Chapter III: Part 3

Born, 1646. Died, 1699.—The five nieces of the Cardinal Mazarin were all remarkable for beauty and intelligence, and for lives full of dramatic interest. Ninon de l’Enclos says: “Toutes les nièces du Cardinal avaient un don singulier d’attrait, et comme une magie: la source des charmes est dans le sang Mazarin.” They were the daughters of Lorenzo Mancini, by the Cardinal’s beloved sister. Lorenzo was a great astrologer, and had not only correctly foretold his own death, and that of their only son, but had also predicted that his widow would not survive her fifty-second year. The prophecy weighed on her mind, and perhaps hastened the fulfilment. Her eldest daughter Laura, Duchesse de Mercœur, died in childbed, it is supposed brokenhearted at her mother’s loss. Hortense Mancini, the fourth, and apparently the favourite niece of the Cardinal, was born at Rome in 1646, and on her arrival in Paris, became the centre of attraction from her surpassing beauty. After many negociations, the Cardinal bestowed her hand, and an enormous fortune on the Duc de Meilleraye, on condition that he would assume the name of Mazarin. No sooner was she betrothed, than Hortense received at the hands of her uncle, who had hitherto been very niggardly towards her, a splendid _corbeille de noces_, and a large sum in gold. She was so elated by this sudden accession of fortune, that she sent for her brother, and sisters, and encouraged them to take what they pleased, and when this curious trio had helped themselves, she took handfuls of money, and flung them out to the lacqueys in the court-yard beneath, and was much amused by watching the scramble. The Cardinal, at that time very near his end, was furious at this wanton manner, of disposing of his bounty.

The marriage proved most unhappy; the husband morose, jealous, exacting; the wife beautiful, brilliant, wayward. In her later correspondence with St. Evremond, she makes many excuses for having left her husband, and not returning to him, in spite of all his solicitations and the action which he brought against her, for separating herself from him. She fled from his roof, in the disguise of a man, and by all accounts not empty handed; “mais tous les chemins mènent à Paris,” and on her return there she received a pension from the King, which, however, she did not consider sufficient to enable her to reside there. She accordingly retired to Chambéri. But in the year 1675 she went to England in the train of Mary of Modena, the youthful Duchess of York. The real object of this journey is believed to have been a mission, with which she was entrusted by the numerous enemies of Mademoiselle de Quérouaille (afterwards Duchess of Portsmouth) to destroy that favourite’s influence by supplanting her, in the affections of Charles II. Nor did such a result appear improbable, as Hortense surpassed her rival, both in wit, and beauty, and it was well known that the King had already admired her so much, as to entertain serious notions of making her his wife. He gave her a most warm reception, and settled a pension on her, the Duke of Mazarin having already found means to possess himself of the pittance, allowed her by Louis XIV. But unfortunately for all these deep-laid schemes, Hortense was so much enamoured of the Prince de Monaco, then in England, as to incur the King’s anger, and cause him for a while even to suspend her pension.

She never left England; persuasions, stratagems, and menaces, all were useless to induce her, to return to France. Her husband sent over Madame de Rutz to try and bring her back to him, or induce her to enter a convent, but she says to St. Evremond: “La liberté ne coute jamais trop chére à qui se délivre de la tyrannie.” She speaks of the alternative of returning to the Duke’s roof, or immuring herself in a convent, as “deux extrémités à éviter, autant l’une que l’autre.” Yet at one time, on the occasion of a lover being killed in a duel in Spain, she seems to have entertained the notion of embracing the latter alternative; but the easy-going St. Evremond advised her strongly against such a step, assuring her the loss of a lover, might soon be repaired. Her enemies in France, founded a scandal on the discovery that she did not reside under the roof of her Royal mistress, at Whitehall, “mais dans un Pavillon tout près du Château de St. James.” She also incurred blame in many quarters, for not sharing Queen Mary’s exile in 1688; but she excuses herself, by saying that if she did so, not only would she place herself once more in the power of her enemies, but that it was impossible for her to leave England. She was deeply in debt; she scarcely dared leave the house, for fear of being arrested. She makes a most pitiful lament, (probably about the time of the escape of James II. to France) over her destitution, always to the same friend, and confidant. “Nul bien de moi, nulle assistance où je suis, nulle espérance d’ailleurs.” Yet she received at different times, pensions from four different monarchs, for William III. continued her allowance. Be this as it may, she contrived to amuse herself, in her house at Chelsea, where St. Evremond was a constant visitor, in spite of his complaints to Lady Anne Hervey, of the occasional cold and discomfort. She assembled round her bassette table, (for in later years she was much addicted to play) a brilliant, aristocratic, literary circle. She gave dinners too, and the St. Evremond correspondence shows us, that presents of meat, wine, and fruit, were as common in those days, as baskets of game in the nineteenth century. Her friends, Lady Sandwich, and the Duke of Montagu in particular, appear to have been very generous, in such contributions, and both the Duchess, and St. Evremond, appreciated to their fullest extent, the pleasures of eating, and drinking, although the latter often expostulates with the former against over-indulgence in stimulants. He warns her against excess in white wine, absynthe or usquebaugh, which are bad for the lungs; her heart, and her head, were given her for better things. There seems every reason to believe the learned man’s precepts, and example, were not always in unison. She occasionally played too high, or too frequently at bassette, to please him. He wrote a poetical scene in which, playing with the handsome “Madame Middleton,” Hortense discusses with her the comparative beauties of “Madame Grafton, Madame Kildare, and Madame Lichfield.” In another letter, an answer no doubt to some lamentations over her pecuniary distresses, he says: “Demandez toujours de l’argent; s’il n’en vient point, c’est vous qui avez sujet de vous plaindre.”

She numbered amongst her friends and acquaintance the _habitués_ of her house at Chelsea, many of the noblest names in England; the Duke of Montagu, one of her warmest admirers; Lord Godolphin, the Duke of St. Albans, Mr. Villiers, etc. Most of these gentlemen seem at a loss “où passer leurs soirées” when she is absent from London. Lady Sandwich, a kindred spirit, Lady Anne Montagu, and many other members of the English aristocracy frequented her house. This was again in accordance with the exhortations of her counsellor, for he writes soon after her flitting to Chelsea: “Tout est triste à Londres; il n’est pas de même à Chelsea. Montrez vous de temps en temps, où laissez vous voir à Chelsea.” The picture that he draws of her charms, although in the high-flown language of the period, and of his nation, does not appear over-done when we look at Mignard’s beautiful portrait, of this undoubtedly beautiful woman. Her venerable adorer bids the young beauties of England tremble, at the name of Hortense; he describes her white teeth, her mouth a lovely opening flower, her pretty dimples, her bright dark eyes, (which were sometimes a source of great suffering to her), and her luxuriant hair; and in his description he begs you not to let the modelling of her dainty ear, escape your notice. He also assures her, that it is a pity to conceal her attractions in splendid robes, for that a simple _déshabille_ becomes her best. Surely she acted on this hint, when she sate to Mignard. The titles of Madame, or Duchesse, ought not to be given her in speaking to, or of her: “Vous êtes au dessus des titres, et il me semble qu’on ôte à votre mérite tout ce qu’on donne à votre qualité.” She did not disdain to dine with St. Evremond, but he was well aware how particular she was in her tastes, and provided for her accordingly. “Le mouton de Windsor cède au mouton de Bath, c’est la décision de Hortense; Bath aura donc la préférence. Si vous voulez du fruit, apportez en; le vin j’en ai de bon.” In one of her temporary absences, at Bath, or elsewhere, he went to Chelsea, and describes how melancholy, and deserted were the house, and household, her waiting maid Isabelle, her little Moorish page, the parrot Pretty, the lap-dog Chop, and Filis the canary bird; nothing is wanting to complete this picture of the English house of Hortense, Duchesse de Mazarin, in the country, which a contemporary and a compatriot designated as “un pays hérétique, l’objet du courroux du Ciel, et de la haine des hommes.” The beautiful exile had little to complain of, in the welcome she received in this vilified country.

St. Evremond’s letters to Ninon de l’Enclos, on the death of his dearest and best friend, are expressive of deep and sincere grief. She died heavily in his debt, but he would have given that, and all he had, to bring her back to life. People might live a century, and never see her equal: “Tout le monde vous imite, personne ne vous ressemble,” were the words, he once addressed to her. She scolded her friends at times, but in so charming a manner:

“‘Hélas, autre source de larmes,
Tous ses défauts, avoient des charmes.’

Elle n’avoit jamais su ni tromper, ni haïr.” He praises the manner of her death, and says: “Les Anglais, qui surpassent toutes les nations à mourir, la doivent regarder avec jalousie.” What added poignancy to his regret, was the conviction that her own imprudence hastened the end, a circumstance over which he, and Ninon lament together. To the man who was within four years of ninety, Hortense at fifty-three, and evidently still most attractive, must have appeared comparatively young. She died in her house at Chelsea in the summer of 1699.

_Mary, Queen of James II., King of England_:

BY L’ARGILLIERE.

HALF-LENGTH.

(Murrey-coloured Dress. Blue Scarf. Pearl Necklace and
Ornaments.)

Born, 1658. Died, 1691.—The daughter of Alfonso the Fourth, Duke of Modena, by Marie Mancini. Became an orphan at an early age; was married to the Duke of York (soon after the death of his first wife, Anne Hyde) first by proxy, and then in London in 1673. Young, handsome, single-minded, impulsive, full of affection to a husband twenty years her senior, remarkable in an immoral Court for the modesty, and decorum of her conduct, Mary devoted herself to the restoration of the Catholic religion, and in consequence became the idol of its votaries, and was hated in proportion by the Protestants.

James had a great respect and even affection for his wife, in spite of the frequent causes he afforded her for jealousy, and there is no doubt that she influenced him very much in religious matters, and contributed to his downfall. They had several children who died in their infancy; but in 1688 the unfortunate Prince of Wales, afterwards called the Old Pretender, or Chevalier de St. George, was born. The Queen’s romantic adventures when, aided by the Duc de Lauzun, she escaped in the dead of night, with her infant in her arms, are too well known to be recorded here. She fled to St. Germains, where Louis XIV received her with royal honours, and human sympathy, and she was soon joined by her husband. Madame de Sévigné’s portrait of Mary of Modena on her first arrival, might well be said to rival that of L’Argillière: “La Reine a des yeux beaux, et noirs, qui ont pleuré, un beau teint un peu pâle, la bouche grande, de belles dents, une belle taille, et pleine d’esprit, tout cela compose une femme qui plait beaucoup. Tout ce qu’elle dit est juste, et de bon sens.” She was most grateful to the French King, and on one occasion when he held the Prince of Wales in his arms she said: “Hitherto I have been glad that my son was too young to understand his misfortunes; now I pity him that he cannot appreciate the goodness of your Majesty.”

Nothing could equal the consideration and generosity of Louis XIV. towards the exiled sovereigns. The ex-Queen of England had a small Court of her own, at St. Germains, where she presided with gentle quiet dignity, cheering the declining days of her unhappy husband, by her unceasing devotion. Whatever the faults of Mary of Modena may have been in public life, no one could deny to the exiled Princess a reputation for virtue, tenderness, and charity, very uncommon in the age in which she lived.

She was witness to the unsuccessful attempts of both her husband, and son, to recover the Crown, and died after a short illness in the “very odour of sanctity.”

_Henrietta Maria, Duchess of Orleans_:

BY MIGNARD.

HALF-LENGTH.

(Oval. Auburn Hair. White Satin Dress. Pearls.)

Born, 1644. Died, 1670.—Daughter of Charles I., King of England, by Henrietta Maria of France. When the Queen of Charles I., a fortnight after her confinement, was compelled to fly before the Parliamentary army, she confided the infant Princess to the care of her governess, Lady Morton, who retired with her charge to Oatlands. Two years afterwards, when the Parliament threatened to deprive that lady of her little ward, she determined to thwart them in the attempt. She disguised herself as a poor French servant, and provided herself with a humpback, in which she carried little Henrietta dressed as a boy. They proceeded in this way on foot to Dover, where they embarked, and the faithful governess restored the child to her mother at Paris. But Lady Morton had an enemy to contend with in the proud spirit of the English Princess, who was indignant at being clothed in a coarse dress, and still more at being mistaken for a boy; and she kept informing the passers by of her royal state, which information was fortunately unintelligible.

On the death of the King, she accompanied her mother to France, where they lived in great seclusion; on her first arrival indeed, the widowed Queen of England had established a small court, and some degree of state, but the niggardliness of the Cardinal-Minister, Mazarin, soon reduced her means. The first appearance of the young Princess was on the occasion of a select ball at court, given by Anne of Austria in her own private apartments. The Queen-Mother had taken a fancy to the beautiful girl, and the entertainment was given in her honour: Anne was therefore most indignant, when the King selected one of the beauties of her own Court, as his partner for the first dance. She separated their hands sharply, and in a peremptory tone, desired her son to dance with the English Princess. Louis XIV., in a pet, replied, “he did not care to dance with little girls,” and that in so audible a tone, as to be overheard by mother, and daughter. In vain Queen Henrietta Maria, stung to the quick by the slight put upon her child, declared she could not dance, having sprained her ancle; Anne of Austria insisted, and the King reluctantly led out his unwilling partner, whose crimson cheeks, and streaming eyes, drew the attention of the whole society upon her. For some time the King cherished a feeling of dislike towards the young Princess, so much so as to oppose the union between her, and his brother Monsieur, the Duke of Orleans. But this marriage was resolved on by the two royal mothers, and it was finally arranged that the nuptials should take place, on the return of the Queen and Princess Henrietta from England, whither they went for the ostensible motive of congratulating Charles II. on his restoration to the throne, although it was well known that political intrigues were mixed up with these congratulations.

At her brother’s Court the young Henrietta “turned all heads, and inflamed all hearts,” says a contemporary. The Duke of Buckingham, who accompanied them on their return to France, incurred the maternal anger, by his undisguised devotion to the fiançée of Monsieur. The voyage was a disastrous one, the vessel struck on a rock, and nearly went to pieces, and no sooner had they gained the shore in safety, than the Princess sickened of the measles. The Duke of Buckingham, maddened by the dangers both by sea, and land, to which the beautiful object of his sudden passion, was exposed, became so demonstrative in the expressions of his grief, and affection, that the English Queen judged it prudent, to despatch him as avant-courier, to Paris. On her recovery, and return thither, the Princess found herself as much admired as she had been at her brother’s Court, and the King opened his eyes and wondered at himself for not caring to dance with “such a little girl.” “Les yeux vifs, noirs, brillans, pleins de feu,” says Choisy, “elle fut l’objet de tous les empressemens imaginables, compris ceux de Monsieur. Elle a l’esprit aussi aimable que le reste.” The Duke of Orleans was not supposed to be much in love with his wife, but that did not prevent his being very jealous of the Dukes of Buckingham, and Guiche, in particular. Buckingham indeed had brought the husband’s jealousy on his own head, by his absurd demeanour, and had been the means of instilling suspicion into his mind, with regard to the Duc de Guiche, a remarkably handsome, and attractive young courtier. In another quarter, jealousy was rife, for the newly married Queen of France, Maria Theresa, deeply attached to a husband who remained always indifferent to her, watched with dismay the influence “Madame,” (as Henrietta was now called) exercised over the King.

The second Court under “Madame’s” auspices, with its young beauties, its easy conversation, and pleasant pastimes, was exactly suited to the Monarch’s taste, and he was known to have said, in speaking of the Duchess of Orleans, “qu’il connoissoit en la voyant de plus près, combien il avoit été injuste, à la plus belle personne du monde.” The admiration she excited, and the influence she obtained over her brother-in-law, ended indeed, only with her life. Her small Court was brilliant, in the extreme, and they amused themselves in divers ways. “Madame, montoit à cheval, suivie de toutes ses dames, habillées galamment, avec mille plumes sur leurs têtes, accompagnées du Roi, et de la jeunesse de la Cour.” Monsieur lived a great deal in the Palais Royal, and there she would go to sup with him, taking all her ladies, and chosen friends with her. Mademoiselle de la Vallière was one of her Maids of Honour, and the liaison with the King, began under Henrietta’s roof. She had been very fond of the beautiful girl, but treated her with marked displeasure, in the latter days.

Madame made a second journey to England, for the purpose of concluding a private treaty, between her brother, and the French monarch, and of detaching the former from his alliance with Holland. On this occasion, she was accompanied by the celebrated Mademoiselle de la Quérouaille, afterwards Duchess of Portsmouth, who had also her sealed orders. The mission was successful, though neither advantageous, nor honourable, as far as England was concerned. Madame returned in triumph, took up her abode at the Palace of St. Cloud, and appeared to have reached the zenith of worldly prosperity, always excepting the unhappy difference, with her husband, which commenced so soon after their marriage, and had increased rather than diminished. Her tried friend, and trusty confidant in these trials, was Cosnac, Bishop of Valence, afterwards Archbishop of Aix, a distinguished, but eccentric man. At twenty-four years of age, he preached a sermon, which made such an impression on the mind, of Mazarin, the Cardinal Minister, that on the conclusion of the service, he promised the preacher a bishopric; what he called “faire un maréchal de France sur la brêche.” Cosnac was afterwards appointed almoner to Monsieur, and resided with him, for some time, during which period, he endeavoured to gain an influence for good, over the mind of this fickle, and vacillating Prince, and often expostulated with him, on his conduct to the Duchess. They quarrelled, and separated, but his indignation against Monsieur’s unworthy favourite, the Chevalier de Loraine, so enraged the Duke that he contrived to procure a sentence of exile, against Cosnac. But absence could not sever the bonds of friendship, which bound him to Henrietta, and of which he gave a valuable proof, on the occasion of a libel, that was published against her in Holland, at the time of her negociations between England, and France. The Duchess dreaded lest the scurrilous pamphlet, most damaging to her reputation, should fall into her husband’s hands, and she wrote off in terror to her exiled friend, to ask his assistance. Cosnac immediately despatched an emissary to Holland, who did his work so effectually, that the whole edition was bought up, the publication stopped, and all the extant copies brought over, to be destroyed by this zealous friend. As in duty bound, “Madame” worked hard to obtain the Bishop’s recall, so much so that the King thought her attachment to him, must be of a more tender nature than she confessed. Louis XIV., in all probability, was not a good judge of friendship, or a believer in it, where a woman was concerned.

In her correspondence with Cosnac, in speaking of her mission to England, she hints at the hope of Charles II. becoming a Roman Catholic, in the event of which she promises that he shall obtain a Cardinal’s hat. On her return from England, four days before her death, describing the affectionate reception, she had met with from the French King, she says: “Le Roi même à mon retour m’a témoigné beaucoup de bonté; mais pour Monsieur rien n’est égal à son acharnement, pour trouver moyen de se plaindre. Il me fit l’honneur de me dire, que je suis toute puissante, et que par conséquent si je ne fais pas revenir le Chevalier de Loraine, exilé par le Roi, je ne me soucie pas de lui plaire, et il fait ensuite des menaces, pour le temps à venir.” To the same correspondent, she complains that her little girl is brought up, to hate her. Three days later, towards five o’clock in the afternoon, the Duchess of Orleans asked for a glass of iced chicory water; a short time after drinking which, she was seized with excruciating pain, and strong convulsions. As her condition grew worse, it became evident to herself, and all around her, that the end was approaching. Her confessor, Feuillet, was sent for, and in his questions, and exhortations, he did not spare his dying penitent, but both he, and Bossuet, who was also present, became deeply affected, by the humble devotion, and pious resignation, to the Divine Will, which the unhappy Princess, evinced in the midst of all her sufferings. She was most anxious not to forget any one, and recalling a promise she had made, some time ago to a friend, she called one of her weeping attendants to her, and gave orders where she would find a ring, and to whom it should be sent, as her parting gift. As the last moment approached, she placed her hand in that of her husband, and gazing earnestly in his face said most emphatically: “Monsieur, je ne vous ai jamais manqué.” She thought of every one in her last moments, and closed an adventurous, and chequered life, at the early age of twenty-six, at peace, with all mankind, repentant, and trusting in the mercy of God.

That her death was the effect of poison, none could doubt: the question arose, who was the murderer. The King sent for his brother, and charged him with the crime, and a violent scene ensued between them; but the real criminal appears to have been the exiled Chevalier de Loraine, and evidence of the strongest nature was brought to show, that he sent the poison from Rome by a Monsieur Morel (who was not in the secret) to the Marquise d’Effiat, and a footman deposed, to seeing the Marquise rubbing the inside of the cup, which was immediately afterwards given to Madame, with the chicory water, when she complained of thirst. Be this as it may, no sooner was she dead, than the Chevalier de Loraine was recalled from exile, and the whole matter hushed up.

Cosnac’s description of Madame, was as follows: “Elle avoit l’esprit solide, et du bon sens, l’âme grande, et fort éclairée, sur tout ce qu’il faudroit faire, mais quelque-fois elle ne le faisoit pas, par une faiblesse naturelle.... Elle mêlait dans toute sa conversation, une douceur qu’on ne trouvoit point dans les autres personnes royales; ce n’est pas qu’elle eût moins de majesté, mais elle en savoit user d’une manière plus facile, et plus touchante. Pour les traits de son visage, on n’en trouve point de plus achevés; les yeux vifs, sans être rudes, la bouche admirable, le nez parfait (chose rare), le teint blanc et uni, la taille médiocre mais fine: son esprit animait tout son corps; elle en avoit jusqu’aux pieds; elle dansait mieux que femme au monde.” She loved poetry and befriended poets: Corneille in his old age, and Racine, whose heart she gained by shedding tears at the first reading of his “Andromaque.” La Force said after her death: “Le goût des choses de l’esprit avoit fort baissé. Il est certain qu’en perdant cette Princesse la cour perdoit la seule personne de son sang, qui était capable d’aimer et de distinguer le mérite, et il n’y a eu depuis sa mort, que jeu, confusion, et impolitesse.”

_Charles V., Emperor of Germany_:

BY TIZIANO VECELLI.

THREE-QUARTER LENGTH.

(In Armour, Standing by a Table, on which is his Plumed Helmet.)

Born at Ghent, 1500. Died 1558.—The son of Philip, Archduke of Austria, by Joan the Mad, heiress of Castile, and daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. Became King of Spain in 1516, and Emperor of Germany in 1519, on the death of Maximilian. Francis I., King of France, was his competitor for the imperial dignity, and a war was the result, when the French King was defeated, and made prisoner. But Charles’s whole life was spent in warfare, until his abdication, and final seclusion from the world, in the Convent of San Yuste, in Estremadura, where he died. He married the daughter of the King of Portugal, by whom he had Philip II. and two daughters.

_Prince Rupert_:

BY VANDYCK.

THREE-QUARTER LENGTH.

(Rich Dress of Murrey Coloured Satin, with Cuirass.)

Born, 1619. Died, 1682.—The fourth son of Frederic, Elector Palatine, afterwards King of Bohemia, by Elizabeth, daughter of James I., King of Great Britain. His birth at Prague was hailed with great joy, and his baptism was an occasion of extraordinary pomp. He was an intelligent and merry child, and as a youth, his elder brother writes home accounts of his proficiency in study, and in athletic exercises, describing “our Rupert,” as a species of Admirable Crichton. Both he, and his brother Charles were educated at Leyden, and stood very high at the collegiate examination, when their father, the unfortunate King of Bohemia, travelled thither, and saw his boys for the last time. Rupert studied war under Henry, Prince of Orange: at thirteen he was present at the siege of Rhymberg; at eighteen he commanded a regiment of cavalry. After her husband’s death, Elizabeth was advised to send her two elder sons to colonise in distant countries; the elder in Madagascar, and Rupert in the West Indies: but the high spirited Princess declared “no son of hers, should become a knight errant.” Prince Rupert’s later career might well have entitled him to the epithet, Elizabeth so much disapproved. He distinguished himself in several campaigns, was made prisoner, and at the termination of his captivity, accepted the invitation of his uncle, Charles I., to repair to England.

The Queen of Bohemia had considered herself aggrieved, by the unsatisfactory replies which her brother returned to her frequent applications for sympathy and assistance, but on the arrival of Rupert and his brother in England, the former was granted an English title, installed as Knight of the Garter, and made Commander in Chief of Cavalry. The Prince was zealous and loyal, and his courage undoubted; but he laid himself open to just censure by his imprudence, and temerity. Charles loved his nephew, but the blame which attached to his tactics in the fatal battle of Naseby, was confirmed by the Prince’s feeble defence of Bristol, for the safety of which place, he had pledged himself. The King deprived him of his command, and wrote him so severe a letter, that Rupert sought an audience of his royal uncle at Belvoir Castle, indignantly denying the charge of treason imputed to him, but honestly confessing his imprudence, and shortcomings. Pepys many years afterwards, alludes to this incident when he says: “The Prince was the boldest attaquer in the world, and yet in the defence of Bristol, no man ever did worse, wanting in patience and a seasoned head, etc.” Pepys did not love Rupert, who once rated him roundly, in the presence of the King, Charles II. The same authority says on another occasion, that the nation was displeased at Rupert’s obtaining a command, as he was accounted a “most unhappy man.” His next adventure was especially so: Charles I. sent him to Ireland, in charge of that portion of the fleet, which had remained faithful to the royal cause, but his unlucky star was still in the ascendant. He was compelled to seek safety at Lisbon, pursued by the Parliamentary squadron, and after many losses, and disasters, he took refuge in America, where he remained some years. Thence to France, where, says, one of his biographers, “ses aventures romanesques, ses esclaves Maures, son train bizarre, le firent un objet de curiosité et le héros de plus d’une intrigue galante.” He returned to England on the restoration of Charles II. “The Prince Rupert is come to Court,” says Pepys; “welcome to nobody;” yet his great courage and the frequency of his exploits in the war against Holland, when he was appointed to a command in the fleet, first under the Duke of York, then conjointly with the Duke of Albemarle, and finally in 1673, when he had the sole command, might well have entitled him to the gratitude of the King and the nation.

The wear, and tear, of an adventurous life, the effects of a deep wound, received in Flanders, determined Rupert at length, to retire from public life, and seek the repose so necessary to him. He was made Governor of Windsor Castle, and he found great resource in the cultivation of arts, which had always occupied the few leisure hours he had hitherto enjoyed; physics, chemistry, the improvement of fire-arms, etc. Horace Walpole says: “It is a trite observation, that gunpowder was invented by a monk, and printing by a soldier: and it is an additional honour to the latter profession, to have invented mezzotinto;” upon which he relates the following anecdote: Prince Rupert, when in Holland, was one morning, attracted by seeing a sentinel rubbing the barrel of his musket, vehemently. On approaching, and examining the gun, he found that the damp of the early morning, had rusted the metal, and this, combined with friction, had produced a kind of arabesque, or pattern on the metal, like a friezed work eaten in with numerous little dots, part of which the soldier was scraping away. This set the Prince thinking, how he could produce a lasting effect of the same kind, and in combination with his friend, Vaillant the painter, he invented a steel roller, cut with tools to make teeth in the manner of a file, or rasp, with projecting points which produced the black ground, and this being scraped away, or diminished at pleasure, left the gradations of light.

Prince Rupert was never married, but he left two illegitimate children.

Grammont says: “Il étoit brave, et vaillant, jusqu’à la témérité. Il avoit le génie fécond en expériences de mathématique, et quelque talent pour la chimie. Poli jusqu’à l’excès, quand l’occasion ne le demandait pas, fier, et même brutal quand il étoit question de se humaniser, son visage étoit sec, et dur....” But Lely, and Vandyck paint more comely portraits of the brave “Knight-errant.” He was a messmate of the Earl of Sandwich, and it is no wonder the portraits of the two brave sailors, should hang together in the Englishman’s ancestral home. Lely painted, (as we are told by Pepys,) “all the Flaggmen; and in his studio I saw the pictures of the Earl of Sandwich, Prince Rupert, etc.” But from his account of the campaign at sea, he leads us to believe that both Rupert, and the Duke of Albemarle, were jealous of the popularity, and fame which Lord Sandwich has justly gained in England, through his prowess.

_Henrietta Maria, Queen of England_:

BY VANDYCK.

THREE-QUARTER LENGTH.

(White Satin Dress. Lace, Pearls. Standing by a Table, on which
the Crown is placed.)

Born, 1607. Died, 1669.—Daughter of Henry IV., King of France, by Marie de Medicis. Attracted the notice of Charles, Prince of Wales, on his route to Madrid, where he travelled in disguise, with the Duke of Buckingham, to ask the hand of the Infanta of Spain. On the failure of the negociations between France and Spain, Charles remembered the young French Princess, and became her suitor. The marriage was concluded, under circumstances which appeared to promise great prosperity; but alas, for human foresight! the young Queen’s life was destined to be one prolonged struggle, of sorrow, distress, and difficulty. She took refuge in France, soon after the birth of her daughter Henrietta, and was there warmly welcomed, and treated with liberality by the King; her constant pecuniary difficulties being usually attributed to her generosity, to the English Royalists.

When Charles I., took leave of the Princess Elizabeth, who had remained in England, he sent his last farewell to the Queen, assuring her that during the whole course of their union, he had never been unfaithful to her, even in thought. In 1660, Charles II. having been proclaimed King in London, his mother, accompanied by the Princess Henrietta, visited him, ostensibly to offer her congratulations, but really to recover part of her dowry, and also to prevent, if possible, the acknowledgement of the private marriage of her son, the Duke of York, with Anne Hyde. But her opposition to this marriage was overruled, from political, and prudential motives. On her return to Paris, and after the union of her daughter, with the Duke of Orleans, Queen Henrietta Maria, bought a house at Colombes, where she lived a most retired life. “Elle étoit,” says Madame de Motteville, “sans nulle façon.” In her frugal manner of life, and the courage she displayed in danger, and vicissitude, this Princess resembled her father, the great Henry. She was much disfigured by illness and sorrow: “Elle avoit même la taille un peu gatée; sa beauté,” says Madame de Motteville, “n’avoit duré que l’espace d’un matin, et l’avoit quitté avant son midi; elle maintenoit que les femmes ne peuvent plus être belles, passé vingt-deux ans. Elle avoit infiniment de l’esprit; elle étoit agréable dans la société, honnête, douce, et facile; son tempérament étoit tourné du côté de la gaieté.” Henrietta Maria died suddenly at her house at Colombes, and was buried at St. Denis, but she desired that her heart should rest in the Convent of Ste. Marie de Chaillot, a Sisterhood, for whom she had much affection.

_Edward, first Earl of Sandwich_:

BY SIR PETER LELY.

(When Young. In a Brown Dress. Pointing to a Globe. Curtain in
Background.)

_MORNING ROOM._

_Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough_:

BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

HALF-LENGTH: OVAL.

(Light Coloured Dress. Blue Scarf.)

Born, 1658. Died, 1744.—The youngest daughter of Richard Jennings, Esq., of Sundridge, near St. Albans, by the daughter and heiress, of Sir Gifford Thornhurst. She was presented when quite young at Court, where her sister Frances, (afterwards Lady Tyrconnel) had already distinguished herself by her laxity of conduct, as well as her beauty. Sarah’s features may not have rivalled her sister’s in regularity, but her countenance was full of expression, her complexion delicate, and the profusion of her fair hair, formed a most attractive combination. She became the centre of a host of adorers, amongst whom she preferred, in spite of his poverty, “the young, handsome, graceful, insinuating, and eloquent Churchill.” On his side, the young Colonel who, even in early days, had established a character for avarice, was so enamoured of the portionless girl, as to refuse a rich heiress with a plain face, who had been proposed to him. But in her beauty, her ambition, her indomitable will, and the close friendship which united her to the Princess (afterwards Queen) Anne, the bride brought her husband, a dowry which made him “a Duke, a sovereign Prince of the Empire, the Captain General of a great coalition, the arbiter between mighty Princes, and the wealthiest subject in Europe.” The friendship between Lady Churchill, and Anne, the tyranny which the high-spirited, hot-tempered and wilful Lady of the Bedchamber, exercised over her royal mistress, for many years, are matters too well known, to be here recapitulated. The romantic friendship of Mrs. Morley, and Mrs. Freeman, the manner in which Anne as Princess, and Queen, even after her marriage to the Prince of Denmark, gave herself up to the dominion of her favourite, until the self-imposed yoke became unbearable, and was suddenly and completely discarded, are historical facts, bound up with public events.

The Duchess of Marlborough was supplanted by her own _protégée_, Mrs. Masham, and peremptorily dismissed, in spite of prayers, rages and “scenes.” Voltaire says: “Quelques paires de gants qu’elle refusa à la Reine, un verre d’eau qu’elle laissa tomber par une méprise! sur la robe de Madame Masham, changèrent la face de l’Europe,” alluding to the political changes, which ensued on the downfall of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough. In her latter days, her temper, embittered by these untoward circumstances, became ungovernable; she quarrelled with her husband, her son-in-law, her grandchildren, and gave way to the most violent outbursts of passion. The Duke of Marlborough was a constant, and affectionate husband, and it is related that on one occasion, when he strove to pacify her rage by a compliment to the beauty of her luxuriant hair, she seized the scissors, cut it off, and flung it in his face. When the Duke died, the long fair tresses, were found carefully preserved in a drawer.

Sarah was a widow for twenty-two years; in spite of her age, perhaps on account of her immense fortune, the Duke of Somerset, and Lord Coningsby were both suitors, for her hand. To the latter, she replied, after reminding him that she was sixty-three, “but were I only thirty, and could you lay the world at my feet, I would never bestow on you, the heart and hand, which belonged exclusively to John, Duke of Marlborough.”

_John, Second Duke of Montagu_:

BY PHILLIPS.

FULL-LENGTH.

(Right Hand on a Table, Left on the Back of a Chair, on which a
Greyhound is standing. Court Suit, Star, Garter, and Ribbon of
the Order.)

Born, 1682. Died, 1749.—The only surviving son of Ralph, first Duke of Montagu, by his first wife, the Countess of Northumberland. In 1705, he married Lady Mary Churchill, youngest daughter, and co-heiress of the Duke of Marlborough, by Sarah Jennings, his wife, by whom he had several sons, who all died in their childhood, as did one of his daughters; but two survived him, Lady Isabella, married to the Duke of Manchester, and Lady Mary, to the Earl of Cardigan. He was Lord High Constable of England, at the coronation of George I., Knight of the Garter, and one of the first Knights of the Bath, as well as Great Master of that new Order, with several other honours. Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, in her unpublished volume of remarks and axioms, (which does her little honour) is very hard upon her son-in-law. She declares he had no just claim for place, or favour on the Government, on account of services, by sea, or land; but this statement is emphatically contradicted, in a marginal note, stating that Montagu had served under the great Duke of Marlborough himself. He seems by all accounts, to have been a kind hearted, and benevolent man, but undoubtedly whimsical, and eccentric; witness an anecdote told of him in one of the periodicals of the day. In his walks in St. James’s Park, he was attracted by the daily sight of an old gentleman, of military aspect, but shabby, and poverty stricken in his dress, who usually sat, and sunned himself, on one of the benches in the avenue. The Duke sent his servant, one day to the old soldier, and asked him, to come and visit him. Nothing loth, but much bewildered, the stranger followed the lacquey, through the corridors, and well furnished rooms, to the ducal presence. Here he was asked, and had to tell, his sorrowful tale. He had served his country, but had no pension; he had married a wife without a dowry, and she and her children were half starving, down in Wales, while he had come to London on the sad, and hopeless errand, of getting something, to live upon. He had a wretched room, where he slept, and spent most of his time, on a bench, in the Park. The Duke listened, and fed him, gave him a trifling sum, and said he hoped to see him again, ere very long. Accordingly, some time afterwards, the old man received a letter from the Duke, begging him to come to dinner, telling him that he had a most mysterious, and confidential communication, to make. The soldier, to whom his whole acquaintance with Montagu appeared like a fairy tale, brushed up his thread-bare suit, and presented himself to the Duke, who in a most private, and mysterious manner, assured him, that there was a certain lady, who admired him very much, and who had earnestly desired an interview with him; indeed, the Duke went on to say, so entirely was her heart set on the meeting, that he had consented to be the go-between. More bewildered than ever, the soldier pleaded his wrinkled face, his scanty grey hairs, and, above all, his allegiance to the poor wife, far away among the Welsh mountains. The Duke was jocose, treated the matter with levity, and gave his arm to lead the astonished guest to the hospitable board, where the lady would be seated; and there indeed, smiling amid her tears, sate his wife, and her children, and after a sumptuous repast, the happy couple left the ducal roof, with their pockets sufficiently well lined (with the addition of a small pension also promised by their noble friend), to keep the wolf from their humble door. Such whimsical fancies as these, would not have suited the stern and economical Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough.

John, Duke of Montagu, died at Montagu House, Whitehall, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, when his title became extinct.

_John, Fourth Earl of Sandwich_:

BY ZOFFANY.

SMALL FULL-LENGTH.

(Seated near a Table, on which he rests his Left Arm. Crimson
and Gold Court Dress.)

_Miss Margaret Ray_:

BY GAINSBOROUGH.

HALF-LENGTH.

(Blue Dress.)

Born, 1742, Murdered, 1779.—Some say the daughter of a stay-maker in Covent Garden, others that she was born at Elstree, in Herts, where her father was a labourer. In early life, she was apprenticed to a dressmaker in Clerkenwell, but her first meeting with John, fourth Earl of Sandwich, was at a shop in Tavistock-street, where he was buying some neck-cloths. Struck with her extreme beauty, his lordship took her under his protection, established her at Hinchingbrook, and superintended her education. Margaret repaid the pains that were bestowed on her, but her especial talent was for music, and under the tuition of Mr. Bates, (afterwards secretary to Lord Sandwich) and Signor Giardini, her sweet and powerful voice, was fully developed, and she sang to perfection, in the Oratorio of “Jephthah,” in Italian bravuras, and in the catches and glees, which so often formed part of the varied entertainments, at Hinchingbrook. Every Christmas, indeed, Lord Sandwich caused an oratorio to be performed, at his country house, where Miss Ray was the principal attraction, although she had several rivals in musical talent, both professional, and amateur. On one occasion Mr. Cradock, an intimate friend of Lord Sandwich’s, tells us that he accompanied his lordship, Mr. Bates, Miss Ray and another lady, to Vauxhall, where some musical friends met them, and they sang catches, and glees, in the box, to the delight of the audience, who greatly admired the beauty and vocal powers, of the fair (to them) unknown performer.

Miss Ray was remarkable, while under Lord Sandwich’s roof, for her discreet and circumspect conduct, in a most equivocal position; and his lordship appears to have been very strict, lest anyone, as he expressed himself, “should exceed the boundary line,” that he had drawn. For example, at the oratorios where she shone so conspicuously, the society were not expected to notice her, and she herself was sadly embarrassed one evening, when Lady Blake advanced between the scenes to converse with her, the singer well knowing such a step would arouse the noble host’s displeasure; a well grounded suspicion as he went so far as to say “such a trespass might occasion the overthrow of our music meetings.” The Bishop of Lincoln’s wife pays this tribute to Margaret: “She was so assiduous to please, so excellent and unassuming, I felt it cruel to sit directly opposite to her, and yet find it impossible to notice her.”

At these oratorios, the Duke of Manchester’s band generally attended, and Lord Sandwich took the direction of the kettledrums, as, indeed, he sometimes did at public music meetings, at Leicester (and elsewhere), where Mr. Cradock says: “The Earl and the Otaheitan, Omai, (whom he had brought with him) divided public attention.”

Mr. Cradock was with Lord Sandwich, when he first became acquainted with Hackman. My Lord had taken Mr. Cradock to Cambridge, to vote for a candidate for a professorship in whom he was interested, and brought his friend back with him, in his chaise to Hinchingbrook. Under the gateway they met a neighbour, Major Reynolds, with a brother officer, who was presented as Captain Hackman. Lord Sandwich, with his usual hospitality, invited the two officers to a family dinner, and in the evening, he and Miss Ray encountered Major Reynolds, and Mr. Cradock at whist, Captain Hackman preferring to overlook the game. There can be little doubt that Miss Ray inspired the young soldier with love, at first sight. Hackman at that time was on a recruiting party at Huntingdon; he became a constant visitor at Hinchingbrook, and it seems that whenever Miss Ray drove out, he constantly waylaid her, bowing low as she passed. There was evidently a great difference of opinion as to Miss Ray’s feelings, with regard to her new admirer. One account of the transaction affirms that she was not insensible to his devotion, and that the black servant, believing she was false, imparted his suspicions to Lord Sandwich. The same authority states that his Lordship taxed his beautiful companion with her inconstancy, and either through his influence, or that of Major Reynolds, Hackman obtained a recommendation to Sir John Swaine, Adjutant-general in Ireland, where he remained nearly two years. But he never forgot the beautiful Margaret, and leaving the army, he entered the Church, obtained a living in Norfolk, and wrote her a passionate love letter, in which he proposed marriage, and went so far as to promise tenderness, and protection for her children by Lord Sandwich. This offer was refused with decision, whether from fidelity to her protector, anxiety for her children’s welfare, or indifference to her adorer, we cannot say. Her situation was certainly not one of calm enjoyment. One evening at the Admiralty she complained to Mr. Cradock, that she did not believe either Lord Sandwich, or herself was safe to go out, from the fury of the mob, and that coarse ballads, and libels were sung under the windows, which looked upon the Park. Bursting into tears, she besought Mr. Cradock to intercede with Lord Sandwich, to make some settlement on her, not from mercenary motives, but because she wished to relieve my Lord from greater expense, and to go on the stage. Her voice was at its best, Italian music her forte, and she was sure that through her friend Signor Giardini, and Mr. Cradock’s friends Mrs. Brooke and Mrs. Yates, she could secure an advantageous engagement. As might have been supposed, Mr. Cradock declined to interfere, and the matter dropped.

In the meantime, Hackman, on the receipt of Miss Ray’s letter, which put a stop to his long cherished hopes, stung to the quick, and in such distress of mind, as brought him to the verge of madness, rushed up to London. He strove to effect an interview with the singing master, Signor Galli, but this was prevented by the vigilance of Lord Sandwich, who entrusted the Italian with the task of informing Mr. Hackman that Miss Ray would have no more communication with him. He took a lodging in Duke’s Court, St. Martin’s Lane, and on the 7th of April, 1779, he passed the morning in reading Blair’s Sermons, and dined with his sister, and her husband, a newly married couple. He then went out, proceeded to the Admiralty, and seeing Lord Sandwich’s coach at the door, he imagined it likely that Miss Ray might be going in it, to call on her friend Signora Galli, at her lodgings in the Haymarket. Thence he walked to the Cannon Coffee-house, Charing Cross, and watching the carriage pass, he followed it in time to see Miss Ray, and Signora Galli enter Covent Garden Theatre. On going in, he was distracted with jealousy at seeing her addressed by “a gentleman of genteel and handsome appearance,” whom he afterwards found to be Lord Coleraine. The performance was “Love in a Village.” He went out, furnished himself with a brace of loaded pistols, and returned to Covent Garden. When the play was over, he kept Miss Ray with her two companions in view, through the lobby, where there was a great crowd, until she was under the piazza, and her coach was called, in the name of Lady Sandwich. He was pushed down by a chairman, running suddenly against him, but recovered himself in time to pursue his victim to her coach, in which Signora Galli had already taken her place. Stepping between Miss Ray, who had accepted the arm of Mr. McNamara (of Lincoln’s Inn Fields), and the coach, he discharged his right hand pistol at her, and his left at himself. The beautiful and unfortunate woman, raised her hand to her head, and dropped down dead at his feet. Hackman fell at the same moment, but finding that he was still alive, he beat himself about the head, with the pistol, crying to the bystanders to kill him. The murderer, and the victim, were both carried to the Shakespeare Tavern; the corpse lay in one room, while the wounded man was attended to, in another. He enquired for her, and declared he only meant to kill himself, and had failed in his object. He was taken before Sir John Fielding, who committed him to Tothill Fields Bridewell, and afterwards to Newgate, where he was constantly watched to prevent his making away, with himself. He was attended on his trial by a friend, and on first entering the court, was much agitated, sighing, and weeping while the evidence was being given, yet at the same time showing a courageous, and even noble deportment as concerned his own fate. He made a most pathetic speech, in which he confessed his guilt, but attributed it to sudden phrensy, as regarded murder. The suicide, he said, was premeditated. He had no wish to avoid punishment; he was too unhappy to care for life, now she was gone, and he submitted himself to the judgment of Almighty God. A letter found in his pocket, to his brother-in-law, taking leave of him, and speaking in the most affectionate terms of his “beloved woman,” seemed to bear out his testimony. His hearers were much affected, but on his return to the cell he became composed, and said he was rejoiced to think, his time on earth was so short. After his sentence was passed, he received the following letter in prison:

“If the murderer of Miss —— wishes to live, the man he has most
injured, will use all his interest to procure his life.”

The prisoner’s reply was as follows:

“Condemned Cell, Newgate.