The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 491, May 28, 1831

ANECDOTE GALLERY

THE LATE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE

(From the Life and Correspondence of Sir Thomas Lawrence.)

"In 1817, Sir Thomas Lawrence was commissioned to paint the portrait of the princess a second time, and he staid at Claremont during nine days. He one morning filled up a few vacant hours in writing to his friend, and his description of the habits of the newly-married and juvenile offsprings and heirs of royalty, forms a calm, unostentatious, and delightful picture of domestic life. How ill such pleasures would have been exchanged for the public splendour and costly amusements by which they were tempted. It is a source of infinite gratification to lay before the country such a testimony to the disposition and virtues of one, in whom centered so much of the public hope and love."

"Extracts from Letters of Sir Thomas Lawrence."

"I am now returned from Claremont, my visit to which was agreeable to me in every respect; both in what regarded myself, my reception, and the complete success of my professional labours, and in the satisfaction of seeing the perfect harmony in which this young couple now live, and of observing the good qualities which promise to make it lasting."

"The princess is, as you know, wanting in elegance of deportment, but has nothing of the hoyden or of that boisterous hilarity which has been ascribed to her: her manner is exceedingly frank and simple, but not rudely abrupt nor coarse; and I have, in this little residence of nine days, witnessed undeniable evidence of an honest, just, English nature, that reminded me, from its immediate decision between the right and wrong of a subject, and the downrightness of the feeling that governed it, of the good king, her grandfather. If she does nothing gracefully, she does everything kindly."

"She already possesses a great deal of that knowledge of the past history of this country, that ought to form a part of her peculiar education."

"It is exceedingly gratifying to see that she both loves and respects Prince Leopold, whose conduct, indeed, and character, seem justly to deserve those feelings. From the report of the gentlemen of his household, he is considerate, benevolent, and just, and of very amiable manners. My own observation leads me to think, that, in his behaviour to her, he is affectionate and attentive, rational and discreet; and, in the exercise of that judgment which is sometimes brought in opposition to some little thoughtlessness, he is so cheerful and slily humorous, that it is evident (at least it appears to me so) that she is already more in dread of his opinion than of his displeasure."

"Their mode of life is very regular: they breakfast together alone about eleven: at half-past twelve she came in to sit to me, accompanied by Prince Leopold, who stayed great part of the time: about three she would leave the painting-room, to take her airing round the grounds in a low phaeton with her ponies, the prince always walking by her side; at five she would come in and sit to me till seven; at six, or before it, he would go out with his gun to shoot either hares or rabbits, and return about seven or half-past; soon after which we went to dinner, the prince and princess appearing in the drawing-room just as it was served up. Soon after the dessert appeared, the prince and princess retired to the drawing-room, whence we soon heard the piano accompanying their voices. At his own time, Colonel Addenbrooke, the chamberlain, proposed our going in, always, as I thought, to disturb them."

"After coffee, the card-table was brought, and they sat down to whist, the young couple being always partners, the others changing. You know my superiority at whist, and the unfairness of my sitting down with unskilful players; I therefore did not obey command, and from ignorance of the delicacy of my motives, am recommended to study Hoyle before my second visit there next week, which indeed must be a very short one."

"The prince and princess retire at eleven o'clock."

We leave out the link in the narrative that connects this pleasant description with the melancholy scene described in the following (for it is written in a sad taste) and only add, that the most amiable and beloved of women died within a month from the date of the above letter.

"Popular love and the enthusiasm of sorrow, never towards greatness, perhaps so real, saw in her a promised Elizabeth, and while yet she lived it was a character which I should sincerely have assigned to her, as that which she would most nearly have approached: certain I am that she would have been a true monarch—have loved her people: charity and justice, high integrity (as I have stated), frankness and humanity, were essentials and fixed in her character: her mind seemed to have nothing of subtlety or littleness in it, and she had all the courage of her station."

"She once said, 'I am a great coward, but I bluster it out like the best of them till the danger's over.' I was told by one of the members of the council awaiting her delivery, that Dr. Baillie came in, and said in answer to some inquiries, 'She's doing very well: she'll not die of fear: she puts a good Brunswick face upon the matter.' She had a surprisingly quick ear, which I was pleasantly warned of: whilst playing whist, which being played for shillings, was not the most silent game I ever witnessed, she would suddenly reply to something that the baron or I would be talking of, in the lowest tone, at the end of the room, whilst her companions at the table were ignorant of the cause of her observations."

"I have increased respect for the Bishop of Salisbury, because he appeared to have fully performed his duty in her education. She had, as I have said, great knowledge of the history of this country, and in the businesses of life, and a readiness in anecdotes of political parties in former reigns."

"How often I see her now entering the room (constantly on his arm) with slow but firm step, always erect—and the small but elegant proportion of her head to her figure, of course more striking from her situation. Her features, as you see, were beautifully cut; her clear blue eye, so open, so like the fearless purity of truth, that the most experienced parasite must have turned from it when he dared to lie."

"I was stunned by her death: it was an event in the great drama of life. The return from Elba! Waterloo! St. Helena! Princess Charlotte dead!—I did not grieve, I have not grieved half enough for her: yet I never think of her, speak of her, write of her without tears, and have often, when alone, addressed her in her bliss, as though she now saw me, heard me; and it is because I respect her for her singleness of worth, and am grateful for her past and meditated kindness."

"Her manner of addressing Prince Leopold was always as affectionate as it was simple—'My love;' and his always, 'Charlotte.' I told you that when we went in from dinner they were generally sitting at the pianoforte, often on the same chair. I never heard her play, but the music they had been playing was always of the finest kind."

"I was at Claremont, on a call of inquiry, the Saturday before her death. Her last command to me was, that I should bring down the picture to give to Prince Leopold upon his birthday, the 16th of the next month. * * *"

"If I do not make reply to different parts of your letter (always satisfactory in a correspondence), it is because I fear, having no long time to write in, that I may lose something by delay, in narrating the circumstances of my yesterday's visit to Claremont, when I was enabled through the gracious kindness of my sovereign, to fulfil that promise so solemnly given and now become so sacred a pledge."

"It was my wish that Prince Leopold should see the picture on his first entering the room to his breakfast, and accordingly at seven o'clock I set off with it in a coach. I got to Claremont, uncovered and placed it in the room in good time. Before I took it there, I carried it in to Colonel Addenbrooke, Baron Hardenbroch, and Dr. Short, who had been her tutor. Sir Robert Gardiner came in, and went out immediately. Dr. Short looked at it for some time in silence, but I saw his lips trembling, and his eyes filled to overflowing. He said nothing, but went out; and soon after him Colonel Addenbrooke. The baron and I then placed the picture in the prince's room."

"When I returned to take my breakfast, Colonel Addenbrooke came in; he said, 'I don't know what to make of these fellows; there's Sir Robert Gardiner swears he can't stay in the room with it: that if he sees it in one room, he'll go into another.'—Then there's Dr. Short. I said, I suppose by your going out and saying nothing, you don't like the picture. 'Like it,' he said, (and he was blubbering) ''tis so like her, and so amiable, that I could not stay in the room.'—More passed on the subject, not worth detailing. I learnt that the prince was very much overcome by the sight of the picture, and the train of recollections that it brought with it. Colonel Addenbrooke went in to the prince, and returning shortly, said, 'The prince desires me to say how much obliged to you he is for this attention, that he shall always remember it. He said, 'Do you think Sir Thomas Lawrence would wish to see me? If he would, I shall be very glad to see him.'—I replied that I thought you would: so if you like, he will see you whenever you choose, before your departure.' Soon after, I went in to him. As I passed through the hall, Dr. Short came up to me, (he had evidently been, and was crying,) and thanked me for having painted such a picture. 'No one is a better judge than I am, sir,' and he turned away."

"The prince was looking exceedingly pale; but he received me with calm firmness, and that low, subdued voice that you know to be the effort at composure. He spoke at once about the picture and of its value to him more than to all the world besides. From the beginning to the close of the interview, he was greatly affected. He checked his first burst of affection, by adverting to the public loss, and that of the royal family. 'Two generations gone!—gone in a moment! I have felt for myself, but I have felt for the Prince Regent. My Charlotte is gone from this country—it has lost her. She was a good, she was an admirable woman. None could know my Charlotte as I did know her! It was my happiness, my duty to know her character, but it was my delight.' During a short pause I spoke of the impression it had made on me. 'Yes, she had a clear, fine understanding, and very quick—she was candid, she was open, and not suspecting, but she saw characters at the glance—she read them so true. You saw her; you saw something of us—you saw us for some days—you saw our year! Oh! what happiness—and it was solid—it could not change, for we knew each other—except when I went out to shoot, we were together always, and we could be together—we did not tire.'"

"I tried to check this current of recollection, that was evidently overpowering him (as it was me) by a remark on a part of the picture, and then on its likeness to the youth of the old king. 'Ah! and my child was like her, for one so young, (as if it had really lived in childhood.) For one so young it was surprisingly like—the nose, it was higher than children's are—the mouth, so like hers; so cut (trying to describe its mouth on his own.) My grief did not think of it, but if I could have had a drawing of it! She was always thinking of others, not of herself—no one so little selfish—always looking out for comfort for others. She had been for hours, for many hours, in great pain—she was in that situation where selfishness must act if it exists—when good people will be selfish, because pain makes them so—and my Charlotte was not—any grief could not make her so! She thought our child was alive; I knew it was not, and I could not support her mistake. I left the room, for a short time: in my absence they took courage, and informed her. When she recovered from it, she said, 'Call in Prince Leopold—there is none can comfort him but me! My Charlotte, my dear Charlotte! And now, looking at the picture, he said, Those beautiful hands, that at the last, when she was talking to others were always looking out for mine!'"

"I need not tell you my part in this interview; he appeared to rely on my sharing his thoughts."

"Towards the close of our interview, I asked him, 'if the princess at the last felt her danger?' He said, 'No; my Charlotte thought herself very ill, but not in danger. And she was so well but an hour and a half after the delivery!—And she said I should not leave her again—and I should sleep in that room—and she should have in the sofa bed—and she should have it where she liked—she herself would have it fixed. She was strong, and had so much courage, yet once she seemed to fear. You remember she was affected when you told her that you could not paint my picture just at that time; but she was much more affected when we were alone—and I told her I should sit when we went to Marlborough House after her confinement, 'Then,' she said, 'if you are to sit when you go to town, and after my confinement—then I may never see that picture.' My Charlotte felt she never should."

"More passed in our interview, but not much more—chiefly, my part in it. At parting he pressed my hand firmly—held it long, I could almost say affectionately, I had been, by all this conversation, so impressed with esteem for him, that an attempt to kiss his hand that grasped mine was resistless, but it was checked on both sides. I but bowed—and he drew my hand towards him: he then bade me good by, and on leaving the room turned back to give me a slow parting nod,—and though half blinded myself, I was struck with the exceeding paleness of his look across the room. His bodily health, its youthfulness cannot sink under this heaviest affliction! And his mind is rational; but when thus leaving the room, his tall dark figure, pale lace, and solemn manner, for the moment, looked a melancholy presage."

"I know that your good-nature will forgive my not answering your letter in detail, since I have refrained from it but to give you this narration of beings so estimable, so happy, and so parted."

"Prince Leopold's voice is of very fine tone, and gentle; and its articulation exceedingly clear, accurate, and impressive, without the slightest affectation. You know that sort of reasoning emphasis of manner with which the tongue conveys whatever deeply interests the mind. His 'My Charlotte!' is affecting; he does not pronounce it as 'Me Charlotte,' but very simply and evenly, 'My Charlotte.'"

NOTES OF A READER

KNOWLEDGE FOR THE PEOPLE

Part VII.—Mechanics

We quote a few articles from the Introductory portion, illustrating the general principles of Mechanical agencies.

Why are we said to know of nothing which is absolutely at rest?

Because the earth is whirling round its axis, and round the sun; the sun is moving round his axis, and round the centre of gravity of the solar system; and, doubtless, round some more remote centre in the great universe, carrying all his planets and comets about his path. One of the grand laws of nature is, that all bodies persevere in their present state, whether of motion or rest, unless disturbed by some foreign power. Motion, therefore, once began, would be continued for ever, were it to meet with no interruption from external causes, such as the power of gravity, the resistance of the medium, &c. Dr. Arnott adduces several familiar illustrations of motions and forces. Thus, all falling and pressing bodies exhibit attraction in its simplest form. Repulsion is instanced in explosion, steam, the action of springs, &c. Explosion of gunpowder is repulsion among the particles when assuming the form of air. Steam, by the repulsion among its particles, moves the piston of the steam-engine. All elasticity, as seen in springs, collision, &c. belongs chiefly to repulsion. A spring is often, as it were, a reservoir of force, kept ready charged for a purpose; as when a gun-lock is cocked, a watch wound up, &c.

Why does a billiard ball stop when it strikes directly another ball of equal size, and the second ball proceed with the whole velocity which the first had?

Because the action which imparts the new motion is equal to the re-action which destroys the old. Although the transference of motion, in such a case, seems to be instantaneous, the change is really progressive, and is as follows:—The approaching ball, at a certain point of time, has just given half of its motion to the other equal ball; and if both were of soft clay, they would then proceed together with half the original velocity; but, as they are elastic, the touching parts at the moment supposed, are compressed like a spring between the balls; and by their expanding, and exerting force equally both ways, they double the velocity of the foremost ball, and destroy altogether the motion in the other.

Why does a walking stick help a man on a journey?

Because he pushes against the ground with the stick, which may be considered as compressing a spring between the earth and the end of his stick, which spring is therefore pushing up as much as he pushes down; and if, at the time, he were balanced in the scales of a weighing beam, he would find that he weighed just as much less as he were pressing with his stick.

Why is sea-sickness produced on shipboard?

Because man, strictly to maintain his perpendicularity, that is, to keep the centre of gravity always over the support of his body, requires standards of comparison, which he obtains chiefly by the perpendicularity or known position of things about him, as on land; but on shipboard, where the lines of the masts, windows, furniture, &c. are constantly changing, his standards of comparison are soon lost or disturbed. Hence, also, the reason why persons unaccustomed to the motion of a ship, often find relief by keeping their eyes directed to the fixed shore, where it is visible, or by lying on their backs, and shutting their eyes; and, on the other hand, the ill-effects of looking over the side of the vessel at the restless waves of the sea.

Why is the pendulum a time-keeper?

Because the times of the vibrations are very nearly equal, whether it be moving much or little; that is to say, whether the arc described by it be large or small. A common clock is merely a pendulum, with wheel-work attached to it, to record the number of the vibrations; and with a weight or spring, having force enough to counteract the retarding effects of friction and the resistance of the air. The wheels show how many swings or beats of the pendulum have taken place, because at every beat, a tooth of the last wheel is allowed to pass. Now, if this wheel has sixty teeth, as is common, it will just turn round once for sixty beats of the pendulum, or seconds; and a hand fixed on its axis, projecting through the dial-plate, will be the second hand of the clock. The other wheels are so connected with this first, and the numbers of the teeth on them so proportioned, that one turns sixty times slower than the first, to fit its axis to carry a minute hand; and another, by moving twelve times slower still, is fitted to carry an hour-hand.—Arnott.

Why do clocks denote the progress of time?

Because they count the oscillations of a pendulum; and by that peculiar property of the pendulum, that one vibration commences exactly where the last terminates, no part of time is lost or gained in the juxtaposition (or putting together) of the units so counted, so that the precise fractional part of a day can be ascertained, which each such unit measures. The origin of the pendulum is traced to Galileo's observation of a hanging lamp in a church at Pisa continuing to vibrate long and with singular uniformity, after any accidental cause of disturbance. Hence he was led to investigate the laws of the phenomenon, and out of what, in some shape or other, had been before men's eyes from the beginning of the world, his powerful genius extracted the most important results. The invention of pendulum clocks took place about the middle of the seventeenth century; and the honour of the discovery is disputed between Galileo and Huygens. Becher contends for Galileo, and states that one Trifler made the first pendulum clock at Florence, under the direction of Galileo Galilei, and that a model of it was sent to Holland. The Accademia del Cimento also expressly declared, that the application of the pendulum to the movement of a clock, was first proposed by Galileo, and put in practice by his son, Vincenzo Galileo, in 1649. Huygens, however, contests the priority, and made a pendulum clock before 1658; and he insists, that if ever Galileo had entertained such an idea, he never brought it to perfection. Beckmann says the first pendulum clock made in England, was constructed in the year 1662, by one Tromantil, a Dutchman; but Grignon affirms that the first pendulum clock was made in England, by Robert Harris, in 1641, and erected in Inigo Jones's church of St. Paul, Covent-garden.

Why does the pendulum move faster in proportion as its journey is longer?

Because, in proportion as the arc described is more extended, the steeper are its beginning and ending; and the more rapidly, therefore, the pendulum falls down at first, sweeps along the intermediate space, and stops at last.—Arnott.

Why is it extremely difficult to ascertain the exact length of the pendulum?

Because of the various expansion of metals, respecting which no two pyrometers agree; the changeable nature of the atmosphere; the uncertainty as to the true level of the sea; the extreme difficulty of measuring accurately the distance between the point of suspension and the centre of oscillation, and even of finding that centre; also the variety of terrestrial attraction, from which cause the motions of the pendulum are also liable to variation, even in the same latitude. In pursuing his researches, Capt. Kater discovered that the motions of the pendulum are affected by the nature of the strata over which it vibrates.