NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY. 
 
 HANDBOOK 
 
 TO THE 
 
 Aj 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 
 PUBLISHED AT THE EXHIBITION PALACE. 
 
 1 8 7 2 . 
 
John Falconer, Printer, 63, Upper Sackville-street, Dublin. 
 
151 
 f $1 -k* 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The substance of the following notes, referring to the 
 more important National Portraits in the Exhibition, 
 
 has already appeared in some articles furnished to the 
 
 Athenaeum , Pall Mall Gazette , and Graphic. The 
 writer has been asked to enlarge them: and, in their 
 present shape, it is hoped they will be found useful 
 as a supplement to the more detailed Catalogue so 
 carefully prepared by Sir Bernard Burke. 
 
 The author has to acknowledge the assistance of his 
 friend, Mr. Henry Doyle, Director of the National 
 Gallery of Ireland, to whose exertions the formation 
 of the collection is mainly due. 
 
 P. F. 
 
 Merrion-street, 
 
 June 26th, 1872. 
 
NOTES 
 
 ON THE 
 
 MORE REMARKABLE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 NATIONAL PORTRAITS IN THE DUBLIN EXHIBITION. 
 
 Portrait painting may be said to stand at the head of all 
 the various departments of painting. Of these it is the 
 most difficult, because the most intellectual; but in its 
 results is the most satisfactory. The historical painter 
 arranges his groups, dresses, and incidents according to 
 correct authorities, and trusts to a bold fancy or to the 
 suggestions of friends for a judicious disposition of his 
 characters. The painter of genre obtains his “ situation ” 
 or incident, also by suggestion; and as the little scene tells 
 its own story on the canvas, the painter is so far assisted. 
 Landscape painting, indeed, if the artist goes beyond mere 
 imitation of trees, and fields, and skies, requires a higher 
 intellectual operation ; namely, the discovering the moods 
 and humours of nature, the mystery which gives the charm 
 to some landscapes, which is independent of sunlight or 
 shadow, with other influences to which the undefined 
 poetry of the scene is owing. This “ piercing behind the 
 veil” to read the mind of nature is a high, intelligent 
 operation, but one far lower than reading the mind of 
 man behind the mask of the human face. 
 
 The most vulgar of vulgar errors is the belief that 
 perfect imitation is art. It is, in fact, the lowest and 
 easiest shape of artistic success. It is in the spirit of the 
 Chinese tailor, who reproduced the patch or stain on the 
 pattern given him to work from. Any copy of an object 
 
6 
 
 that has life will always be unfaithful, because wanting 
 life, which is certainly not supplied by the conventional 
 stare or hard gaze of the average portrait. For this 
 reason a photograph is outside art, as well as a plaster 
 cast, and the like. A terra-cotta casting might fall within 
 the same category; but the artist gives a few touches here 
 and there, transfers a part of his own feeling to it by a 
 little free handling and moulding, and from that moment 
 it acquires a certain life, and becomes artistic. The 
 operation of ordinary commercial portrait painting is 
 founded on some such vicious principle. The sitter is 
 laboriously and faithfully copied, with his face and dress. 
 There is not time to learn the character, habitual expres¬ 
 sion, and other familiar marks and tokens, which would 
 require either long acquaintance or that brilliant intuition 
 which belongs only to real genius. Such is, indeed, beyond 
 the price that can be afforded for the average picture. 
 Again, supposing some attempt to be made at “ catching ” 
 expression and character, it is only an expression called 
 up by the painter’s order, as when he gives the hackneyed 
 direction, u smile now ”—“ think of something pleasant.” 
 This curious air of unreality is further aided by the 
 conventional attitude so much in favour with sitters 
 and painters. If some unsophisticated stranger from a 
 barbarous country, unfamiliar with portraits, were called 
 on to state what attitude of daily life the gentleman 
 standing by the pillar and red curtaih was supposed to 
 represent, or what the “ half-length ” smirking from the 
 canvass was doing, he would be puzzled to answer. The 
 only intelligible solution, which would be the real one, 
 is, that he was standing there to be looked at , that he was 
 conscious of this operation, and that the attitude of his 
 mind, as well as of his body, both revealed the same 
 impression. 
 
 It must be recollected, too, that the great aim of 
 painting, and, indeed, of all art, is to elevate—to represent, 
 
in the most beautiful way, what is beautiful. The modern 
 pre-Raphaelites spent a vast deal of pains on a piece of 
 brick-wall, or the decayed trunk of a tree, forgetting that 
 if there was nothing beautiful or elevating in the original, 
 the reproduction, however accurate, must have even less 
 claim to be interesting. On the other hand, it is quite 
 possible for a painter to impart some dignity and beauty to 
 the plainest and even the most vulgar face. And this is the 
 only fashion in which justice can be done in portrait¬ 
 painting. There may be some eminent manufacturer who 
 has raised himself from the ranks of his workmen by his 
 own unflagging industry, and who is now wealthy and 
 important. He may be plain, plebeian-looking, “vulgar” in 
 dress and manner, and coarse-handed. An inferior painter, 
 faithfully copying, would unavoidably present him with all 
 these unpleasant attributes ; and he would go down to 
 posterity—or at least to his heirs—a mean and disagreeable¬ 
 looking object. But the portrait-painter of genius can save 
 a worthy man from this injustice. He would think of the 
 self-denial, the purpose, the energy, which had raised the 
 person sitting to him to his present honourable position; he 
 would feel respect for such qualities ; he would tempt him to 
 relate his old struggles and his victories; he would note the 
 kindling eye, the intelligent satisfaction, the honest pride, 
 and the natural simplicity; and as these would affect him 
 with a sense of dignity and respect, so would the result of his 
 handiwork affect the spectator. It will be found that all 
 really great portraits have been painted on this principle; 
 the artists having within them—first, a native dignity of soul; 
 second, this intuition of the noble side of character; third, 
 the cunning u to stamp it on his work.” The constrained 
 attitude of “ sitting for one’s picture ” it is impossible to get 
 rid of; but the great artist will lend, either a fantastic 
 seriousness or an intellectual consciousness of the position, as 
 though the sitter or “ stander ” were making pleasant protest, 
 and saying, “ I, a being of intelligence, submit to this form 
 
8 
 
 of society for the sake of my family.” In many of Reynolds’ 
 and Gainsborough’s groups, where noble gentlemen, their 
 ladies, and children are grouped in a garden, there is this 
 charmingly refined air of half affectionate, half smiling good 
 humour which carries off an awkwardness of the position. 
 The great old portrait-painters—the Moronis, Pordenones, 
 Titians, Velasquez’, Vandykes, and others who painted the 
 head of the Venetian nobleman, or of the rough soldier, were 
 so full of this idea of intellect and thought, the spiritual side, 
 in short, that we completely forget attitute and other 
 accidents, and think only of the character of the man before 
 us. Those amazing heads—swarthy, cavernous about the 
 eyes—seem so full of power that their owners do not con¬ 
 descend to “ sit,” or place themselves in an attitude. They 
 are wholly indifferent. They suggest the idea that they had 
 haughtily given the artist permission to seize the likeness as 
 they strode by him, or how he could, so that they were not 
 troubled. It is from principles like these, common to acting 
 and poetry, that ordinary portraits present such a contrast. 
 In the London National Gallery is a portrait by Moroni, 
 of a tailor—literally a tailor in his sleeves, and in the act of 
 cutting out his cloth, yet by dignity of treatment, i.e., 
 by showing the craftsman seriously and earnestly engaged 
 at his work, and of course by the artist’s own wonderful 
 touch, the whole acquires a charm and interest that is 
 inconceivable. No vulgar association intrudes—the idea 
 of a man engaged in some dignified calling is suggested. 
 There is, perhaps, but one living portrait painter who is 
 capable of such a feat—Millais. He has recently shown 
 what he can do, in w^hat is almost always a monument of art, 
 poverty, or theatrical vulgarity, viz., a hunting portrait. 
 We all have seen the combination in the ordinary picture, 
 
 “ Presented to Mr. -by the members of the-Hunt,” 
 
 when the smiling sportsman, flouncing in scarlet, flat as 
 though he were cut out of card-board, stands surrounded 
 by his wooden dogs. Millais, in his hunting portrait of Lord 
 
Westminster has not thought of the red coat, boots, and 
 other theatrical accessories, but of the man and of the 
 sportsman, just as Titian and Vandyke, would do. Sporting 
 accessories—dogs, whippers in, &c.—do not make a sporting 
 portrait, no more than does u the cowl make the monk.” 
 Millais places his subject in a darkened gallery, with a rich 
 sort of tapestried background, in the act of drawing on the 
 well worn riding gloves, with a quiet anticipating ex¬ 
 pression. The face and attitude here is everything; the 
 coat stained with riding—a feast of mellow scarlet—but is 
 subsidiary. It is when we turn from this masterpiece to an 
 enormous canvas near it, all red coats, bay horses, dogs 
 heads and tails, a fox lifted in the air, that we see the 
 difference between intellectual portrait painting and the 
 mere painting of coats, with the incidents of the craft. 
 
 These high results are too costly for modern portrait 
 painting. The artist who is u the fashion ” is overworked, and 
 cannot spare time for studying character: indeed, the average 
 sitter asks no more than to have an effective picture that 
 friends will recognize, at a low cost. Yet mark one result. 
 While he is alive his own familiar face, as it were, supplies 
 for friends and acquaintances the intelligence and character 
 that is wanting in the portrait; but when he shall have 
 departed, the key will be lost—the face will every day 
 become more and more insipid and meaningless. To the 
 remoter descendant it will become intolerable—be spoken of 
 as kC that daub,” and be put away in some remote or unvisited 
 room, as bringing discredit on more worthily painted com¬ 
 panions. Hence it is that dealers’ shops become literally 
 magazines for these condemned things, which are to be found 
 crowded together there like books on the shelves. But the 
 intelligently painted portrait—even if such a fate overtakes 
 it—is speedily rescued; the speaking, thoughtful face, in 
 which lingers some of the old light of the departed mind, 
 attracts the connoisseur, even if it be nameless—it is hung 
 up in his gallery, and commands all respect. But in 
 
10 
 
 our day, as we have said, intellectual treatment in any 
 department is only to be secured at a costly price; and the 
 sums demanded and received by men like Watts and Millais 
 can only be furnished by the wealthy nobleman or the mer¬ 
 chant prince. Under these conditions the old portraits of 
 the nation become a precious inheritance, and those of 
 remarkable men yet more precious. To gaze therefore on 
 the choice works of Reynolds, Gainsborough, and other 
 masters, becomes almost what Steele described the love 
 of an elegant woman to be—a liberal education—we are 
 refined as well as charmed. 
 
 Apart from this, there is a special charm in a national 
 collection like the present one, gathered with such spirit and 
 energy in the existing Dublin Exhibition. Few countries 
 can show so much variety in their mental production, such 
 dash and brilliancy, or boast such a company of men and 
 women celebrated in every department. The Scotch may 
 bring their sober and thrifty wares to an alien market, 
 and dispose of them there to the best advantage ; and were a 
 gallery of Scotch worthies collected, we would feel ourselves 
 awed by the piercing and reflecting glances, the sharp twink¬ 
 ling eyes, the solemn sagacity which would beam from the 
 frames. Respect and admiration would certainly be present, 
 but interest and sympathy might be wanting. But with the 
 Irishman of fame, some hard-fought battle of life, some tale 
 of interest or adventure, some history, odd, eccentric, sad, 
 humorous, or even astonishing, will be found associated. 
 This is owing to the condition of the Irishman of genius 
 having formerly had to take his wares to a comparatively 
 speaking foreign market, and to struggle desperately under 
 all the disadvantages of being a stranger. This difficulty 
 calls out a special class of qualities—versatility, readiness, 
 wit, humour, and other gifts, and stamps the face with a 
 peculiar character. Thus most of the personages here col¬ 
 lected, either Irishmen in England or Irishmen in Ireland, 
 have spent their lives in some shape of struggle, as stern Lord 
 
11 
 
 Deputies, Parliament men, upholders of “the English in¬ 
 terest,” political orators, Jacobites, actors who had to fight 
 their way from the Dublin to the London stage, poets like 
 Goldsmith, prescribed Catholics, “harried” Protestants, 
 patriots, rebels hunted and outlawed, men of wit and humour 
 who came strangers to London, and painters of genius, 
 like Barry, struggling for a bare crust. All these elements 
 lend unrivalled interest and piquancy to the collection. It 
 has been thought that a few notes on the personal history of 
 the more leading characters would make the whole yet more 
 interesting by supplying, as it were, a key to the more re¬ 
 markable portraits. No order or historical method will be 
 attempted, but we shall ramble hither and thither in a fitful 
 fashion, just as the visitor to such a gallery himself rambles, 
 attracted now by this picture, now by that. 
 
 Had Margaret Woffington written an account of her life 
 and adventures, as some other actresses have done, she 
 would have left an extraordinary narrative to amuse the 
 world. Who would take this soft and nun-like face (147), 
 the first that greets us on entering the room, for that 
 of the boisterous, dashing, brilliant “ Peg ? ” She is repre¬ 
 sented in the inappropriate character of Penelope, and this 
 demureness, which would be a surprise to many, is no affec¬ 
 tation, but is to be found in all her portraits. So was 
 Charles Lamb struck by the fine picture, now in the Garrick 
 Club Collection—“ Woffington on a couch—a true Hogarth— 
 dallying and dangerous.” She began her bold and wild 
 career as a sort of infant prodigy at a children’s theatre in 
 Dublin ; but her talents soon brought her an opening, where 
 her boisterous vivacity in comedy, and, it must be added, 
 her personal attractions, captivated the town. She inspired 
 Garrick, then unknown as an actor, with a frantic passion; 
 but soon disgusted with her inconstancy and irregularities, 
 he took leave of her in perhaps the most bitter verses ever 
 written by a lover— 
 
12 
 
 I know your sophistry, I know your arts, 
 
 Which all your dupes and fools cajole; 
 
 Yourself you give without your heart, 
 
 All may share that, but not your soul. 
 
 After a reckless career, distinguished by genuine triumphs, 
 after boundless frailties and display of thorough good nature 
 and good heart—not at all exaggerated in Mr. Charles 
 Reade’s graphic romance—her theatrical career was to be 
 closed by a truly tragic scene. 
 
 It was long remembered at Covent G-arden how the bold 
 creature had come forward to speak an epilogue in the in¬ 
 appropriate character of Rosalind, and that just as she 
 reached the words, 44 If I were among you I would kiss as 
 many of you as had beards that pleased me”—a sentiment, 
 no doubt, delivered with the special flavour that was half her 
 popularity—she uttered a piercing scream, tottered to the 
 wing, and fell. This closed her career, though she lingered 
 for two or three months at Teddington—a time of retreat 
 which she is said to have given to devotion, or at least 
 to seriousness. There was indeed much to redeem her 
 frailties; a hand and purse always open—her talents at 
 the service of the meanest performer in the theatre; and 
 though General Conway might describe her to his friends as 
 44 an impudent-faced Irish girl,” one of her own profession 
 declared that 44 to the end she remained the same gay, 
 obliging, affable, good-natured Woffington to every one 
 around her.” This is a better epitaph than the average 
 tombstone panegyric. 
 
 Arthur Murphy (140), who hangs close by, was her friend 
 and countryman. This characteristic portrait—the work of 
 Dance—almost reveals the history of the man. We can see 
 that this is one of those agreeable and racy elderly men who 
 have lived pretty hard, and are stocked with grand stories. 
 There is an air of senile dullness, and his eyes are dewy 
 with port wine. His whole life was a struggle with pecu¬ 
 niary difficulties, and before his death he was said 44 to have 
 
13 
 
 eaten himself out of every coffee-house between Temple Bar 
 and the West End.” Yet he is the author of some of the 
 most vivacious comedies in the English language. His wit 
 and talents made him the companion of all who had wit and 
 talent. But these straits made him sensitive and quarrel¬ 
 some to a degree—made him hostile and even malignant to 
 those who, like Garrick, were his best friends. The author 
 of the Rosciad repaid his enmity with some fearfully savage 
 lines, in which he declared that “ prudent dulness marked 
 him for a mayor,” and added— 
 
 Yet let not vanity like thine despair, 
 
 Fortune makes folly her peculiar care. 
 
 Living to a ripe old age, he was naturally asked for his 
 recollections of Garrick and other personages whom he had 
 known. Mr. Rogers used to relate with much humour his in¬ 
 variable reply—“ Mr. Murphy, Sir, you knew Mr. Garrick ? ” 
 “ Yes, Sir, I did.” “ Pray, Sir, what did you think of his 
 acting ? ” A pause would follow. “ Sir, off the stage he 
 was a mean, sneaking, pitiful little fellow ; but on the stage— 
 
 O my great God-! ” Nothing more definite was ever 
 
 extracted, and the late Mr. Taylor added, “I have often 
 heard him utter these words several times during the course 
 of an evening without any variation.” In his picture he 
 seems on the point of once more repeating his favourite 
 platitude. 
 
 Near him we find the jovial and burly Quin (139), his 
 round pink face beaming out of what Sidney Smith calls 
 “ the boundless convexity of friz,” of his wig. The close, 
 even treatment—soft, yet firm and decided—belongs to 
 Hogarth. With this the ambitious whole length of the actor 
 as Falstaff ( ) cannot compare. The full jovial face was 
 
 appropriate to Shakespeare’s jovial knight, though it was 
 reserved for Stephen Kemble to make the proud boast, that 
 “ he played the part without stuffing.” Quin was of the old 
 striding and mouthing school, which was routed from the 
 
14 
 
 stage the night Garrick appeared. Each, however, had 
 their partisans, and both were at last matched, on the same 
 stage, and in the same piece, The Fair Penitent. It was 
 said, that when Quin was challenged by his rival to meet 
 him “two hours ere noon to-morrow,” the old fashioned 
 player was so long in his haughty pause, and preparatory 
 heavings, that some one in the gallery called out with an 
 oath, “ why don’t you give the gentleman an answer.” Near 
 him we see another famous actor, Sheridan (173), set up 
 once by a party, as a rival to Garrick. The picture is full 
 of character, with a trifle of conceit and complacency; 
 signified by his resting his elbow on a large volume of 
 Shakespeare, and the dandy character of the costume, a blue 
 dressing gown, with rose coloured sleeves. The skull cap, 
 which he wears, rendered necessary when the great wig was 
 laid aside, could always be made effective by the painter, in 
 imparting a quaint or familiar air. It has been lent by Mr. 
 Lefanu, the well known novelist; a Sheridan himself, in 
 whom the hereditary talent is not wanting. The player 
 taught Boswell and other Scotch gentlemen the true English 
 accent, combined however with some of his native pronun¬ 
 ciation. To Johnson he was intolerable. “ Why, sir,” the 
 great lexicographer would say, “Sherry is dull, naturally dull; 
 but it must have taken him a great deal of pains to become 
 what we now see him. Such an excess of stupidity, sir, is 
 not in nature.” This was one of the hugs of the great bear. 
 No family can boast of such a wealth of talent accumulating 
 from generation to generation. A famous divine was suc¬ 
 ceeded by an actor more famous, who gave place to the great 
 Brinsley, who was orator, dramatist, and wit. There was a 
 falling off in Tom Sheridan, who was yet a man of mark in 
 society, but who repaid his failure by giving the world three 
 clever daughters. 
 
 To tell anything of Richard Brinsley Sheridan (174), 
 seems like going over a hackneyed theme. At one time 
 his shifts were spoken of indulgently; as being merely the 
 
15 
 
 special “way” of old Sherry—but looked at by the cold 
 eye of this orderly generation, they would hardly escape 
 more severe criticism. More pleasant to think of are some 
 of his practical jokes, the best of which will be found 
 in Rogers' Table Talk. It was to the poet that he made 
 that strange speech on his death-bed—“Tell Lady Bess- 
 borough that my eyes will loak up to the cofin lid as brightly as 
 ever .” He had the finest eyes in the world, and he was not 
 a little vain of them. 
 
 Here is O’Keefe (165), by Laurenson, a cheerful, firmly- 
 painted portrait, which has something original in the pose. 
 Reynolds set the example of trying to make the attitude 
 symbolize character, and third-rate painters taking the hint, 
 succeeded in giving their work a vigour and originality. 
 The gay scarlet coat and green waistcoat are in festive 
 keeping, while the mouth relaxing between the “puffed” 
 cheeks is about to break into a roguish smile. The humour 
 of his farces has never been surpassed, and the original ex¬ 
 travagance of the burdens of such songs as “ Amo Amas, 
 I love the lass,” is entirely his own. His memoirs are 
 charming reading, full of vivid boyish recollections that 
 restore the local colour of the past. He remembered Peg 
 Woffington’s mother, a decent old lady in a tippet, going to 
 a Catholic Chapel, and recalled an old Captain Debrisay who 
 strode about the streets unremarked in the cavalier’s dress of 
 Charles the Second’s day. 
 
 Were we called on to part with all our distinguished 
 Irishmen save one, Oliver Goldsmith would perhaps be 
 the one retained by most voices. His exquisite poem, the 
 “ Deserted Village,” is general intellectual property. “ She 
 Stoops to Conquer,” for humour and spirit never fails, while 
 his life and adventures, so admirably told by Mr. Forster, 
 “ have increased the public stock of harmless pleasure.” The 
 side-face, as preserved by Sir Joshua (158)—so reflecting, 
 so amiable, and full of simplicity in the lower features—is 
 familiar to all. No other, it seems, would harmonize with 
 
16 
 
 his story. There can be seen in it an air of suffering 
 from the misapprehensions of dullards, to whom he was 
 superior; but those familiar with the engraving are dis¬ 
 appointed at the rather dull tones and dark olive tints which 
 pervade the whole. Northcote declared it to be the most 
 affecting picture in the world, to those who knew the poet. 
 Characteristic, too, is the hasty sketch by Hogarth (159), 
 representing him bent over a table, and writing with all his 
 energy “against time”—his arms and legs even showing 
 the purpose of his mind. This has been engraved in the 
 new edition of Mr. Forster’s work. 
 
 This oval portrait (corridor), that looks like a pastel 
 drawing—a soft, composed face, breaking from between two 
 lace lappets secured in a top knot over the head—is the face 
 of Elizabeth, Duchess of Hamilton, whose story eclipses 
 all romance. The history of the beautiful Gunnings is well 
 known—the fascinating beauties who set off from Dublin 
 and threw London into the most amazing excitement. They 
 were mobbed in the Park and at Vauxhall, the crowd form¬ 
 ing an avenue through which they had to walk. In Dublin 
 it was said that Sheridan had been accustomed to lend them 
 dresses from his theatrical wardrobe for balls and parties, 
 while on their first coming to London Mr. Thrale and a 
 friend made them the subject of an ungentlemanly hoax, 
 getting some low hanger-on to personate one of the “ Lords,” 
 to whom the young ladies were so eager to be introduced. 
 The two friends and the impostor were turned into the 
 street. The future Lady Coventry wisely affected to forget 
 the transaction; but the Duchess never forgave Thrale. 
 They were not long in securing two genuine noblemen, 
 to the rage of all the fine ladies, the Duke of Hamilton 
 being so impatient, that the ceremony was performed 
 at midnight by a sort of “ couple beggar ” clergy¬ 
 men, and with a curtain ring. The beautiful Coventry 
 enjoyed her title but a short time, killing herself by the 
 excessive use of white paint, not before, however, learning 
 
17 
 
 that a shoemaker had made a large sum by exhibiting one of 
 her shoes. There was a third sister whose marriage was 
 not so brilliant as that of the others. The character of 
 their beauty will be seen in this picture, as well as in the 
 engraved portraits hung in the gallery—long swimming eyes 
 and small delicate mouths. The Duchess of Hamilton and 
 her husband kept up an absurd state 44 at their own house,” 
 says Walpole— 44 they walk in to dinner before their company, 
 sit together at the upper end of their own table, eat off the 
 same plate, and drink to nobody beneath the rank of an 
 Earl. Would not one wonder,” adds the lively chronicler 
 of Strawberry-hill, “how they would get anybody either 
 above or below that rank to dine with them at all! ” Later 
 she married the Duke of Argyle, and one of the best 
 dramatic scenes in Boswell’s Tour is her haughty reception 
 of him and the 44 grand old Samuel ” at Inverary. 44 I knew,” 
 writes 4 Bozzy,’ 44 it was the rule of modern high life not to 
 drink to anybody, but that I might have the satisfaction for 
 once to look a Duchess in the face, with a glass in my hand, 
 I, with a respectful air, addressed her— 4 My lady Duchess, 
 I have the honour to drink your grace’s good health.’ I 
 repeated the words audibly, and with a steady countenance. 
 This was, perhaps, rather too much ; but some allowance 
 must be made for human feelings.” 
 
 This brilliant and happy specimen of Sir Joshua’s full, 
 rich manner (210), is the portrait of the second Duke of 
 Leinster, which itself is the centre of a group to which 
 an almost painful interest attaches. In the drooped 
 neck and languid ease of this portrait there is a kind of 
 patrician indifference, and the refined tone of the face and 
 rich bloom-coloured coat is a feast for the eye. Near him 
 is his brother, the unfortunate Lord Edward Fitzgerald 
 (216), a curious contrast in its rudeness and affected care¬ 
 lessness of dress, which gives an almost plebeian air to the 
 face. 44 He is turned,” says Jephson, the lively Master of 
 the Horse at Dublin Castle, 44 a complete Frenchman, crops 
 
 n 
 
18 
 
 his hair, despises his title, walks the streets instead of 
 riding”—fair testimony to the faithful character of the 
 likeness. The graceful'picture of his wife “Pamela” (211) 
 and her daughter, the late Lady Guy Campbell, seems quite 
 French in treatment; and in the smaller head (207) there 
 is no suggestion of Emma Hamilton, whose image Romney 
 found it as impossible, as “ Mr. Dick ” did the execution 
 of Charles the First, to exclude from his pictures. She 
 suggests another passage in Jephson’s letters—“I was 
 fortunate enough,” he says, “to get a sight of the cele¬ 
 brated Pamela as I happened to be sitting with Lord 
 Charlemont. She is elegant and engaging in the highest 
 degree, and showed the most judicious taste in her remarks 
 upon the library and curiosities. The Dublin ladies , I 
 understand , wish to put her down. She promised Lord Charle¬ 
 mont, with great good humour, to assist him in keeping 
 ing her husband in order. She was dressed in a plain 
 riding-habit, and came to the door in a curricle.” Unhappily 
 neither the elegant dilettante of Marino, nor Pamela herself, 
 who made this airy engagement, could keep the high- 
 spirited patriot “ in order.” Her face has a certain French 
 piquancy and vivacity—an expression that was soon to be 
 changed. For presently was to come the spectacle of a dis¬ 
 tracted wife on her knees to the Chancellor, imploring 
 admission to the gaol where her husband was dying from the 
 wounds received in his struggle with the men who came to 
 arrest him. Rogers, who saw her before her marriage, 
 describes her as “ lovely and quite radiant with beauty.” 
 Sheridan had been one of her most ardent admirers, and 
 Madame de Genlis declares in her memoirs that he seriously 
 offered his hand, which was eagerly accepted. But the vola¬ 
 tile Brinsley saw them off to their own country, and never 
 thought more of the matter. 
 
 To the Lady Clancarty, whose portrait is seen here (92), 
 is attached a story of singular interest, but as told by 
 Macaulay it becomes a romance. She was the daughter of 
 
19 
 
 Sunderland, the unscrupulous minister of Charles the Second, 
 to whom it seemed desirable that she should be married to 
 the young Irish Lord Clancarty, who held vast estates in 
 Munster. The youthful pair, being aged, the one fifteen and 
 the other eleven, were forthwith separated; but strange 
 vicissitudes were to occur before they met again. He took 
 part with James in the struggle for the Crown—was taken, 
 imprisoned, and lost all his lands by confiscation. His wife’s 
 relatives pursued him with a bitter hatred, and when, on 
 being released, he found his way back to her, his brother- 
 in-law denounced him, had him dragged to the Tower, and 
 it seemed certain that he would be tried and executed. But 
 the devotion of his wife, her tears and desolation, raised up 
 friends, and excited the sympathy of a noble lady, the widow 
 of the martyred Russell, who herself took her to the palace 
 to place a petition in the King’s hand. Such intercession 
 could not be refused. William graciously pardoned him; 
 and, with the usual condition of expatriation, and a small 
 pension added, the Earl and his faithful Elizabeth sailed for 
 foreign lands. To this pretty story, it may be conceived, 
 Macaulay’s style lends its own special fascination. 
 
 There is here, too, the pastel drawing of yet another 
 heroine, Miss Ambrose, a young Catholic beauty at the Court 
 of Lord Chesterfield, by whom she was admired and com¬ 
 plimented. There was no flattery in describing as a miracle 
 the fact, that one “ dull line ” had been by “ Stanhope’s pencil 
 writfor everything that this elegant and witty nobleman 
 wrote had an air of light grace and elegance. Of this 
 young lady he said, laughing at the fears of the loyalists, 
 “ that she was the only dangerous papist in the kingdom 
 and on the Williamite Twelfth of July, when she appeared at 
 a ball at the Castle wearing orange lilies, he addressed to 
 her these happy lines— 
 
 “ Pretty Tory, where’s the jest 
 Of orange lilies on your breast, 
 
 If that same breast itself disclose 
 The whiteness of the rebel rose.” 
 
20 
 
 Near her is her lover, Mr. Bradshaw. This Castle belle 
 later became Lady Palmer, but she always cherished the 
 recollection of the courtly Stanhope. She lived on and 
 on, till that master of the graces, and all her friends, had 
 passed away; and early in the present century, when she 
 reached the age of one hundred years, Richard Shiel, 
 who paid her a visit in Henry-street, found the former 
 beauty a fearful old crone, with “ a weird shrivelled face 
 and sorceress eye.” But over the chimney-piece was the 
 picture of her old admirer; and a few adroit suggestions 
 brought the subject to her mind, and showed how com¬ 
 placently she dwelt upon the recollection. Her story sug¬ 
 gests that of another centenarian. 
 
 It would be an idle task to settle the authenticity of a 
 portrait, when the original itself has been the subject of 
 vehement discussion. Such has been the fate of the famous 
 old Countess of Desmond (18), and the half-a-dozen por¬ 
 traits, each of which claims to be the true likeness. The 
 one engraved in Chambers’ “ Book of Days ”—an old lady 
 in a deep cowl-shaped hood—has more character than 
 the present one, which, however, is well painted. The 
 subject of her amazing age has been discussed again and 
 again; but there seems no reason to doubt that she lived 
 for seven score years. Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir 
 William Temple, and others, all remembered this prodigy. 
 The conclusion arrived at is that she was born in 1464, and 
 died about the year 1604. It is therefore possible that the 
 great-grandfather of a nonagenarian now living might have 
 spoken to a lady who had been married in the reign of 
 Edward IV. The tradition ran that she had danced at a 
 ball with crook-backed Richard, “ who,” she said, u was the 
 handsomest man in the room, except his brother—and 
 well made.” Raleigh knew her personally. Her name was 
 Catherine Fitzgerald, of Dromana, and she was married to 
 the twelfth Earl of Desmond, who died in 1534. She was 
 therefore seventy years a widow! The present picture has 
 
21 
 
 been fancifully ascribed to Rembrandt, an idea that may be 
 dismissed without a moment’s hesitation. It comes, how¬ 
 ever, from the representative of the Fitzgeralds of Dromana, 
 Lord Stuart de Decies, in whose family it has been handed 
 down, with a genuine tradition attached. In Lord Leicester’s 
 “ Table Book,” a little entry gives us a glimpse of the un¬ 
 worthy straits to which this veteran was reduced. u This 
 old ladye,” it runs, “ landing at Bristol, came on foot to 
 London, being then so old, that her daughter was decrepid, 
 and not able to come with her, but was brought in a little 
 cart, their poverty not allowing better means.” 
 
 There is, too, yet another of these ancient survivors— 
 old Lady Cork, the Lady Morgan of generations back. 
 She figures as Miss Monckton in the last century, whom 
 Johnson in one of his playful moods called u a dunce,” for 
 which rudeness he apologized in the handsomest way he was 
 capable, saying, if he had thought so, he certainly would 
 not have said it. As Lady Cork she became a professional 
 u lion hunter,” and Mrs. Siddons describes, in her vivacious 
 way, a scene where she herself was made a victim. Innu¬ 
 merable were the j ests on this craze of her’s. Jekyll likened 
 her to a shuttlecock, because she was “ all cork and feathers.” 
 But Sidney Smith hits the hardest. “ I remember Lady 
 Cork,” said he, “ being so moved by a charity sermon, that 
 she begged me to lend her a guinea for her contribution. 
 She never repaid me , and spent it on herself ,This amusing 
 complication of obliquity—as Johnson might describe it— 
 is probably an exaggeration of the lively clergyman ; but it 
 is at least ben trovato. 
 
 Here is Barry (156), the artist of “ great canvases ”—done 
 by his own hand. One of the true geniuses—uncontrolled— 
 somewhat wild—who preferred their great impracticable, 
 unsaleable works to more marketable and manageable pro¬ 
 ductions. In this he reminds us of the ill-fated Haydon. 
 He was also as impetuous and as wrongheaded—having once 
 had the folly, when his house was robbed, to impute the loss to 
 
22 
 
 the enmity of the academicians. He invited his friend and 
 patron, Burke, to dine with him, at his miserable house, off 
 a tender steak and porter. “ Be useful, my dear friend,” he 
 said to the great statesman, “ and look to the steaks, while I 
 fetch the porter.” When he returned, he came with bad 
 news. “What a misfortune!” he exclaimed. u The wind 
 carried away the fine foaming top, as I crossed Titchfield- 
 street.” But the steak was juicy and excellently cooked, 
 the porter good, the painter full of stories; and Burke often 
 declared that he never spent a happier evening in his life. 
 
 This sort of silver grey picture is that of Primate Robinson, 
 who later became Lord Rokeby (177). “Remark in this,” says 
 Mr. Tom Taylor, “ and the other portraits of the master, 
 the felicitous and various employment of the persons he is 
 painting. He is taken in his chair, among his books; but 
 not as if he had been entrenched in a bulwark of ponderous 
 tomes, only to maintain his archiepiscopal dignity under their 
 shelter. He merely happened to be sitting in his library 
 when Sir Joshua called. As his name was announced, the 
 archbishop turned round, of course; but being a studious 
 man, he did not rise from his book; indeed, he had not time 
 to do so. . . . There is no conventional inkstand, pillow, 
 and red curtain, though the occasion was a tempting one. A 
 scholar and an archbishop would have justified all three.” 
 This, of course, is a mere fanciful speculation; but it 
 shows the true principle of portrait painting. The “con¬ 
 ventional pillars, curtains, and inkstands ” may be counted by 
 the thousand; but it is not in company with such adjuncts 
 that our friends become familiar to us. The picture, 
 however, seems a little cold, and the face is faded. 
 
 A more remarkable man than Primate Robinson, but 
 belonging to another church, was the famous Father O’Leary, 
 of whom O’Keefe gives the graphic sketch. “ He had a 
 fine smooth brogue; his learning was extensive, and his wit 
 brilliant. He was tall and thin, with a long, pale, and 
 pleasant visage, smiling and expressive. His dress was an 
 
23 
 
 entire suit of brown, of the old shape; a narrow stock, high 
 about his neck; and an amply powdered wig.” 
 
 No one could pass this wonderful portrait of Richard 
 Burke (163), the son on whom Edmund Burke doted, 
 without being irresistibly attracted by the character of the 
 face as well as by the masterly painting. It is, indeed, 
 reckoned one of the chef d’oeuvres of Reynolds, and, unlike 
 so many of his pictures, is in perfect preservation. Here, 
 at least, he had denied himself those tricks and experi¬ 
 ments which have slowly destroyed so many of his best 
 works; and here is seen all the rare brilliancy and refine¬ 
 ment which must have characterized his portraits when they 
 first left his easel. The depth, glow, and delicacy are amaz¬ 
 ing. A melancholy interest is attached to it—with its tender 
 inscription, “ 0 decus! 0 dolor /” One of the most promis¬ 
 ing young men of his time, with brilliant hopes, the pride of 
 his father, he had been named Secretary for Ireland; and 
 was on the eve of starting, when symptoms of a decline 
 suddenly declared themselves and carried him off in a very 
 short time. The last dismal scene has been well described 
 by Mr. M‘Knight. Fancying that he heard his father and 
 mother weeping below, he rose, dressed himself carefully, 
 and came down; then walked over to the window, affecting 
 his usual firm tread. But presently he had to be carried 
 again back to his bed. The father was speechless, and in 
 an agony of despair, when the son said to him — u Why, sir, 
 do you not chide me for these unmanly feelings? I am 
 under no terror. I feel myself better, and in spirits; . yet 
 my heart falters, I know not why. Pray, sir, talk to me. 
 Talk of religion; talk of morality; talk, if you will, on 
 indifferent subjects.” He then seemed to listen for some¬ 
 thing that was coming. “ What noise is that,” he asked ; u is 
 it rain?” He was told it was only the wind whistling through 
 the trees. The dying man, then sitting up, recited, “ with 
 all the grace of elocution,” the morning hymn of u Adam,” 
 from Milton, repeating it several times. As he finished, he 
 
24 
 
 sank down into his father’s and mother’s arms, who clung 
 around him. In a few moments the end came. The grief 
 of the stricken parents was almost awful—the distracted 
 father rushing about, and filling the air with loud cries ; the 
 more wretched mother spent an hour rubbing the inanimate 
 form of her child with vinegar, fancying she could bring 
 him back to life. 
 
 When this promising young man went over to Dublin to 
 present the petition of the Catholics to the Irish House of 
 Commons, a droll scene took place. Through some miscon¬ 
 ception he walked in among the members, and was advancing 
 up to the Speaker’s chair, when loud cries of “ privilege ! ” 
 “ a stranger present!” checked him. The sonorous voice of 
 the Speaker was heard directing that he should be taken into 
 custody, and he turned back, a little alarmed, but was met 
 by the Serjeant-at-arms advancing on him with a drawn 
 sword. From him he turned and again made for the 
 Speaker’s chair, where he was confronted by the Clerk of 
 the House, when he fairly took to his heels, and pursued by 
 doorkeepers, clerks, and serjeant, got safely to the street, 
 where he escaped. Very few knew who he was; and 
 though severe measures were at first thought of, the matter 
 was allowed to drop. 
 
 Our popular idea of his great father is not associated 
 with much feeling or nature. We think of him as rather 
 cold and declamatory. Here we see him, in a portrait 
 by Opie (160), turning, with a thoughtful air, from a paper 
 that he is reading. In all the portraits of this wonder¬ 
 ful man we notice a certain oratorical scorn about the 
 mouth. His was a vast and complete mind; his oratorical 
 gifts were of a grand and solid order; and these might seem 
 opposed to about an equal power of wit and repartee, which, 
 however, was light and airy—as when he crushed a supporter 
 of the Court in the House of Commons. “We reverence 
 the King,” he said, “ but we are not on that account bound 
 to bow down before everything that is his—his ox,” and 
 
25 
 
 here he fixed his eyes on the offender, ki or his ass” Grattan 
 used to say happily of him, in reference to this veneration 
 for royalty, “ that he could not have slept comfortably on his 
 pillow, if he had not thought that the King had a right to 
 carry it off from under his head.” 
 
 This name is worthily associated with Grattan, of whom 
 we find two portraits here; one (209) representing him when 
 he was grown old—when his face had grown u craggy,” and 
 which resembles the excellent likeness by Pope, the actor. 
 The great full-length, from the Hall of Trinity College (191), 
 shows him under more romantic conditions—dressed in 
 his scarlet Volunteer uniform, moving his famous bill, in a 
 spirited oratorical attitude. Apart from the public gifts that 
 made him famous, the glimpses we have of him in private 
 life, and which are little known to the general reader, 
 present him in an almost engaging light. By his English 
 political friends he was regarded with something like affec¬ 
 tion ; and Rogers has treasured up many of his pleasant 
 remarks and reflections. Says the poet of u Memory”— 
 
 “ A walk in Spring, Grattan, like those with thee, 
 
 By the heath side (who had not envied me !)” 
 
 In his rambles with this friend, the orator would touch 
 on many subjects with a pleasant simplicity. “ I should 
 like,” he would say, u to spend my whole life in a small, neat 
 cottage. I could be content with very little ; only cold meat, 
 and bread, and beer, and ”—with a roguish smile—“ plenty 
 of claret” This is a fair specimen of his pleasant manner. 
 Readers of memoirs will recall Lord Holland’s sketch of his 
 first appearance in the English House of Commons. “ When 
 he rose curiosity was excited, and one might have heard a 
 pin drop in the crowded house. It required, indeed, intense 
 attention to catch the strange and long-fetched deep whisper 
 in which he began; and I could see the incipient smile curling 
 on Mr. Pitt’s lips at the brevity and antithesis of his sen¬ 
 tences, and his grotesque gesticulation, peculiar and almost 
 
26 
 
 foreign accent. As he proceeded, however, the sneers of his 
 opponents were softened into courtesy and attention, and at 
 length settled in delight and admiration. Mr. Pitt beat time 
 to the artificial but harmonious cadences of his periods. 
 Never was triumph more complete.” 
 
 Near him is his great rival in the Irish House, Flood (201). 
 The stiffness and air of importance, as compared with the 
 grace and freedom of the other, will be noticed, as well as 
 the remarkable hooked nose, which once extorted the unwar¬ 
 rantable personalities of Grattan. Their famous parliamen¬ 
 tary dispute is well known ; but, admitting the gross offen¬ 
 siveness of the terms interchanged, it is impossible not to 
 admire the whole as a specimen of vituperation. “I do not 
 come here,” said Flood, “ dressed in a rich wardrobe of 
 words, to delude the people.” To which Grattan replied by 
 an imaginary picture of “ a man.” “ I will suppose this 
 man’s honour is equal to his oath. I will stop him in his 
 career, and say: 1 Sir, you are mistaken if you think your 
 
 talents are as great as your life is infamous.’. 
 
 You might be descried hovering about this dome like an ill- 
 omened bird of night, with sepulchral note and cadaverous 
 aspect , and a broken beak.” .... 
 
 In the company of wits and men of genius that figure in 
 Boswell’s wonderful gallery, a not ungraceful position is held 
 by Lord Charlemont, the elegant and magnificent patron— 
 the collector—the refined traveller, at a time when the 
 “ grand tour ” could only be afforded by men of wealth and 
 connexions, who went in their chaises from capital to 
 capital, supplied with introductions to all the Courts of 
 Europe. His patronage of Hogarth was well repaid by the 
 possession of such pictures as “ Calais Gate” and the match¬ 
 less u Lady’s Last Stake,” though it is to be wished that the 
 portrait (206) we find here had been finished. It has a 
 natural, even pinkish tone, and is painted with that assured, 
 never-failing touch, so significant of the character of the 
 artist. Had the scarlet of the coat been “ put in,” it would 
 
27 
 
 have been a masterpiece. The face has a certain honest 
 purpose, more that of a country gentleman than that of a 
 professed connoisseur. Looking at it, we can call up the 
 little scene, when the company were hesitating to put a 
 question which it was feared would excite the wrath of the 
 “ great bear,” but which Lord Charlemont undertook, and 
 put with an air of sly simplicity. “ It required,” says 
 Boswell, “ all the courage of a colonel of Irish Volunteers.” 
 Such a man occupies a special place in the social history of 
 his age; and the life of the “noble patron” and traveller, 
 and his correspondence with everyone that was distinguished, 
 witty, and wise of his time, would make a charming contri¬ 
 bution to the literature of the day. 
 
 The portrait of Brooke (120), author of “The Fool of 
 Quality,” a book that made a sensation in its time, is notice¬ 
 able for its lackadaisical air and prim consciousness. He 
 was one of those clever men who in all ages have been 
 absurdly overrated, and his “ Fool of Quality,” though named 
 with a grave respect, is probably not known to a dozen men 
 of this generation. Yet the Rev. Charles Kingsley has 
 republished the work with high praise. The reason for 
 thus exalting mediocre talent seems inscrutable, unless we 
 accept a solution offered by Johnson. Boswell asked his 
 great friend, why Pope so extolled an obscure divine— 
 
 “ Let modest Foster, if he will, excel 
 Ten metropolitans in preaching well.” 
 
 The Doctor said he did not know, “ unless, sir, it was to 
 annoy somebody.” Brooke, however, was one of those men 
 who were highly considered by his friends, and his other 
 works show sense and sagacity. 
 
 A man whose mother was Irish, who was born and reared 
 in Ireland till he was eight or ten years old, may fairly be 
 considered Irish. Such was Laurence Sterne, whose por¬ 
 trait, one of the finest Reynolds ever painted, has been with¬ 
 held from this collection by its noble proprietor, no doubt for 
 good reasons. Every one knows, at least, the engraving (hung 
 
28 
 
 in the corridor) which, however, has now more likeness to 
 the original than the picture. Comparing the two it will be 
 seen that the painting represents a rather fair face, with a 
 light look about the eyes and eyebrows. In the fine mezzo¬ 
 tint these are dashed and well marked, and help to give that 
 inimitable glance of sly roguery. This change is owing to 
 the fading of the colours. We may tremble to think of the 
 state of these pictures fifty years hence. It is like watching 
 the gradual fading of a consumptive cheek where there is no 
 arresting the decay. Sterne is an unique writer—with him 
 u the species is the whole genius.” Removing the gross and 
 wanton blemishes of his works, enough remains to make a 
 reputation of the first order. It is not perhaps known that 
 there is in existence a large portion of the “Journal to 
 Eliza,” the most singular record of “fast life” and jun- 
 kettings that can be conceived, set off by his own quaint 
 style and remarks. Neither perhaps is the ghastly finale to 
 Yorick’s career so well known—how his remains were 
 carried off by the body-snatchers, and sold to a Professor at 
 Cambridge, on whose dissecting-table the face was actually 
 recognized by a friend of the deceased humorist. The 
 liberal feeling of the present Archbishop of York has sanc¬ 
 tioned a monument to his memory in York Cathedral, and 
 some years ago the permission of the Dean was obtained. 
 The money only is required. 
 
 This portrait of Lord Norbury (193), the notorious 
 “ hanging” Judge, brings up a cloud of Bar scenes and say¬ 
 ings by which the monotony of legal procedure was then 
 enlivened—possibly at the expense of the suitor. One might 
 smile at the droll legends associated with this ferocious joker 
 but for the thought that the lives and properties of so many 
 were dependent on his whims. Both Shiel and the famous 
 “ Counsellor” Philips give excellent sketches of his “ways” 
 and peculiarities, his inflation of his vast cheeks, his 
 “blowings,” his coarse jests; while the picture of the scene 
 in his Court, when O’Connell, and Harry Deane Grady, and 
 
29 
 
 other stentorious counsel, and the Judge himself, were all 
 bellowing against each other—is a strange picture of forensic 
 manners. Some of his “ Charges ” are preserved* in the re¬ 
 ports, and are the most extraordinary compositions that can 
 be conceived, beginning with a rambling biography of him¬ 
 self and of the people he knew, diversified by grim jests and 
 jokes of the Joe Miller order, dealing with politics, and al¬ 
 most every subject except the proper business of the trial. 
 His charge was invariably in favour of the plaintiff, though 
 he would praise the defendant as “ a most honourable man ; 
 
 I biew his father well; hut -” which u but” ushered in an 
 
 attack on the case of the person thus praised. In the 
 memoirs of Bewick, the painter (not the engraver), will be 
 found an amusing sketch, showing how an Englishman was 
 affected by the strange vagaries of this eccentric being. 
 
 Near Norbury should surely be found Curran (223), 
 whose voice was often heard in his Court, and whose life, 
 as told by Philips, is one of the best books of memoirs 
 in the language. Stories of Curran’s wit have been told 
 again and again r His powers of retort and repartee were 
 unrivalled. A young girl sitting near him at a tavern, 
 however, once threw him into confusion by a simple ques¬ 
 tion. The story is one of those that Rogers used to tell, 
 and will be new to many. He was dining at Greenwich, 
 and asseverating loudly that sooner than submit to a particu¬ 
 lar thing, “ he would rather be hanged on twenty gibbets!” 
 The young girl said quietly to him, “ Don’t you think, sir, 
 that one would be sufficient?” Curran was utterly taken 
 back, and for once could not make a reply. He was, indeed, 
 not a little uncertain in the display of his gifts, as will be 
 gathered from the recollections of those who met him. This 
 picture, save perhaps the head of Pope Pius at Windsor, is 
 the masterpiece of Sir Thomas Lawrence. In many of his 
 portraits there is a kind of pretty correctness, a smoothness 
 of line and colour, that made him—if it be not irreverent 
 to say so—the Buckner of his day. But on a few rare 
 
30 
 
 occasions, inspired by the forcible character of the face 
 before him, he rose into power and dignity. The tradition 
 runs, that his head of Curran was “ dashed in,” with all 
 speed, instead of adopting his usual leisurely deliberation. 
 Lawrence had first painted Curran as an ordinary sitter, but 
 happened to meet him at dinner shortly after. He told 
 Curran that he had not painted him, did not know what he 
 was, and must paint him again. The result was most 
 striking. The colouring, too, and general handling, all show 
 the same vigorous character, though an objection perhaps 
 might be made to the blue, which wants the depth and 
 lustre of Gainsborough’s, than which it is brighter in tone. 
 When Reynolds was shown some of Lawrence’s early works, 
 he prophesied that he would never be a great painter ; but he 
 would have been more indulgent had he seen the “ Curran ” 
 and “ Pope Pius.” 
 
 It is worth while comparing this fine portrait with that of 
 Tom Moore (224) by the same artist, which is in the 
 painter’s average manner—that sort of florid luxuriance, 
 both of colour and stroke, which he believed to be almost 
 “ Titianesque” in effect. It must be said, however, that the 
 brisk and “ perky ” air of the lively poet is fairly caught, 
 as well as that sort of blooming tone, which suggests the 
 rapturous ditties of Thomas Little. The indiscreet step of 
 publishing his eight volumes of diary has been fatal to Moore’s 
 reputation, though it has supplied a miscellany of curious 
 anecdotes and gossip, and has shown how he always lived 
 before the footlights. One evening when Sheridan was in 
 his happiest vein, rattling on with story after story, de¬ 
 lighting everyone, Tom Moore broke the charm by his rest¬ 
 less suggestion, “Isn’t it time to go to Lydia White’s?” 
 This is most significant of his character. 
 
 The story of the lovely Jennings (79), whose picture 
 hangs among Lely’s sham Shepherdesses, at Hampton, has 
 been illustrated by the vivacious pen of Grammont and the 
 picturesque narrative of Macaulay. “ She was adorned,” 
 
31 
 
 says the former, “ with all the early treasures of youth, and 
 was of the most dazzling whiteness that could be conceived. 
 Her hair was of a true blonde, yet there was something 
 sparkling and animated in her complexion which saved it 
 from that insipidness which often attends extreme fairness. 
 Her mouth, though hardly the smallest, was certainly the 
 prettiest in the world. There was, however, something 
 unfinished in her arms and hands, while her nose was scarcely 
 refined.” The same lively chronicler reports at length the 
 story of her various flirtations in that free and easy Court, 
 with St. Germain, Dick Talbot, and others, but testifies to 
 the perfect propriety of her character and behaviour. She 
 was savs peur in her smart speeches and doings, but remained 
 sans reproache in her conduct. After much hesitation she 
 “ jilted” Talbot, married George Hamilton, of Tyrone, while 
 Talbot married another court beauty, Miss Boynton. 
 By a curious fatality the husband of the first lady and the 
 wife of the second gentleman both died, and the beautiful 
 Jennings was a widow. She eventually married Talbot, 
 and held high state at Dublin Castle. The dignity of 
 her character was shown on the evening of the Battle of 
 the Boyne, a day which she had spent in an agony of 
 suspense, and which was only terminated by the arrival of 
 the King and Talbot, all weary and travel-stained, as they had 
 ridden from the field. She received them at the top of the 
 stairs at the Castle, and knelt to James, asking him to honour 
 her by refreshing himself with a supper which she had pre¬ 
 pared, a proposal which he received with an ungracious 
 speech. Nearly fifty years after an aged nun, at a Convent 
 of Poor Clares, in King-street, in Dublin, was found dead, 
 having fallen out of bed during the night; and people were 
 amazed to learn that this was the beautiful Jennings, the 
 belle of Charles the Second’s Court, and Tyrconnel’s wife. 
 
 Another beauty of this dissolute Court was Miss Hamilton 
 (63), sister of the George Hamilton who married Miss 
 Jennings. Antony Hamilton describes her grand and elegant 
 
bearing, her freshness of colour, her brilliant eyes, and her 
 hair, “which lent itself with such docility to that natural 
 arrangement which others find it so difficult to secure.” The 
 picture itself is one of Sir Peter Lely’s choicest portraits ; the 
 limpid blue, the transparent flesh-tints, the sort of coarse 
 grace, so characteristic of the painter, are here present in a 
 remarkable degree. It will be noticed how rarely Lely suc¬ 
 ceeds in conveying the idea of a beautiful woman, though he 
 succeeds in depicting what is called a fine one. It may be 
 doubted if there be a nobler or better preserved specimen of 
 his style at Hampton Court. As we look at it we think of 
 the goddess that haunted Charles Lamb’s boyish dreams in 
 the old House of Blakesware; u the beauty with the cool, 
 blue, pastoral drapery, that hung next the bay window, with 
 the bright yellow hair, and eye of matchless hue.” After 
 inspiring Tyrconnel with a certain attachment, which she 
 made use of to quicken the indecision of Count de Gram- 
 mont, she was very near losing both admirers. Grammont 
 set off for France without proposing, and the story is well 
 known of his being pursued and overtaken by her brother, 
 at Dover, who asked him “ if he had not forgotten some¬ 
 thing,” to which the other, with convenient wit replied, “ that 
 he had forgotten to marry his sister.” His friend, Hamilton, 
 who wrote the well-known memoirs, glosses over this disa¬ 
 greeable incident in the following pleasant fashion :—“ The 
 Count, as a reward for a constancy which he had never before 
 exhibited , found that love and marriage had joined in his 
 favour, and found himself the happy possessor of Miss 
 Hamilton.” 
 
 Tyrconnel (76), Macaulay’s spirited though unflattering 
 sketch has made familiar to every one. Yet the sort of 
 vulgar, swearing, u swash buckler ” he represents Talbot to 
 be, does not agree with the gallantry both in court and field 
 which we find associated with his name in Grammont and 
 contemporary authorities. Indeed the fate of the brilliant 
 history of England will probably be like that of Sir Joshua’s 
 
33 
 
 own delicate and brilliant portraits—as years roll on the 
 colours will 44 fly,” and the tints fade out. He is seen at 
 the Battle of the Boyne, 44 once so admired by maids of 
 honour as the model of manly vigour and beauty, but now 
 bent down by years and crippled by gout; ” and again at 
 Limerick during the siege. On August the 11th, 1691, 
 44 he dined with Durfey: the party was gay. The Lord 
 Lieutenant seemed to have thrown off the load which had 
 bound down his body and mind. He drank ; he jested ; he 
 was again the Dick Talbot who had drank and revelled with 
 Grammont. Soon after he had risen from table an apoplec¬ 
 tic stroke deprived him of speech and sensation. On the 
 14th he breathed his last. The wasted remains of that form 
 which had once been a model for statuaries were laid under 
 the pavement of the Cathedral; but no inscription, no tradi¬ 
 tion preserves the memory of the spot.” 
 
 The face of Steele (144), who is so often familiarly patted 
 on the back as 44 Dick Steele ” by those who have never 
 opened his books, beams on us with a bright, brisk expres¬ 
 sion from under a full-bottomed wig, and with unctuous 
 lips. There is an air of quietness and of ready repartee 
 about him. 44 1 am afraid,” says Thackeray, 44 no good 
 report could be given by his masters and ushers of that thick¬ 
 set, square-faced, black-eyed, soft-hearted little Irish boy.” 
 He was very idle. He was whipped deservedly a great 
 number of times. Wives might linger before his picture 
 with a certain interest, for never was there so tender, so 
 delicate, so loving a husband. Thus would he write to his 
 Prue— 44 Dearest being on earth, pardon me if you do not see 
 me till eleven o’clock, having met a school-fellow from 
 India.” And thus did he propose to her: 44 Madame, it is 
 the hardest thing in the world to be in love, yet attend 
 business. . . . As for me, all who speak to me find me 
 out. A gentleman asked me this morning, 4 What news from 
 Lisbon ? ’ and I answered, 4 She is exquisitely handsome.’ 
 O love! methinks I could write a volume to you, but all the 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 language on earth would fail in saying how much, and with 
 
 what disinterested passion I am ever yours-Who 
 
 could resist such a lover ? 
 
 Perhaps the greatest of all this company is Swift {corridor), 
 and this portrait now exhibited for the first time, has 
 a rare interest. It was drawn in pastel by Barber for one 
 of the Sheridan family, from whom it has passed to Mr. 
 Lefanu. It may be stated that this is the most interesting 
 and valuable of all the many portraits of Swift, which with 
 their full-blown cheeks and florid tone are more or less con¬ 
 ventional ; but here there is a surprising delicacy about the 
 forehead, as well as a curious air of weakness, a little sug¬ 
 gestive of the insanity that later came on him. Sir W. 
 Wilde has compared the side of the head and ear with a cast 
 taken after his death and preserved in Trinity College, and 
 finds them exactly correspond. The bones of Swift, as well 
 as of his brother humorist, Sterne, were not allowed to rest 
 in their graves. Sterne’s were to be stolen and sold to the 
 surgeons. Swift’s skull, with that of his Stella, was dug up 
 in 1835, and handed round at the soirees of the curious. The 
 larynx was actually stolen ! 
 
 Macklin {corridor), whom we find here, was one of the 
 most grotesque and eccentric characters conceivable. To 
 have reached beyond the age of a hundred years—to have been 
 praised by Pope—to have killed a brother actor—to have writ¬ 
 ten a comedy of the first class—these are fair claims to be 
 considered remarkable. His real name was Maclaughlin, which 
 was Anglicised into Macklin. He was one of the earliest 
 reformers of stage dress, and it is on this account that the 
 picture before us becomes highly interesting. No one would 
 guess that this group of figures represents a scene from 
 the Merchant of Venice. It might seem some incident of 
 social life in the last, or even in the present, century. There 
 is an air also as of something farcical. It is recorded that 
 Macklin used to dress Shylock in a Jewish gown and scarlet 
 hat, which he had discovered was their proper costume at 
 
35 
 
 Venice. Pope seeing his performance, was said to have 
 exclaimed in admiration—“ This is the Jew, That Shakespeare 
 drew,” to which Quin, one of the old school, added a coarse 
 third line. Those unfamiliar with Macklin’s strange life 
 will at least bear testimony to his wonderful Sir Pertinax 
 Macsycophant, which Mr. Phelps has made his own. 
 Zoffany, who painted this spirited scene, drew all his inspi¬ 
 ration from actors of the day and from the stage. He 
 approaches nearer to the style of Hogarth than any other, in 
 the vividness and firmness of his touches and the finish of 
 his faces. He has caught and handed down the mobile 
 expression, the humour, the gesture, the spirit of most of the 
 great players of his time. By his means, and his only, we 
 know how Foote, and Garrick, and Moody, and Yates, and 
 others looked and bore themselves. We see the whole group 
 by the gesture, the situation. These capital pictures of 
 scenes from the Alchemist, the Mock Doctor, and other pieces, 
 have a strange attraction; they seem situations in real life, 
 an impression owing to the expression, faces, and style of 
 the old actors. Macklin’s face was so gnarled and lined that 
 some one once began to address him, u I see, sir, by the 
 cordage of your countenance-” 
 
 Lady Hartington (106), although scarcely pretty, looks 
 out on us with an arch and piquant expression, as she half 
 turns, holding a mask in her dainty fingers. There is a grave 
 Flemish dignity over the picture. The daughter and heiress 
 of the architect Earl of Burlington, she brought into the 
 Devonshire family great estates in Ireland and England, and 
 went over with her husband when he became Lord Lieutenant 
 of Ireland in 1755. Her mother was the well-known Lady 
 Burlington, who periodically astonished London society with 
 some curious freak or violent fancy; and it was she who 
 “ took up ” the captivating ballet dancer, the u Violette,” 
 and tried so hard to defeat the matrimonial designs of Mr. 
 Garrick. 
 
 Nearly opposite is her father, the Earl of Burlington (122), 
 
36 
 
 to whom Pope addressed his well known lines, and who 
 effectually played his part of an elegant dilletante. There is an 
 air of stately connoisseurship about him, with the brilliant 
 crimson coat, the star, and ribbond, and the hand resting, with 
 some little affectation, on a volume marked Inigo Jones. The 
 plain, but classical gateway and screen of Burlington House, 
 in Piccadilly, so recently destroyed to give place to an 
 ineffective pile of buildings, was the work of this aristocratic 
 architect; and considering the material and the little pre¬ 
 tension about the whole, it was surprisingly effective. The 
 old fashioned Assembly Rooms, at York, are also from his 
 designs; somewhat after the foreign “Wauxhall” style. 
 Hogarth has satirized his building propensities in one of his 
 plates. 
 
 The name of Mrs. Darner (138) will be familiar to readers 
 of Mrs. Siddons’s life. In her the actress found a warm 
 admirer and ally; but Mrs. Darner possessed real talent 
 for sculpture, and executed many busts of friends which 
 are excellent Likenesses. Ladies of rank at that time seem 
 to have been more accomplished than they are now; or 
 possibly their time and training is diverted into the more showy 
 accomplishments of singing and playing. There is a graceful 
 quaintness in this faded picture; and the salmon-coloured 
 dress, when gay and fresh, must have been effective. In 
 her work she was more than an amateur; and a medallion 
 of Mrs. Siddons, which has been engraved, is an excellent 
 likeness. 
 
 Here are two members of the great house of Abercorn, or 
 Hamilton. The striking full length portrait of the first 
 Marquis is well worthy of remark. It is evident that 
 the painter was called on to work under certain con¬ 
 ditions of colour and attitude prescribed by his sitter. He 
 would “stand so, and in no other way;” arrayed in black, 
 with a white waistcoat; his arm stretched out, and his hand 
 holding his hat and stick. The rigid black stock and square 
 whiskers add a curious air of grim pride and stateliness. 
 
37 
 
 Looking at it, we can hear him replying to Pitt, who men¬ 
 tioned his Majesty’s intention of conferring a vacant Garter 
 on him, that “ he would consider of it.” He was the munifi¬ 
 cent patron, friend, and host of John Kemble and his 
 wife, at Stanmore Priory. There is a charmingly natural 
 letter of Mrs. Kemble, written from this house, then 
 filled with all that was noble and aristocratic, to her 
 husband, who was abroad. In it she rehearses all the 
 remarks and compliments made to his acting or to herself; 
 insists on the little attentions that were paid to her; how 
 Lady Abercorn led her up to a sofa, &c. The same noble¬ 
 man, by a stretch of authority that seems a little arbitrary, 
 and almost regal in its style, commanded the sprightly 
 Glorvina Owenson to be married, having the parson and 
 husband, Sir Charles Morgan, in attendance. The scene is 
 dramatically described in her memoirs. There are traditions 
 of his haughty state: of the groom of the chambers per¬ 
 fuming the room after the servants had quitted it, and of 
 the housemaids being required to put on kid gloves to make 
 his bed; and of his never sitting down to dinner without being 
 arrayed in his star and blue ribbon. Sir Walter Scott pays 
 him a graceful compliment for his refined tastes and princely 
 hospitality; and it may be said that this magnificence still 
 characterizes this noble house. 
 
 One of the most elegant and accomplished women of her 
 day must have been Mrs. Trench ( corridor ), whose agreeable 
 recollection were not long ago given to the world by her son, 
 Archbishop Trench. There is a grace about this portrait 
 and its costume in keeping with the character of the original. 
 This charming lady travelled from Court to Court, as the 
 fashion then was for persons of taste and position, observing 
 keenly, and recording what she observed in various letters, 
 her own qualities securing her the most favourable oppor¬ 
 tunities of intimacy with important personages. The most 
 striking passages are those which describe the behaviour of 
 the infatuated Nelson, and the siren that enslaved him at 
 
38 
 
 Berlin—her attitudes and imitations of antique statues, her 
 dances, and the boisterous quarterdeck admiration of her 
 hero. Shrewd and careful observation of this kind makes the 
 most entertaining kind of reading— u in any hands,” as 
 Walpole says. 
 
 This bright, cleanly painted portrait of an old seaman 
 (149), shows that Romney could be inspired by the vigorous 
 character of his subject. It represents Admiral Forbes, one 
 of the Granard family, and indeed, one of a family of dis¬ 
 tinguished sailors. It may well be proud of this old hero. 
 After distinguishing himself in many engagements in com¬ 
 mand of his vessel, he found himself one of the court ap¬ 
 pointed to try Admiral Byng. He dissented from the cruel 
 sentence, in a firm and well-reasoned speech, thus disso¬ 
 ciating himself from that rather bloody l( encouragement of 
 the others.” But he was obliged in consequence to resign 
 his office of Lord of the Admiralty. Later, when he was 
 General of Marines, the ministry of the day wished to pro¬ 
 vide for a naval supporter with that office, and proposed an 
 arrangement by which the Admiral was to be indemnified 
 by a “ pension on Ireland,” and a peerage. He met the pro¬ 
 posal in a fashion which in those corrupt days was unusual; 
 the brave old sailor told them that he held his office 
 from the King as a reward for faithful service ; that he 
 thanked God he had never been a burden to his country, 
 and that he would not condescend to accept a pension, or 
 “ bargain” for a peerage. He concluded by addressing the 
 King, praying his majesty to take away his office, if it 
 seemed good to him, but at the same time declaring that 
 “ he would never dishonour his past services by becoming a 
 pensioner or accepting a peerage offered to suit a political 
 arrangement.” With the lines of that sturdy, clear, 
 honest face, such sentiments harmonize. We pass on with 
 respect, glad to hear that his majesty graciously refused to 
 do what was proposed, and later added many marks of his 
 favour and esteem. Not less pleasing is the clear, limpid 
 
39 
 
 tones, the firm touch, and the fresh blue of the sea, trans¬ 
 ferred to his coat. 
 
 This quaint figure (130) of a gentleman in a riding dress 
 and huge jack boots reaching over his thighs, who is as¬ 
 cending some steps with a determined air, represents “ Tot¬ 
 tenham in his Boots,” which was a toast often given at 
 patriotic convivial meetings. The person thus honoured 
 was Mr. Charles Tottenham, of Ballycorney, in Wexford, 
 an ancestor of the great House of Ely. The story runs, that 
 in the year 1731, when it was proposed that an undisposed 
 of balance of £60,000 should be made over to the English 
 Government, great agitation was set on foot, and not un¬ 
 naturally. Mr. Tottenham, hearing that the division was 
 coming on sooner than was expected, took horse at Wexford, 
 and rode sixty miles to Dublin, getting down at the House 
 of Commons. Here he was stopped by the Serjeant-at-arms, 
 who reported to the Speaker that a member was trying to 
 enter the House without being in full dress, which was the 
 custom. After some hesitation the Speaker decided that he 
 had not power to exclude him, and the bold rider, splashed 
 from head to foot, and wearing the jack boots, strode in, 
 gave his vote, which proved to be a casting one, and defeated 
 the unpopular measure. The spurs, which contributed to 
 the success of this exploit, are to be seen in another part of 
 the Exhibition. The portrait itself, though without preten¬ 
 sion, has a certain lively interest; while the face is highly 
 characteristic, being that of a plain, determined man. 
 
 The portrait of Lord O’Neil ( corridor ) suggests pleasant as 
 well as tragic associations. When Mrs. Siddons, unknown 
 and obscure, was u drudging ” through the provinces, some 
 fashionable persons at Cheltenham, seeing Venice Preserved 
 announced at the little theatre, determined to go for the 
 purpose of enjoying a hearty laugh. One of the ladies was 
 Miss Boyle, a daughter of Lord Dungarvon’s, who, though 
 she came to scoff, remained to admire, and deserves the 
 credit of being the first to recognize the gifts of a great actress 
 
40 
 
 She loaded her with kindness. Later, Miss Boyle became 
 Lady O’Neil, of Shane Castle, and Mrs. Siddons, on her 
 visits to Ireland, was made welcome. A distinguished party 
 was invited to meet her, among whom was Lord Edward 
 Fitzgerald, “the most amiable, honourable, high-minded, 
 though misguided, youth I ever knew. The luxury of this 
 establishment,” the actress goes on, “inspired the recol¬ 
 lections of an Arabian Night’s entertainment. Six or seven 
 carriages, with a numerous throng of lords and ladies on 
 horseback, began the day, by making excursions round this 
 terrestrial paradise. The table was served with a profusion 
 to which I have never seen anything comparable. A fine 
 band of musicians played during the whole of the repast; 
 they were stationed in the corridors, which led to a fine con¬ 
 servatory, where we plucked our dessert from numerous trees 
 of the most exquisite fruit. The graces of the presiding genius, 
 the lovely mistress of the mansion, seemed to blend with the 
 whole scene.” A few years later, in 1798, the host who 
 presided at this gathering was at the head of his soldiers, in 
 the little town of Antrim, not far away from his own castle, 
 engaged in a desperate encounter with the insurgents. The 
 royalists were being driven back, when Lord O’Neil’s horse 
 grew unmanageable, and one of the rebels transfixed him 
 with his pike. 
 
 In the same year Lord Mount joy ( corridor ) met his death 
 at the battle of Ross. His men, the Dublin Militia, were 
 suspected to be wavering in their fidelity, but followed him 
 as he led them on to the attack of “ The Three Bullet Gate,” 
 when a baker’s boy, who was at a window, fired and killed 
 him. His soldiers were attached to him, and the wish to 
 revenge his death extinguished their other sympathies. An 
 officer, who visited the town so recently as 1838, found this 
 baker’s boy living there unmolested. 
 
 Here, too, is Henry Sheares ( corridor ), one of the two 
 unfortunate brothers who suffered in the rebellion. Lord 
 Clare was inclined to spare him, but by a fatality an order 
 
41 
 
 for delaying the execution was prevented reaching the 
 prison. His last letter, appealing for mercy, is truly 
 piteous. “ Tell Lord Clare that I will pray for him for 
 ever, and that the Government will ever find me what they 
 wish. O ! my family! my wife ! my children ! my mother! 
 Go to them. Let them throw themselves at the Chancellor’s 
 feet. I have been duped, misled, deceived, but with all the 
 wishes and intentions to do good.” At the execution a 
 shocking scene took place. By the clumsiness of the hang¬ 
 man, Sheares was run up to the block of the rope before 
 the trap was allowed to fall, and hung suspended for a 
 minute before he could be set free. 
 
 Here is Fitzgibbon, Earl of Clare (182), in his Chancel¬ 
 lor’s robes, bearing himself with no judicial formalness, but 
 in an easy, jaunty attitude, his hand on his hip. Always 
 “ ready with the pistol,” administering the affairs of the 
 country with a vigour that was almost Cromwellian, and 
 at times truculent, he earned the hatred of the masses 
 whom he disposed of with so high a hand. After the 
 Union, when he tried to import with him the same tone into 
 the English House of Lords, he received a crushing and 
 contemptuous rebuke that silenced him ever afterwards, and 
 showed that he hardly possessed the courage with which he 
 had been credited. A shocking and indecent scene was to 
 attend his funeral—the coffin being followed from his house 
 in Ely-place by the curses and imprecations of a furious 
 mob—a last insult being the flinging of a dead cat in allusion 
 to his boast “ that he would make them all as tame as cats.” 
 
 This plain, sensible-looking person in wig and laced gown 
 (192) is John Foster, Lord Oriel, the last Speaker of the 
 Irish House. He was entitled “ the upright assertor of our 
 liberties,” gallantly stemmed the tide of bribes and corrupt¬ 
 ing honours, which swept away so many, and at the end was 
 faithful among the faithless found. Some of his cards of 
 invitation to dinner are still to be seen a century old, 
 round which run scrolls with patriotic sentiments, “Pros- 
 
42 
 
 perity to the linen trade,” &c., encompassing the conven¬ 
 tional “requests the pleasure of Mr.-’s company- 
 
 This true patriot, however, later received the same honours, 
 unpurchased by any degrading concession. Nothing is more 
 dignified than his behaviour during the last excited debates 
 of the Irish Parliament, and the picture of his emotion, as 
 he declared that “the ayes had it” when the Union was 
 finally passed, is given dramatically by Sir Jonah Bar¬ 
 rington. 
 
 This grave and even sanctified-looking portrait. (203) 
 represents Lord Kil warden, the ill-fated Chief-Justice, who 
 was one of the first victims of the rebellion. On the Bench 
 he is said to have been haughty and reserved, but in private 
 life he sometimes relaxed, and the quality of his humour 
 may be conceived from a single specimen. He found a 
 singular relish in calling Mr. Curran “ Gooseberry,” the 
 point of which jest it puzzled his friends to discover. His* 
 tragic end is like a scene in the history of the French Com¬ 
 mune. Coming into Dublin with his daughter and a fine 
 young man, a clergyman, who was his nephew, his carriage 
 was surrounded and stopped. A cry was raised, “The 
 Chief Justice ! ” and it is believed that he was mistaken for 
 Carleton, a Judge who had shown great severity. The 
 clergyman was dragged from the carriage and torn to pieces 
 by the infuriated mob. The daughter fled through the 
 streets, screaming for aid, while the unfortunate Chief 
 Justice was stabbed to death, receiving no less than thirty 
 wounds. The story of the Irish Rebellion is full of scenes 
 as terrible as any during the French Revolution. 
 
 Theobald Wolfe Tone (202) presents a picturesque figure 
 in romance, but few think of his ghastly end. He was taken 
 during one of the abortive invasions of Ireland, in the full 
 uniform of the French service, was summarily tried by court- 
 martial in Dublin, and condemned to death. On the day 
 when the sentence was to be carried out, the execution 
 being fixed for one o’clock, some of his friends exerted them- 
 
43 
 
 selves to obtain delay, and Curran made an application to 
 Lord Kilwarden for a writ of Habeas Corpus. Then fol¬ 
 lowed this dramatic scene. The Chief Justice, a humane 
 man, ordered the writ to be formally made out. Curran 
 urged that his client might be executed before it was 
 prepared. “ Then,” said the Chief Justice, “ let the Sheriff 
 proceed instantly to the barracks, and see that he be not 
 executed.” An interval of great agitation followed the 
 departure of the officer. When he returned he reported that 
 the Provost-Marshal refused to obey any authority but that 
 of Major Sandys, and that Major Sandys had his orders from 
 the Lord Lieutenant. “ Then,” said the fearless Judge, 
 “ Mr. Sheriff, take the body of Tone into custody, and take 
 the Provost-Marshal and Major Sandys into custody, and 
 show the order of the Court to General Craig.” But in the 
 meantime the unhappy man had deliberately cut his wind¬ 
 pipe across with a pen-knife, but failed to destroy himself, 
 having strength to say, “ I am but a bad anatomist.” The 
 wound was hastily sown up, and the authorities would have 
 carried out the execution, but the firmness of the Chief 
 Justice prevailed, and the unhappy man was allowed to die 
 from his self-inflicted injury. We may compare with this 
 scene the tragic death in the dock of Jackson, the libeller of 
 the Duchess of Kingston. 
 
 Here is Bushe (219), witty as well as wise, and described 
 by Kemble as “ the greatest actor off the stage.” u His 
 power of narrative has not been equalled, perfect simpli¬ 
 city, but united with elegance, a lucid arrangement, the 
 constant introduction of the most picturesque expressions, 
 but never as ornaments.” Such is the dignified praise of 
 Brougham. His stories and good things are familiar to all. 
 The late Charles Lever has imported into the racy pages of 
 Harry Lorrequer a well-known criticism on his gifts. 
 “What do you consider Mr. Bushe’s forte?” asked a newly- 
 arrived English minister of a country squireen. “ His 
 what?” “What is the secret of his power with juries?” 
 
44 
 
 “ See here,” was the reply. “ This is it. He just first 
 butthers them up, then slithers them down.” There was 
 something almost fascinating in his social gifts, which im¬ 
 pressed strangers more than those of men of greater reputa¬ 
 tion. Here, too, is Saurin (233), descendant of an exiled 
 Huguenot family, and a most inappropriate Colonel of the 
 Barristers’ Corps of Volunteers, and for years the despotic 
 ruler of the Bar. Shiel says that there was a sort of dark 
 Rembrandtish effect about his face and figure, which be¬ 
 trayed his foreign origin, with “the strong line of light 
 breaking through a monastic window upon his corrugated 
 brow ”—an expressive though extraordinary metaphor. Says 
 Lord Wellesley, in a witty letter, “I had not been four and 
 twenty hours in Dublin before I sought and obtained an inter¬ 
 view with him. I offered him the office of Lord Chief Justice 
 of the Court of King’s Bench. . . . That was not ill treat¬ 
 ment. In truth, I had nothing else to offer him, except the 
 Lord Lieutenancy of Ireland. To that, however, there were 
 two objections—first, he had already held the office for fifteen 
 years, and next I was the Viceroy.” Here also is Arch¬ 
 bishop Magee, author of a well-known theological book, 
 “ Magee on the Atonement,” a prelate of much controversial 
 power and extraordinary ambition. It was he who made 
 the epigrammatic speech u that in Ireland there was a 
 religion without a church, and also a church without a 
 religion.” 
 
 The portrait of George Walker (84), the defender of 
 Derry, will attract attention, from the handsome and even 
 gentle-looking face, which one would hardly expect to be 
 that of the vigorous champion of Derry. The clergyman’s 
 bands will be seen over the cuirass. The story of the siege 
 of Derry has never been so picturesquely told as by 
 Macaulay—indeed it is exactly the sort of subject on which 
 he delighted to expend all his picturesque power. u When 
 the news of Walker’s death was brought to the King, it was 
 received characteristically. William thought him a busy- 
 
45 
 
 body who had been properly punished for running into 
 danger without any call of duty, and expressed that feeling 
 with characteristic blunt ness on the field of battle. u Sir,” said 
 an attendant, “ the Bishop of Derry has been killed by a shot 
 at the Ford.” *“ What took him there ? ” growled the King.” 
 
 Even on a cursory inspection of these galleries some 
 curious fancies will strike the eye—such as the Earl of 
 Ossory (52) being painted as a Roman General, but in a 
 French wig ; and the Earl of Roscommon, the elegant poet, 
 in a sort of Ciceronian attire. No less quaint is the idea 
 of the Chancellor’s purse hung round the neck of Primate 
 Boyle (33) to indicate his office; while in the case of 
 Archbishop Loftus (25) the same symbol is held out a little 
 affectedly, as if to invite attention. Most curious, too, is a 
 portrait of the sixteenth Earl of Kildare (7), represented in 
 a sort of shirt, with part of his breast bare, a red toga 
 draped about him, and huge woolly rosettes of enormous size 
 to his shoes. His face has a strange gauntness, and even 
 wildness. The head of Sir R. Wingfield, the first Lord 
 Powerscourt, seems that of some old Dutch soldier, and 
 even like the work of a Dutch artist, it stands out so 
 brightly and boldly from the panel. The short, wiry hair, 
 the scarf and armour, are vigorously painted. 
 
 In the outer gallery, next to the Exhibition hall, will be 
 found a curious gathering of portraits, more remarkable 
 perhaps for historical than artistic interest. That beau¬ 
 tiful Lely, the “ belle Hamilton,” has been already noticed, 
 as well as the Lady Clancarty, from the same hand, which 
 is not so light in touch. But a most striking portrait, 
 remarkable for its breadth and boldness, will arrest attention, 
 as coming from the painter of the Hampton Court Shep¬ 
 herdesses; and this heavy-jawed, thick-lipped being in the 
 full wig hardly answers our preconceived notions of the skil¬ 
 ful Surveyor of Ireland, Sir William Petty (101). The rich 
 prevailing tints of brown in which it is painted is in harmony 
 with those of a picture near it, which is in the same key as the 
 
46 
 
 Duke of Wharton (98), a most pleasing and clear-toned 
 portrait. 
 
 With Hamilton Rowan (199) is associated the story of one 
 of the most romantic escapes from prison known. He 
 let himself down from a window—was passed in the streets 
 of Dublin by a mounted patrol, who were probably looking 
 for him, and was finally put on board a little fishing- 
 boat, to make for the French coast. He had not been long 
 at sea when a revenue cruiser came up, and as she passed 
 by, threw on board copies of a proclamation offering a large 
 reward for his arrest. As the sailors read it, he noticed 
 their suspicious glances, and thought the best course was to 
 reveal himself—a confidence that was not betrayed. They 
 landed him safely in France. 
 
 The Marquis of Townshend (146), who figures here in 
 armour, was at the battles of Dettingen and Fontenoy, and 
 yet must have been seen by many now alive. For he lived 
 up to the year 1807. A most amusing book of squibs, called 
 Baratariana , was published during his Yiceroyalty of Ireland. 
 His mother was the odd Audrey Townshend, who figures in 
 Walpole, and said such odd droll things. A curious account 
 is given of Lord Whitworth (217) by that eminent and 
 amusing scandal monger, Sir Nathanial Wraxall (for whose 
 name the ingenious rhyme was discovered “ misquoting facts 
 all ”)—and who reckons him among the admirers favoured 
 by the Empress Catherine. A better claim to distinction 
 was his dignified bearing when ambassador to Napoleon. 
 The latter in one of those studied bursts of rage, with which 
 he often contrived to intimidate the envoys of weak powers, 
 inveighed in coarse language against England, and finally 
 made a sort of contemptuous motion with his foot—on which 
 the high spirited nobleman stepped back, and laid his hand 
 on his sword, as if about to draw it. The emperor adroitly 
 altered his tone. The scene would be one for a picture. 
 Lord Whitworth’s name will be seen about Dublin, connected 
 with hospitals, and bridges, and institutions. 
 
47 
 
 Always welcome are the portraits of actors and actresses, 
 and this one of the gifted and Irish Miss Farren (214) will 
 be singularly interesting either to the lover of the stage or of 
 those romantic vicissitudes of fortune which Sir Bernard 
 Burke has recounted so agreeably. During the lifetime of his 
 wife Lord Derby had been the respectful admirer of this gifted 
 woman. Lady Derby’s death took place on the 14th March, 
 1797, and his marriage with Miss Farren followed within six 
 weeks! The actress, we are told, declined to address the 
 house on taking leave of the stage, but made “three 
 reverences ” while one of the company spoke a short 
 address in her name. Mrs. Sid dons complimented her in 
 some doggrell, spoken at the conclusion of “ The Deuce is in 
 ’em 
 
 “Our comic muse, too, lighter topics lending, 
 
 Proves that in marriage was her natural ending, 
 
 Whilst grateful for those smiles which made us gay, 
 
 Each kindest wish awaits her wedding day, 
 
 And sure such talents, honors, shared between them, 
 
 If ’tis not happy why the deuqe is in ’em.” 
 
 The portrait of Sir Philip Francis (181) is interesting from 
 its connexion with the disputed authorship of “Junius.” 
 Few questions have ever been more warmly or ingeniously 
 debated. This point, however, may be considered settled 
 since the publication of Mr. Twistleton’s handsome volume— 
 which literally exhausts the argument. Francis was always 
 sensitive on this point, and gave out that if any one put the 
 question to him directly, he would make it a personal matter. 
 When he was grown old a lady took courage and began, 
 “ Sir Philip, will you let me ask you one question”—He 
 interrupted her rudely, “ you had better not,” he said, 
 “unless you wish to insult me.” This must have been 
 affectation, or some morbid estimate of the importance of the 
 secret; for there could have been no danger from the 
 revelation. He went to his grave without making any 
 admission on the subject. 
 
48 
 
 This portrait of a good-looking young man is that of Mr. 
 Denis Daly (208), one of the most popular Members of Par¬ 
 liament and country gentlemen of his day. He looks good- 
 natured and true, and Sir Joshua, whose personal friend he 
 was, has conveyed the idea of an off-handed amiable young 
 fellow. Nor did his character belie his looks. It was said, 
 “ that good manners in him seemed but the indication of good 
 nature;” while an observation that he once made showed 
 his political shrewdness. It was urged that the Government 
 having met with a signal defeat this advantage should be 
 pushed by the successful party. But he said that were he the 
 Government he would choose the season after such a defeat, 
 as the most favourable opportunity for passing a measure, 
 as opponents are not inclined to press too hardly on those 
 whom they have defeated. His name will be familiar to the 
 bibliographer from the splendid Daly library collected with 
 infinite taste and judgment, at a time when the knowledge of 
 books, and of early printed books, was rare. The sale by 
 auction of these treasures is commemorated with that of 
 Topham Beauclerk, and other great collectors. Lady 
 Henrietta Daly, his wife (185), sat to Angelica Kauffman, a 
 charming artist and agreeable woman, who has been rather 
 roughly handled by professed critics; but it is impossible to 
 deny her the merits of grace, and even piquancy, though her 
 faces and figures are a little meagre in the drawing and con¬ 
 ception. But she had a decided style of her own, which it 
 is easy to recognize in a gallery. A most curious speculation 
 would be the inquiry as to what influences “ style.” How it 
 is that a Reynolds paints in such brilliant hues, while a 
 Rembrandt lays in everything in deep shadows and dark 
 tones ? How it is that one master, like Millais, can express 
 what he means only by bold touches, and another, like 
 Meissonier, by the most minute and highly finished strokes ? 
 This is not like the case of different handwritings ; it has to 
 do with a real instinct of poetry. A simple moss-covered 
 stone will offer a dozen ways of treatment, according to the 
 
49 
 
 character of the painter, who will either see poetry in its 
 form, or in its colour, or size, according to his tastes. 
 
 There is a portrait here of Cromwell (43), by Lely, 
 and to which a curious tradition is attached. It was said to 
 have been presented by the Protector himself to Mr. Miller, 
 in whose family it has been carefully preserved, through 
 many vicissitudes, until the present time. With it there 
 was originally an autograph letter of presentation, which, 
 however, perished in a fire—the house being burned to 
 the ground in 1716. The picture, however, was rescued. 
 During the rebellion of 1798, the place was visited by a 
 large party, who announced that they came for the special 
 purpose of destroying the obnoxious picture. It escaped 
 this danger also, to be exhibited in the present collection. 
 As a portrait it is highly curious; the face is more worn— 
 less smooth—than those with which we are more familiar; 
 and the introduction of the boy tying the scarf seems so 
 opposed to what we know of his character, that it probably 
 represents some incident connected with the family to whom 
 it was presented. 
 
 Few Englishmen may have heard the name of Sir Thomas 
 Staples (258), and fewer still would believe that the fresh, 
 gentlemanly-looking, elderly person, with -the white hair, 
 who stands so erect, had nearly reached his ninetieth year 
 when he sat to the painter. He died only seven or eight 
 years ago, yet had sat in the Irish Parliament, of which he 
 was the last surviving member, and remembered the late 
 Duke of Wellington sitting in that House. He was Crown 
 Prosecutor on the North-East Circuit, and when nearly ninety 
 years old would go through all the fatigues of the assizes; 
 conducting cases of murder that involved dealing with cir¬ 
 cumstantial evidence, summing up evidence, stating the case, 
 and examining witnesses, with a clearness that excited the 
 wonder of his brethren at the Bar. All who enjoyed the 
 friendship of this fine old man can bear testimony to his 
 warm and simple nature, and to his courteous manners. It 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 was by his temperate and frugal habits that he reached these 
 patriarchal years; and, till a year or so of his death, he 
 never felt any of the infirmities of age. At about eighty he 
 set himself to learn German, and with success. 
 
 In addition to what has been said at the opening of these 
 notes, as to the dignity of portrait painting, it may be said 
 that the connoisseur will find abundant entertainment in 
 studying and comparing the different styles of the two great 
 masters of this art who are here excellently represented. 
 Which is to be placed highest, Reynolds or Gainsborough, 
 would be an invidious question, for both are equally delight¬ 
 ful. Reynolds, as Northcote has showm, was the first 
 English painter who thought of giving a character and 
 variety to his portraits, by conveying something of character 
 in their attitudes and occupations. Gainsborough, in his 
 attitudes, thought more of a purely abstract grace. The 
 visitor will note the limpid transparency of Gainsborough’s 
 tones, and a sort of delicate “streakiness” in his touches and 
 strokes, while the Gainsborough “blue” is peculiar. So with 
 his rich crimson, as seen in the robes of Lord Abercorn 
 (169). What has not, perhaps, before been noticed is a 
 sort of “bend” in his figures, like the faint curve in the 
 branch of a tree, and to which he is very partial; an 
 attitude often produced by the leaning on a high cabinet, 
 while the feet are crossed. His faces, too, seem always to tend 
 into an oval, delicately sharpened at the chin. The picture 
 of Miss Linley and her brother (171), for its richness of 
 work, and poetry—its depth, and honied touch—would in 
 itself be worthy of a visit. Looking at this work, and at the 
 George Canning (226), we feel in presence of a master who has 
 in reserve a wealth of power—the freest and most masterly 
 * touch—and who seems to hint that he has not put forth half 
 his strength. Here is all the rich touch of Rubens. With 
 Lawrence, on the other hand, there is an air of sober work¬ 
 manship, and it seems as though he had done his best. For 
 perhaps the finest specimen of Reynolds, in his ambitious 
 
51 
 
 manner, we may turn to the full length of the Duke of 
 Northumberland (153), in its elaborate frame—a graceful and 
 splendid memorial. The corporation of Dublin, to commemo¬ 
 rate his Viceregal rule, had asked him to sit for his picture, 
 a request he complied with by presenting them with this fine 
 portrait, by Reynolds, which he had painted at his own 
 expense. It is only by thinking of ordinary portraits of 
 noblemen in their state robes, -which flare and glare with 
 scarlet and blue, and have quite a grotesque “merry- 
 andrew” air, that we see and acknowledge the consummate 
 art with which Reynolds could lend dignity and nobility to the 
 same awkward combination. The silvery tones of the white, 
 the rich subdued crimson, the exquisite grace of the folds, 
 the aristocratic bearing of the figure, the general harmony 
 and grace of this fine picture are beyond description. 
 
 Nor is there wanting here evidence of that fatal decay 
 which has destroyed so many of Reynolds’ pictures, owing 
 to the rather wanton experiments he was fond of making 
 when mixing his colours. A signal instance could be pointed 
 to in the picture of Lady Mary Bourke (180), where the 
 glaze has wholly passed away—in that graceful one of Mrs. 
 Damer (140), which has become dull and dirty—in the face 
 of Primate Robinson, from which the colour has fled, 
 and in many more. There was a rich golden yellow to 
 which he was partial, and which lent an almost Rembrandtish 
 effect, but which often becomes a dirty white, as in the 
 “chemisette” of the Duchess of Leinster (210a). This 
 portrait, in its first bloom, excited the delighted admiration 
 of Northcote, who declared that no touch could improve 
 it. But Reynolds said he himself was not satisfied, and that 
 there was a tenderness and grace about the original which he 
 had not succeeded in imparting. Whether he succeeded in 
 i doing so is uncertain, but it certainly exhibits a sort of 
 melancholy air of sentiment in the face, and a rich touch. 
 There is a story told of his having painted a brilliant 
 r portrait of the Marquis of Drogheda, but which he had made 
 
52 
 
 the subject of some more than dually daring experiments. 
 The Marquis, a good-looking man, went away, staid many 
 yeajrs on the Continent, and returned utterly dilapidated in 
 face and figure. When he came to look at his picture he 
 found that it had kept pace with his decay, and that its 
 colour and grace had flown as fast as his own. 
 
 We must pause here, though there are many more pictures 
 of the highest interest. No one should pass by the choice 
 collection of mezzotints, after Sir Joshua and other great 
 masters—a gallery of Irish portraits—and which, in one 
 sense, are a melancholy record of the departed glories of the 
 country. For there once existed a school of engravers in 
 Ireland, of which M‘Ardell was the head, and whose works, 
 for brilliancy and delicacy, took the foremost rank. No 
 medium could so happily express the soft lights, the tender 
 bloom of Reynolds and Gainsborough; and the former 
 master owned that no one approached M‘Ardell in rendering 
 the delicate subtleties of his style. The collection is perhaps 
 unique, and has been made by a well-known connoisseur, 
 Mr. Challoner. 
 
 In conclusion it may be said that the entertainment to be 
 gathered in such a gallery as the present by an observer who 
 comes furnished with taste and information, is of the highest 
 order. It is, moreover, of a kind that is steadily progressive, 
 for the attractions of a really fine portrait like the oft-quoted 
 “ thing of beauty ” offer a permanent delight. The author 
 of “Elaine,” in his own graceful language, has furnished 
 the true key— 
 
 “As when a painter, poring on a face, 
 
 Divinely, thro’ all hindrance, finds the man 
 Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 
 
 The shape and colour of a mind and life, 
 
 Lives for his children, ever at its best 
 And fullest-.” 
 
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