeding to the
poll, the crowd was so dense, and the mob pressed so heavily against
the coach panels, that her Grace, usually so fearless, became alarmed,
and, stretching out her fair head, she requested a rough and shabby
member of the community to keep back a little, and induce the others
to do the same. The man, an undoubted Irishman, stared at the charming
vision for a moment, with his short pipe suspended between his
fingers, and then burst forth, ‘God bless yer, and that I shall, and
anything else in life, so as I may light my pipe at your eyes.’

Lady Melbourne was also a beauty, as her many portraits show, without
the testimony of posthumous fame, and her features were decidedly more
regular than those of her captivating friend. Mrs. Damer was also much
admired, and in such circumstances we can easily imagine what prettily
turned compliments were paid, what flattering contrasts drawn, between
these three bewitching witches, who met, and met again, not on a
‘blasted heath,’ but in the sylvan shades of Brocket, and the midnight
hags whom Shakespeare drew, ‘so wizen, and so wild in their attire’!

The artist, Anne Seymour, was the daughter of the Hon. Hugh Seymour
Conway, brother of the Marquis of Hertford. She married, in 1767, the
Hon. John Damer, eldest son of the first Lord Milton. The union was
far from happy, and in 1776 the eccentric and restless-minded husband
shot himself. Mrs. Damer, who had no children to engross her time and
thoughts, now gave herself up to the study and enjoyment of art, for
which purpose she travelled in Italy, France, and Spain, mastering the
languages of the countries through which she passed; and, benefiting
by the treasures of painting and sculpture which they afforded her,
she became a proficient with her brush and her chisel, and executed
many admirable works, too numerous to be mentioned, being a frequent
exhibitor at the Royal Academy. In politics Mrs. Damer emulated her
friends, Lady Melbourne and the Duchess of Devonshire, being a staunch
Whig, while on the boards of Brocket and White Hall she displayed much
talent as an actress. When her cousin and friend, Lord Orford, died,
he bequeathed Strawberry Hill to her, with a handsome annual sum for
its maintenance, and there she lived for some years. In 1828 she died
at her house in Upper Brook Street, and, by her own desire, was buried
at Sundridge. Her sculptor’s tools and apron, together with the ashes
of a favourite dog, were placed with her in her coffin.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PICTURES NOT PLACED.

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PICTURES NOT PLACED.

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PENSIONARY JOHN DE WITT.

_Black velvet gown. Long hair._

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ADMIRAL CORNELIUS DE WITT.

_Leather jerkin. Own hair. Holds a truncheon. One arm akimbo._

JOHN DE WITT was born at Dort in 1625. He was educated in the Latin
School of Dort, was at Leyden for four years with his brother
Cornelius, two years older than himself, travelled with him in France
and England, and in 1648 went to study law and mathematics at the
Hague.

It may be as well to begin by briefly depicting the political
situation of the Dutch Provinces at this period.

They had for some time been divided into two parties. One was headed
by the Prince of Orange, composed of the old nobility and of the lower
orders both in town and country, and supported by the bulk of the
clergy. The other consisted mainly of the higher classes in the large
towns. The differences between the two parties were numerous, but may
chiefly be described as having reference to War, Trade, and Religion.
The House of Orange, by the line it had taken at a critical moment
against Philip II., by the indomitable constancy of its Princes, and
by their vast political and military talents, had been the principal
instrument of the liberation of the Netherlands from the dominion of
Spain; but their enemies accused them of continuing the war for the
sake of their own aggrandisement much longer than was necessary, and
of thus squandering the resources and weakening the energies of the
State. They complained of the heavy burdens laid upon commerce, and of
the losses sustained by the mercantile interest, owing to the insecure
condition of the seas. As to religion, the wealthier burgesses
belonged for the most part to the Arminian, or what we may perhaps
call the Broad Church party, and were ardently in favour of
toleration, while their opponents leaned strongly for support upon the
rigid and persecuting Calvinists. In addition to the causes of
disagreement which I have mentioned, was the conflict between the
authority of the Union, on the one hand, and, on the other, the
individual rights of each particular Province. These provincial rights
were more especially insisted upon by those who opposed the House of
Orange in the Province of Holland itself, for they complained that
though Holland paid more towards sustaining the public burdens than
all the other Provinces put together, she was constantly outvoted and
overruled on the most important subjects of public policy.

This is as full an account as our limits will permit of the subjects
of dispute between the party of the House of Orange and the
Opposition. The Opposition, we must bear in mind, derived its chief
strength from the rich merchants and the magistrates of the large
towns. These magistrates were elected by close corporations, and were
chosen in each town, generation after generation, from a small number
of select families. It was to one of the most considerable of these
families in the town of Dort that John de Witt belonged; he had thus
the advantages and the disadvantages of having his political party
already decided for him by the accident of his birth, and the less
doubtful good fortune of finding an open access to public life.

It was while De Witt was studying at the Hague that the struggle
between the two parties in the State was brought to a crisis. Peace
had at last been made with Spain; but it was expected that the young
Prince of Orange, William II., who had just succeeded to his father,
would soon break it. Fearing this, the Provincial Government of
Holland, which was in the hands of the burgess oligarchy, refused to
pay its share of the expenses of the troops, and directed certain
numbers to be disbanded. The Prince obtained an order from the
States-General of the United Provinces to go with a deputation to the
different towns of Holland and forbid the local authorities from
obeying the directions of the Provincial Government. At Dort, which
was the first place he visited, he was thwarted by Jacob de Witt,
John’s father, ex-burgomaster, and one of the principal men in the
town. On returning to the Hague, he summoned Jacob de Witt and five or
six others of the leading deputies, and put them in prison. Meanwhile,
he attempted to seize Amsterdam. The attempt failed; but the
municipality of that city, in order to avert a civil war, agreed to
abandon all further opposition to the Prince, who was now
all-powerful; but at the moment of his triumph he fell ill of the
small-pox and died. His only son was not born till a week afterwards.

The rich middle-class oligarchical party now found itself raised by
fortune from complete prostration to the supreme direction of affairs.
Whether they could maintain their position might well have been
doubted. They had many difficulties to contend with; they had against
them the large circle of personal adherents of the House of Orange,
all the distinguished soldiers, many of the distinguished admirals,
the ancient nobility, and the mass of the common people. They were few
in number, and none of them had yet shown any particular ability. It
is in circumstances like these that the appearance of a remarkable man
affects the current of history. Such a man appeared at this moment in
John de Witt, who had just received his first official appointment as
Pensionary of Dort. Born, as we have seen, in the very centre of the
faction which was now dominant, he obtained at once, and without an
effort, their full confidence. On the other hand, his just and
impartial nature, conspicuous from the very first, the consummate
ability which he gradually developed, and, above all, his commanding
resolution, raised and sustained the weak party to which he belonged.
His influence extended far beyond its narrow circle, and his name is
associated with one of the most prosperous times in the history of his
country.

It was not, however, for some years that De Witt filled more than a
subordinate position. Meanwhile the new Government proved itself both
feeble and unfortunate. It was compelled by the fundamental principles
of the party to push provincial independence to an extreme that almost
disintegrated the Union. The office of Captain-General, which had
largely contributed towards holding the Union together, was abolished,
for it would assuredly have fallen into the hands of the House of
Orange. The provincial office of Stadtholder remained vacant for the
same reason. Business had never been rapidly conducted by the Dutch;
but now it could hardly be conducted at all. The first result of this
state of things was drifting into a war with England, against the
wishes and interests of both nations, particularly of the Dutch. Nor
was the war carried on in a manner creditable to the authorities at
home. The ships were ill-fitted and ill-provisioned, the instructions
were confused, and nothing but the genius and conduct of the admirals,
Van Tromp and De Ruyter, saved the country from overwhelming
calamities. In spite of the most desperate fighting that ever took
place at sea, and of some brilliant victories by the Dutch, they were
overmatched, blockaded, and very nearly reduced to starvation. The
ablest men in the country had for some time seen the folly of the war
and the necessity for putting an end to it. But the breakdown in the
machinery of government, which made it difficult to carry on the war
with vigour, made it almost impossible to conclude a peace. It was now
that De Witt, appointed Grand-Pensionary of Holland, began to play a
leading part. On the one hand, he commenced building a new fleet of
larger and better ships; on the other, he started negotiations with
Cromwell, at this time Lord Protector of England. The difficulties in
his way, both in prosecuting the war and in making peace, were almost
inconceivable. He had no actual power in his hands; nothing but moral
influence. Every measure had to be debated in each of the Assemblies
of the Seven Provinces. It was then brought before the States-General,
whose members had no authority to decide any new point without
referring it back to their constituents; even when the States-General
had come to a decision, there was no means of binding the dissentient
minority. It is an under-statement of the case to say that no
diplomacy ever exercised throughout Europe by Cardinal Richelieu, by
William III. of England, by Metternich, or by Talleyrand, was vaster
or more intricate than that required by De Witt to bring about the end
he had in view. His difficulties were the greater that the bulk of the
nation thoroughly detested the new Government. The Orange party among
the lower classes were almost as violent now as they became later in
1672, and De Witt went about in danger of his life. At last, by
incredible exertion and dogged resolution, joined with admirable tact
and temper, by impenetrable secrecy, and, it must be confessed, by a
certain amount of duplicity, he attained his objects. The new fleet
was begun, and shortly afterwards peace was concluded on better terms
than might have been expected.

Still greater duplicity was shown in carrying out a secret agreement
whereby the State of Holland bound itself to exclude for ever any
members of the House of Orange from the office of Stadtholder. Was
this really forced upon De Witt by Cromwell? Was his own judgment
warped by prejudice? Or was it one of those sacrifices to the passions
of a party, which, in a time of excitement, are occasionally demanded
even from the most upright Minister? It was accomplished in a most
discreditable manner; the storm it raised when it became known shook
the Seven Provinces to their very foundation. Its immediate effect,
when that storm subsided, was to confirm the power of the class which
held the reins of Government; but the measure was pregnant with future
mischief.

By the tact and tenacity shown in these proceedings, De Witt had
raised himself to so high a position that he never again had quite the
same herculean labours to go through in carrying out his measures;
but, in order to judge his abilities fairly, we must always remember
that on every occasion when it was necessary to act, obstacles
somewhat of a similar nature had to be overcome.

A cordial understanding with England lasted till the Restoration in
1660, far more cordial, indeed, than with France.

Up to this time, almost from the commencement of its existence, it had
been the policy of the Dutch Republic to maintain an alliance with
France. But the French had come to consider this alliance so necessary
to the Republic that they had felt themselves able to treat their
allies in a most supercilious manner. Their armed ships had for some
time been in the habit of seizing and plundering Dutch merchantmen. It
had been impossible to obtain redress till, in 1657, Admiral de Ruyter
had orders from his Government to make reprisals, and took two of the
King’s ships. A French envoy was sent to demand satisfaction. A
rupture seemed imminent, but matters were smoothed over, and the
United Provinces came out of the difficulty without loss of credit.

In the meantime much alarm had been created in Holland by the ambition
of Charles Gustavus of Sweden, who had engaged in a successful war
with Poland, and afterwards attacked Denmark. Denmark was in alliance
with the United Provinces, and, moreover, it was necessary for the
trade of Holland in the Baltic, which was very considerable, that the
balance of power in the North should be preserved. After many
negotiations, and an abortive attempt to make a treaty with Sweden,
the Dutch assisted Denmark with a powerful fleet and a small body of
troops. They had an obstinate naval engagement, by which Copenhagen
was saved, and in the following year they destroyed some of the
largest of the Swedish men-of-war, which they succeeded in surprising
and outnumbering. Charles Gustavus died suddenly, and peace was soon
afterwards made.

A desultory war had all this time been going on with Portugal, in
order to obtain compensation for losses sustained by the Dutch in
Brazil, which does not come within our limits to describe. This war
was chiefly carried on in the East Indies, where the Dutch conquered
the rich island of Ceylon. Peace was finally made with Portugal in
1661, Portugal paying a heavy indemnity for the Brazil losses.

In all these matters De Witt had become more and more the principal
mover. As to home affairs, his reputation, and the power which was
derived from it, were not confined to his own province of Holland, for
we find him about this period chosen by the nobility, first of
Friesland, and then of Overyssel, to settle their internal disputes.

The office of Grand-Pensionary was a five years’ appointment. It had
been renewed to De Witt in 1658, and in 1663 it had become such a
matter of course that he should fill it, that even his opponents gave
a tacit consent to his remaining. Having proved himself necessary, it
was impossible that he should not continue to hold the most honourable
place in the Government. Not that his place as Grand-Pensionary gave
him any real power. I have already remarked, and it is important to
bear in mind, that by the strange system now prevailing, no official
whatever possessed more than a moral influence. Whenever anything of
importance was to be done, some person was appointed for that
particular purpose, and this person was now almost always either De
Witt or his brother, generally the former. For instance, there was at
this time a dispute between the Prince of East Friesland and his
subjects, which threatened to be serious. John de Witt was at once
appointed to go at the head of a deputation to mediate between the
contending parties. I need hardly add that his mediation was at once
successful; and there was soon to be a still greater scope for the
display of his abilities, as a war with England was impending.

Charles II. was now on the throne of England, and there was a natural
antagonism between him, as uncle to the Prince of Orange, and the
party which now governed Holland. Besides this, the English nation had
always been jealous of the commercial prosperity of the Dutch, and
they had not yet become sufficiently aware of the extent to which the
power of France was increasing, or the necessity for a Dutch alliance
in order to check it.

We cannot be surprised, therefore, that this war should have broken
out; it began on the coast of Africa, and soon became general. De Witt
was, of course, at once appointed Chief Commissioner for the direction
of the navy, and by his personal exertions at Amsterdam and other
places he succeeded in fitting out a considerable fleet, very
differently equipped and provisioned to what had been the case in the
war with Cromwell. This fleet, however, under the command of Opdam,
engaged the English in the beginning of June 1665, and suffered a
tremendous and most disastrous defeat. Opdam was killed, and the other
admirals were at daggers drawn with each other. Such was the general
confusion and discouragement, and such the general instinct to turn to
De Witt in any great emergency, that though he had never yet had any
military or naval experience whatever, the chief command was at once
thrust upon him. He knew well how invidious his position would be, and
it was in spite of the earnest persuasion of his personal friends to
the contrary, that, at the call of duty, he accepted the office.

The fleet had been driven into the Texel, and was shut in there by a
contrary wind. To Holland, who depended for her very existence upon
supplies from abroad, and whose East Indian ships at this very moment
required protection for their safe passage, it was absolutely
necessary that the fleet should at once put to sea. But the seamen
unanimously represented that as the wind then stood this was
impossible. De Witt, though no sailor, was a great mathematician. He
had read deeply and written ably on the subject, and he was now to put
his knowledge to practical use. He proved by calculation that it was
just possible, even with this adverse wind, to sail out by one
passage, then called the Spaniards’ Gat. The pilots now declared that
in the Spaniards’ Gat there was not more than ten feet of water, and
that this was not sufficient. De Witt took a boat, personally sounded
it, and found everywhere a depth of at least twenty feet. He himself
superintended the carrying out of the largest ship in the fleet, and
was followed by all the rest.

He now had to exercise his diplomatic abilities in order to reconcile
the two admirals under his command—De Ruyter and the younger Van
Tromp. He succeeded in smoothing down their mutual animosities, and in
attaching them both personally to himself. But the sailors still
grumbled, not unnaturally, at being commanded by an unknown and
inexperienced landsman, and it was not till a violent storm arose that
he had an opportunity of winning their esteem. For two days and two
nights, without food and without rest, he remained on deck, infusing
courage into others, as only a really brave man can do, working
himself, and, what seems to have been unusual, forcing his officers
also by his example to work with their own hands. He gradually became
the idol of the men, showing particular concern for their comfort and
welfare, while, at the same time, by his tact and good management, he
avoided giving any offence to the officers.

This expedition, however, does not seem on the whole to have been very
successful, probably on account of the roughness of the weather. On
his return he found the people violently irritated by false reports of
the intermeddling of himself and the other deputies whom he had taken
with him. He was particularly supposed to have thwarted De Ruyter,
but, unfortunately for his enemies, De Ruyter happened at this time to
come to the Hague, and to choose for his lodgings the house of the
very man who was reported to have behaved so ill. De Ruyter wrote a
letter to the States, not only vindicating, but warmly praising him.
De Witt also wrote an elaborate account of all his proceedings; the
tide of opinion changed. He received an enthusiastic vote of thanks,
and the offer of a large present, which he declined.

De Witt only left the fleet in order to plunge deep into the tangled
thicket of negotiation. Louis XIV. was indeed nominally an ally, but
he was very slack and very procrastinating; delighted to see his two
neighbours tearing each other to pieces, and not anxious to help the
Dutch more than he was obliged. Denmark was making perfidious
overtures, first to England, and then to Holland. De Witt eventually
succeeded in forming an alliance with her, and also with Brandenburg,
but for a long time she required watching with constant attention.
Meanwhile Charles II. had induced the Bishop of Münster to invade the
United Provinces with 8000 men. The Bishop proved to be a bad general,
was threatened by Brandenburg in his rear, and was induced by De Witt
to leave the country before he had done much harm. But Holland had
received a warning to which she ought to have attended. The army was
evidently no longer the same as in the old days of Maurice and
Frederick Henry. There were ugly stories of incompetent officers, and
of men unwilling to expose themselves to the fire of the enemy. But
peace was made with the Bishop; men’s minds were diverted by the
fierce fighting which was going on at sea; and all this was hushed up,
and forgotten for a time.

All parties in the State were now united in a vigorous prosecution of
the war. De Witt, who, as I have said, seems to have been the one man
besides his brother who looked after everything, had taken care that
the education of the young Prince of Orange should not be neglected.
Though he opposed with all his might intrusting him with the offices
held by his ancestors, he was magnanimous enough to provide that, if
he did obtain them, he should be qualified to fill them. The two
factions seemed now, in the face of a common danger, to have been for
the moment reconciled. A large and well-furnished fleet took the sea
in the summer of 1666 under De Ruyter and the younger Van Tromp; on
June I they met the English, under Prince Rupert and the Duke of
Albemarle. One of those desperate sea-battles took place which form
the peculiar feature of the period of which we are writing. The
English were outnumbered, but not more so than they have been in many
of the most decisive of their victories over other nations. For four
days the desperate struggle continued, and it ended in what the Dutch
called a victory, and the English a drawn battle. On July 25 another
engagement took place. The English, who had by this time been
reinforced, were now successful, but only after the most desperate
fighting. Van Tromp had become separated from De Ruyter, either from
accident or by design; but De Ruyter kept his station till night
against overwhelming numbers, and next morning moved sullenly away,
frequently exclaiming, ‘My God! is there not one among all these
bullets which will put an end to my miserable life?’