Chapter C (4)

He had great capacity for business, a fair and gentle temper, having
all the patience and softness, as well as the justice and equity,
becoming a great magistrate. He had always agreed in his notions with
the Whigs, and had striven to bring them to better thoughts of the
King, and greater confidence in him. During the seven years he
presided in the Court of Chancery he won golden opinions, having most
important judicial duties to perform, and acting on several occasions
as Lord Steward in State trials. A close friendship now existed
between the King and Sommers, but the latter knew how to uphold
both his personal and official dignity, which he proved in a most
remarkable manner at the beginning of this reign, in a passage of arms
that occurred between his Royal master and himself. During the time
that the Seal was in commission, his Majesty had exercised unlimited
judicial patronage, and conceived the idea of continuing to do so,
unquestioned. He was on the eve of embarking for Flanders at the time
of Sommers’s appointment, and he sent Lord Nottingham to the new
Minister, with orders to make out patents for the Chief Baron of the
Exchequer, the Chief-Justice of Chester, and for the Attorney-General.
This cavalier manner of proceeding did not suit Sir John
Sommers, and as the King was still detained at Harwich, waiting
for favourable winds, he wrote a respectful but resolute letter to his
Majesty on the subject, pointing out, in clear, distinct terms, that,
under the conditions imposed on him, he must tender his
resignation—_Anglicè_, he would not accept a post shorn of all
judicial patronage. The King responded nobly to this straightforward
appeal, declined the resignation, paid the Lord Keeper the highest
tribute as to ability and fitness for the great office, announced his
intention of non-interference for the future, but ended by the hope
that Sommers would take the names of the candidates already
mentioned into consideration.

In fact, this short misunderstanding increased and cemented the
cordiality between King and Minister. The three men William had named
were continued, but the office of Attorney-General soon after falling
vacant, was filled up by a nominee of Sommers’s own selection.
Although he declined the offer of a Peerage, he sat in the House of
Lords as Speaker, and exercised a weighty influence over William’s
opinions. On the subject of ‘unlicensed printing,’ the liberal King
and the liberal Minister were agreed, and the Bill was passed by
which, says Macaulay, ‘English literature was emancipated for ever.’

It was strange how little excitement was caused by so great an event.
Neither Evelyn nor Luttrell allude to it in their Diaries, and the
Dutch Minister forgot to mention it in his despatches.

However, from this time forth, the liberty of the Press was assured;
and ‘now we have only to be watchful,’ Lord Campbell sapiently
remarks, ‘lest the Press itself be not turned into an engine of
tyranny.’

In 1690 Queen Mary was attacked with small-pox, and to the
inexpressible grief of her husband, shared by the greater part of the
nation, she died after a very short illness. Friendly messages had
been exchanged between her and her sister, but Mary’s state was too
critical to allow of her being exposed to the excitement of an
interview. When the last scene was over, and the last duties paid to
the beloved Queen and consort, the attempt at reconciling the Princess
of Denmark and her brother-in-law was renewed, and Lord Sunderland,
the Duke of Marlborough, and Sir John Sommers, joined to promote
the wished-for result. Anne had been persuaded to write to the King,
who, stunned by grief, showed little inclination to respond to her
advances. Sommers therefore, bent on carrying out his object,
made his way into the Royal presence at Kensington, where he found
William absorbed in speechless grief. He waited for some time in
respectful sympathy, hoping that the King would break the painful
silence, but was at length compelled to take the initiative.

With the gentle delicacy that characterised him, the Lord Keeper
broached the subject, pointing out how essential it was, on public as
well as private grounds, that the enmity between his Majesty and his
wife’s sister should cease. ‘Do as you will,’ replied the unhappy
widower, ‘I can think of no business.’ An interview was accordingly
arranged. Anne was graciously received, apartments assigned her in St.
James’s Palace, and due honour paid her as heir-presumptive to the
Crown. William once more pressed a Peerage on Sir John (through his
friend, now Duke of Shrewsbury), but it was again declined. He was
placed virtually at the head of the Regency (the Archbishop of
Canterbury presiding only in name), when the King again left England
for a foreign campaign.

He took a prominent part in the great measure for the reformation of
the coinage, and drew up and strongly advocated a plan by which
clipping money could be prevented; but this was not carried into
effect. Lord Macaulay praises him highly for the appointments he made
of such eminent men as Sir Isaac Newton and John Locke, for the
respective posts of Warden of the Mint and a Lordship of Trade.

In 1697 Sir John resigned the Seals, only to have them returned to
him, with the title of Lord Chancellor and Baron Sommers of
Evesham, county Worcester, as also grants of the manors of Reigate and
Howleigh in Surrey, with a yearly income to enable him to keep up the
same. On the retirement of Lord Godolphin, the Ministry became wholly
Whig,—Montagu, Russell, Sommers, and Wharton forming ‘the
Junto.’ In the same year the Peace of Ryswick was signed, by which
France made great concessions, and acknowledged William as King of
England, and Anne as his successor, a circumstance which gave rise to
much rejoicing. But serious differences took place between the King
and his Parliament, which required the disbanding of the troops that
had done such good service in foreign campaigns. The most stormy
discussions ensued, and the press, in all the wild ardour of recent
emancipation, thundered with controversy. To Lord Sommers was
attributed (indeed Macaulay speaks of the authorship as a certainty) a
treatise, called ‘The Balancing Letter,’ which made a great noise at
the time, weighing, as it did, the arguments for and against the
momentous question, but undoubtedly leaning towards the advisability
of maintaining a small standing army. In spite of William’s vehement
opposition, he found himself compelled to ship off his beloved Dutch
Guards, and to diminish the English forces.

Until this time the life of John Sommers had been uninterrupted
in its prosperity and advancement; but a change in his fortunes was
now impending. Henceforward he had both public and private trials to
encounter, added to which, his health had become much impaired. In
July 1698, Parliament being dissolved, and the King gone to Holland,
Lord Sommers gladly availed himself of the opportunity to
recruit his bodily powers, by drinking the waters in the pleasant
retirement of Tunbridge Wells. The question of the Spanish succession
(Charles II., king of that country, being at the time in a dying
state) belongs rather to the political history of Europe than to the
biography of an individual, yet Lord Sommers was so intimately
connected with the so-called ‘Tradition Treaties,’ that we cannot
altogether keep silence on the matter. Before the King’s departure for
Holland, William had already consulted Sommers on the subject,
and, on arriving at the Loo, he wrote, authorising him to consult with
any of his colleagues, on whose discretion and secrecy he could rely,
and asking for opinions on the arrangement proposed, which his Majesty
detailed at full length. Now such a treaty could not be concluded
without the appendage of the Great Seal and the signature of one
Secretary of State. The Lord Chancellor was therefore directed to send
full powers to the Loo, sealed, but with blanks left for the names of
the Plenipotentiaries; and it was strongly urged that the clerks whose
duty it was to draw up the documents should be kept in profound
ignorance of the subject, and the importance of the work they were
performing. The Royal missive found ‘Sommers at a distance from
his political friends, his delicate frame enfeebled by the labours and
vigils of many months, and his aching head giddy with the first
draughts of the chalybeate spring.’ But he lost no time, and
communicated promptly with all the leading statesmen, who agreed with
the King in wishing to see the question of the Spanish succession
settled without delay. Sommers, however, delicately hinted to
his master that he and his colleagues had misgivings on many points of
the treaty, although the Royal wishes had been complied with.

The powers were sent off, the enjoined secrecy observed, the blanks
left for the names of two Commissioners, who, the Lord Chancellor
suggested, should be English, either by birth or naturalisation, and
consequently responsible to Parliament.

A second Partition Treaty was shortly afterwards drawn up and signed,
with fresh clauses and allotments to the different European powers,
with the same secrecy; and when the terms of these treaties became
known in England, a great outcry was raised against the Whigs, and
strenuous efforts made to overthrow the Administration. The Lord
Chancellor, in particular, became the mark for attacks of different
kinds, such as his misconduct in the appointment and dismissal of
magistrates, while a novel charge for the dignitary of the Woolsack
was adduced against John Lord Sommers, namely that of piracy on
the high seas,—not in person, indeed, but by proxy. Thus it came
about: he, in common with other Ministers, had subscribed a sum of
several hundreds towards the fitting out of a ship called _The
Adventure Galley_, for the purpose of ridding the Indian seas of
pirates. The command was given to Captain William Kid, a naval
officer, who had hitherto borne a high character for honour as well as
courage.

As may easily be believed, Lord Sommers knew nothing of the
matter further than that he thought it became the post he occupied to
assist in such a public service; and a grant was made to all the
undertakers of the scheme that they should become possessed of any
booty taken from the pirates by their ship. Captain Kid was armed with
full powers to sink, burn, and destroy the pirates, but on breathing
the air of the buccaneering seas, he turned pirate himself, and became
a dangerous foe to honest traders of all nations, till, after a sharp
encounter with an English frigate, he was taken, and brought home in
irons. A motion was now brought forward by his (Sommers’s)
political adversaries, that the Lord Chancellor should be made
responsible for all the outrages committed by Kid, with whom, they
affirmed, he had intended to go shares for the purpose of swelling his
own coffers,—‘Such black constructions,’ says Burnet, ‘are men apt to
put on the actions of those whom they intend to disgrace.’ The charge,
being preposterous, was rejected by a large majority.

A Bill was now brought in to resume the Irish forfeited estates, which
the King had bestowed on his Dutch favourites, and Lord Sommers
incurred both the Royal displeasure and that of the Opposition in
Parliament for his absence during the debates, although he pleaded the
excuse of bad health. William expected assistance from the Chancellor
in opposing this measure, but the public opinion was so strong that
Sommers did not consider it advisable to support his Majesty.
His enemies had now become persistent in their attacks; and a motion
was made in the House of Commons to the effect that ‘the King should
be advised to remove the present Lord Chancellor from his councils for
ever,’ in common with other leading Ministers.

He had been absent from his duties for some time, in consequence of
failing health, in spite of which the Opposition did all in their
power to induce him to coalesce in the formation of a new Government;
and in answering the overtures made him by Lord Sunderland,
Sommers replied that he considered such a step would be
inconsistent with honour.

The refusal naturally increased the bitterness of his adversaries, and
Harley especially, who rose in arms against him.

William, with all his predilection for the Chancellor, was at length
persuaded of the expediency of removing him, and Lord Sommers
received a hint to that effect, ‘which determined him to wait on his
Majesty at Kensington, in order to know his real mind.’ The King told
him plainly that the time had come when it was necessary for the Seals
to pass into other hands, at the same time expressing a wish that
Sommers himself would resign.

The Chancellor begged his Majesty’s pardon for following the advice of
numerous friends, who had warned him against such a step, which would
be ascribed to guilt or fear; adding that he well knew the designs of
his enemies; that the Great Seal was his greatest crime, and if
permitted to keep it, in spite of their malice, he would do so, being
well aware what a bad use they would make of it. He had no fear of
them, but he would be firm to his friends, with more in that style;
but the King only shook his head, and said, ‘It must be so.’ And thus
was Lord Sommers discharged from the great office which he had
held for so many years, ‘with the highest reputation for capacity,
integrity, and diligence.’

Strangely enough, this ever-coveted post was offered to and refused by
several men ‘high in the law,’ possibly from the fear of comparison
with such an illustrious predecessor. The Seals were at length
delivered to Sir Nathan Wright, ‘in whom,’ says Burnet, ‘there was
nothing equal to the post, much less to the man who had lately filled
it.’

Wright represented a dark shadow between two such shining lights as
Sommers and Cowper.

After a short residence at Tunbridge Wells for the benefit of the
waters, the ex-Chancellor retired to his villa, and, resuming his
literary pursuits, strove to forget all the mortification and
humiliation to which he had lately been exposed. Louis XIV., breaking
through the conditions imposed by the Tradition Treaty, took advantage
of a will made by the Spanish king on his deathbed, in which the
imbecile Charles had been made to bequeath his dominions to the French
king’s grandson, Philip of Anjou; and the young prince was despatched
to Madrid with a splendid and exulting Court. A violent outcry ensued
in England against the Whigs, and Lord Sommers in particular, to
whom this public catastrophe was in a great measure attributed.
Parliament was dissolved, and on the reassembling of the new House,
the Commons proposed to impeach the ex-Chancellor for the part he had
taken in concluding these treaties, and for other high crimes and
misdemeanours. Prior thus alludes to the circumstance in writing to
the Duke of Manchester: ‘I congratulate you on being out of this noise
and tumult, where we are tearing and destroying every man his
neighbour. To-morrow is the great day, when we expect my Lord
Chancellor to be fallen upon, though God knows of what crime he is
guilty, but that of being a great man and an upright judge.’
Sommers begged to be heard in his own defence, and his demeanour
was so dignified, and his explanation so clear, as to enlist many
members on his side, notably Robert Walpole, a young senator,
afterwards Prime Minister, who took the warmest interest in Lord
Sommers’s cause, and voted in his behalf. Notwithstanding, the
motion for the impeachment (with that of four other noblemen) was
carried in the House of Commons—a measure which caused tremendous
indignation in the Upper House, ‘at the infringement of their
privileges;’ while the King’s reply to the Lower House conveyed a
rebuke (though couched in mild terms) for the irregularity of their
proceedings. In spite of King and Peers the impeachment commenced, and
fourteen articles were exhibited against Lord Sommers. The six
first concerned his share in carrying out the Partition Treaties; the
next five accused him of passing illegal grants of Crown property in
his own favour; the thirteenth, of giving a commission to William Kid,
pirate; ‘while the last,’ says Lord Campbell, ‘was a frivolous charge
of judicial delinquency.’

A violent altercation now took place between the two Houses of
Parliament regarding the time and manner of the trial, the Whig
element at that time being paramount among the Lords, while the Tories
preponderated in the Commons. So it came to pass, when the Peers were
seated in great state in Westminster Hall, and Lord Sommers
placed within the bar, the Commons were summoned to make good their
indictment, but in vain. A long pause ensued, but not one member
appeared, and after another solemn procession to and from their own
House, their Lordships decided the question by themselves.

John Lord Sommers was acquitted by a majority of his peers, and
the impeachment dismissed. ‘The following comparison between his
demeanour and that of a former Chancellor, Lord Verulam, on a similar
occasion, is thus drawn by Joseph Addison: ‘The conduct of these
extraordinary persons under the same circumstances was vastly
different. One, as he had given just occasion for his impeachment,
sank under it, and was reduced to such abject submission as diminished
the lustre of so exalted a character. But Lord Sommers was too
well fortified in his integrity to fear the impotence of an attack on
his reputation, and though his accusers would gladly have dropped
their impeachment, he was instant for the prosecution, and would not
let the matter rest till it was brought to an issue.’

The two Houses fell to fighting once more, and fierce and bitter
hatred was fostered by the late proceedings. The Duke of Shrewsbury,
Sommers’s early and faithful friend, alluding to these
squabbles, thus writes to him from Rome: ‘I cannot help referring to
my old opinion, and wonder that a man can be found in England, who has
bread, that will be concerned in public business. Had I a son I would
sooner breed him a cobbler than a courtier, and a hangman than a
statesman.’

In 1701 James II. died, and Louis XIV. astonished Europe in general,
and England in particular, by recognising the Pretender as King of
England,—a step which even incensed the Jacobites, jealous of foreign
interference, and set the Whig party in a flame. A reaction now took
place in favour of the latter faction: the King dismissed his Tory
Ministers, and it was confidently believed that in the formation of a
new Cabinet Lord Sommers would resume office. But William’s days
were numbered. His health had long been a source of anxiety to his
friends and the nation at large, when a fatal accident hurried the
crisis. He had not yet relinquished his favourite exercise of riding,
and even occasionally hunted, but neither his seat nor his hand was
what it had been. Riding one day through his favourite haunt of the
Home Park at Hampton Court, mounted on ‘Grey Sorrel,’ the horse,
having just broken into a gentle canter, stumbled at a molehill, and
fell on his knees, throwing his rider, who broke his collar-bone, and
otherwise injured himself. The bone was set; William proceeded in his
coach to Kensington, but he never rallied. ‘His last days,’ says his
enthusiastic admirer Macaulay, ‘were worthy of his life.’ He
transacted business calmly, took an affectionate leave of his friends,
joined in prayer with the two Bishops who attended him, and breathed
his last. Round his neck was found, suspended to a black riband, the
locket which contained the hair of his beloved wife.

In William III. Lord Sommers lost a sincere and admiring friend,
and far different was the treatment he met with from the new
Sovereign. In a combined Ministry of Whigs and Tories, not only had he
no post assigned him, but he was not allowed to renew the oaths of a
Privy Councillor. His name was struck out of the Commission of the
Peace in every county in England, and it was intimated to him that her
Majesty would not admit him to the Royal presence. Anne condescended
to the mean spite of suspending the pension granted to Addison, whose
only crime was that Lord Sommers esteemed and protected him.
Such petty conduct on the part of the Queen called forth no reprisals
from the man who had his country’s welfare at heart. Finding that
Godolphin and Marlborough considered it expedient to adopt the home
and foreign policy which he advocated, Sommers gave his support
to the Government, and was a diligent attendant in the House of Lords.
Indeed, he now divided his time between his Parliamentary duties and
the enjoyment of literary and scientific pursuits. President of the
Royal Society, he continued his friendship with Addison, and exerted
himself unwearyingly in his behalf. Although an ex-Minister, and
slighted by the Court, he still carried great weight in public
measures, especially in the famous case of the Aylesbury election
trial. This was an action brought against the returning officer by a
man who accused him of not recording his vote, and the case coming by
appeal before the Lords, the Commons declared it a breach of
privilege. The warfare between the two Houses was now resumed, and
waged for some time as fiercely as that between France and England. In
1706 Lord Sommers was most instrumental in negotiating the Union
with Scotland, as, in the fluctuating state of parties, the constant
coalitions and mosaic Governments which were formed, his great talents
were generally recognised in an emergency. The death of Prince George
of Denmark in 1708 brought about further changes, and the presidency
of the Council becoming vacant, Lord Sommers succeeded to the
post. The appointment gave general satisfaction, for, says Burnet, ‘it
was expected that propositions for a general peace would shortly be
made, and so they reckoned that the management of that upon which not
only the safety of the nation, but all Europe, depended, would be in
sure hands. Sommers was a man of inflexible integrity, on whom
neither ill practices nor false colours were like to make any
impression.’

He remained President of the Council until the famous trial of Dr.
Sacheverell. Impeached by the Whigs for preaching against them and the
Government, Sacheverell escaped with a light sentence, but the
proceedings were followed by the downfall of the Administration, which
was replaced by one composed entirely of Tories,—Harley, St. John,
etc.

When the news of the Queen’s dangerous illness became known,
Sommers put himself into communication with the Elector of
Hanover, but the curious scene which took place at the last Privy
Council held in this reign is given in our notice of Lord Chancellor
Cowper, between whom and Lord Sommers a warm friendship had long
existed. On the morning of Sunday, the 1st of August 1714, Queen Anne
expired, and a meeting of the Lords Justices was immediately held.
Lord Sommers was not present, on account of his infirm health,
but he attended the Privy Council, and took the oaths of allegiance to
George I. On the arrival of that monarch in England, and the
reinstatement of the Whigs in office, Sommers would inevitably
have joined the Ministry in his former capacity of Chancellor, but his
increasing indisposition determined him to decline any public post,
even the comparatively light duties of President of the Council having
become irksome to him; but he promised to attend the meetings of the
Privy Council as often as it was possible for him to do so, and he
received an additional pension as a mark of public gratitude. He made
a point of being present at the first council, which was held in
George I.’s reign, but his infirmities gained upon him, and a
paralytic affection incapacitated him from the exertion consequent on
public business. He became torpid and inactive in mind and body; when
a sudden fit of the gout roused him for a time from his lethargy. This
happened at the moment that the Septennial Bill, a measure in which he
had always taken the deepest interest, was pending. His mind
brightened up, his intellect was re-sharpened, and he took to
conversing with his well-named physician, Dr. Friend, on passing
affairs, with all the clearness and vigour of former times. The good
doctor hurried off with the good news to Lord Townshend, one of the
chief promoters of the Bill, who instantly flew to his ancient
colleague to consult him on the subject. On entering the room, the
dying statesman embraced his old friend, cordially congratulated him
on the work in which he was employed (having, he said, never approved
of the Triennial Bill), and ended by assuring him of ‘my hearty
approbation in the business, for I believe it will be the greatest
support possible to the liberty of the country.’

When the gout subsided, Lord Sommers fell back into a state of
torpor and helplessness, from which he was released by death on the
26th of April 1716, the very day the Bill in question was passed. He
died of apoplexy at his villa in Hertfordshire, and was buried in the
parish church of North Mymms, where a plain monument bears this modest
inscription:—

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN LORD SOMMERS,
BARON OF EVESHAM,
LORD CHANCELLOR OF ENGLAND IN THE REIGN OF
WILLIAM THE THIRD,
TO WHOSE MEMORY THIS MONUMENT WAS ERECTED BY
DAME ELIZABETH JEKYLL.

The sister who loved and admired him so ardently felt doubtless that
eulogium would be misplaced, and that all who read the name would
recall the virtues, talents, and patriotism of her noble-hearted
brother. Lord John Russell does him ample justice when he says,
‘Sommers is a bright example of a statesman who could live in
times of revolution without rancour, who could hold the highest posts
in a Court without meanness, who could unite mildness and charity to
his opponents with the firmest attachment to the great principles of
liberty, civil and religious, which he had early espoused, long
promoted, and never abandoned;’ while Mackintosh says, ‘Sommers
seems to have nearly realised the perfect model of a wise statesman in
a free community.’ Notwithstanding the accumulation of professional
and public business which fell to his share, from the day he arrived
in London, he not only found time (as we have observed before) for
literary studies and compositions, but for indulging in the society
and correspondence of distinguished men of letters—foreigners as well
as English. He held the poet Vincenzo Filicaja in high estimation,
which was indeed reciprocal, as a Latin ode written in honour of ‘My
Lord Giovanni Sommers, Cancelliere di Gran Brettagna,’
testifies.

Steele, Prior, and Congreve were among his associates. Newton, Locke,
Addison, and Swift were marked out by him for preferment. He was a
noble patron, and rewarded merit wherever he found it, and had it in
his power. Lord Sommers was an exemplary son, and his mother
(who survived her husband many years) had the satisfaction of seeing
‘little Johnnie’ rise to the highest honours of the State. Addison
vouches for the religious faith of his benefactor, and tells us how
unremitting he was in the performance of his devotional services, both
in public and in his own family. Sommers never married, although
in early life he wooed and won the affections of one Mistress Rawdon,
the daughter of a rich Alderman, who broke off the match on the plea
of the insufficiency of marriage settlements. We feel an inward
conviction that in later days Sir John Rawdon must have repented his
arbitrary decision. The title became extinct at Lord Sommers’s
death, his property being shared by his two sisters, of whom the elder
married Charles Cocks, Esquire of Castleditch, and the younger Sir
John Jekyll, Master of the Rolls, an early friend and fellow-lawyer of
her brother. From Mrs. Cocks descended the late Earl Sommers, to
whom the present imperfect sketch of his ancestor was submitted in
manuscript, but who has not, alas! lived to read it in the completed
form.

He was indeed a worthy descendant of a great man, and by his death
society at large, and a band of admiring and loving friends, have
sustained an irreparable loss; while on the domestic hearth that light
has been quenched which shed so radiant a glow on all those who
clustered fondly round it. A scholar, an artist, a traveller, a
linguist, the versatility of his information could only be equalled by
the graceful refinement of his wit and the tenderness of his sympathy.
He was one of those rarely gifted men, on whom the mantle of moral and
intellectual qualities sit so easily, that in his genial company no
feeling of inferiority was imposed on others. On the contrary—as the
writer of these lines can testify, from grateful experience,—those who
had the privilege of conversing with him partook for the moment, in
some slight degree, of the brightness and intelligence of his rich
nature.

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

_No. 6._

FIELD-MARSHAL HENRY DE NASSAU, LORD OF AUVERQUERQUE.

_In armour, holding a truncheon. Wig. Table in the background._

DIED OF HIS WOUNDS 1708.

BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

HE was the third son of Lewis de Nassau, Lord of Leek, Odyke,
Auverquerque, and Beverwaart, by Elizabeth, daughter of the Count de
Horn. He formed part of William of Orange’s suite when that Prince
came over to England in 1670, and on the occasion of a visit to
Oxford, De Nassau had the degree of D.C.L. conferred upon him. In the
campaigns which ensued in Flanders, he was brother-in-arms to his
cousin and Royal master, and gained general approbation for his
courage and patriotism. When William III. ascended the throne of
England, Auverquerque was appointed Master of the Horse, and allowed
to retain his post of Captain of the Dutch Guards who had come over to
this country. He was also naturalised by Act of Parliament. Macaulay
speaks of this ‘gallant soldier as uniting the blood of Nassau with
that of Horn. He wore with just pride a costly sword, presented to him
by the States-General, for having, on the bloody day of St. Denis,
saved the life of William of Orange by interposing himself between his
Highness and a French soldier, whom he killed on the spot.’
Auverquerque likewise received a brace of pistols, richly mounted in
gold, and a pair of horse-buckles of the same precious metal.

In 1690 he was with the army that embarked for Ireland, headed by the
King in person; fought with his Royal master at the battle of the
Boyne, and was afterwards sent to Dublin (hastily evacuated by James
II. and his adherents) to take possession of the city and keep the
peace. He was also with William at the unsuccessful siege of Limerick,
and subsequently served with great distinction in the campaigns in
Flanders against the French.

But it was at the battle of Steinkirk, in 1692, that Auverquerque
immortalised himself by his gallantry. The French army, commanded by
the brave and eccentric Duke of Luxembourg, was encamped at Steinkirk,
six miles from the King of England’s headquarters. Luxembourg was one
of the most extraordinary compounds of physical and moral
incongruities. Macaulay describes him as a valetudinarian and a
voluptuary, whose camp was of the most luxurious, who usually selected
his quarters with a view to his culinary department, and whose
thoughts were almost as much taken up with his _batterie de cuisine_
as with his batteries in the field,—a little ugly hump-backed gnome,
who was accredited with powers of witchcraft, and had the spirit of a
lion. On his camp William made a night surprise, but Luxembourg was
one of those spirits who, in the literal meaning of the word, cannot
be surprised. He was the king of emergencies; ‘his mind’—we again
borrow the language of Macaulay—‘nay, even his sickly and distorted
body, seemed to derive health and vigour from disaster and dismay.’

In his army were the flower of the French chivalry. The noble
historian, whom we are never tired of quoting, describes the
appearance of the young Princes of the blood-royal of France,—‘brave
not only in valour, but in the splendour of their brilliant uniforms,
hastily donned and half fastened.’ They had orders to charge the
English: ‘No firing was the word; sword in hand, do it with cold
steel.’

In the order of battle, the division which was to lead the van was
that of General Mackay (the brave soldier who had done such good
service in Scotland, Ireland, and elsewhere). They first encountered
the Swiss, and drove them back with fearful slaughter, after so close
a fight that the muzzles of the muskets crossed.

But the English were borne down, after a noble resistance, by the
French troopers. They never ceased to repeat that, if Count Solmes,
who commanded them, had done his duty, they would have been
successful; but he forbade his infantry to stir; he would not send
them, he said, to be slaughtered. The Duke of Ormonde wished to
advance to the assistance of his countrymen, but was not permitted to
do so.

Mackay sent to say if he were not reinforced, his men were doomed to
destruction. It was of no avail; ‘God’s will be done,’ said the brave
veteran with his latest breath, and ‘he died as he had lived, a good
Christian.’ Five regiments were entirely cut to pieces. It was at this
juncture that Auverquerque came to the rescue with two fresh
battalions, and the splendid manner in which he brought off the
remains of Mackay’s division was long remembered and gratefully
acknowledged by the English. In the debates which ensued in the House
of Commons, when the events of the war by land and sea were discussed,
there was much difference of opinion, and the question of the
disadvantages of English troops being commanded by aliens was mooted.
The conduct of Solmes was almost universally reprehended. Four or five
of the colonels, who had been present at Steinkirk, took part in the
debate, and, amid many warring opinions, full justice was done to the
valour and conduct of Auverquerque.

On the other hand, the exultation of the French over this dashing
victory was unspeakable; and it was commemorated by the votaries of
fashion in all sorts of ‘modes _à la Steinkirk_,’ the most captivating
of which, we are told, was the loosely arranged and scarcely knotted
cravats of white lace, worn round the fair necks of Parisian beauties,
in imitation of the hasty toilettes of the young princes and nobles of
the King’s household troops.

In Macaulay’s pathetic account of the last days of William III., he
tells us ‘there were in the crowd surrounding the Monarch’s dying bed
those who felt as no Englishman could feel, friends of his youth, who
had been true to him, and to whom he had been true, through all
vicissitudes of fortune, who had served him with unalterable fidelity
(when his Secretaries of State, of his Treasury, and his Admiralty had
betrayed him), who had never on any field of battle, or in an
atmosphere tainted with loathsome and deadly disease, shrunk from
placing their own lives in jeopardy to save his, and whose truth he
had, at the cost of his own popularity, rewarded with bounteous
munificence.’

Amid the group of his countrymen, the nearest to him was Auverquerque,
to whom he stretched out a feeble hand, thanking him for the
affectionate and loyal service of thirty years.

After the King’s death Auverquerque felt no inclination to remain in
England, but returned to his native land, and once more engaged in the
war which was still waging against France; and the States-General, in
acknowledgment of his services, bestowed on him the highest military
honours, by making him Field-Marshal of the whole army. He closed his
noble career by dying (as he had always desired) on the field. The
gallant Marshal had for some time suffered from bad health, which he
never allowed to interfere with his duties. He died in the camp at
Rouselaer, on the 17th day of October 1708, after the battle of Lille.
Collins gives a detailed account of the funeral, with more than common
military honours, even for an officer of such exalted rank. The
funeral car was escorted by squadrons of life guards, horse guards,
and dragoons, the colours of the regiments, as well as the men, being
in mourning, two battalions of foot guards, with arms reversed, etc.
The body was followed for a quarter of a league by a band of mourners,
consisting of the Marshal’s sons and most of the generals, headed by
the Duke of Marlborough. The troops were then drawn up, and saluted,
after which there was a triple discharge of cannon; the generals
returned to the camp, and the melancholy cortége passed on towards the
place of interment at Auverquerque.

The Marshal married Isabella van Arsens, daughter of Cornelius, Lord
of Sommerdyke and Placata (who survived him), by whom he had five sons
and two daughters. The eldest surviving son, Henry, was made an
English peer in 1698, by the title of Earl of Grantham, Viscount
Boston, and Baron Alford. He had to wife his cousin, Lady Henrietta
Butler, daughter of the celebrated Earl of Ossory (son to the first
Duke of Ormonde), by whom he had two sons and three daughters. The
youngest, Lady Henrietta Auverquerque, married William, third Earl
Cowper, and through this union the present noble owner of Panshanger
boasts a lineal descent from the hero, William the Silent, and
Maurice, Princes of Orange, whose portraits Lady Henrietta brought
into the Cowper family, together with the splendid Vandyck of John of
Nassau—purchased by Lord Grantham at the Hague, in 1741, for the sum
of 5000 florins, from the Van Swieten collection,—also several other
Dutch pictures, which may be found in this Gallery. From the aforesaid
lady the present Lord Cowper derives his title of Dingwall, though
only called out of abeyance so recently as 1880.

Lord Albemarle, in his delightful volume entitled _Fifty Years of My
Life_, speaks in the highest terms of the valour and generalship of
Field-Marshal d’Auverquerque, and says the history of the War of
Succession best attests his merits as General, and the Marlborough
despatches best show the estimation in which he was held by that
consummate commander. The titles of Earl Grantham and Baron Alford
were bestowed upon him for his services, but he never assumed these
honours.

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_No. 7._

ADMIRAL CORNELIUS VAN TROMP.

_In a leather jerkin. Holding a truncheon. The other arm akimbo.
Ship blowing up in the background._

BORN 1629, DIED 1691.

BY SIR PETER LELY.

A NATIVE of Rotterdam, the son of Martin Van Tromp, who, at the age of
eleven years, stood by his father when he was shot down in action, the
boy crying wildly to his messmates, ‘Comrades, will you not revenge my
father’s death?’

Martin’s father before him had also been killed on the deck of his own
vessel, in an engagement with the English, and Cornelius proved
himself worthy of his brave progenitors. At the age of twenty-one he
had attained the rank of post-captain, and was employed against the
Emperor of Morocco, whom he compelled to make advantageous terms with
the Dutch. In 1652 he fought the English at Porto Longone, and
captured one of their finest vessels, the _Sampson_, which he boarded,
his own ship being disabled; but, to the great mortification of Van
Tromp, the _Sampson_ was recaptured by the enemy. The following year,
in a fresh encounter with the English, he made a violent effort to
regain possession of his former prize, but the _Sampson_ was blown up.
The Dutch were victorious on this occasion, but they lost their
Admiral, and Van Tromp was promoted to the vacant post. In 1656, in
connection with Oldham and De Ruyter, he distinguished himself on the
high seas, and then retired for a while from public life, and did not
go afloat till 1662, when he fought the Algerine pirates in the
Mediterranean. He also performed an arduous task in convoying several
richly freighted Dutch merchantmen from the East Indies safely into
port, in spite of numerous enemies who were on the look-out for such
valuable prizes. Van Tromp was constantly opposed to the English, and
in one engagement he gained universal praise for the manner in which
he defended his disabled and shattered ship, when the Dutch were
defeated, and sad havoc made in their fleet. New ships had to be
constructed in all haste, and the States-General were placed in a
dilemma as to the appointment of the command of the naval forces.
Popular De Ruyter was absent, battling with other foes, and although
Van Tromp’s knowledge and skill were almost universally acknowledged,
there was a very powerful faction against him, led by the brothers De
Witt, then in the plenitude of their power. The head and front of the
gallant seaman’s offending seemed to consist in his unswerving loyalty
to the House of Orange. There was, however, no alternative, and the
command of the fleet was grudgingly bestowed on Cornelius Van Tromp,
who had many hard conditions, to which his patriotism alone induced
him to submit. He had not the sole command, but was joined therein by
De Witt and others, who received instructions to watch over and
supervise all his movements. Worse treatment was in store for him; no
sooner had he hoisted his flag, than the sudden return of De Ruyter
changed the whole aspect of affairs; Van Tromp’s appointments were
cancelled, and De Ruyter ordered to supersede him. We can imagine with
what feelings of wrathful indignation Van Tromp went on shore, proudly
refusing to serve under the man who had supplanted him. In the ensuing
year, spite of much bitterness of feeling, he who had been so unjustly
treated was induced (partly by the bribe, perhaps, of a splendid ship)
to join De Ruyter in an attack on the English, when, after a fierce
struggle, of several days’ duration, the Dutch were victorious.
Hostilities continuing between the two nations, in another engagement
Van Tromp defeated the British Admiral Smith, but De Ruyter was
worsted; and on their return violent recriminations passed between
them. De Ruyter complained that his colleague had acted quite
independently, had afforded him no support whatsoever, and, in fact,
had left him and his portion of the fleet completely in the lurch,
while Van Tromp retaliated with counter-charges. The States-General,
as usual, espoused the cause of De Ruyter, deprived Van Tromp of his
commission, forbade him to hold any communication with the fleet, and
placed him under provisory arrest at the Hague. It was at this moment,
while smarting beneath the ingratitude and injustice of the country
which he had so nobly served, that tempting offers were made to the
gallant seaman to enter the service of France, but these overtures
were answered with becoming indignation. He now gained permission to
leave the Hague, and repair to a country house which he possessed near
Gravensand, called Trompenburg, and built in the fanciful form of a
man-of-war. But being in the Hague at the time of the murder of the De
Witt brothers, there were slanderous rumours set abroad that he
encouraged the assassins. This arose doubtless from the fact that some
voices in the crowd on the day of the murder called out, ‘Down with
the De Witts! Long live Van Tromp!’

The Admiral remained for some time in retreat, but in 1673 he was
reinstated in all his dignities by the Prince of Orange (afterwards
William III.). A formal reconciliation took place between him and De
Ruyter, and they once more agreed to make common cause against the
enemies of their country. In an engagement with the combined forces of
France and England, Van Tromp was sorely pressed, compelled to change
his ship three times, and three times he was rescued by the gallantry
of De Ruyter. The war continued, and they were both in constant
service, and, whether successful or not, both famed alike for their
patriotism and courage.

In 1675, the Dutch being then at peace with England, Charles II.
invited Van Tromp to visit London, where he welcomed him with great
honour, and gave him the title of Baron. The citizens also crowded to
see the man whose name, as well as that of his father, had long been
used with them as a bugbear to frighten naughty children (as was the
case with ‘Boney’ in later days), and whose advent on the shores of
England had at one time been so much dreaded that prayers had actually
been printed against such a calamity.

Next year the Admiral was despatched to the assistance of Denmark
against Sweden, and the King of that country also did him great
honour, creating him a Count, and decorating him with the Order of the
Elephant. On his return, the death of De Ruyter had made a vacancy in
the highest naval command which it was in the power of the
States-General to bestow, and it was conferred on Van Tromp. His last
expedition was to accompany the Prince of Orange in his attack of St.
Omer, and in 1691, William (then King of England) proposed to him to
hoist his flag on the new fleet equipping against France, but Van
Tromp died before he could undertake the trust. He expired at
Amsterdam, and was buried with great solemnity in the paternal
mausoleum at Delft.

Cornelius Van Tromp, with many great qualities, had something of a
braggadocio in his nature. Witness his vain boast, when, after some
successful encounter with the English, he attached a broom to his main
mast, at a time when our superiority as a naval power was almost
universally admitted.

Van Tromp had one brother, and an only sister, who had been christened
by her father (in commemoration of one of his victories, at the time
of her birth) by the following names, ‘Anna Maria Victoria Hardensis
Trompensis-Dunensis.’ We sincerely hope, for the sake of her
playmates, that the young lady had at least one nickname.

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DRAWING-ROOM.

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DRAWING-ROOM.

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_No. 1._

LADY CAROLINE COWPER.

_Red gown. Black and white cloak._

BORN 1733, DIED 1773.

BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

THE only daughter of William, second Earl Cowper, by Lady Henrietta
Auverquerque, daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Married in 1753 to
Henry Seymour, Esq. of Sherborne, Redland Court, and Northbrook,
nephew to the Duke of Somerset. They had two daughters,—Caroline, wife
to Mr. Danby of Swinton Park, county York (who bequeathed this picture
to Lord Cowper), and Georgiana, married to the Comte de Durfort,
Ambassador at Venice.

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_No. 2._

MRS. SAMUEL REYNOLDS.

_Green gown, with short sleeves. Holding a basket._

A STUDY BY OPIE.

MISS JANE COWING married in 1793 Samuel Reynolds, who became
identified with his great namesake, Sir Joshua, by his beautiful and
delicate engraving of the works of that master, and of many other
celebrated painters. His son and daughter were also artists in oil and
miniature, and his grandchildren still keep up the character of the
family for the love and practice of art. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were
intimate friends and constant guests of Lord and Lady John Townshend
at Balls Park, Hertford, where the agreeable and versatile talents of
the former, and the gentle and kindly disposition of the latter,
ensured them a cordial welcome. They were also occasional visitors to
Panshanger, and it is easy to imagine how fully the treasures of this
noble gallery must have been appreciated by the practised eye and
refined taste of Samuel Reynolds.

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_No. 3._

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A.

_Red coat. Fur collar. No spectacles._

BORN 1723, DIED 1792.

BY HIMSELF.

BORN at Plymouth, where his father, Samuel, was master of the
Grammar-School. His mother was Theophila Potter, of Bishops Plympton,
South Molton, who had many children. Samuel Reynolds was a good man,
and sensible withal; yet we are told, on the authority of a maid who
lived in the family, that he was given to astrology, and would go out
on the house-top to consult the stars; moreover, that he once cast the
horoscope of a little daughter, for whom he predicted a violent
death,—a prophecy which was, unfortunately, fulfilled, as the child
fell out of a window, and was killed. When only eight years old,
Joshua had benefited so much by studying Richardson’s treatise on
Perspective, that he was enabled to draw the schoolhouse according to
rule, a feat which much delighted his father. The boy also busied
himself in copying all the engravings he could lay hands on, more
especially a volume of Catt’s Emblems, which his grandmother had
brought with her from Holland. His sisters had all a turn for drawing,
and the little band of artists used to decorate the whitewashed walls
of the passages with designs in charcoal, whereof the least admired
were the brother’s handiworks. Indeed, in those days Joshua was not
considered a prophet by his sisters, who had nicknamed him ‘The
clown,’—a sobriquet certainly not applicable to him in after life.
Mrs. Parker, a friend and neighbour of the Reynolds family, sent the
children a present of pencils,—a gift which the great painter lived to
pay back with interest, for the walls of Saltram are rich in his
paintings. When about twelve years of age, Joshua is said to have made
his first essay in oils under considerable difficulties,—the portrait
of Richard (afterwards Lord) Edgecumbe,—in the boat-house on Cremel
Beach, below Mount Edgecumbe. This work was executed on the rough
canvas of a boat-sail, with the common paints used by shipwrights!

After much consultation with friends and relations, and many pecuniary
obstacles, Joshua proceeded to London as an apprentice to Hudson, the
fashionable portrait-painter of the day, son-in-law to Richardson,
whose writings on Art had been so useful to the young beginner.
Shortly after his departure, his father writes to a friend that no one
could be more delighted than the dear fellow with his new life, his
master, his employment,—indeed, he was in the seventh heaven.

Joshua was an enthusiast in all things, and a characteristic anecdote
is told of him when he first went to London. Hudson sent him to a
picture sale, on a commission to make a purchase, when a whisper ran
through the crowded room—‘Mr. Pope! Mr. Pope!’ A passage was instantly
made for the great man, and Joshua, in a fever of excitement,
stretched out his hand under the arm of the person who stood before
him, desirous even to touch the hem of the poet’s garment. To his
delight, his hand was warmly shaken by the man whose homely but
expressive features, and poetical creations, he was destined to
portray in later days.

Reynolds left Hudson’s studio before his apprenticeship had expired,
for which step many reasons were assigned at the time by those who,
perhaps, were not in possession of the truth. Some said his master was
unkind to him, from a feeling of jealousy; but as both father and son
(Reynolds) remained on friendly terms with the painter, this does not
appear probable. Joshua went down to Plymouth, and painted all the
remarkable people in the neighbourhood, including the greatest
dignitary of all,—the Commissioner of the dockyard!