Chapter C (1)

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_No. 3._

CARDINAL DE RETZ.

_Cardinal’s robes. Red skull-cap._

BORN 1614, DIED 1679.

BY LE BRUN.

JEAN FRANÇOIS PAUL DE GONDI was born at Montmirail en Brie. His father, Emmanuel de Gondi, served as General under Louis XIII., and subsequently became a recluse at the Oratory of Notre Dame. The family was originally Florentine, and the first who settled in France was Albert Gondi, son of a Tuscan banker, who was Marshal of France under Catherine of Medicis. It was easy to trace his Southern descent in the warm blood that raced through the veins of Jean François de Gondi. Two members of the family had already sat on the Archiepiscopal throne of Paris; Emmanuel destined his son to be the third, and with that view he caused him to be educated as a priest, under the auspices of Vincent de Paul, the pious confessor of Anne of Austria. Assuredly the pupil did not follow in the master’s footsteps. It was said of the two men by a contemporary, ‘Il en fit un saint, comme les Jésuites firent de Voltaire un dévot.’ No vocation in the world could have been less fitted for the wild, worldly, and ambitious spirit of the young acolyte,—a fact which he vainly endeavoured to force on his father’s mind by the irregularities of his conduct. He not only indulged in every excess, but gloried in making his behaviour known to the world: a duellist, he had already had two hostile meetings, he spoke openly of his _affaires d’honneur_; a man of gallantry, he boasted of his _affaires de cœur_,—indeed, among many others, he relates how at one time he was on the point of carrying off his beautiful cousin, Mademoiselle de Retz; a conspirator, he had gone so far as to plot against the life of Richelieu. He had contrived to incur the enmity of the Minister by crossing his path, both in love and friendship, and they hated each other cordially. When only eighteen, De Retz had shown his predilection for secret conspiracy by writing a panegyric on the Genoese Fiesco. But with all these warring and tumultuous propensities, he could not shuffle off the clerical habit which weighed so heavily on his young shoulders. He took an abrupt resolution, made a virtue of necessity, preached brilliant sermons, wrote fervent homilies, became remarkable for his deeds of charity, and paid court to the higher members of the Church,—and, crowning glory, he invited a learned Protestant to a polemical conference, and brought him home safely into the fold of Mother Church. This conversion made such a noise in Paris as to reach the ears of the old King, Louis XIII., then on his deathbed, who immediately named Gondi Coadjutor to his kinsman, the Archbishop of Paris, a post that was usually a stepping-stone to the Archiepiscopal See itself. Gondi now preached sermons, the eloquence of which made him the theme of conversation, more especially the very flowery discourse which he delivered on his first appearance at Court; but his growing popularity among the citizens of Paris, during this time of strife between the Parliament and the Regency, made him an object of suspicion to the Queen. He lavished enormous sums of money in largesses to the lower classes in Paris, which caused him to become too popular with one party not to excite the fears of the other. Being one day reproached for his prodigality, Gondi, who always took the ancient Romans as his models, said flippantly, ‘Why should I not be in debt?—Cæsar at my age owed six times as much as I do.’ In the growing struggle between the popular party and the Court, he temporised and coquetted with both. He refused to join the cabal of ‘Les Importans’ against Mazarin, the Prime Minister, whom he much disliked, and on the breaking out of the revolt, on the day of the first barricades he exerted himself to protect the Queen and her surroundings. Habited in full pontificals, the Coadjutor mixed with the crowd, exhorted them to respect the building of the Palais-Royal, and exposed himself so far as to be thrown down and bruised by a stone, which was hurled at him. Yet, when in the course of the evening he sought the Royal presence, in the expectation of receiving thanks for his conduct, Anne’s reception was cold and haughty. ‘Allez-vous reposer, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘vous avez beaucoup travaillé.’

The slights put upon him by the Court, and a further offence given him by the Queen, determined Gondi to co-operate with the opposite faction. We have given a full account of the history of the Fronde in the notice of Marshal Turenne, and shall therefore only allude to the personal actions of Gondi, who became, if not at first the nominal leader, assuredly the moving spirit, of the malcontents. He had expressed his opinion some time before, that it required higher qualities to be leader of a party faction than to be emperor of the universe, and he now resolved to show his qualifications for that position. ‘Before noon to-morrow,’ he said, ‘I _will_ be master of Paris.’

Now began that epoch of internal warfare in France, when the men of action and strong will rose to the surface, without reference to the honesty or morality of their characters. ‘Les troubles civils,’ says one of the historians of the Fronde, ‘sont le règne des oiseaux de proie.’ The Regent and her Minister well knew how much they had to fear throughout the wars of the Fronde, throughout the ups and downs of popularity and hatred from such men as Gondi, who became in time both Archbishop of Paris and Cardinal, and maintained for the most part his political ascendency until the conclusion of the civil war in 1652, when the Court returned to Paris. He was offered to go to Rome as Ambassador, but hesitated and demurred and procrastinated, till Anne of Austria’s old hatred broke out afresh, and he was arrested and conveyed, without any resistance on the part of his good Parisians, to the Château de Vincennes. Here he was treated with much severity, and could only gain the favour of being transported to the ancient Castle of Nantes at the price of some concessions in ecclesiastical matters. He contrived to escape, through an ingenious contrivance, and to evade the vigilance of the guards during one of his daily promenades on the ramparts, though he ran great risks while dangling to a rope, which had been thrown over the wall for his descent. Two young pages saw him, and cried loudly to the soldiers above, but as the Cardinal’s good star would have it, there was a great tumult going on below on the banks of the river. A bather was drowning, and people were shouting and calling for help in all directions, so that the boys’ feeble voices were unheard, or confounded with the general uproar. The Cardinal had friends awaiting his descent with horses, and they set forth at a furious pace, intending to make their way to Paris. But the Cardinal’s horse was scared by the report of a pistol which De Retz himself had fired on a supposed pursuer, and the rider fell to the ground, dislocated his shoulder, and had to ride for many leagues in tortures of pain. After passing several nights in misery and apprehension, hiding in barns and outhouses, under piles of hay, half suffocated, the fugitive contrived to reach the Spanish frontier, whence after a short sojourn he repaired to Rome. He had a very good reception, despite the rancour of the French Cardinals, and made himself conspicuous at the Conclave by his eloquence, which was instrumental in securing the election of Alexander VII. This smoothed the way for his return to France, where the King received him well; but the firm spirit of De Retz was not broken, and he withstood to the uttermost the endeavours, both of Louis and Mazarin, to make him resign his Archbishopric. However, he was at length persuaded to exchange it for the Abbey of St. Denis. The rest of his life, we are told by some of his biographers, was passed in retirement, piety, and charitable deeds. By some we are also told that his humility was so great that he offered to resign the Scarlet Hat, of which he was unworthy; but other writers are sceptical enough to doubt his good faith in this transaction, and to whisper that while he tendered his resignation to the King, he sent secret petitions to the Pope to refuse this offer. One thing is certain: the Cardinal became economical, and paid to the uttermost farthing the enormous debts which he had contracted. In his latter days he found amusement in the compilation of his own memoirs, which are characterised by extreme candour; and he found consolation in the society and friendship of Madame de Sévigné. In her charming Letters this admirable writer praises the tired man of the world for his charming conversation, his elevation of character, and his mild and peaceable disposition. Surely it must be acknowledged that our Frondeur had reformed! She speaks of his constant visits. ‘Nous tâchons,’ she says, ‘d’amuser notre bon Cardinal; Corneille lui a lu une pièce qui sera jouée dans quelque temps, et qui fait souvenir des anciennes. Molière lui lira, samedi Trissotin, qui est une fort plaisante chose. Despréaux lui donnera son lutrin, et sa poétique. Voilà tout ce qu’on peut faire pour son service.’ He died in Paris at the Hôtel Lesdiguierés in 1679. Madame de Sévigné, writing on the subject to her daughter, says, ‘Cette mort est encore plus funeste, que tu ne saurais le penser.’ ‘These ambiguous words,’ observes a French writer, ‘were considered very mysterious at the time, but the easy solution appears to be that the Cardinal had, unknown to Madame de Grignan herself, stated or hinted at the fact that he intended to make that lady his heir, a circumstance of which her mother was cognisant.’

De Retz at one time not only aimed at superseding his enemy, Cardinal de Mazarin, in his post at the Councils, but also in the affections of the Queen-Regent, a project in which he was utterly foiled. Voltaire, speaking of his Autobiography, says it is written with an air of grandeur, an impetuosity, and an inequality of genius, which form a perfect portrait of the man; it might be added,—with an audacious candour, from which many writers of their own memoirs would have shrunk.

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_No. 4._

THOMAS HOBBES.

_Black gown. Grizzly hair._

BORN 1588, DIED 1679.

BORN at Westport, an outlying parish of Malmesbury, of which his father was the Vicar,—‘a man who cared not for learning, having never, as Aubrey tells us, ‘tasted the sweetness of it.’ Thomas Hobbes’s advent into the world was premature, in consequence of his mother’s terror, caused by the rumours of the impending invasion of the Spanish Armada.

One of his biographers truly remarks, ‘The philosopher was not in such a hurry to leave as to enter the world, since he lived to attain his ninety-second year.’ In a Latin poem, written when he was past eighty, he terms himself, ‘Fear’s twin,’ alluding to his mother’s fright, and says, ‘That is the reason, methinks, why I so detest my country’s foes, being a lover of the Muses, and of peace, and pleasant friends.’

He began authorship while still a schoolboy at Malmesbury, by translating the _Medea_ of Euripides into Latin verse.

He is described as a playful boy enough, but with a spice of contemplative melancholy, ‘who would get himself into a corner, and learn his lessons presently.’ His chief amusements consisted in ‘catching jackdaws with cunningly-devised traps, and strolling into booksellers’ and stationers’ shops, in order to gape at maps or charts.’

A generous uncle sent him to Oxford, where he was regular in his studies and in his habits, at a time when, as he tells us in the _Leviathan_, drinking, smoking, and gambling were the order of the day at Oxford.

The Principal of his College, Magdalen Hall, recommended the young student to the notice of Lord Cavendish of Hardwicke (afterwards the first Earl of Devonshire), who appointed him tutor to his eldest son; and thus began a friendship with that noble family which endured for upwards of seventy years, even to the end of Hobbes’s long life. Tutor and pupil were of the same age, nineteen years, and together they made the grand tour of France, Germany, and Italy, reaping great advantages from the opportunities thus afforded them. As to Hobbes, he cultivated the society and conversation of all the men of eminence in the countries through which they passed, ‘at a time,’ says a recent writer, ‘when the spirit of inquiry was rife in Western Europe.’ He mastered modern languages, and laid the foundation of friendships which stood him in good stead in after life. On his return he devoted himself more than ever to the study of the Classics, translating and commenting on the Greek and Latin poets of antiquity, so that his works began to attract considerable attention. He resided with the Cavendish family, both in the country and in London, and greatly utilised the resources of the library at Chatsworth; while in London he frequented the society of such men as Lord Bacon, Ben Jonson, Lord Falkland, Herbert of Cherbury, and others.

King James I., who was a match-maker, brought about a marriage between young Lord Cavendish (Hobbes’s pupil) and the only daughter of his favourite, Lord Bruce of Kinloss, in Scotland. The King gave her a good portion, and induced Lord Devonshire to make a handsome settlement on her; but the excellent qualities of this remarkable woman would have made Christian Bruce a desirable alliance for any family in England, even had she not been so well endowed. She was a competent and superior lady, as her after life proved. But heavy clouds were gathering over the house of Cavendish. In 1626 died William, first Earl of Devonshire, son of the celebrated Bess of Hardwicke, and in 1628 his son, the second Earl. Hobbes mourned them both sincerely, but especially the last mentioned, his dear lord, friend, and pupil; in a letter to whose son and successor, after speaking in the highest terms of the deceased, and enumerating his many virtues and endowments, he goes on to say, ‘What he took in by study, he by judgment digested, and turned into wisdom and ability, wherewith to benefit his country.’

This was in every respect a severe loss to Hobbes. The establishment at Chatsworth was broken up, and the widowed Countess was left in great pecuniary difficulties. Her son (who was of tender age) had his estates charged with thirty lawsuits, ‘which, by the cunning of her adversaries, were made as perplexed as possible; yet she so managed, with diligence and resolution, as to go through them all with satisfaction.’

One day King Charles said jestingly to her, ‘Madam, you have all my judges at your disposal.’

In 1628, Hobbes published his translation of Thucydides, which attracted great attention, and brought down on the author many severe attacks. In an opening dissertation on the life and works of the Greek historian, Hobbes endeavoured, by the example of the Athenian, to warn his countrymen against the evils of democracy, at a moment when political strife was raging and the Monarchy in danger. For Hobbes was a zealous Royalist, and believed that the cause of the King was in essentials the cause of law and order. Thrown for a while on his own resources, he accepted the post of travelling tutor to the son of a country gentleman, with whom he went on the Continent, residing chiefly at Paris, where he took up mathematics as a new study. It was not long, however, before the widowed Countess of Devonshire recalled the friend of her father-in-law, the tutor of her husband, to occupy the same position in the family, and superintend the education of her sons, the young Earl and her beloved Charles, the gallant soldier who closed his short and noble career by dying for his King on the field of Gainsborough.

In 1634 old memories were recalled and old habits resumed by Hobbes taking his youthful charge over very much the same ground as he had travelled with his first pupil some years before, ‘making the longest stay in Paris for all the politer parts of breeding,’ having during his sojourn in Italy inspired the admiration and gained the friendship of Cosimo de Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, and paid a visit at Pisa to the illustrious Galileo,—‘for I also,’ says Hobbes of himself, ‘am now numbered among the philosophers.’

In Paris, where Richelieu was in the zenith of his power, and had just founded the Academy, Hobbes fraternised, as was his wont, with all the learned men, and was on the most intimate terms with every one in any way remarkable for culture, whether in literature, science, or philosophy. In 1637 Lord Devonshire with his governor went back to England, where he found that his mother had taken advantage of his absence to restore order into his estates, which she now gave up to him, free and unencumbered of debt, and his beautiful homes well furnished to receive him.

England was in a most perturbed state on the travellers’ return. Hampden’s trial, the insurrection of the Scots, the violence of Parliament, all presaged the impending downfall of the Monarchy. Hobbes’s natural bias, as we have already said in a former page, was in favour of the Royal cause, a sentiment which was naturally fostered by the Cavendishes, who were one and all zealous Royalists; their hearts, lives, and fortunes, were ever at the service of the Throne. And so it came to pass that our philosopher raised his voice and wielded his pen in support of the King, until, as the saying goes, the country was too hot to hold him, and he fled. He thus speaks of his own reasons for taking this step:—

‘On the meeting of the second Parliament, when they proceeded fiercely against those who had written or preached in defence of regal power, Mr. Hobbes, doubting how they would use him, went over into France, the first of all that fled, and there continued eleven years.’ Here he made a short friendship and quicker quarrel with the celebrated Des Cartes; here, when once brought to the brink of the grave, whatever his religious opinions were, he resisted the endeavours of an Italian friend to gain him over to the Roman Catholic faith; here, his health re-established, he published manifold works,—philosophical, theological, and polemical,—which attracted great attention, and his fame spread so far and wide that it was said people came from great distances even to gaze on the portrait of Mr. Thomas Hobbes.

Public favour was very much divided, and some of those who could not deny his eloquence and brilliancy of style inveighed against the heterodoxy of his tenets. While in Paris, he gave instructions in different branches of learning, especially mathematics, to the Prince of Wales, afterwards Charles II., who was then in exile; and his intercourse with the Prince, and the intimacy which he formed with many of the English Royalists then residing in Paris, helped to foster Hobbes’s hatred of the popular party in England.

John Evelyn, in his Diary, says, ‘I went to see Mr. Hobbes, the great philosopher of Malmesbury, at Paris, with whom I had been much acquainted. From his window we saw the whole procession and glorious cavalcade of the young French monarch, Lewis XIV., passing to Parliament, when first he took the kingly government upon him, he being fourteen years of age, and out of the Queen’s pupilage. The King’s aydes, the Queen-Mother, and the King’s light horse all in rich habits, with trumpets, in blue velvet and gold; the Swiss in black velvet toques, headed by two gallant cavaliers in habits of scarlet satin, after their country fashion, which is very fantastick.

The Kinge himself looked like a young Apollo. He was mounted on an Isabella barb, with a houssing of crosses of the Order of the Holy Ghost, and _semée fleurs-de-lys_, stiffly covered with rich embroidery. He went almost the whole way with his hat in his hand, saluting the ladys and acclamators, who had filled the windows with their beauty, and the aire with “Vive le Roy!”’

In 1651 Hobbes wrote the book so indissolubly connected with his name, _Leviathan_. When this work was first circulated in Paris, he found himself the object of aversion to every class. To readers of every way of thinking, there were passages at which to cavil and take objection. Indeed, Hobbes was warned that from the priesthood his life was in danger; and he once more sought safety in flight. He returned to England, where he published the obnoxious volume, and took up his abode in London for some time, in Fetter Lane, made his submission to the Council of State, and busied himself with literary labours, English and Latin. The winter of 1659 he spent with his friends at Chatsworth, and in 1660 came up to London with them to Little Salisbury House. One day, soon after the Restoration, the King was passing through the Strand, when he perceived his old master standing at the gate of Lord Devonshire’s house. The Royal coach was stopped, Charles doffed his hat most graciously, and inquired after Mr. Hobbes’s health, who was summoned to the Palace before a week was over, and found himself sitting for his portrait by Royal command. We are told that the king of limners, Mr. Cooper, was much delighted with Mr. Hobbes’s pleasant conversation, and that his Majesty delighted in his wit and repartees. The Merry Monarch’s courtiers would ‘bayte’ Mr. Hobbes, so much so that when he appeared the King would often cry, ‘Here comes the bear to be bayted.’ But the philosopher knew how to take his own part, and his answers were always full of wit and drollery, but usually evasive, from fear of giving offence. The King granted him an annual pension of £100 a year, but refused his petition of a grant of land to found a free school at Malmesbury.

He continued his controversial writings, which brought down upon him attacks from all quarters. The publication of his works was prohibited in England, which determined him to bring out a complete edition of them at Amsterdam. The cry against him continued, and an undergraduate at Cambridge venturing to support some of his most daring theories, was summarily expelled the University, while Adam Hood, who had affixed a panegyric on the philosopher to the commencement of the Antiquities of Oxford, was compelled to suppress half his compliments. Hobbes retired into the country, translated Homer into English, wrote the _Philosophical Decameron_, and the _Civil Wars in England_, which he dedicated to the King, with a petition to be allowed to publish it.

Charles was much displeased with the book, and gave him a flat denial. During the panic which was caused by the plague and fire of London, a Bill was brought into Parliament for the suppression of all atheistical writings, and a committee formed to inquire into any work suspected of promulgating such doctrines. Public attention was directed towards _Leviathan_, and many people believed that the greater number of the Bishops would willingly have roasted the old philosopher alive; at all events, Hobbes was much alarmed, being in terror of the whole Bench, more especially of the Bishop of Ely, whom he had offended. He accordingly burned a great portion of his papers, and took his departure for Chatsworth.

It was well for Hobbes, that, disappointed and thwarted in many ways, he had so peaceful and beautiful a haven wherein to anchor. Lord Devonshire allowed his old tutor to live under his roof in ease and plenty, claiming no service of any kind in return for so much hospitality. Neither the Earl nor his wife subscribed in any way to Hobbes’s opinions, but often expressed their abhorrence of his principles, both in politics and religion, sometimes avoiding mention of his name, or excusing him in some measure by saying he was a humorist, and there was no accounting for him.

But they were uniformly kind to the old man, in spite of it all. Hobbes divided his time and thoughts between attention to his health and to his studies. The morning he dedicated to the first consideration—climbing the nearest hill as soon as he got up; or, if the weather were bad, taking hard exercise in the house as soon as he had finished his breakfast,—after which meal he would make a circuit of the apartments, and visit my lord, my lady, the children, and any distinguished strangers that might be there, conversing for a short time with all of them.

Towards the end of his life he read few books, preferring, he said, ‘to digest what he had already fed upon;’ ‘besides,’ he remarked, laughing, ‘if I were to read as much as most men do, I should be as ignorant as they.’ In company he was free in discourse, but could not brook contradiction, then he was short and peevish; indeed it was usual, on admitting strangers, to warn them not to vex the old man by differing from him in argument. Hobbes, by his own testimony, was of a timid nature. Kennet, the biographer of the Cavendishes, from whose amusing volume we have drawn largely, says, ‘It is not trampling on the ashes of the late Mr. Hobbes to say he was a coward. He was constantly under apprehension of messengers to arrest him, and that they would enter Chatsworth or Hardwicke by force, and compel Lord Devonshire to give him up.’

Under the pressure of these fears he wrote an Apology for himself and his writings, in which he affirmed that the doctrines at which exception had been taken were not so much his opinions as his suppositions, a delicate distinction enough. In his latter days Hobbes made an open profession of religion, and frequented service in the chapel, often partaking of the Holy Communion. If any one in conversation questioned his belief, he would invariably allude to these practices, and refer the speaker to the chaplain, who would bear testimony to his orthodoxy. Some people thought this chapel-going was the result of his wish to conform to the rules of the household, as he never went to a parish church, and always turned his back on the sermon, ‘for,’ said he, ‘they can teach me nothing that I do not know.’ He had a perfect terror of being left to himself in an empty house, and would always accompany the family from Chatsworth to Hardwicke and back, however weak and ill he might be. On the last occasion he journeyed to Hardwicke on a feather bed in a coach, and the exertion at so advanced an age hastened his death. He could not endure the thought of dying, and had a new coat made when on his deathbed, which, he hoped, would last him three years, and then he would have another. He questioned the physician at last whether his disease were curable, and on being told he might hope for alleviation, but no cure—a fact which his science and philosophy might surely have told him at ninety-two years of age—he said, ‘Then I hope I shall find a hole to creep out of the world.’

They were his last words, and were somewhat ambiguous, as ‘Hardwicke Hall, more glass than wall,’ could not well be described as a ‘hole,’ with its lordly gallery, its noble staircase, and its historical memories of Mary Queen of Scots, and Arabella Stuart. Many of Hobbes’s most remarkable writings are preserved there in manuscript.

Our philosopher upheld the expediency of making use of an evil instrument in an emergency, and said, ‘If I had fallen into a well, and the devil let down his leg, I would willingly lay hold of his cloven foot to haul myself up by.’ He amused himself by making his friends write provisional epitaphs for him, only one of which satisfied him,—‘This is the true philosopher’s stone.’ Hobbes continued studying and translating to the end of his life; but Pope considered his rendering of the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ ‘too mean for criticism.’ Although not very strong in youth, Hobbes enjoyed excellent health on gaining middle age. He was six feet high, of a fresh and ruddy complexion, yellowish moustache, which turned up naturally after the Cavalier fashion; with a tip, or ‘King Charles,’ under his lip, being otherwise close shaven. He did not affect to look severe, considering ‘heaviness of countenance no sign of God’s favour, and a cheerful, charitable, upright behaviour a better sign of religion than the zealous maintaining of controverted opinions.’ He had always a book of ‘Prick Songs’ lying on the table, and at night, when every one in the house was asleep, he would sing aloud,—not because he had a good voice, but for the benefit of his lungs. Thomas Hobbes appears to have been too much of a philosopher to have fallen at any time under the spell of beauty; at least we can find no mention in his _Memoirs_ of even a passing subjugation to female charms. Lord Clarendon speaks of him as ‘one of the most ancient acquaintance I have in the world, whom I have ever esteemed, not only for his eminent parts of learning, but as a man of probity, and one whose life has been free from scandal.’

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_No. 5._

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

_Dark dress, long flowing hair._

BORN 1618, DIED 1667.

BY MRS. BEALE.

THE posthumous son of a small London tradesman, his mother, although in straitened circumstances, resolved to give her boy the best education in her power; and she was rewarded by living to see him rise to eminence and distinction. Little Abraham one day, sitting in the window seat in his mother’s home, found a volume of Spenser’s _Faëry Queen_ lying there. He opened the book, and was soon absorbed in the contents, ‘sucking the sweet honey of those inspired lines.’ He read, and re-read, and, as Dr. Johnson tersely expresses it, became ‘irrecoverably a poet.’

His mother contrived to get him a nomination on the foundation at Westminster School, where he soon became remarkable for his powers of versification. At ten years old he wrote the _Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe_, and soon afterwards _Constantia and Philetus_, and before he was fifteen a volume of his poems was actually published. In 1636 he went to the University of Cambridge, where, without neglecting his studies, he continued his poetical pursuits, and wrote a play called _Love’s Riddle_, which he dedicated to Sir Kenelm Digby (the fashionable patron of the day), as also a Latin comedy, inscribed to the Master of his College. Cowley was expelled from Cambridge on account of his adherence to the King’s party, and took shelter at St. John’s College, Oxford. A satire which he wrote about this time, entitled _The Puritan and the Papist_, gained him the favour of the Royalists, and especially of Lord Falkland, who made him known and welcomed at Court. When Queen Henrietta Maria went to France, Cowley followed her fortunes, and, becoming Secretary to Lord Jermyn, was employed in correspondence of the most confidential nature, such as communications between the Royalists in England and those in France, and private letters between King Charles I. and his Queen. He was indefatigable in his labours, and would cipher and decipher far into the night, yet finding time for poetical compositions in the midst of such arduous work. He produced an amorous drama, entitled _The Mistress_, for he considered that no man was worthy of the name of poet till he had paid his tribute to Love.

In 1656 he went over on a mission to England, to inquire and report on the political state of affairs; but the Parliamentarians were on his track, and he was thrown into prison, and only set free on the payment of a considerable ransom, which was generously advanced by a friend. He became a Doctor of Medicine at Oxford, but does not appear to have practised in that capacity, though in the early days of the Royal Society, just founded at Oxford, and not yet translated to London, the poet figured as ‘Dr. Cowley.’ He made a pilgrimage to Kent, and in the fair fields of ‘England’s garden’ he studied botany, and gathered materials which led to the composition of several Latin poems treating of trees, herbs, and flowers, and their peculiar qualities.

Cowley was destined to great mortification and disappointment at the Restoration, being scarcely noticed by the King. It is supposed that a faction had been formed against him, by which his hopes of obtaining the Mastership of the Savoy, that had been promised him both by Charles II. and his father before him, were frustrated. The ill success of his comedy, _The Guardian_, when put upon the stage, was another source of mortification. There was a spiteful rumour set about, that the drama was intended as a satire on the Royalists, and the author was so discomfited, hearing of its failure, that Dryden said he did not receive the news with the calmness becoming so great a man. He wrote an Ode, in which he designated himself as the ‘melancholy Cowley,’ and this production brought down upon him a host of squibs and lampoons, on the dejected ‘Savoy-missing Cowley,’ and the like. Disgusted with the outer world, our poet languished for the retirement of a country life, and settled at Chertsey, in Surrey. His friends the Earls of Arlington and St. Albans (whom he had served when Lord Jermyn) procured him an office which brought in a certain salary, ‘but,’ says Johnson, ‘he did not live long to enjoy the pleasure, or suffer the weariness, of solitude.’

He died at Chertsey in 1667. He was the author of numerous works, which are little read at the present day, although the name of Abraham Cowley ranks high in literature. He was at the University with Milton, but the two poets differed as much in the quality of their writings as in the bias of their political views. The Duke of Buckingham, on hearing the news of Cowley’s death, said he had not left behind him as honest a man in England. He erected a monument to the poet’s memory in Westminster Abbey. We find in John Evelyn’s Diary: ‘I heard the sad news of the death of Abraham Cowley, that incomparable poet and virtuous man, Aug. 1667.—Went to Cowley’s funerall, whose corpse lay at Wallingford House, and was thence conveyed to Westminster Abbey in a hearse with six horses, and all decency. Neere a hundred coaches of noblemen and persons of qualitie following; among these all the witts of the towne, divers bishops and cleargymen. He was interred neere Geoffrey Chaucer and Spenser. A goodly monument is since erected to his memorie.’ Sir William Cowper was much attached to Cowley, and had his portrait painted especially for his own gallery.

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_No. 6._

JAMES NORTHCOTE, R.A.

_Dark dress. White hair._

BORN 1746, DIED 1831.

BY HIMSELF.

THE son of a watchmaker, he was born at Plymouth, and, like his illustrious fellow-townsman, showed an early enthusiasm for art, and a distaste for any other occupation. But his father was prudent, and bound his son apprentice to himself, allowing him no money, and discouraging in every possible manner the boy’s artistic tendencies. They were too strong to be repressed. Young James gave all his spare time to the study of drawing, and, having scraped together five guineas, he doubled the sum by the sale of a print of the new assembly rooms and bathing-place at Plymouth, from one of his own Indian ink sketches. Armed with this large fortune, he plotted a secret journey to London with his elder brother Samuel; his only confidants being Dr. Mudge and a Mr. Tolcher, both Plymouth men, and friends of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the newly-elected President of the Royal Academy, to whom they gave James letters of introduction. The brothers set forth on their pilgrimage one fine May morning, being Whit-Sunday; and the younger tells us that when they arrived on the hill and looked homewards, Samuel felt some regret—James nothing but satisfaction.

The travellers performed the whole of the journey on foot, with a rare lift on the top of a stage-coach; sleeping wherever they could: in small ale-houses, by the wayside, sometimes in haylofts, and even under hedgerows. The new President received the young aspirant with the greatest kindness, and installed him in his own house. Samuel Northcote soon returned home, but James wrote to a friend in Devonshire, in raptures with his new domicile. ‘The house,’ he says, ‘is to me a paradise; all the family behave with the greatest kindness, especially Sir Joshua’s two pupils. Miss Reynolds has promised to show me her paintings, for she paints very fine, both history and portraits. Sir Joshua is so much occupied that I seldom see him; but, when I find him at liberty, I will ask his advice for future guidance, and whether there will be any chance of my eventually gaining a subsistence in London, by portrait-painting.’ The master soon found out that his new pupil was earnest and industrious, and it was arranged that Northcote should remain in the President’s service for five years. The hall in which he worked was adjacent to his master’s sitting-room, and he was both amused and edified by overhearing the conversations of such men as Burke, Johnson, Garrick, etc. He worked diligently, copying Sir Joshua’s pictures, studying the human form—drapery, etc.,—persuading the housemaids to sit to him, and working as a student at the Academy. He tells an amusing incident of Reynolds’s favourite macaw, which had a violent hatred for one of the maid-servants in the house, whom Northcote had painted. It flew furiously at the portrait, pecking the face with its beak. We might be inclined to suspect the artist of inventing this implied compliment to his own handiwork, were we not also assured that Sir Joshua tried the experiment of putting the portrait in view of the bird, who invariably swooped down on the painted enemy. The maid’s crime, we believe, consisted in cleaning out the cage.

Northcote began to exhibit on his own account in 1774, and became eventually A.R.A. and R.A. Samuel Northcote met Sir Joshua on one of his visits to Plymouth, at the house of their common friend, Dr. Mudge, and writes to his brother to tell him the President had spoken of him in very satisfactory terms. When the five years’ apprenticeship was nearly over, Northcote took leave of his master. He gives rather a tedious account of the interview, in which he announced his determination, but ends the paragraph by saying ‘it was of course impossible to leave a house, where he had received so much kindness, without regret; it is a melancholy reflection, even at this moment, when one considers the ravages a few short years have made in that unparalleled society which shone at his table, now all gone.’

On leaving London, our painter went into Devonshire, made some money by his portraits, and then proceeded to Italy alone, ignorant, as he was, of one word of the language. He spent his time in copying the Italian masters, more especially the works of Titian; returned from Rome to England _via_ Flanders, and again had recourse to portrait-painting, first in his native county, and afterwards in London, where he settled. About this time the scheme for the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery was started, making a great sensation, and Northcote gained much κυδος for his contributions to that work, more especially ‘The Princes in the Tower,’ which furnished Chantry with the idea for his beautiful and touching monument in Lichfield Cathedral. Northcote took great delight in this work, as his bias had always led him to historical and fancy subjects. His sacred pictures were not much admired, and his plagiarism of Hogarth, which was a species of parody on the great works of that great man, gained him no popularity. An answer of his amused Sir Joshua much, on one occasion. When the President asked him how it chanced that the Prince of Wales so often mentioned him, ‘I was not aware you even knew him?’ ‘Well,’ replied James, ‘I know very little of him, or he of me; it is only his bragging way.’

His conversations were sufficiently esteemed to be recorded by Hazlitt, his friend and constant companion. By nature Northcote was intelligent, energetic, and industrious; he triumphed over the disadvantages of an imperfect education, and knew how to benefit by his opportunities. We have never read his Life of Sir Joshua, but by the numerous extracts which Leslie and Taylor give us, it would appear he was scarcely a worthy biographer of so great a man. He resided for nearly half a century in Argyll Street, London, his sister keeping his house, and died there in his eighty-sixth year, leaving a good fortune, the product of his labours.

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_No. 7._

SIR WILLIAM COWPER, FIRST BARONET.

_Black dress. White collar. Pointed beard. Moustaches._

BORN 1582, DIED 1664.

BY CORNELIUS JANSEN.

DESCENDED from Robert Cowper, who, in the reign of Henry V., in consideration of his good services, received the sum of _sixpence a day_ for life out of the King’s rents in the county of North Hants. William Cowper, in the reign of Henry VIII., married Margaret, daughter of Thomas Spencer, of St. Peter’s, Cornhill, and this lady’s maiden name has been perpetuated in the Cowper family to the present day.

Sir William, of whom we are treating, was grandson of the above, and eldest surviving son of John Cowper and Elizabeth Ironside of Lincoln, his wife, who had five sons and four daughters. William succeeded his father, and was seated at Ratling Court, in Kent. He was created a Baronet of Nova Scotia, afterwards of England, and subsequently knighted by King Charles I. at Theobalds. He was also appointed Collector of Imposts on strangers in the Port of London; and when the civil war began, being a zealous Royalist, he was imprisoned in Ely House, Holborn, together with his eldest son. But, says Collins, Sir William outlived all his troubles, and went to dwell at his castle at Hertford, where he gained the hearts of his neighbours by the cordiality of his manners and his generous hospitality, while his name was beloved in the country round for the Christian acts of charity and kindness in which he took delight. Neither was it the formal dispensation of alms alone, for Sir William loved to visit and comfort his poorer neighbours in their own dwellings. He married Martha, daughter of John Masters, of East Langdon, county Kent, and sister to Sir Edward Masters, Knight, by whom he had six sons and three daughters. Sir William was buried in the cloister of St. Michael’s, Cornhill, beside his parents, who lie there beneath ‘a goodly monument.’

Cornelius Jansen, who painted Sir William’s portrait, and that of his son John, was a well-known Flemish painter, who resided for many years in London, and afterwards in Kent, near Ratling Court, where many gentlemen in the neighbourhood sat to him.

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_No. 8._

JOHN COWPER.

_Black dress. White shirt. Long brown hair._

BY CORNELIUS JANSEN.

HE was the eldest son of Sir William Cowper, first Baronet, by the sister of Sir Edward Masters, Knight. He was entered at Lincoln’s Inn as a law student, and married Martha, daughter of John Hewkley of London, merchant, by whom he had one son, William, who succeeded his grandfather, and a daughter, who died young. John Cowper was a staunch Royalist, and shared his father’s captivity on that account. He died during his imprisonment. The following letter, addressed to him, in the year 1634, when on the point of starting for his travels, appears to us worthy of insertion, from the manliness and rectitude of its counsels, enhanced by the quaint diction which marked the period:—

_Feb. 25, 1634._—A remembrance to my Son, John Cowper, at his
going towards y^e Parts beyond y^e Seas.

You must remember how, that from your Birth to this day, I have
taken care for your Education. And you have hitherto been within
my Eye, and under Tutors, and Governours, and that now, You,
alone, Launch forth into y^e World by your Self, to be steered
and governed. Many Storms, and Rubbs, many fair and pleasing
Baits, shall you meet withal, Company most infectious and
dangerous, so that your Cheif Safety must be y^e Protection of
God Almighty, whom you must daily importune to direct your
wayes, as hitherto I doubt not but you have done, Else your
Carriage and course of Life had not been so commendable.

If this Golden time of your Youth be spent unprofitably, y^e
whole Harvest of your Life will be Weeds: if well husbanded, it
will yeild you a profitable return in y^e whole Course of your
Life.

The time you remain there I would have Spent as followeth,—

1. Dayly Praying to Almighty God for his Blessing on you.

2. To endeavour to attain y^e French and Italian Tongues.

3. To mend your Writing and learn Arithmetick.

As for Horsemanship, and other qualities of a Gentleman, a
smatch would doe well.

And having attained to knowledge, if you doe not alwayes
remember, both in discourse and Pashion, not to be transported
with hast, But to Think before What you intend to speak, and
then treatably to deliver it, with a distinct and Audable
Voice, all your labor and pains is Lost. For altho you have
indifferently well reformed it, yet it is Defective, and care
yet may Perfect you in your speech.

Your Loving Father, careful of your Good,
W. COWPER.

To my Son, John Cowper.

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_No. 9._

SIR WILLIAM COWPER, SECOND BARONET.

_Light brown coat. White cravat._

BY SIR PETER LELY.

THE son of John Cowper, by Martha Hewkley, succeeded to the baronetcy
and estates on the death of his grandfather, served in the last two
Parliaments of Charles II., as Member for Hertford; and, in 1680,
presented reasons (with many other Members of both Houses) for the
indictment of James, Duke of York, for not coming to church. After the
Revolution, he again sat for Hertford in three different Parliaments.
His wife was Sarah, daughter of Sir Samuel Holled, by whom he left two
sons,—William, first Earl Cowper, Lord Chancellor, and Spencer.

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_No. 10._

SPENCER COWPER.

_Tawny coat. Loose cravat._

DIED 1728.

HE was the second son of Sir William Cowper, second Baronet, by the
daughter of Sir Samuel Holled, consequently the brother of William,
afterwards the first Lord Cowper; and we have alluded, in the life of
the Chancellor, to the deep attachment which subsisted between these
two brothers. They were educated at the same school, selected the same
profession, and, when travelling the same Circuit, almost invariably
inhabited the same lodgings.

Sir William Cowper and his eldest son and namesake had both been
returned in 1695 for Hertford, after a sharp contest, for the Tory
element, though in the minority, was strong in that borough. Among the
most zealous of their supporters was one Stout, a Quaker by creed, a
maltster by trade; and he had been most instrumental in furthering the
election of father and son. At all events, so thought Sir William, who
did not discontinue his friendly relations with the widow and only
daughter of Samuel Stout after the good Quaker’s death. The two ladies
were frequently invited to Sir William’s London house in Hatton
Garden, and the visit occasionally returned at Mrs. Stout’s residence
in the town of Hertford. Moreover, Mistress Sarah, to whom her father
had left a good fortune, employed Spencer Cowper as her man of
business, and consulted him in all her financial concerns.
Unfortunately it soon became painfully evident to all concerned that
this beautiful, imaginative, and essentially excitable girl had formed
a deep attachment for the young lawyer, already the husband of another
woman.

‘But he, like an honest man,’ says Lord Macaulay, ‘took no advantage
of her unhappy state of mind.’ A frightful catastrophe, however, was
impending. On the 14th March 1699, the day after the opening of the
Spring Assizes, the town and neighbourhood of Hertford were thrown
into a state of excitement and consternation by the news that the body
of Sarah Stout had been found in the waters of the Priory river, which
flows through that town. Suspicion fell on Spencer Cowper, on the poor
plea that he was the last reported to have been in her company; but
his defence was so clear and satisfactory on the inquest, that a
verdict of suicide while in a state of temporary insanity was
recorded. William Cowper was not attending the Assizes, his
Parliamentary duties detaining him in London, but Spencer finished the
Circuit, in company with the judges, heavy-hearted indeed at the sad
fate of his pretty friend, but with no misgiving on his own account.
He little dreamed of the mischief which was hatching by the political
adversaries of the Cowper interest. A rumour was carefully promulgated
that Spencer had presumed on his intimacy with the fair Quaker, and
that Sarah had drowned herself to conceal her disgrace. But this
charge was proved to be unfounded. The next step taken by those who
wished to render the name of Cowper obnoxious in Hertford, was to
revive the cry of ‘Murder’ against Spencer, on the plea that the
position in which the body had been found precluded the possibility of
the girl having thrown herself into the water. Two ‘accomplices’ were
carefully ferreted out, in the persons of two attorneys, who had come
down to Hertford the day before the sad event; but these gentlemen
were left at large on bail, while the man, whose father and brother at
that moment represented Hertford, was thrown into prison for months,
to await the Summer Assizes.

The distress of his parents, and of the brother who dearly loved him,
may be well imagined, more especially as they were keenly alive to all
the adverse influences which were at work. When the eventful day of
the trial at length arrived, the town of Hertford—it might wellnigh be
said the whole of England,—was divided in favour of the Cowpers and
the Stouts; for so unwilling were the Quakers to let the imputation of
suicide rest on the memory of one of their members, that they most
earnestly desired to shift the blame on the young barrister, or, as he
afterwards said at his trial, to risk bringing three innocent men to
the gallows. We have good authority for affirming that the most
ignorant and densest of judges, Baron Hatsel by name, sat on the bench
that day, and that the prosecution was remarkable for the malignity
with which it was conducted. Their winning card, as they believed, was
the statement that the position in which the corpse had been found
floating, proved that the girl must have been murdered before she had
been thrown into the water. Medical evidence was brought forward by
the prosecution in support of this theory, as also that of two or
three sailors, who were put into the box. On the side of the defendant
appeared names which still live in medical annals,—William Cowper
(although no kinsman of his namesake), the most celebrated anatomist
then in England, and Samuel Garth, the great London physician and
rival of Hans Sloane. After what Macaulay terms ‘the superstitious
testimony of the forecastle,’ Baron Hatsel asked Dr. Garth what he
could say in reply. ‘My Lord,’ answered the physician drily, ‘I say
they are mistaken. I could find seamen in abundance who would swear
that they have known whistling raise the wind.’

This charge was disposed of; the body had drifted down to the
mill-dam, where it was discovered entangled and supported by stakes,
only a portion of the petticoat being visible. But the evidence of a
maid-servant of Mistress Stout produced great excitement in Court. She
told how the young barrister had arrived at the house of her mistress
the night before the poor girl’s death; of how he had dined with the
two ladies; how she had gone upstairs to prepare his bed, as he was
invited to sleep, leaving the young people together, her mistress
having retired early; how, when upstairs, she heard the house-door
slam, and, going down to the parlour, found it empty. At first she was
not alarmed, thinking Mistress Sarah had gone out for a stroll with
Mr. Cowper, and would soon be back; but as time went on, she became
very uneasy, and went and told her mistress. The two women sat up all
night watching and listening, but had not liked to take any further
steps, out of regard for Sarah’s reputation. They never saw her again
till she was brought up from the river drowned. Then followed the
ridiculous investigation of Cowper’s ‘accomplices,’ as they were
termed—two attorneys and a scrivener, who had come down from London
under very suspicious circumstances, _i.e._ to attend the Assizes; how
they were all in a room together shortly after eleven o’clock, very
wet, and in a great perspiration, and had been overheard to say,
‘Mistress Stout had behaved ill to her lover, but her courting days
would soon be over,’ to which communication was added the astounding
fact, that a piece of rope had been found in a cupboard adjoining the
sitting-room.