deportment of His Excellency tended to enhance the burlesque of the whole business. He affected all the nonchalance of a person accustomed to royalty. His attitude was studiously careless, while that vivid physiognomy, of which, with all his practice in courts, he is not the absolute master, betrayed his anxiety for the production of effect. One of his legs was thrown heedlessly over the other, to indicate that he was perfectly at his ease; but at the same time, his piercing and sagacious eye seemed to search amidst the crowd for that reverence both to his person and to his office, to which he surmised, perhaps, that he possessed a somewhat disputable claim. I was not a little amused when His Excellency's eyes encountered those of that redoubted champion of ascendancy, the Reverend Sir Harcourt Lees. My English readers, who have only known Sir Harcourt through the medium of his loyal celebrity, and who have never seen the prodigy himself, may be disposed to think Sir Harcourt a gaunt and dreary man, with a fanatical and desolate look, and with that grim aspect of devotion which characterised the warlike propagators of Protestantism under the Cromwellian standard. But nothing could be more remote from the plain realities of Sir Harcourt than this "beau ideal" of that distinguished personage. As he was the next person in importance to Lord Wellesley at the Tabinet Ball, it may not be inapposite to say a word or two about him. For many years he was unknown to the public, and among his own immediate friends was regarded as a harmless and somewhat simple man, who could discuss a bottle of claret much better than a homily, a daring fox-hunter, and a good-humoured divine, who would have passed without any sort of note, but for certain flashes of singularity which occasionally broke out, and exhibited points of character at variance with his general habits. What was the astonishment of all Dublin, when it was announced that this plain and unobtrusive lover of the field, was the author of a pamphlet filled with the most virulent and acrimonious matter against the religion of the country, and which almost amounted to a call on the Protestant population to rise up in arms and extirpate Popery from the land! The incongruous images, the grotesque associations, and the mixture of drollery and absurdity, indicated some distemper in the writer's mind; but the political passions which raged at the time prevented the Protestants from perceiving the symptoms of delirium in what they took for inspiration. Sir Harcourt became a public man. I had never seen him before the publication of his book, and was a good deal surprised to find that all this uproar had been produced by a little lumpish man, who rather looked like a superannuated jockey than a divine, with an equestrian slouch in his walk, and the manger in his face, and with a mouth the graceful configuration of which appeared to have been formed by the humming of that stable melody with which the application of the curry-comb is generally accompanied. After looking at this singular figure which the tutelary genius of the Church had chosen for its residence, I gave up all my belief in physiognomy, and renounced Lavater for ever. I have since heard that the doctrines of Gall are by no means so much contradicted by the head of this celebrated person as the theory of the Swiss philosopher is refuted by his face; and that divers protuberances are observable upon Sir Harcourt's pericranium, in which vanity, ferocity and ambition, together with certain other of the polemical faculties, may be easily discerned. It is even whispered that a disciple of Gall, who recently came over from Edinburgh, discovered some bumps upon the head of Doctor Magee, between which and the skull of Sir Harcourt there was a remarkable affinity. In the former there was a much larger quantity of brain, but the theological passions of Sir Harcourt are not less prominently pronounced. It has been added, but I cannot take upon myself to say with what truth, that a curious speculator in that fantastic science has caused the skull of the late Sir Thomas Osborne to be dug up, and that the resemblance between Sir Harcourt and that eminent author is truly surprising. But I feel that I am digressing. Enough to say, that Sir Harcourt's success in his first essay against Popery led to other achievements in controversy, and that he was at length recognised beyond all dispute as the most appropriate champion of the Irish church. His whole character may be summed up in a single sentence of Swift, "He hath been poring so long upon Fox's Book of Martyrs, that he imagines himself living in the reign of Queen Mary, and is resolved to set up as a knight-errant against Popery." The meeting between the Marquis Wellesley and this celebrated person at the Tabinet Ball excited all my attention. I did not perceive the latter, until a certain expression of defiance, which suddenly came into the Marquis's face, directed my notice to the quarter towards which he was looking, when I beheld exactly opposite His Excellency, the chief though not very majestic pillar of the Establishment. The worthy Baronet had thrown an expression of derision into his countenance, and did not look very unlike a picture of Momus upon Mr. Liston's snuffbox. The Marquis might readily have conjectured that he was laughing at him, and that the recollection of His Excellency's exploits was not a little amusing. Seated upon the throne, with his clenched hand resting upon his thigh, and his marked and diplomatic visage protruded in all the intensity of expression for which it is remarkable, the most noble and puissant Marquis shot his fine and indignant eyes into the soul of his antagonist; while Sir Harcourt, with a half waggish and half malevolent aspect, blending the grin of an ostler with the acrimony of a divine, encountered the lofty look of the chief governor of Ireland with a jocular disdain, and gave him to understand that a man of his theological mettle was not to be subjugated by a frown. This physiognomical encounter lasted for a few minutes, and but that Master Ellis, touching Sir Harcourt upon the shoulder, relieved the Marquis from his glance, the result would in all probability have been, that indignant at the spirit of mockery that pervaded the features of the Baronet, His Excellency would have yielded to his emotions, and starting up in a paroxysm of imaginary royalty, have exclaimed, "Ay, every inch a king!" The next person in importance to Sir Harcourt was his Grace the Duke of Leinster ...... (To be continued.) THE WARNING. THERE is a curse that Heaven hath flung Gains depth with flow of years, And the scorn of time on the hapless name, And wherefore! save that the captive's chain And the soul by bondage disgraced in vain Dares not nobly die as freemen die, For bonds could not hinder thisThus the slave if he live in his slavery, For him is that curse amiss! He may bend the yoke if he cannot break— He may raise the sword and brand He may rise in the strength of his cause and make Red war with avenging hand : He may conquer'd be, and the death he dies Be torture keen and slow; But his cause is just, and his dying cries Ask vengeance for his woe. He may not hug his chain, and live; He may not contented be, With a life where all virtue is negative, With breath a calamity; Where the free sun shines on the will-less man, That oppression's whip hath torn, And the birds that fly, and the breezes that fan, If such be the law for all slavery made, And so dark the curse it bears If the plant, deep sown by flagitious trade, And water'd with blood and tears, Give no promise, no fruit, scarce the withering leaves That drop before summer's height; Can it only be just in white-hued slaves To dare for their freedom's right!— May not all earth's sons in their first best cause Since Nature enacts no partial laws, But commands the world-"Be free !""" She calls:- "Who presses down slavery's yoke, And refuses to slack the rein, Shall perish ere long in the thunder-stroke That will shiver the captive's chain." THE WINDSOR BEAUTIES.* THE COUNTESS OF SUNDERLAND.-' - This was formerly shewn as the portrait of the famous Lady Dorothea Sidney, Countess of Sunderland-Waller's "divine Sacharissa;" but we should seek in vain in this picture for any traces of the poet's high-born, sparkling, and disdainful beauty-it is more probably that of the young Countess of Sunderland, daughter-in-law of Sacharissa, and daughter of that Digby, Earl of Bristol, who carried his moral and political profligacy so far as even to be suspected of insanity. In this portrait the features are delicate and pretty, but somewhat insipid-the hair is flaxen. She is, on the whole, the least interesting of all the Beauties, both as a subject and a painting. THE COUNTESS OF NORTHUMBERLAND. Elizabeth Wriothesley, daughter to the excellent Lord Southampton, wife of Joscelin Percy, last Earl of Northumberland, mother of the beautiful Duchess of Somerset, and (which is the highest title of all) sister to the incomparable lady Russel. This picture represents a lady no longer in the bloom of youth, but beautiful and dignified. The position of the right arm is stiff, and the hand ill drawn, the rest of the figure is elegant-the back ground, which is a fine bit of woodland scenery with a waterfall in the distance, is admirably painted. SARA, DUCHESS OF SOMERSET, presumed to be the daughter of the preceding. With the exception of the right hand (the position and drawing of which are so bad as to be inexcusable), this is one of the finest pictures, as well as one of the loveliest subjects, in the whole collection. She is represented leaning on a pedestal; the head is a little inclined; the features fair and exquisitely beautiful; and the mouth, in particular, is inexpressibly charming. The drapery, which is of a pale blue, is rather too negligently put on; in fact, not being learned in such matters, I am at a loss to tell for what it is intended, as it is so arranged that, on the least movement, it must inevitably fall from the lovely form it conceals-luckily a white bed-gown or chemise appears beneath it. The bust is much exposed; but nothing can exceed the delicacy of the tints and penciling in the neck and bosom, and the sweet and tender manner in which the whole picture is executed. The back ground is equal to the rest. It was while painting a second picture of this beautiful Duchess of Somerset, that Sir Peter Lely dropt down in a fit of apoplexy and died at her feet.† THE COUNTESS DE GRAMMONT, better known as La belle Hamilton. -This richly painted and captivating portrait is consistent in all respects with the character of the original, as it has been drawn by Anthony Hamilton: and even allowing something for the partial painting of a brother, enough remains to form a very graceful, amiable, and accomplished personage. Elizabeth Hamilton was the daughter of Sir George Hamilton, fourth son of the Earl of Abercorn, niece of the great Duke of Ormond, and sister of the famous Count Hamilton. She was young, beautiful, graceful, witty, possessed of every fascination of mind and person, *Concluded from page 433. June VOL. XVI. NO. LXVI. + In 1680. adored by all who approached her, yet in the midst of the profligate and iniquitous court she adorned-a court where women, if unmarried, lost, and if married, marred their reputations-she preserved a character for modesty and discretion, which the slanderous wits of the day never ventured to impeach. Though reserved in conversation, she had a natural turn for pleasantry and arch humour; witness the mischievous tricks she played off on poor Lady Muskerry and the unfortunate Miss Blague: frolics which seem to have been the result of gay youthful spirits, without any leaven of malice or ill-nature. One of her first lovers was the Duke of York, who became enamoured of her picture, which he saw at Sir Peter Lely's, and straight fell to ogling the fair original with all his might. Miss Hamilton at first affected not to perceive the Duke's 'passion, and when she was obliged to take notice of it, "elle prenait la peine de s'en divertir avec tout le respect du monde." Nor was she more easily pleased on the score of honourable proposals "So much the more as she refused to love, So much the more she loved was, and sought.” SPENSER. She astonished the whole court by refusing the Duke of Richmond,* in spite of his royal blood, and the King's interference in his favour-for no reason that could possibly be discovered-except that he was a sot. She could resist the invincible Jermyn, undazzled by the false glare of that all-conquering reputation which found Castlemaine an easy prey, and which even the fair Jennings could not withstand. She disdained even to look upon the Earl of Arundel, afterwards Duke of Norfolk, and would not be the first peeress of England at the expense of marrying a fool. The two Russels, uncle and nephew, and other Ostrogoths," had no better success. The gay, witty, fascinatingmust we add-the worthless, heartless De Grammont, at length carried off this paragon from all his competitors. It has been said, with little probability, that the circumstances of their marriage inspired Moliere with the first idea of the "Marriage Forcé." Grammont having left London on his return to France without performing his engagements with Miss Hamilton, the two brothers, Anthony and George Hamilton, pursued him to Dover, and overtaking him at the inn, they exclaimed aloud, "Chevalier de Grammont! n'avez vous rien oublié à Londres?" --"Pardonnez-moi, Messieurs," replied this ardent lover, "j'ai oublié d'épouser votre sour!" We may suppose that when his high-spirited mistress gave him her hand, she was unacquainted with this characteristic trait. They appear to have lived together on easy terms, though his brother-in-law does not give him credit for much constancy. The Countess de Grammont left two daughters, both beautiful women the eldest was that Lady Stafford who was the friend and correspondent of Lady M. W. Montague: the other died abbess of a French convent. Towards the latter part of her life, Madame de Grammont became very devout, and was exceedingly scandalized by her husband's epicurism and infidelity; on one occasion, when the Count fell seriously ill, the King (Louis XIV.) sent the Marquis Dangeau to him, to remind him that it was time to think of God. *The same who afterwards married Miss Stuart. |