“You and I are alone left to brother it,” Lord Herbert of Cherbury once wrote him, in a mood more tender than his wont, when all else of that radiant family had gone into dust. The youngest of Magdalen Newport’s sons was Thomas, “a posthumous,” traveller, sailor, and master of a ship in the war against Algiers. Elizabeth, Margaret, and Frances were the daughters, of whom Izaak Walton says, with satisfaction, that they lived to be examples of virtue, and to do good to their generation. None of them made an illustrious match. Margaret married a Vaughan. Frances secured unto herself the patronymic Brown, and was happily seconded by Elizabeth, George Herbert’s “dear sick sister,” who became Mistress Jones. In the south chancel transept of Montgomery Church, where Richard Herbert the elder had been buried three years before, there was erected in 1600, at his wife’s cost, a large canopied alabaster altar-tomb, with two portrait-figures recumbent. All around it, in the quaint and affectionate boast of the age, are the small images of these seven sons and three daughters; “Job’s number and Job’s distribution,” as she once remarked, and as her biographers failed not to repeat after her. But their kindred ashes are widely sundered, and “as content with six foot as with the moles of Adrianus.” This at Montgomery is the only known representation of the Lady Magdalen. Her effigy lies at her husband’s left, the palms folded, the eyes open, the full hair rolled back from a low brow, beneath a charming and simple head-dress. Nothing can be nobler than the whole look of the face, like her in her prime, and reminding one of her son’s loving epithet, “my Juno.” The short-sighted inscription upon the slab yet includes her name.