Chapter M: L. B (3)

The painter was however well lodged at Blackfriars, and a pleasant summer residence at Eltham was also allotted him. Indeed, wherever he went, Anthony Vandyck was the centre of attraction, the cynosure of all eyes. Pre-eminently handsome, brilliant in conversation, a good linguist, an enlightened traveller, even without the crowning quality of his splendid talent, the painter must assuredly have proved a shining light in the refined and aristocratic circles of the English capital. Courted in society, foremost in art, crowds resorted to his studio. The King himself was not only his constant sitter, but often dropped down the river in his royal barge as far as Blackfriars, to pass a pleasant hour, and gossip of art and artists with his newly-created knight, Sir Anthony Vandyck, to whom he had presented a valuable miniature of himself, splendidly set with diamonds. Neither of their Majesties ever appeared wearied of sitting for their portraits to their ‘Painter in Ordinary,’ and few records of a sad life can be more touching than the three heads (at Windsor Castle) of Henrietta Maria, in which Vandyck so truthfully delineated the mental and physical changes wrought by grief and misfortune.

Amongst Vandyck’s closest and most intimate friends may be reckoned the Earl of Strafford, whose noble and characteristic countenance gazes intently at us from the walls of so many dwelling-houses, and who was said to have sat oftener to his artist friend than any one in England, with the exception of Charles I. and his Queen. Sir Kenelm Digby was another of Sir Anthony’s chosen companions, and the portraits of the learned knight and his beautiful wife, Venetia Stanley, have become familiar to us by the magic touches of Vandyck’s brush. On the sudden and mysterious death of the ‘divine Venetia,’ her widower summoned the great painter to portray, for the last time, that lovely countenance in ‘a calm unbroken sleep, that hath no awakening,’—a beautiful and touching picture, which forms one of the gems of Lord Spencer’s collection. Notwithstanding the number of his sitters, and the large sums (by comparison) paid for his paintings, Sir Anthony was invariably in pecuniary difficulties. Luxurious in his manner of living, splendid even to ostentation in his dress and equipages, his hospitality was boundless, his generosity to struggling members of his own profession proverbial. Added to all his other expenses, there was invariably a Margaret Lemon, or one of her class, ever ready to drain his purse. On the subject of his monetary troubles, the noble knight was candid and outspoken. One day the King and Lord Arundel were sitting in intimate conversation with the painter in his studio at Blackfriars, when Charles began a sorrowful dissertation on his own lack of money. Turning to Sir Anthony, he said with a smile, ‘And you, Sir Knight, has it ever happened to you to be at a loss where to turn for one or two thousand pounds?’ ‘Sire,’ was the reply, ‘when a painter keeps an open house for his friends, and an open purse for his mistresses, he is not unlikely to have empty coffers.’ It was doubtless on account of these pecuniary difficulties that Vandyck in his latter days painted in so hurried and slovenly a manner, as might well have gained him the name of ‘Fa Presto.’ He got into the habit of intrusting many of the details of his paintings to the numerous scholars in his studio, and the similarity of the shape and character of the hands in his portraits, which has so often been remarked and marvelled at, may surely be accounted for by the fact that he usually painted the hands from those of models of both sexes retained by him for that purpose. Yet there were exceptions to this rule, for Vandyck, who had beautifully formed hands of his own, was a great admirer of that particular personal charm; and an amusing anecdote is told of him, when he had a no less noble sitter than Margaret de Bourbon, daughter to Henry IV. of France. The Royal lady, after watching Vandyck for some time, ventured the question, why he gave so much more attention to the painting of her hands than of her head, or indeed any other detail of the picture. ‘It is, Madam,’ replied Sir Anthony, with a sly smile, ‘that I anticipate a rich compensation from those beautiful white hands.’

It would not have been difficult, by all accounts, for Vandyck to have selected a bride from the noblest and most wealthy in the land, so generally admired was he by the fair sex; but his friends, the King and the Duke of Buckingham, had already arranged a suitable match, desirable in every way, excepting that the lady was poor, a fact which seemed an oversight in the circumstances, or rather in Vandyck’s circumstances.

Mary Ruthven was the granddaughter of the unfortunate Earl of Gowrie. Her father, suspected of complicity in the so-called conspiracy, had in consequence not only been imprisoned, but his property confiscated; therefore the winsome lady’s dower consisted of goodness, beauty, and gentle birth, but tocher the lassie had none, excepting a small portion given her as Lady of the Queen’s Household. She was much esteemed at Court. During his residence in England Vandyck had paid flying visits to his native country, and we hear of him, in 1634, serving as Dean of the Guild of St. Luke’s at Antwerp, which, be it remarked, is the date of the magnificent portrait, in this same gallery of Panshanger, of John of Nassau Siegen, and his family.

After his marriage he proceeded once more with his bride to his native city, where they were received with every possible demonstration of respect and affection. Sir Anthony, then, hearing that Louis XIII. intended to have the walls of the Louvre adorned with paintings, after the fashion of those by Rubens in the Luxembourg, went to Paris in hopes of obtaining the order, but in this design he was frustrated, and, disappointed and depressed, he returned to England. It was a dreary time. His Royal and private friends were all involved in trouble and perplexity, through the gathering of heavy clouds on the political horizon. His friend Lord Strafford had perished on the scaffold; the King was absent from London; the Queen had sought safety in France. Vandyck’s spirits sank, and he gave himself up to a fatal and visionary consolation.

In the pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, he became a professed alchemist, and, as it was well said, ‘the gold he had gained by his labours fast melted away in the crucible.’

He would stand for hours over a hot fire, which conduced not a little to undermine his failing health; he grew haggard and wrinkled while still in the prime of life. The King, on his return to England, hearing of his friend’s illness, sent his own physician to minister to the patient, holding out, it was said, a large sum of money in the event of a cure. But human aid was unavailing; a severe attack of gout, combined with other maladies, proved fatal, and on the 9th December 1641, the man who by many has been esteemed the chief of the world’s portrait-painters breathed his last. Followed by a large retinue of friends, he was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was but eight days before he died that a daughter was born to him, and on the very date of his death there was an entry in the register of St. Anne’s, Blackfriars, ‘Justiniana, daughter of Sir Anthony Vandyck and his lady, baptized 9th December 1641.’

Whatever ignorance or mismanagement of money matters the great painter had shown during his life, his last will was most praiseworthy and considerate in all points, and he had waited until the birth of his child to complete the same. There was not much to leave, but no one he loved or esteemed was forgotten; wife, child, sisters, servants, were all remembered; even the poor in the two parishes—that of his residence and that of his burial—had a small sum dealt out to them. Sir Anthony Vandyck’s widow married a Welsh baronet, Sir Robert Pryse, as his second wife, but they had no children. Justiniana married Sir John Stepney of Prendergast, Pembroke (their grandson was George Stepney, the poet), and her second husband was Martin de Carbonell. She received a pension from King Charles II.

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_No. 10._

FRANÇOIS DUQUESNOY, DETTO IL FIAMMINGO, SCULPTOR.

_Green, red, and white slashed dress. Black cloak. White collar and
cuffs. He is sitting._

BORN 1594, DIED 1646.

BY NICHOLAS POUSSIN.

A NATIVE of Brussels, his father was his first master, and while quite young he found a generous patron in the Archduke Albert of Austria. This Prince gave the youth a pension to enable him to go to Rome, and study the art of sculpture, for which he evinced a considerable talent. But the Duke dying when Fiammingo (as he was called at Rome) was only twenty-five, the young artist found himself in great poverty, and obliged to work very hard to keep the wolf from the door. In the same straits was at that moment the afterwards celebrated painter Nicholas Poussin, and the two students became friends and companions, sharing a scanty but common purse. The painter and the sculptor sympathised in their love of art, but differed in their taste of subjects. Poussin’s tendency was for the severe, Fiammingo’s for the tender; his admiration for the works of Albano led him to the execution of childish forms in every imaginable attitude of grace and beauty; these were seldom of large dimension, but he modelled the ‘Putti’ for the high altar in St. Peter’s, the Santa Susanna in the Church of Our Lady of Loretto, near the Trajan Column, and a colossal St. Andrew, also in St. Peter’s. Bernini, who was evidently jealous of Fiammingo’s talent and popularity, said he was incapable of executing anything more than a gigantic boy, but the admirers of pure art gave the palm to Fiammingo far and away before the mannerist Bernini. Added to his ability, the Flemish sculptor was a conscientious and indefatigable workman. He not only produced statues, but made careful studies in detail of the human figure, the hands and feet in particular; but in spite of his industry he never extricated himself from poverty. In 1646 he meditated going to France, where doubtless his faithful friend, Nicholas Poussin, would have befriended him, but a cruel death awaited him in Rome. He was poisoned by his own brother, Jerome Duquesnoy, himself a sculptor, who was jealous of Fiammingo’s increasing fame. But the murderer did not escape vengeance; found guilty of many crimes, he was (according to the barbarous practice of the age) burned alive at Ghent. Of a gentle, amiable disposition and winning manners, Fiammingo was much esteemed and respected. Poussin and Albano were among his closest friends.

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_No. 11._

THE WIFE OF CARLO DOLCE.

_Red dress. Brown cap. Holds a scroll and an olive branch._

BY CARLO DOLCE.

THIS painter was born in 1616, and died 1686. His heads of Madonnas, female saints, and Herodias, are, for the most part, portraits of his wife or daughter. Of the latter there is a head in a Florentine palace, crowned with bay leaves, representing Poetry, which has more depth of colouring and expression than is generally observable in the works of this master.

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_No. 12._

ELEANORA D’ESTE.

_Blue and pink cap. White dress. Red drapery. Pearl necklace. Chain and
pendant._

BORN 1537, DIED 1581.

BY PIERIN DEL VAGA.

SHE was the sister of Alfonso d’Este, the second Duke of Ferrara, but is immortalised in history and fiction, prose and verse, as the object of Torquato Tasso’s unfortunate passion. The story of his residence at her a brother’s Court, and at that of Urbino, where her elder sister, Lucrezia, was Duchess, has so often been told, and the details of his relations with the two Princesses so ill authenticated and so variously narrated, that we do no more than allude to the fact of the affection which subsisted between them, although by many writers it is questioned which of the two Princesses reigned supreme in the heart of the Laureate, who was never wearied of singing the praises of both these noble ladies.

This picture was bought in Italy by Emily, wife of the fifth Earl Cowper, and given by her to her husband at the time he was occupied in building the new picture gallery at Panshanger.

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LIBRARY.

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LIBRARY.

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_No. 1._

EDMUND BURKE.

_Brown Coat. White Cravat. Powder._

BORN 1729 N.S., DIED 1797.

BY JACKSON _after_ REYNOLDS.

BORN at Dublin, the eldest of three sons, his father a solicitor in good practice, his mother a Miss Nagle, of County Cork, a Roman Catholic, whose family had been zealous adherents of James the Second. Edmund and his brothers were brought up as Protestants, their father’s faith; his only sister was educated according to her mother’s religion. Young Burke went to school at Ballitore, about thirty miles from Dublin, under the tutelage of one Shackleton, a Quaker, and native of Yorkshire, a good man, and a good teacher, who endeared himself to his pupils, and of whom Burke spoke in the highest terms of gratitude and affection, ‘who had,’ he said, ‘not only educated his mind, but also his heart.’ While still a schoolboy, Edmund had formed a close friendship with young Shackleton, his master’s son, and continued to correspond with him for many years on all subjects, classical, social, religious. In 1743 he went to Trinity College, Dublin, where, he confesses, his studies were very desultory. ‘They proceeded more from sallies of passion than preference for sound reason, and, like all natural appetites that are violent for a season, soon cooled.’ He thought it a humorous consideration to reflect into how many madnesses he had fallen during the last two years. First, the _furor Mathematicus_, then the _furor Classicus_, the _furor Historicus_, the _furor Poeticus_; later on he would have added to his list the _furor Politicus_.

Richard Shackleton, from whom he had parted with tears at Ballitore, urges him, with tender admonitions, ‘to live according to the rules of the Gospel.’ ‘I am desirous of doing so,’ was the answer to the friendly little sermon, ‘but it is far easier to do so in the country than in a town, especially in Trinity College, Dublin.’ Burke sends Richard a poetical description of the manner in which he spends his day: how he rises with the dawn and careers through fragrant gardens and meads, ‘mid the promise of May, till hunger drives him home to breakfast; how he goes down to the beach in the afternoon to sit upon the sea-wall and watch the shipping, and the varying colours of the ocean in the glowing sunset; and amid it all, how his thoughts travel back to the sparkling river and pretty fir-woods of dear old Ballitore. He finds time, however, almost every day, to spend at least three hours in the public library, among the books, ‘the best way in the world for killing thought.’ Assuredly far better than most methods used for that purpose. ‘I have read some history,’ he says, ‘and am endeavouring to make myself acquainted in some degree with that of our own poor country.’

During his whole life Burke loved and compassionated and endeavoured to serve his own unhappy island. His only contemporary of note at College was the Sizar, Oliver Goldsmith, but they do not appear to have been acquainted. In 1750, having taken his degree, Edmund went to London to study the law in the Middle Temple; but that species of study did not suit his taste, although he expresses his high respect for the same. He was never called to the Bar; he preferred literature, courted the society of authors, frequented the debating club in Covent Garden, and was a great lover of the theatres.

His father, who was a hard man, and had never shown him much tenderness, was very angry at Edmund’s neglect of legal studies, and either withdrew, or curtailed, his son’s allowance so much as to make it difficult for him to subsist in London. He was very fond of the country, however, and used to go on walking expeditions, and spend a great part of his summer in picturesque villages, reading and writing all the time, in the companionship of William Burke, his friend and namesake. He mentions his love for wandering in a letter to Richard Shackleton, when, after apologising for a long silence, he says, ‘I may have broken all rules, neglected all decorums, but I have never forgot a friend whose good head and heart have made me esteem and love him.’ It was about the year 1756 that Edmund Burke’s marriage took place, with the daughter of Dr. Nugent, an Irish Roman Catholic, who had settled at Bath. We hear that she was a gentle, amiable, and well-bred woman, and a Presbyterian by creed. In this year Burke published _A Vindication of Natural Society_, and his immortal essay on the Sublime and the Beautiful. The _Vindication_ was written in the form of a letter to a noble Lord by a late noble writer. It was intended to simulate the style of Lord Bolingbroke, and was pronounced in that respect eminently successful, so far as to deceive many expert critics. It was a satire on the opinions of Lord Bolingbroke, lately deceased, whose posthumous works were now attracting great attention in the literary world. Boswell is said to have asked Johnson in after years whether he thought the _Vindication_ would be damaging to Burke in his political career. ‘No, sir,’ replied the Doctor; ‘though it might perhaps be mentioned at an election.’

Burke himself appears to have had the same misgivings as Boswell, for, on the eve of standing for Parliament, he thought it advisable to print a second edition of the _Vindication_, with a preface, in which he explained that the design of the work was ironical. When in London he was not slow in forming friendships with all the eminent men of the day, and amongst those with whom he became most intimate were Reynolds, Garrick, and Samuel Johnson. He was one of the original members (as was his father-in-law, Dr. Nugent) of the Literary Club; and so popular was he at the Turk’s Head, that Sir John Hawkins, ‘that most unclubbable man,’ was actually expelled from the chosen circle on account of an attack he had made on Burke.

In 1758 he conceived the scheme of the _Annual Register_, and proposed it to Dodsley, the great publisher of the day, who was so much pleased with the notion that he immediately embarked in the undertaking, and gave Burke £100 a year to contribute the ‘Survey of Events,’ which he continued for many years. About the same time, the young author was introduced to the man who is known to posterity as ‘Single-speech Hamilton,’ on account of the brilliant success of his maiden speech, which threw into the shade such orators as Pitt (afterwards Lord Chatham), Grenville, and Fox, who all spoke on the same occasion. Horace Walpole met Burke at Hamilton’s house in company with Garrick, and says of him, ‘A young Irishman who wrote a book in the style of Bolingbroke, which has been much admired. He is a sensible man, but has not worn off his authorism, and thinks there is nothing so charming in the world as writers, and to be one. He will know better some day.’

Mr. Hamilton went to Ireland, as private secretary to the Viceroy, Lord Halifax, and Burke accompanied him. While there he busied himself in inquiring into the grievances and causes of discontent, especially among the Roman Catholic portion of the community. It was owing to his liberal-minded views on the subject of Catholic Emancipation that a false rumour was spread that Edmund Burke had gone over to his mother’s creed, with many other reports equally untrue. Hamilton obtained for his companion a pension of £300 a year from the Irish Treasury, which was at first received with gratitude, but Burke would not accept the salary unconditionally; he must have some of his time to himself for literary labours; in fact, he could not barter his freedom. Hamilton was offended. He wished to bind down the noble spirit for life to his own personal service, or, as the writer himself expresses it, ‘to circumscribe my hopes, to give up even the possibility of liberty, to annihilate myself for ever.’ So the pension was given up, the connection with Hamilton at an end, and Burke returned to England.

In 1765 Lord Rockingham replaced George Grenville as Prime Minister, and appointed Edmund Burke his private secretary. This nomination caused much surprise and displeasure in some quarters. The Duke of Newcastle expostulated with the Premier, and denounced Burke as an Irish adventurer, a Papist, a disguised Jesuit, with a false name, and what not. Lord Rockingham put his secretary in possession of the charges brought against him, all of which Burke denied, and answered indignantly he would instantly vacate the post, as no possible consideration would induce him to continue in relation with any man whose trust in him was not entire. But Lord Rockingham had implicit trust in his noble-hearted secretary, and would not accept his resignation; and for seventeen years, that is, till Rockingham’s death, the friendship between these two distinguished men was unbroken, the confidence unlimited. In December, this same year, Burke was returned Member for the borough of Wendover. His maiden speech, a few days after the opening of the session in 1766, on American affairs, produced the profoundest sensation, and Pitt (the elder) not only complimented the young Member himself, but congratulated the Ministry on their acquisition. Dr. Johnson said, ‘No man had ever gained more reputation on his first appearance.’ The second and third speeches were even more successful, and it was universally admitted that Burke’s eloquence carried the repeal of the American Stamp Act, which measure was supported by Pitt, although in Opposition. The Rockingham Ministry did not stand above twelve months, and made way for what was termed the Grafton Administration, the Duke being, for a time at least, nominal, and Lord Chatham real leader of the party. Burke describes this Government as a piece of joinery, curiously indented and whimsically dove-tailed; a piece of tesselated pavement, without cement, unsafe to touch, insecure to stand on.

In 1769 he became the possessor of The Gregories, in the parishes of Penn and Beaconsfield, in Buckinghamshire. He thus speaks of it to Shackleton: ‘I have made a push with all I could collect, and the aid of my friends, to cast a little root in this country. I have bought a house, with an estate of about 600 acres, twenty-four miles from London: it is very pleasant, and I propose, God willing, to become a farmer in good earnest.’ He is sure his friend will approve of the acquisition, when he knows it was once the property of Waller the poet. There is always a large portion of the community who consider it incumbent on them to inquire into, and animadvert upon, their neighbours’ affairs, more especially their finances. The world was much exercised over the chances of Burke’s ability to defray such an expense as the purchase of an estate; but there seems little doubt that Lord Rockingham assisted him materially, and at his death that kind friend desired that all Edmund Burke’s bonds should be destroyed.

The Irishman did not belie his nationality with regard to money; it must be confessed he was lavish, and it is said that from the day, in 1769, when he applied to Garrick for the loan of £1000, till 1794, when he received a pension from the Crown, he was never out of debt. But Burke’s extravagance was far removed from selfishness; he never closed his ear or his purse against the appeals of struggling talent or deserving poverty, and was generous and compassionate in every relation of life. In 1773, his only child, his ‘darling Dick,’ having left Westminster, was entered student at Christchurch, Oxford, but he being considered too young for College life, his father determined to send him to Auxerre to study the French language. The youth was lodged in the house of the Bishop of the diocese, a good prelate, who treated him with the utmost kindness, which Richard’s father amply repaid, when, in after years, the Bishop visited England as an exile and a pauper. Edmund Burke went to Paris at the same time, not merely for the pleasure of making acquaintance with the agreeable and distinguished members of society, but for the purpose of investigating the causes of the revolutionary movement, which was beginning by degrees to convulse the French nation. He was presented to the Duchesse de Luxembourg, and to Madame du Deffand, who laments that ‘the Englishman speaks French so badly, in spite of which everybody likes him, and thinks he would be most agreeable, if he could make himself understood’! What a strange position for Edmund Burke; he was able, however, to follow French perfectly as a listener, and was much delighted with hearing La Harpe’s tragedy of _Les Barmecides_ read at the Duchess’s house. He became acquainted with the Count de Broglie, one of the King’s confidential Ministers, and Caraccioli, the Neapolitan Envoy, and many members of the _haute noblesse_. Bent on weighing the balance of political opinion in Paris, Burke did not confine his visits to the _salons_ of one faction or another; he was a frequent guest at the house of Mademoiselle d’Espinasse, the well-known writer of love-letters so ardent, that it was feared they would consume the paper on which they were written! And here he saw the man who inspired those tender epistles,—one Guibert, a colonel in the Corsican Legion, who had lately written a book, which had made a great noise in Paris, all the more that it had been suppressed by the Government. Burke studied the men and their works, and drew his own conclusions; he also, in common with all foreigners, went to Versailles, and saw the old King, Louis Quinze, at Mass, in a pew, just above Madame du Barry, and the Dauphin and his young bride dine in public with great pomp: Marie Antoinette, who, ‘glittering like the morning star, full of life, and joy, and splendour,’—that vision of beauty, indelibly stamped on his memory, which suggested many ‘words that burn,’ and inspired many an enthusiastic and eloquent appeal in behalf of the unfortunate French Sovereigns. Madame du Deffand flattered herself that Burke had gone home enamoured with the nation at large, but she was mistaken; he was never blinded, as were so many of his countrymen, especially his own party, by theoretical benefits of the French Revolution, but foresaw, in all their terrible distinctness, the horrors and excesses of the impending Reign of Terror. On his return to London, he renewed his acquaintance with all the eminent men of the day. His friendship with Johnson and Reynolds lasted till the death of both those loved companions; and Johnson, whose opinions, especially on politics, were usually opposed to those of Burke, used to say he did not grudge Edmund being the first man in the House of Commons, for was not Edmund the first man everywhere? ‘Indeed, he is a man, sir, that if you met him, for the first time, in the street, when, overtaken by a drove of oxen, you both stepped aside for five minutes’ shelter, from whom you could not part without saying, “What an extraordinary man!”’

So extraordinary was Burke’s fame for eloquence, ability, and the liberality of his views, that the important city of Bristol chose him for their Member unsolicited. During the time he represented them, the Bristolians, for the most part, were very proud of their brilliant M.P., but his popularity began to wane when he opposed war, and advocated, not only Irish free-trade, but the Catholic Relief Bill. It would appear that constituents, for the most part, aspire to a despotic rule over the speeches and votes of their representatives, in proportion to the democracy of their own opinions. Now Edmund Burke was in reality what most politicians are in name only, independent, and some words of his that bear on this subject deserve to be engraved in golden letters: ‘He who sits in Parliament should speak the language of truth and sincerity, should never be ready to take up or lay down any great political question for the convenience of the hour; his duty is to support the public good, not to form his opinions in order to get into, or remain in, Parliament.’ He therefore sacrificed his seat at Bristol to his love of independence; for although his constituents, after attacking and maligning him, offered to re-elect him, Burke went down in person to _decline the honour_, in a speech, the eloquence of which could only be equalled by its dignity. He was then elected for Malton, the borough for which Lord Rockingham had originally destined him, and for which he sat until the close of his Parliamentary career. The Gordon Riots broke out this year, and Burke’s house was one of the first doomed to destruction, for ‘was he not the patron and promoter of Popery?’ The authorities provided him with a garrison of sixteen soldiers, thus saving his dwelling in Charles Street, St. James’s, from sharing the fate of Sir George Savile’s (who had brought in the Catholic Relief Bill),—his house being gutted, and the whole of the furniture converted into a bonfire. Savile was a neighbour of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

In 1782 Lord Rockingham once more resumed the head of affairs, on the resignation of Lord North, and Edmund Burke was appointed Paymaster of the Forces. This had hitherto been a place of great emolument, but Burke was not one to advocate reform in every department but his own—he who had so lately urged economical reform in high places. He considered the office overpaid, and cut it down, salary and profits, to the tune of some thousands. His ‘dear Dick’ was made his father’s deputy, with a stipend of £500 a year, and was shortly afterwards promoted to a better post under Government. The death of Lord Rockingham broke up the party. Burke resigned when Lord Shelburne came in, but resumed office under the Coalition Ministry—Duke of Portland, Premier. In 1784, ‘the pilot that weathered the storm,’ William Pitt, took the helm, and Burke retired from official life for good; but he never slackened in his Parliamentary labours, taking a lead in all the important business of the day, and, above all, displaying the liveliest interest in Indian affairs. His name is indissolubly connected with that of Warren Hastings, of whose impeachment he was the principal mover; and during the weary prolongation of the trial, he never rested from his attack on the Governor-General, either by speech or writing. Suffice it to say, that, on the opening of the trial, Edmund Burke made a speech which lasted four days, and, at the conclusion of the proceedings, one which occupied nine days, and was indeed a wonder, though it did not influence the sentence, as Warren Hastings was acquitted.

In the meantime all Burke’s preconceived notions of displeasure at the progress of the Revolution in France were more and more increased and confirmed by the rapid strides which were being made towards the anarchy he had foretold. One memorable day he rose in the House to speak on the subject which absorbed and agitated his mind. He was worked up to a pitch of excitement; he commented, with vehemence, on the encouragement which Fox’s eulogiums had afforded the French Revolution, and went on to say that, in speaking his mind, he was well aware he should this day provoke enemies, and incur the loss of friends.

‘No! no!’ cried Fox, ‘there will be no loss of friends.’

Burke knew better; he knew what was in store for him. ‘But if my firm and steady adherence to the British Constitution place me in such a dilemma, I am ready to incur the risk, and my last words shall be, “Fly from the French Constitution!” I have done my duty at the price of my friend; our friendship is at an end.’

He was right in his prognostications; not only was there a breach between him and Fox, who had been one of his most intimate friends, and whom he henceforth met as a stranger, but the whole party kept aloof from Burke. They accused him of having deserted his principles, and the Whig newspapers were most violent in their abuse. He was annoyed and grieved by these charges, but they did not influence his opinions or his conduct. He sent his son to Coblenz, to communicate with the Royalist exiles, but the mission was productive of no good. He published his celebrated _Reflections on the French Revolution_, which converted some readers to his way of thinking, and exasperated others; and he continued to write pamphlet upon pamphlet on the same subject, waxing warmer and warmer as he wrote, and urging interference on the English Government. Miss Burney, who met him about this time, writes that ‘he is not well, and much tormented by the state of political affairs. I wish you could see this remarkable man when he is easy, happy, and with those whom he cordially likes; but politics, even on his own side, must be carefully excluded: on that theme his irritability is so terrible that it gives immediately to his face the expression of a man who is defending himself against murderers.’ The news of the French King’s execution produced a profound sensation in England, and turned the current of feeling, for the most part, in the direction to which Burke had so long, and vainly, endeavoured to direct it.

We must not omit to record a strange episode in his Parliamentary life that occurred on the bringing in of the Alien Bill, which imposed certain pains and restrictions on foreigners coming to this country. Fox had already spoken, when Edmund Burke rose to address the House, and it was easy to perceive he was, if possible, more excited than usual. He thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew forth a dagger with a tragic gesture which would have done honour to his friend David Garrick; and flinging the shining weapon on the floor of the House, called on all present to keep all French principles from their heads, all French daggers from their hearts;... to beware of the intrigues of murderous atheists, and so forth; and he concluded by adjuring his audience to listen to his warning, by all the blessings of time and the hopes of eternity! This extraordinary proceeding, which is remembered in history as ‘the dagger scene,’ produced, as may be imagined, different effects on different hearers; there were some on whom it made a deep impression, while there were others who accused the speaker of having imagined and rehearsed a bit of melodrame. Rehearsal there was none. The facts were these: Burke, on his way to the House of Commons, had been shown the dagger in question, which had been sent over from France as a pattern for a large order to be executed in this country.

He had announced his intention of retiring from public life as soon as the trial of Warren Hastings should be brought to a conclusion; and when at length it was so, he applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and his son Richard was elected for his vacant seat.

Pitt proposed to confer a peerage on the man, for whom he had, in spite of many opposite ways of thinking, a profound admiration, by the title of Lord Beaconsfield; but a storm was fast gathering, which darkened the remnant of Burke’s life, and hastened his end.

His only child, his idolised Richard, was attacked with sudden illness, to which he succumbed. This young man’s handsome face, familiar to us from the portraits by his father’s friend Reynolds, bore a sullen and somewhat defiant expression, which inclines us to believe the general verdict, that he was a man of ungovernable disposition. Two years before his death he had been sent to Ireland on business by the Catholic Committee, and while there, as also on his return to London, he had proved himself totally unfit for the trust reposed in him. The character given of Richard Burke by one who knew him well was as follows: ‘He is by far the most impudent and opinionative fellow I have ever met.’ Yet in his parents’ fond eyes he was faultless, and few things are more pathetic than the father’s allusion to his heavy loss. ‘The storm has gone over me,’ he says; ‘I lie like one of those old oaks that the late hurricane has scattered round me; I am torn up by the roots; I am alone, I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. I live in an inverted order: those who should have been to me as posterity are in the place of my ancestors.’

Both the King and Pitt (the Premier) were anxious to provide for the great statesman’s declining days, and a considerable grant was assigned him by the Crown. Acceptable as the relief from financial anxiety must have been to the man, now advancing in years and bowed down by sorrow, Burke was much disturbed that the question of the pension had not been brought before Parliament. The sequel proved that his scruples were well founded, for the Duke of Bedford and Lord Lauderdale made this stipend a plea for attacking the Government, to which they were in opposition. But Edmund Burke, says one of his latest biographers, ‘was not slow to reply, and, in his letter to a noble Lord, made one of the most splendid repartees in the English language.’

The ex-statesman in his retirement continued to write political tracts, some of which were not published till after his death. He found his best and truest consolation in the exercise of that charity and benevolence in which his soul had ever delighted. He had established at Beaconsfield a school for the orphans of those who had perished in the French Revolution, or the children of poor emigrants; sixty boys in number; and it is pleasant to learn how, in the society of the little ones he was befriending, his cheerfulness returned; how the great man, the distinguished orator, would join in their childish sports, roll with them on the green turf, and convulse them with laughter by his ‘wretched puns.’ The visits of some faithful friends at The Gregories gave him also unfeigned pleasure, and he loved to speak with, or of, his old associates. Alluding one day to Fox, he said, ‘Ah, that is a man made to be loved!’ When he felt his end approaching he sent affectionate messages to his absent friends, gave calm directions respecting his worldly affairs, and enlarged sorrowfully on the melancholy state of the country. Fox was much affected when he heard of the death of his former friend, and proposed that he should be buried in Westminster Abbey. But the will provided otherwise: ‘A small tablet or flagstone, in Beaconsfield Churchyard, with a short and simple inscription. I say this, because I know the partiality of some of my friends; but I have had too much of noise and compliment in my life.’

Burke left all he possessed to his ‘entirely loved, faithful, and affectionate wife, with whom I have lived so happily for many years.’ After mentioning several noblemen and gentlemen, whose friendship he highly valued, and who all followed him to the grave, he adds, ‘If the intimacy I have had with others has been broken off by political difference on great questions, I hope they will forgive whatever of general human frailty, or of my own particular infirmity, has entered into that consideration; I heartily entreat their forgiveness.’

We insert this short extract, because we think this last of Burke’s writings gives the best notion of his character, and because we consider that the feelings which dictated these words are sublime, and their expression beautiful. He does not forget to recommend his little emigrants to the continued generosity and patronage of William Pitt and other influential personages. Edmund Burke was very popular with women, ‘even,’ says the biographer from whom we have already quoted, ‘those who were angry at his sympathy with American rebels, his unkind words about the King (this was on the subject of economical reform), and his cruel persecution of poor Warren Hastings.’ Meantime he contrived to captivate such different characters as Hannah More, Elizabeth Carter, and Fanny Burney, who met him at Sir Joshua Reynolds’s on Richmond Hill, and could not find terms for her admiration of his noble air, commanding address, clear, penetrating, sonorous voice, powerful, eloquent, copious language; at home on every subject, she had never seen a more delightful man. His features are familiar to us from the portraits of Sir Joshua and Romney, who also painted him.

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_No. 2._

CHARLES JAMES FOX.

_Blue coat. Buff waistcoat. Powder._

BORN 1749, DIED 1806.

BY JACKSON _after_ REYNOLDS.

CHARLES JAMES FOX, third son of the first Lord Holland, was born in 1749.

Lord Holland was the most able and unprincipled of the able and unprincipled statesmen of the school of Walpole. In private life he seems to have had something of the generous and sweet-tempered disposition of his son Charles, towards whom he exhibited a boundless, but not very judicious, affection. He spoilt him as a child. He gave him so much money at Eton, as by example to inaugurate a new state of things at that school, and he was constantly taking him away from his studies at Oxford to indulge him prematurely in the dissipations of fashionable life. He brought him into Parliament before he was of age, and encouraged him from the first to take part in every important debate.

Such were the early circumstances of Charles Fox. His abilities at once showed themselves to be of the very highest order, and exactly fitted for the field in which they were to be displayed.

A power of close and rapid reasoning, combined with a strength and passion which would have made even mere declamation effective, a slight hesitation indeed in his cooler moments, but when he was excited a flow of language almost too rapid and too copious, and altogether inexhaustible, a miraculous quickness in perceiving at a glance the weak points in the speech of an opponent, and a matchless dexterity in taking advantage of them: these were the characteristics of his extraordinary eloquence. In no age and no country could he have found an audience more capable of appreciating his particular gifts than the House of Commons of that period. On the other hand, no audience could have been more ready to forgive the total absence of preparation, the occasional repetition, the want of arrangement and the want of finish, which were his faults, and which would have seemed very serious faults in the Athenian Assembly or the Roman Senate.

His private life at the outset, and long afterwards, was stained by dissipation of every kind. He entered Parliament with no fixed principles. He was to the last unduly carried away by the spirit of faction. But there was a goodness as well as a manliness in his nature, and a justness in his judgment, which were apparent from the very first, and which more and more asserted themselves till they threw his faults entirely into the shade. He grew steadily in character and estimation, till, at the time of his death, he was regarded by a large circle with an idolatrous attachment, which no other statesman has ever inspired. More than twenty years after there were people who could not mention his name without tears in their eyes.

Fox at once took a prominent part in public life. He vehemently defended the unconstitutional action of the Government against Wilkes, accepted office, was turned out soon afterwards for speaking against the Ministry, struck right and left for some time in an irregular manner, and finally, at the age of six-and-twenty, settled down into steady and vigorous Opposition to the war with our American colonists, which then broke out.

This threw him into association with Burke, and with the Whigs, and his stupendous Parliamentary abilities made him, before the end of the war, virtually the leader of the Opposition in the House of Commons.

In 1782 Lord Rockingham came in on the question of acknowledging the independence of America. Fox and Lord Shelburne were the Secretaries of State. Jealousies and disputes arose between the two last, and when, in a few months, Lord Rockingham died, open enmity was declared between them. The King sent for Shelburne. Fox and his supporters formed a coalition with the old war party, under Lord North. Shelburne had to resign, and Fox, much to the disgust of the King, became master of the situation, and with the Duke of Portland for nominal Prime Minister, exercised complete power. All this seems to us who live in these days very unprincipled, and though the politicians of that depraved period do not seem to have been much shocked, the general public took a different view, as was very shortly made evident.

At first Fox and North seemed to carry everything before them; but retribution was at hand. The first great measure which they brought forward was caused by the cruel and unprincipled conduct of the servants of the East India Company. It was no less a scheme than to vest the whole Government of India for four years in the hands of a Commission appointed by Parliament, or, in other words, by the Ministers who happened at the moment to be in power. A Bill to this effect passed the House of Commons almost without opposition, but by the personal influence of the King it was thrown out in the House of Lords, and Fox and the other Ministers, though they commanded an immense majority in the House of Commons, were immediately dismissed.

They must speedily have been restored to power, if the House of Commons had really represented the feelings of the people; but this was not the case, for public opinion, as I have said, had been thoroughly scandalised by the unnatural coalition between two such completely opposite parties as those of Fox and North. But in spite even of this state of public opinion, it is very doubtful if the unexampled and absolute personal ascendency which Fox had established in Parliament would not have ensured his speedy return, if another most extraordinary man had not appeared upon the scene.

This was William Pitt, at this time only twenty-three years of age. Pitt had shortly before burst forth upon the world as a full-fledged orator of the very highest order. He now assumed the lead of the Government in the House of Commons; fought battle after battle, still defeated, but steadily increasing his numbers, till he at last succeeded in arriving within one of a majority. Then, and not till then, did he dissolve Parliament, with so overwhelming a result, that he remained for many a long year in complete though not unchallenged possession of supreme power.

Fox now entered upon what was destined to be a long career of opposition. He was the acknowledged leader of the Whig party in the House of Commons. Supported by Burke and Sheridan and Windham, he waged ceaseless and desperate war against the young Prime Minister. Never, perhaps, in the whole course of our Parliamentary history was there a brighter display of eloquence than at this period, though the speakers were few in number, for this simple reason, that none but the very best speakers could obtain a hearing. Pitt and Fox towered conspicuously above these brilliant few.

This sketch would be far too long if I were to attempt to give any account, however brief, of the subjects of discussion during the next few years, nor will I pretend to say which of these great men was oftenest in the right or in the wrong. Fox, however, certainly seems to lay himself open to the charge that whatever Pitt brought forward he steadily and systematically opposed.

I will now come to the beginning of the French Revolution. This tremendous occurrence so completely filled the minds of all parties in England as to cause every other subject to be forgotten. The first news of the destruction of the Bastile seems to have been received on the whole with satisfaction, for the tyranny and corruption of the _ancien régime_ were well known, and justly reprobated in this country. But as things went on, the upper classes began to become seriously alarmed. The Tories, of course, led the way; and the brilliant and forcible pen of Burke, the most richly gifted and learned statesman, though not the most successful Parliamentary orator, among the Whigs, expressed and inflamed the rising passion of the people. The execution of the King, and still more that of the Queen, were received with an outburst of horror and indignation. Then came the Reign of Terror. By this time there was a wild panic among owners of property. The just hatred of the cruelty which was daily being perpetrated rose to frenzy. The old national animosity against France intensified the public fury. In short, the tide of English feeling ran with such overwhelming force against everything connected with the French Revolution, as to sweep away from power and popularity every man who had in the smallest degree identified himself with any of its principles. Fox had done this. At the outset he had expressed his exultation, in his usual vehement manner, and afterwards, when others had begun to stand aghast, he in the main adhered to his opinion. Nobody inveighed more strongly against the Royal murders, and the other atrocities, but he still clung to the belief that the ultimate result would be good. He strongly opposed the interference of Europe, and particularly of England, with the internal concerns of France. He denied that there was any necessity for our going to war, and during the war he continued on every possible occasion to urge the Government to make peace. The opinion of later generations has, I think, on the whole, decided that he was right, though people are still divided upon the subject. But, be this as it may, it is impossible not to admire his conduct during these years. His once proud and powerful party was scattered to the winds. His ‘darling popularity,’ as Burke had formerly called it, altogether disappeared. Friends of long standing became estranged, and he was one who felt acutely the dissolution of friendship. Still, however, he remained firm to his principles. Session after session, though he stood almost alone, he continued to advocate his views with such masterly ability as to extort the applause even of his enemies. But at last, so hopeless did he find it to contend any more against the stream, that, though he retained his seat, he almost ceased to attend Parliament.

Fox now retired to his house at St. Ann’s Hill. He had become the most domestic of men, and in company of the only woman he ever really loved, and whom he soon afterwards married, he gave himself up to all the pleasures of literary ease. In spite of the dissipation of his youth, and the activity of his maturity, he had contrived to acquire a large amount of information, and such was the constitution of his mind, that whatever he learned he learned thoroughly. He was an accomplished and accurate classical scholar, well acquainted with modern languages, and well versed in the history and the poetry of all countries and all times. His letters at this period to his nephew, Lord Holland, throw a very pleasing light upon his pursuits and character, and enable us to a certain extent to realise the fascination which he possessed in his middle age for those who were just entering upon manhood. Every subject is treated of in turn in the easiest and most spontaneous manner; Greek and Latin authors are critically examined, and their corresponding passages compared, or a canto of Ariosto is discussed, or a couplet from one of Dryden’s plays is pointed out as capable of being happily quoted in a speech on current politics. Nor are the deeper lessons of history forgotten, nor the public events of the moment; and all this in the simple and familiar language of a man of the world, frequently illustrated by similes drawn from racing or other sport. So far is there from being any touch of pedantry or condescension, that it seems as if he was asking his nephew’s advice upon all these matters, rather than giving any opinion of his own. It was at this time he wrote his book upon the reign of James II. These years in which, as a public man, he was almost totally eclipsed, were perhaps the happiest in his life. On the rare occasions when he was persuaded by his few remaining political friends to appear in Parliament, and to make a speech, he left home with the most intense reluctance, and returned there with all the pleasure of a schoolboy at the end of the half.

After the Peace of Amiens he went to Holland and France, and was received everywhere with respect and admiration.