"Spain and Portugal": The Death of George Canning

George Canning, FRS, (London, England, 11th April 1770 – Chiswick, London, England, 8th August 1827)

George Canning by Richard Evans, 1825

In the long list of those who have been awarded the title of Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, there are names that will go down in history for one reason or another. Some are celebrated for their work in office, others vilified and some, for better or worse, are little remembered at all. During a conversation I had of late in a tea shop adjacent to the salon, it became apparent that few of my learned companions were aware of George Canning, whose 119 days in office stand today as the shortest term served by any Prime Minister. A respected Tory and a steady hand on this, the anniversary of his death, I thought the time was right to revisit the final days of the man who was chosen by George IV to lead the government.

When he came to office in 1827, Canning did not inherit a happy parliament and his health was already failing. He had not been well since January when he attended the evening funeral of Frederick, Duke of York. Sitting in the unheated, nighttime chapel in the depths of winter, Canning came down with a cold so serious that it threatened to carry him off before spring came round. In fact he soldiered on until his lungs became diseased, the Prime Minister continuing in government as his frail health went into terminal decline.

As the summer wore on Canning took up residence at Chiswick House and became increasingly unable to perform official duties. Here he lingered on, staying in the very room where Charles James Fox had died over two decades earlier. At four o'clock in the morning on 8th August 1827, George Canning passed away. His last words, spoken on his deathbed were reportedly, "Spain and Portugal".

Canning was buried in Westminster Abbey amid much ceremony; those who rallied against parliamentary reform mourned his passing. An able politician yet one not much loved by the ruling class of his own party, we might never know what Canning's legacy might have been if not for that final, fatal illness.

Duchess Maria Anna Josepha of Bavaria: Saviour of Bavaria

Duchess Maria Anna Josepha of Bavaria (Maria Anna Josepha Augusta; Munich, Germany, 7th August 1734 – Munich, Germany, 7th May 1776) 

Duchess Maria Anna Josepha of Bavaria by Georg Desmarées, 1750

It seems like a while since we met a lady of noble birth, so it's time to put that right today and welcome a woman who was born a Duchess and died a Margravine. Though her life was not long, Maria Anna certainly saw her share of excitement and proved herself an able diplomat.

Maria Anna Josepha was born a Duchess of Bavaria in the Nymphenburg Palace, Munich, Her father was the man who would later become Charles VII, Holy Roman Emperor and her mother Maria Amalia of Austria. 

When Maria Anna was twenty years old she became the second wife of the newly-widowed Louis George, Margrave of Baden-Baden and a man more than three decades her senior. Their lavish marriage ceremony took place at Schloss Ettlingen on 20th July 1755 and though Maria Anna was to become stepmother to his only child, they were destined never to have children of their own.

Maria Anna was a shrewd and tactful politician, noted for her diplomatic skills and when she was widowed in 1761, she returned to Bavaria and put her skills into action. Here she found her brother, Maximilian III Joseph, worried for the future of his throne as he had no heir and feared that Frederick II of Prussia would soon engulf Bavaria. He need have no such worry as Maria Anna forged strong diplomatic links with Frederick and protected the throne at least until her own death in 1776.

She was buried at the Theatine Church in Munich, much mourned by the people of the land and awarded the sobriquet, the Savior of Bavaria.

Life in the Georgian Court, true tales of 18th century royalty, is available at the links below.

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A Fatal Experiment: The Death of Georg Wilhelm Richmann

Georg Wilhelm Richmann  (Pernau, Estonia, 22nd July 1711 – St Petersburg, Russia, 6th August 1753)

To Estonia today for the tale of a Baltic German gentleman of learning whose professional fascination with electricity proved to be the death of him. Georg Wilhelm Richmann was a pioneering physicist who conducted experiments on natural electricity and, as you can probably guess, met a sticky end thanks to it!

Death of Georg Wilhelm Richmann from Les Grand Inventions by Louis F Gueir, 1863

One summer day, Richmann was involved in a meeting at the Imperial Academy of Sciences and Arts in St Petersburg when he heard the sound of distant thunder. At his home he had a device named an electrical gnomon, with which he measured the strength of atmospheric electricity and in every storm he made and recorded readings using this item. Keen to employ the device in this particular storm he excused himself and rushed home to begin his experiments.

Whilst closely examining an electroscope, a bolt of ball lightning struck the device and travelled straight into the physicist's head. The electricity rushed through Richmann and left via his foot, blowing a hole in his shoe and sending him flying across the room. The gnomon was destroyed and the physicist was killed instantly, the first scientist to die whilst experimenting with electricity.

A Portrait of Gilbert Stuart

It is no secret that I can pass many happy hours perusing artworks of the long 18th century and the painting that has caught my eye today is one of the most striking I think I have seen. It has certainly struck a chord with some of my Pinterest followers, so I thought I would share my thoughts on it here today.

The painting is the work of Rhode Island artist, Gilbert Stuart, who was born in 1755 and is perhaps best remembered for the Lansdowne portrait of George Washington, which today hangs in the Smithsonian and is partially featured on the dollar bill. Apparently painted at some point in the mid-1780s, the identity of the man in the painting remained unconfirmed until 1965 when Charles M Mount, Stuart's biographer, suggested that it was a self-portrait and this has since been accepted as fact.

Stuart spent many years in England throughout the 1770s and 1780s and here he learned the technical skill that this painting so keenly displays. It is rich in detail and vibrant with life, the rosy-cheeked Stuart looks out of the canvas with one eyebrow just slightly raised, a somewhat knowing look on his face. There is something almost arrogant in his self assurance and yet I don't find it off-putting, rather it speaks of confidence, of a chap fully at ease with his own place in the world.

If Stuart meant to make his mark then the result was admirably achieved. After nearly 20 years away from his home country, the artist returned home to a life of celebrity but, sadly, crippling debt. His end would not be a happy one for now let's leave him here, half-smiling from the canvas and imbued with unshakeable confidence.