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Title: The remains of the late Mrs. Richard Trench
        being selections from her journals, letters, & other papers

Author: Melesina Chenevix St. George Trench

Editor: Richard Chenevix Trench

Release date: August 29, 2024 [eBook #74331]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Parker, Son, and Bourn

Credits: MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REMAINS OF THE LATE MRS. RICHARD TRENCH ***






THE REMAINS OF THE LATE MRS. RICHARD TRENCH.

[Illustration: _Engraved by Francis Holl, from a picture by Romney, in
the possession of the Revᵈ. Frances Trench._

_Published by Parker, Son and Bourn, West Strand 1862._]




                               THE REMAINS
                               OF THE LATE
                           MRS. RICHARD TRENCH,

                                  BEING
          Selections from her Journals, Letters, & other Papers.

                            EDITED BY HER SON,
                         THE DEAN OF WESTMINSTER.

                                 LONDON:
                   PARKER, SON, AND BOURN, WEST STRAND.
                                  1862.

                 _The right of Translation is reserved._

                                 LONDON:
              SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,
                              COVENT GARDEN.




THE REMAINS OF THE LATE MRS. RICHARD TRENCH.




PREFACE.


It may wear an appearance of boldness, and even of pretension, to offer
to the world the literary ‘Remains’ of one who had no name in literature.
I must leave the step which I have taken to justify itself; as, if it
does not do so, certainly no words of mine will justify it.

In making public this selection from my Mother’s literary ‘Remains,’ I
am as far as possible from wishing to present these as materials of a
life, or as contributions to one. It is only the fact, that the more
valuable among them consist of letters and fragments of journals, such as
naturally are best read in a chronological order, and indeed could hardly
be presented in any other, that gives my book the remote appearance of
such. Even this I would willingly have avoided, if it had been possible;
for the adage, whether true or not in its first application, is certainly
true concerning the English matron—_Bene vixit, quæ bene latuit_; so
that it is only reluctantly, and by the necessities of the work in
which I am engaged, that I at all disturb this sacred obscurity; as
assuredly I have no desire to bring into public gaze any of those many
incidents which, deeply interesting to the members of a family, can have
no interest to any beyond. But without some few biographical notices
connecting these letters and other papers, I must either have withdrawn
many of them as unintelligible, or left them to be very imperfectly
understood. I soon then felt, that only by doing a certain violence to
a just feeling of reserve, could I avoid, in one of these ways or the
other, serious injury to whatever interest the book might possess; even
as in other respects also this feeling of reserve must up to a certain
point be overcome. This, however, is the law and limit of the narration,
that whatever is not absolutely necessary to elucidate, illustrate, or
explain the published ‘Remains,’ is passed by.

Unfortunately, the materials which came two years ago into my hands, are
very incomplete as compared with what they might have been; and it is now
impossible for me to know by what accident they have mainly suffered. Of
my Mother’s journals, especially of those kept during the earlier part
of her life, very far the greater portion has perished, or, at any rate,
gone hopelessly astray. The volumes, or, _fascicles_, consisting for the
most part of loose sheets of paper, not very carefully sewn together,
with or without covers, may seem in some measure to have provoked their
fate. Yet this would rather explain occasional deficiencies than account
for so sweeping a disappearance, leaving only here and there a fragment
surviving. At the same time, the largest of these fragments contains
her visit to Germany in 1799-1801, no doubt the portion having most
novelty and interest; although even this is imperfect, and comes to an
abrupt termination, leaving no record of the later months of her tour.
Her journals of later years have all, I believe, reached my hands; but at
this time they much less deserve this name than they did at an earlier
date, containing only occasional entries, with no attempt at continuity.

As it is with the journals, so it is also with the letters. During the
years, now nearly thirty-five, which have elapsed since my Mother’s
death, all, or nearly all her cotemporaries, all her correspondents,
whose deaths had not already preceded her own, have passed away, and the
papers of most of them have been either scattered or destroyed. It has
thus come to pass that I have only two or three series of letters at all
approaching to completeness. Of her letters to some, with whom for years
she maintained a lively correspondence—as, for instance, ‘the ladies
of Llangollen’—I do not possess a single specimen; while of those to
two others, the most intimate friends of her life, I should be equally
destitute, if she had not in later years entered now and then in her
journal, and as constituting a portion of this, copies in whole or in
part of the most interesting. I suppose that much the same must always in
such cases be expected; but to me my inability to recover more has proved
a disappointment; for I have thus only remains of her ‘Remains’ from
which to make my selection. In connexion with this matter, I will only
say in conclusion how deeply thankful I should be to any who, possessing
any of her letters, should be willing to entrust them to my care, to
make such discreet use of them as to me might seem good, if hereafter
opportunity of this should occur.

    WESTMINSTER, MARCH 10TH, 1862.




REMAINS, ETC.




CHAPTER I.

1768-1799.


    My Mother, Melesina Chenevix, was the only child of the Rev.
    Philip Chenevix and of his wife, Mary Elizabeth, daughter of
    Archdeacon Gervais. Her father was the son (at his marriage the
    sole surviving child) of Richard Chenevix, Bishop of Waterford,
    Lord Chesterfield’s correspondent, and is often playfully
    alluded to as ‘the young bishop’ in his Lordship’s letters.[1]
    In a brief sketch of her grandfather’s life, it is explained
    how the familiarity and confidence, which breathe in every line
    of Lord Chesterfield’s letters to the Bishop, grew up between
    them. It is as follows:—

My grandfather was educated at the University of Cambridge, took holy
orders, married Dorothea, of whom I only know she was the sister of
Admiral Dives, and much beloved by Queen Caroline. On Lord Chesterfield’s
appointment as Ambassador Extraordinary to the States-General at the
Hague, in 1728, my grandfather was recollected at court as a person
whose political information and accurate knowledge of the French
language would make him peculiarly useful, while his high principles
and scrupulous delicacy fitted him for an unlimited confidence. He was
accordingly named chaplain to Lord Chesterfield, and during the embassy
gained the esteem of all parties. The Prince of Orange treated him with
peculiar distinction, and presented him at parting with his picture and
those of his family, together with a massive silver cup, engraven with
the Stadtholder’s arms.[2] So great an impression did his talents and
conduct make in this situation, that the wife of the Hereditary Prince
of Brunswick, who was born very many years after his residence at the
Hague, spoke to me of him in 1800 as one familiar with his character,
having often heard his eulogium from her grandfather and grandmother.
Lord Chesterfield conceived the warmest friendship for him; and till
the hour of his death paid him the respect of appearing to him a strict
friend to religion and morality, insomuch that my grandfather was really
acquainted only with the bright side of this dazzling but imperfect
character. On Lord Chesterfield’s appointment to the Lord-Lieutenancy
of Ireland, he recommended my grandfather to a bishopric, and enforced
his recommendation, when he was answered that ‘the King wished he would
look out for another bishop,’ by replying, that ‘he wished the King would
look out for another Lord-Lieutenant.’[3] On this my grandfather was
immediately appointed Bishop of Killaloe, and in a few months translated
to Waterford. There he resided thirty-three years, and there, in 1779, he
died, after a long life of primitive purity and continually active and
often splendid benevolence; having survived two daughters, as well as
Philip, his beloved and exemplary son, leaving only one grand-daughter,
Melesina, writer of these memoranda.

    Born in 1768, she had lost before her fourth birthday both her
    parents by death. I find among her papers, without date, but
    certainly belonging to later years, some brief recollections of
    her childhood, why, and for whom, written will be gathered from
    the introductory sentences:—

It is your desire that I should write some recollections of the past.
Unaccustomed to order and precision in the use of my pen as I am, they
will be incoherent and desultory, perhaps uninteresting. But I feel that
compliance with your wishes is to me a sort of destiny; and therefore,
however I may fail in the execution, since you desire it, I am compelled
to make the attempt.

Whatever faults I may have, I do not inherit them from my parents. They
were all love and gentleness, piety and benevolence; fondly attached
to each other, and removed from this world by an early death, which
seemed to have no terrors for either. Their separation was short, and I
trust their reunion eternal. My paternal grandfather was one of those
guileless, humble, benevolent, firm, affectionate, and pious characters,
rarely seen, and never duly appreciated; particularly when a species of
_naïveté_, which, for want of a better name, the world calls simplicity,
is blended with these qualities. He was learned, active, and diligent,
both in the performance of his duties and the cultivation of his mind, to
the last hour of a life prolonged beyond the age of fourscore.

I have a dim recollection of my father in some playful scene; and of
my mother conversing mildly with me, once taking from me some paper
figures with which she found it impossible to please me by repeated
alterations; and again, kneeling in her widow’s weeds, after my father’s
death, and praying silently, at Clifton, where she went for the cure of
that consumption she had caught in her tender and unwearied attendance
upon him in the South of France.[4] It seemed as if her death, which
soon followed his, interrupted the progress of my ideas, for I have then
no distinct recollection of anything till that period of my infancy
which found me with my paternal grandfather, my fondly attached nurse,
Alice Cornwall, ‘the abstract and brief chronicle of the times;’ and
a governess whom I thought _old_—I know not her age—with a very long
face, a very long waist, and a stocking in her hand, which she knitted
so perseveringly it seemed a part of herself; and a determination to
rule by rigour, to pass nothing, to correct seldom, but then to do it
with effect. The fear and distaste I had for her is indescribable. It
was increased by the arrival of a large, coarse, furious-looking maid,
who I understood was to replace my own Ally, the only remaining creature
of the little group, all gentleness and joy, that I had been used to
love. I shall not dwell on the cruelties I suffered, possibly from the
best intentions; but they have impressed me with a deep horror of
unkindness to the young, and of all that is fierce or despotic in every
shape. My grandfather was deaf, and confined by infirmity to his chair.
I had an aversion to complaint, and what is most singular, and to me
now unaccountable, I never did complain to him; and I believe children
suffer much rather than do so, partly from fear of worse treatment, and
sometimes partly from generosity; they vaguely conceive their father’s
house is all the world, and that the servant or governess dismissed at
their instance, is dismissed to be an homeless wanderer for life. At
least, this appears to me to have been the principal, perhaps the only,
cause that restrained me.

My health, however, sunk under restraint, fear, and inflictions of every
kind, combined with want of fresh air, and insufficient food. The two
last privations were for the good of my health and beauty, both which
they materially injured. The smooth, smiling cheek, affectionately
remembered even now by those who cherished my childhood as being ‘round
as an apple,’ grew pale and wan; the body delicate; the elastic step
listless; and in all the useless and encumbering _embonpoint_ of my
present existence, I still shudder when I call to mind the thinness of my
neck and arms.

I was the best little child possible. Happy had I been, if such
dispositions as I then possessed had been cherished, and the faults which
afterwards sprung up eradicated. I was obedient and loving, docile and
lively, although timid. I do not remember the smallest disposition to
falsehood or mischief, and I sympathized with every being that felt.
I pined away so rapidly under the new _régime_, it was necessary to
call in the physicians, and to recal my nurse. The symptoms of danger
disappeared, and the physicians had the honour of the amendment produced
by the good Alice Cornwall. Cure it could not be called, for I remained
miserably thin; and the delicacy of my form, the brightness of my large
black eyes, and the premature intelligence of mind and countenance
produced by love and suffering, combined with early change of society
and place, I am told gave something unearthly to my whole appearance. I
remember those addressing me as a fairy queen, an Ariel, a sylph, who
spoke to me in sportive kindness; but these were few; for I lived among
the old, and old age was then less gracious, particularly to the young,
than it is now.

Before I ceased to be a child, my good and kind, nay, doting grandfather,
died. He had not made me happy, though he had tried to do so; nay, he had
not prevented me from being miserable. But I felt he loved me more than
all the world; and without knowing the value of deep and exclusive love,
I regretted him, both from gratitude and from affection.

From him I went to my dear, ever dear Lady Lifford; my tender, kind, and
constant friend. Once seen, she was ever known. She realized all the
poetical delineations of feminine gentleness and sensibility; my heart
clung to her from the first moment; and even now her dear idea mingles
with my deepest and tenderest thoughts. She was the lovely mother of
three affectionate children, whom she educated with suavity and apparent
indulgence; but although we seemed to do as we liked, in fact we were
doing all that she wished. How happy was the ensuing year, how full
it appears when I look back; its bright rays set off by the dark hours
which preceded and followed. I never heard the tone, or saw the look, of
reproach; I cannot remember even that of the mildest reproof. What an
enjoyment was the free air, and use of my own limbs, bounding along an
extensive park, or inhaling and admiring beds of flowers. The woods, the
garden, the deer, the peacocks, the sports of childhood, the voice of
joy, even the cheerfulness of a well-regulated large English family, were
all sources of joy. What a contrast to privation, severity, restraint,
confinement; for I had never walked but in a walled garden, except when
occasionally sent to the seashore to bathe. What a contrast to seeing
none but the aged, the infirm, the severe, and being ever under the
eye of a rigid governess. How delightful was it to me to find myself
caressed, _applauded_. Applause was not quite so new a feeling as might
have been wished; for I had been sent one night in my dear grandfather’s
life, to a fancy ball, dressed as Sterne’s Maria, with my favourite
little dog in a string, and I had drunk deep, fatally deep, of the
intoxicating draught of delusive admiration paid to personal appearance.
It was a dangerous experiment, and I can trace to it many of the tares
which sprung up in my young heart.

My young affections entwined about Lady Lifford, and her children,
Ambrosia, George, Elizabeth. All this dear group are vanished;

    ‘How populous, how vital is the grave.’

I was near a year older than the eldest; I had great influence over
them; I was the leader in their sports, and each sought with eager
competition for the largest share of my love. I gave it to George, yet,
from instinct, I suppose, I sometimes teased _him_, though never his
sisters. I would say, ‘George, you do not love me,’ and express doubts
of his affection, till the large bright drops forced themselves from his
mild hazel eyes, and then I would console him with the softest kindness,
till I drew him from under the sofa, the place where he usually flung
himself to hide his young sorrows. This strange exertion of feminine
power over a child of nine by one three years older; was it instinct, or
a species of coquetry awakened by having read in my grandfather’s study,
Shakspeare, Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_, Sterne, _The Arabian Nights_, an
abundance of plays, and several works of imagination, which, describing
the influence of female charms as invincible, excited an early desire to
try their force? This childish exercise of power stands alone. I do not
recollect any other instance of the slightest propensity to tyrannize; on
the contrary, I did all I could to promote the pleasure of my companions,
and even in points where I had any advantages over them, to be careful
they should never feel it. I was their surest _confidante_, their most
disinterested adviser, and in sickness their tenderest and most unwearied
nurse. This looks too much like praising of myself, yet what can I do?
The kindly qualities I have mentioned are compatible with a thousand
faults, of which the germs were but slightly developed in these youthful
days.

    Some other fragmentary reminiscences of childhood, I do not
    know at what time written, but I am inclined to think of
    earlier date than those which have just been given, dwell with
    more fulness on the graces and virtues of the good Bishop; even
    as I can well remember that my Mother, in later years, loved
    often to speak of them. They leave, too, an impression of her
    own life under her grandfather’s roof, if not a happy one, nor
    one natural to a child, yet on the whole not so unhappy as the
    preceding notice would imply. It is in the very nature of such
    recollections of a distant past, that the colours which it
    wears should not always be exactly the same.

After my mother’s death I lived with my dear grandfather, the good Bishop
of Waterford. I was the only remaining child of his once numerous family,
and in me were centered all his earthly hopes and wishes. His domestic
affections were uncommonly strong. They formed a solid and broad basis
for his universal philanthropy. He often spoke of his lost children, of
his departed wife, and of his revered father, who died on the field of
battle.[5] Even his family pictures, a numerous collection, which he had
carefully brought from England when he came to settle at his bishopric,
were regarded by him with sentiments of greater tenderness and veneration
than some appear to feel for their living friends. The education of his
orphan grand-daughter became his favourite employment. She was to him
as a ray of sunshine sent to gild the evening of his life. But she did
not absorb the mild affections of that expanded heart, which looked on
all the sons and daughters of affliction as its own. Inattentive to the
voice of vanity, selfishness, or dissipation, and _above_ all taste for
luxury and splendour, his superfluity was exclusively devoted to acts of
charity; and his idea of superfluity was that of a Christian bishop. To
one who expressed fears of his injuring his family by his generosity, he
replied, ‘No, no, I shall die scandalously rich.’ Prudent men accused him
of being too lavish and indiscriminate in his bounty; and it was said
that whoever awakened his feelings commanded his purse. But these were
noble errors, and sufficiently punished by the occasional ingratitude
he experienced. He proved by the whole tenour of his actions that his
philanthropy was not the mere child of impulse; for he assisted numerous
public charities with the utmost exertion of his vigilance and industry.
In more instances than one he wrested from the strong grasp of power and
affluence the portion of those who had none to help them; and saved from
rapacious heirs the revenues of establishments, destined to last as long
as our Constitution for the comfort of the widow and the fatherless.[6]
He also sowed the first precious seed of many liberal endowments.
Providence prospered his efforts, and those yet unborn may bless his name.

Would that I could do justice to his courtesy, his dignity of mind, his
humility, his simplicity, his learning, his piety; but his setting sun
only irradiated my path during my childhood. His habits I well remember.
Till fourscore years of age he rose at six, lighted his own fire, was
temperate even to abstemiousness, never tasting any but the plainest
food; was strictly attentive to every religious exercise, public and
private; was polite and hospitable, receiving frequently large companies,
from whom he retired to his study when they sat down to cards; and on
every Sunday inviting a numerous party of clergymen and officers to an
early dinner, which admitted of attending divine service in the evening.
He was always employed in his study in the intervals of meals; but though
apparently engrossed by his pen and his books, never showed the slightest
impatience of interruption, whether from the claims of society or of
indigence. An airing, or a short walk to look at his pines, grapes, or
melons, was to him sufficient relaxation; and, as his deafness precluded
him from enjoying general conversation, he had peculiar pleasure in a
private interview with those he loved or esteemed. His courtesy was
specially that of Christianity, more solicitous to avoid offending the
poor and low than the rich and great. I have seen him receive an old
woman who asked alms in the street, and a young one who came to solicit
a recommendation to the Magdalen Asylum, with all the politeness of a
courtier, and all the respect of a supplicant. His green old age, always
serene, and often cheerful, was wholly exempt from _ennui_, listlessness,
or any dispiriting complaint.

He was so attached to his diocese of Waterford, that when offered, while
Lord Townsend was Viceroy, the Archbishopric of Dublin, he refused to
leave ‘his children.’ In his diocese he was beloved as a father, and
honoured wherever known. Dr. Woodward, on being made a bishop, went to
entreat his blessing, received it with reverence, and often spoke of the
feelings of that moment with tears in his eyes. Dr. Law, when Bishop
of Killaloe, pronounced in the House of Lords an eloquent and animated
eulogium on his virtues many years after his death.

His love for literature tinctured perhaps too strongly the system he
formed for my education. He condemned ornamental accomplishments, lest
they should seduce me from severer studies; and insensibly books became
my business and my only pleasure. At seven years old, after reading
Rollin as a task, I turned to Shakspeare and Molière as an amusement;
and though debarred from most of the enjoyments of my age, was happy
while in my grandfather’s presence. When absent from him, I longed for
young companions, unrestrained exercise, childish sports, and fresh air;
for I was deprived of all these from an excess of care and apprehension
for my health. My grandfather’s having survived all his children and
grandchildren, rendered him so timid with regard to my preservation,
that his good understanding in this single instance had not fair play;
and I was brought up with so much delicacy that nothing but naturally a
strong constitution and uncommon high spirits could have saved my life.
I was thus bred up in ignorance of all modern accomplishments—no music,
no drawing, no needlework, except occasionally for the poor; no dancing,
except the ‘sweet austere composure’ of the minuet, which was admitted as
favourable to grace and deportment.

My grandfather, called to his rest and his reward while I was yet a
child, left an impression of love and reverence never to be erased from
the hearts of those who witnessed the daily beauty of his life; least
of all from mine; and perhaps I owe to the strength of this first
attachment a tenderness for declining age, a power of understanding its
language, and a pleasure in anticipating its wants and wishes, which have
accompanied me through life.

    The Bishop’s death took place in 1779, when therefore the
    writer of these recollections was eleven years old. After
    that happy year spent under Lady Lifford’s roof, and already
    described, it was the wish of her maternal grandfather,
    Archdeacon Gervais, that she should reside with him; and this
    she continued to do till she had completed her eighteenth year.

    Early in her nineteenth she was married to Colonel St. George,
    of Carrick-on-Shannon, Ireland, and of Hatley St. George,
    Cambridgeshire. Here, again, a fragment of considerable length
    has reached my hands, which I quote:—

On the last day of October, 1786, at the age of eighteen, I entered into
the arduous duties of a wife. The moment the ceremony was performed we
set out to Dangan, a seat lent to us by Lord Mornington, as neither
Mr. St. George nor his father had ever lived on the family estate;
consequently he had no country-house fit for my reception. The old
mansion covered a large extent of ground, in the midst of a very fine
park. Without, it had every appendage of ancient magnificence; within,
every article of modern luxury. Here we lived for some time—I, in a kind
of pleasing dream, which every particularity in my situation served to
increase. My husband’s excessive fondness, a constant succession of young
and gay society, the ‘chimera of independence,’ successive amusements,
and late hours, left no moment for recollection. About two months after
our marriage we invited, for a Christmas party, the Duke and Duchess
of Rutland, with the suite that attended him as Lord-Lieutenant: Lord
Westmeath, Lord Fitzgibbon, General Pitt, General Conynghame, some of the
prettiest women, and a group of the gayest young men. I thought myself
in Elysium for half the first week; but the charm was soon broken, and I
grew weary of turning night into day for no obvious reason, as all hours
in the twenty-four were equally free from interruption, of listening to
the _double entendres_ of Mrs. —— and Lady ——, and of playing commerce
with a party of women impatient for the hour of eleven, which usually
brought the men in a state very unfit for the conversation or even the
presence of our sex.

Under these impressions I accompanied the same party to Lord ——’s, where
I wrote a letter to Miss Chenevix, expressing my opinion of the society
I was engaged in. This letter lay on the table while I retired to dress.
—— —— and —— ——, who examined all my words and actions with the strictest
scrutiny, each hinted a desire to know the contents. This inclination,
in the more polished mind of the latter, would have died away, had it
not been encouraged by the daring spirit of the former, who, collecting
several of the female party, proposed as an agreeable frolic that action
from which honour and principle alike recoil. The moment she obtained
a half consent and a promise of secresy, she heated her penknife and
raised the seal. Pause a moment and consider the group—agitated with a
fear of discovery, conscious of being each in the power of the rest;
_one_, mistress of the house, acting in direct violation of the laws
of hospitality; _another_, condemned to read aloud the just censure
of her own behaviour; a _third_, stung with resentment at a charge
she could never refute without a confession of her own baseness; a
_fourth_, in silent expectation of being held up to view in the light
she deserved;—all trembling with apprehension, ill disguised under
bitter smiles and affected indifference. As soon as they had finished
reading, they re-sealed the letter, committed it to the post, vented
their rage against its author, and reiterated promises of secresy. These
promises were kept like most others of the same nature. One of the ladies
confessed all to her lover—that lover betrayed her to his friend—that
friend imparted the secret to Mr. St. George, and he disclosed it to
me. I felt no great resentment, particularly when I recollected that
the fault was attended with its own punishment, even in the moment of
commission; and I ever after behaved to the fair culprits with distant
civility, though I never renewed with any one of them the slightest
degree of intimacy. From the public they met with less indulgence. They
were blamed, ridiculed, and even lampooned.

From Dangan I removed to Dublin in the ensuing spring, and from Dublin to
Cork, where Mr. St. George’s regiment was quartered. But these changes
made no alteration in our mode of life. As I rose late, I never found
an hour in the day unoccupied, either by his society, by dressing,
visiting public places, consultations with the milliner, receiving
company at home, or fulfilling my engagements abroad. Every study, every
accomplishment were laid aside. I never opened a book except while my
hair was dressing. I never touched a note, except when asked to play by
St. George. On domestic arrangements I never bestowed a thought; what
was our income, and what our expense, I was equally ignorant. Scarcely
could I find a moment to write to those I most loved. Both my temper
and my taste would soon have been spoiled by this disposal of my time.
Nothing is so quickly lost as the habit of occupation, which, till now,
I had always in some degree maintained; now it was totally extinct. The
injury my taste received from a recurrence of frivolous pursuits and the
absence of reflection was still more evident; for I saw the Lakes of
Killarney about seven months after our marriage, with an indifference to
its beauties I surely could not have experienced either before or since.

Soon after, however, an event occurred which awakened all my dormant
sensibilities, and conferred on me the purest happiness I had ever
tasted. I had not long attained my nineteenth year, when I became a
mother. The delight of that moment would counterbalance the miseries of
years. When I looked in my boy’s face, when I heard him breathe, when I
felt the pressure of his little fingers, I understood the full force of
Voltaire’s declaration:—

    ‘Le chef-d’œuvre d’amour est le cœur d’une mère.’

My other affections appeared to require food, and, if not supported by
adequate returns, I was sensible might expire; but this attachment seemed
a part of my existence which could neither be increased nor diminished by
any outward circumstances. My husband’s delight in the birth of his son
nearly equalled mine. My love for _him_, the father of my child, grew in
strength, and I looked on myself as one of the happiest of women.

Alas! this was the pinnacle of my enjoyments, and from this moment
fortune never ceased to undermine the basis on which I founded my future
hopes. The gradual decline of Colonel St. George’s health, a series of
circumstances concurring to check his prospects of worldly advancement,
the immense difference between the poor realities of life and the
splendid pictures drawn by my youthful fancy, the void occasioned by a
course of dissipation and trivial pursuits, were all strongly felt by a
mind so susceptible as mine; and my situation at the birth of my second
son was a perfect contrast to that which saw me first a mother, though
divided from it by little more than a year. My husband was in the South
of France. We had sailed for Bourdeaux about two months before I lay
in. The wind was contrary, and I was so ill that he apprehended I could
not proceed without danger, so that after I had suffered six-and-thirty
hours’ wretched sickness, being still in sight of the Irish coast, he
prevailed on the captain to land us at Wicklow, and in two days pursued
the voyage alone. My agitation on our parting, and remorse for having
suffered any personal consideration to prevent me from attending him,
affected my unborn child, who, nine days after his birth, died of inward
fits. Thus I suffered all the pains of a lying in, without the comfort
of my husband’s presence or my infant’s smiles, without a single female
friend to cheer the hours of confinement, regretting the past, and
apprehensive of the future. At this time I wanted five months of one and
twenty.

Sad and slow the months passed on, and when I had nearly arrived at
that age, Mr. St. George returned to settle some affairs which depended
on my majority, and to take me with him to a more southern climate.
Greatly was I shocked at the change of his appearance. His figure was
shrunk and emaciated, his features sharpened, and his eyes had acquired a
distressing keenness. Every day some new remedy was proposed and tried,
some fresh physician called in and obeyed. From March to November I
passed hovering round the couch of sickness, or preparing for a voyage to
Lisbon, which I looked on as a certain means of recovery, and undertook
with the most flattering hopes. My Portuguese journal will prove their
fallacy. It breaks off seven days before Mr. St. George’s death.[7]

    ‘Long at his couch death took his patient stand,
    And menaced oft, and oft withheld the blow.’

Yet the moment of his final dissolution shocked me no less than if it had
been sudden and unexpected. To say the truth, to me it was so; strong
affection will hope where reason would despair, and I never for an
instant relinquished the expectation of his recovery. His last moments
will never be erased from my memory, were I to live for ages. All the
surrounding objects are likewise engraved on my brain, and can never
perish while that endures. Even the orange tree which waved its branches
across the window between my fixed eyes and that setting sun _he_ had
seen for the last time, is impressed with every leaf on my imagination.
My friends, the Warres, in a few hours took me to their home, and
neglected none of the offices of friendship. I required them all, for my
mind was deeply affected. Sometimes I talked incessantly, recapitulated
all the incidents of our courtship and marriage, then sunk into sullen
silence. Sometimes I reproached myself vehemently for imaginary faults
toward him, and formed wild schemes of expiating errors I had not
committed. Sometimes I imagined all was a dream, from which I might yet
awake. But my predominant idea was regret for not having shown him warmer
love, more observant duty, more tender fondness. I wished that these ‘had
been in every point twice done, and then done double;’ and whenever I was
alone, used to address him in the language of contrition, and call on him
with all the fervour of passionate attachment.

The day which completed my two-and-twentieth year, found my mind in this
disordered state, and saw the remains of my husband placed on shipboard
to be deposited at Athlone in the tomb of his ancestors. I soon followed
those precious relics. The scene of my misfortune was hateful to me. The
spring was advancing with charms of which a more northern climate had
given me no idea; but I saw with displeasure beauties _he_ could not
enjoy, and longed to remove, as if I hoped to fly from grief. In vain
did the Warres intreat me to pass the summer with them, and promise they
would themselves conduct me to Ireland in the beginning of the autumn.
Without motive or object, without even a home to return to, I felt a
vague desire of wandering, and I sailed for Dublin about a month after my
misfortune. As I crossed the bar, which half a year before I had passed
with the gayest and most lively hopes, the large waves rolled solemnly
toward the vessel, and I often wished it were possible that one of them
might receive me into its dark bosom and all my inquietudes.

Contrary winds forced our vessel to take shelter in Cork harbour. There I
landed, and was taken to an inn, and was put to bed more dead than alive.
Next morning I arose to pursue my journey to Dublin, as rest was hateful
to me. I longed to be with Mr. St. George’s nearest relations and dearest
friends. A magazine lay on the table; I took it up, and mechanically
turned toward the Deaths. There my grandfather’s name was the first I
saw. At any time nature must have spoken to the heart of a child thus
shocked with the intelligence of a parent’s loss; but in my position the
incident was doubly affecting.

After a melancholy journey, I arrived at Mrs. Cradock’s. With her and
Mrs. Marjoribanks I passed the first year of my widowhood. I suffered
much both in mind and body; however, I recovered by the pure air of
Broomfield, and the unremitting attention of those who loved me. In
about fifteen months after my return, I resolved on visiting England,
and invited Miss Chenevix to accompany me. At the commencement of that
journey I began a regular journal, which I shall probably continue to the
end of my life and faculties.

    I gather from the handwriting of the above passage that
    it was written not many years after the events which it
    narrates, and during the widowhood of the writer. Of the
    journal, which in the last sentence she describes herself
    as keeping, and intending to keep, and which no doubt for a
    great many years she did keep, only a few fragments, so far
    as concerns the next seven years, have come into my hands.
    If they are fair specimens of the rest, it must have been
    kept with considerable fulness. I shall extract a few of
    these; but before this, I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of
    inserting, though it has properly no place in this volume, one
    letter, which I have found among my Mother’s papers, for the
    abiding interest of the events and persons to whom it refers.
    It is from Colonel Cradock, afterwards Lord Howden (he was
    half-brother to Colonel St. George), and written after a visit
    to the Duke of Brunswick’s head-quarters, and on the memorable
    day that the Prussian army entered France with the intention
    of marching to Paris, releasing the King, and putting down the
    Revolution. Honourable to the professional zeal of the writer,
    as no less in other ways, it is a slight but authentic glimpse
    of an epoch-making moment in the world’s history; though it may
    have needed at the moment a Goethe to discern, as it will be
    remembered that _he_ did by the Prussian watch-fires after the
    cannonade at Valmy, all the significance which it possessed.


COLONEL CRADOCK TO MRS. ST. GEORGE.

                                                Luxembourg, Aug. 19, 1792.

It is high time, according to promise, I should give you some account of
ourselves, and how far we have accomplished our wild-goose chase. Our
excursion furnished a proof _de plus_ that nothing is so difficult in
execution as in plan; for here we are, though in London we were told the
project was impossible; and as we advanced, the account of obstructions
increased; yet to this town and this moment we have proceeded without
meeting one. We came by Dover, Ostend, Bruges, Ypres, Brussels, Namur,
Luxembourg, still hunting the Duke of Brunswick’s army, in agony lest
the delay of one hour should make us too late; for such was the tenor of
our intelligence as we pursued our course. We arrived here on Tuesday
evening, and to our inexpressible joy found the King of Prussia, the
Duke of Brunswick, and the main army of 50,000 men encamped at Montfort,
about four miles from the town. Colonel Manners, St. Leger, two other
officers, and ourselves, composed the whole of the English, though taught
to expect so many more, in the town. We went next morning to the camp,
and were presented, at the time of giving orders, to the King of Prussia
and Duke of Brunswick before their tents. The whole passed without the
least ceremony, and had entirely the appearance of an introduction upon
the parade to the commanding officers, such was the martial simplicity
and modesty of everything around. The King’s tent was that of a field
officer, and his two sons’, the Prince Royal and Prince Louis, those of
captains, adjoining to his. On that morning arrived at head-quarters
Monsieur and the Count d’Artois from Treves, with _écuyers grands_,
&c., without number. The vain parade of people in their circumstances
added highly to the scene; for who could behold the contrast without
admiration and wonder—poverty and exile in the gay trappings of pride and
vain-glory, and real power and dominion over thousands and ten thousands
concealed yet augmented by the apparent moderation of its possessor?

I cannot too favourably express the flattering reception we met with from
the King of Prussia and the Duke of Brunswick. To us English officers was
allowed the peculiar privilege of riding throughout the camp wherever
we pleased; and, if stopped by any sentry, we had but to explain who
we were, and we met with no interruption. This privilege allowed us
yesterday morning the happy opportunity of attending the breaking up of
their camp, and accompanying their march twelve miles to Bellenburg,
where they encamped upon an open plain of corn upon the very frontier
of France. The ground was so advantageously situated that one could
behold the column of cavalry and the three of infantry enter the plain
at once, and take up their ground at the same time. A description would
be tedious, and will better serve for conversation than correspondence;
but still I must say, in the traveller cant, so magnificent a sight
my imagination could not have conceived. The whole was performed with
infinite regularity and expedition, and every person knew his business
so well that not a direction nor scarce a word was heard. Yet something
took place, considering the Prussian discipline, that surprised me. The
men, even in sight of their officers, stepped from their ranks and loaded
themselves with the corn, potatoes, &c., and at length appeared like
a moving field. As permission to accompany the army had been refused
to every person, of whatsoever situation, that does not belong to it,
we English officers, fearful of exceeding our limits, were obliged to
withdraw ourselves last night, and have bid adieu, with our best wishes,
to the Duke of Brunswick. This day he proceeded to a place called
Tiercelet, near to Longwy. Whether he will continue his route to Paris
alone, or wait to be joined by the French Princes or M. de Clairfait’s
army, no one can tell. His motions are so secret, that nothing but the
past and present are known.

The Prussian army seems to be exasperated to a degree against every thing
that bears the name of Frenchman; and patriot or emigrant appears to
make but little difference of sentiment in them. The emigrants everywhere
conduct themselves with so little good sense, and are so regardless of
good-will and conciliation, that the world regard them and their cause
with much indifference; and was it not thought that their cause would
ultimately affect others, no one would stir a step in their behalf. The
other day there had been a skirmish between some Prussian hussars and a
party of the French, which ended in the defeat of the latter, without the
loss of a single man on the side of the Prussians. About fifty wounded
men and prisoners were brought into town, and passed before our windows,
where we were at dinner at a _table-d’hôte_ with some Frenchmen. They
jumped up and ran out, and returned, after viewing the poor wounded
people, crying out, ‘_Que c’est charmant! comme les hussars les ont bien
arrangés!_’ We abhorred them. To-morrow the Princes and emigrants take
up the former ground of the Prussians near this town. We shall go in the
morning and meet them upon their march. I am really very anxious to see
the three thousand officers doing the duty of soldiers and the common
drudgery of the camp. Though a painful sight, yet it is interesting, and
worthy of observation. We shall afterwards go to Arlon and stay a day
or two with General Clairfait’s army, and enable ourselves to talk with
discernment of the difference between the Prussian and Austrian soldiers.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I have quite failed to obtain any letters, or discover any
    journals, of the next five or six years. It is only in the
    autumn of 1798 that I find a few loose pages of journal. I will
    make some brief extracts from these:—

_Sept. 2, 1798._—Left London yesterday morning, and arrived at Colonel
Sloane’s, Stoneham, at five. Colonel Sloane seems a sensible, polite,
pleasing man; a good understanding and great mildness appear in his
conversation. This house is situated on the river Itchen, which winds
before the windows, and, with the addition of a single-arched bridge,
and trees well grouped, forms a very pleasing view. A small lake, or
rather pool, near the house, is excessively pretty; and nothing can
be pleasanter than to walk on its margin under the shade of large
plane-trees, whose branches arch over your head and dip themselves in
the water; while on the opposite bank you see a rich variety of wood,
which repeats itself in the clear dark surface. The scene is minute, but
attractive; and the intermixture of weeping willows and trees of spiry
forms among those of the more general shape, has a delightful effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 3._—Colonel Sloane, who commands the Hampshire Militia, received
orders this morning at three o’clock to hold himself and his regiment
prepared for going to repel the French invasion in Ireland.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 16._—Dined at Lord Palmerston’s. Broadlands is very beautiful,
both from nature and from art; to the latter it is most indebted. The
river winds just before the house, and the trees are luxuriant and well
grouped; but its distinguishing feature is a species of rich unsullied
verdure I have never seen but there.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 24._—This day closes my happy visit to Stoneham—spot ever to be
remembered with grateful affection. Miss Sloane and Miss Dickenson kindly
walked with me to Southampton, where I mean to pass a week, as my house
in London is painting, and I have no engagement which it is convenient to
me to fulfil till the 1st of October.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 29._—I have passed most of my time with Miss Sloane since my
arrival at Southampton, and repent the misplaced delicacy and fear of
intruding which hurried me from a place where I was so acceptable and so
happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 3._—I arrived on the 1st at Lady Buckingham’s. La Trappe itself
could not be more solitary than her habitation. The house is convenient,
the walks retired and shady. She does not encourage visits, which pleases
me, as solitude is preferable to the casual uninteresting society to be
obtained in a villa near London. Lady Buckingham has engaged me for a
month’s _tête-à-tête_. If our friendship survives this ordeal, it may be
immortal.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 7._—Went to see Miss Agar, at Lord Mendip’s. She did not expect I
would dine with her; was engaged out, and being in an empty house, had
nothing to give me. She sent an excuse where she was expected, and we
dined gaily on bacon, eggs, and porter. ‘Better is a dinner of herbs
where love is,’ &c. The hour of parting came too soon.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 1._—Returned to town, after passing all October with Lady
Buckingham. She is sensible, friendly, and pleasant; I am attached to
her both by gratitude and choice; ‘_mais mon âme ne se fond pas dans la
sienne_.’ The retirement we lived in was complete, and rather raised than
lowered my spirits.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 1._—A long blank. I have been with good Lady Lifford and the
pleasant Copes, and did not return to London till yesterday. London, as
usual, agitates and disquiets me. It appears to me a gulf of splendid
misery and attractive wickedness. ‘De profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine,’
to be preserved from both. I this day saw only Lady Yarmouth and Henry
Sanford; yesterday Miss Sloane,—all very affectionate. That I often
inspire affection is one of the chief blessings of my life.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 3._—Went with Lord and Lady Yarmouth to a private box, to see Mrs.
Siddons in _Isabella_ and _Blue Beard_. I think Mrs. Siddons is less
various than formerly, and is so perpetually in paroxysms of agony that
she wears out their effect. She does not reserve her great guns, as
Melantius[8] calls them, for critical situations, but fires them off as
minute guns, without any discrimination.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 4._—Dined at the Duke of Queensberry’s. He is very ill—has a
violent cough, but _will_ eat an immense dinner, and then complains of
a _digestion pénible_. Sheridan’s translation of the _Death of Rolla_,
under the name of _Pizarro_, has brought him £5000 per week for five
weeks. The sentiments of loyalty uttered by Rolla are supposed to have
had so good an effect, that on the Duke of Queensberry’s asking why the
stocks had fallen, a stockjobber replied, ‘Because at Drury-lane they
have left off acting _Pizarro_.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 7._—Saw poor Madame Ciriello, the picture of despair. The late
revolution at Naples not only makes her feel miserable at the fate of her
friend the Queen, but deprives her and her husband of all the comforts
of affluence, at that advanced time of life when such a vicissitude is
most irreparable and insupportable.—At Mrs. Walker’s masquerade we supped
in the chapel. Some were shocked at this, who, when they heard it was a
Roman Catholic chapel, felt their consciences perfectly at ease.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 17._—I have been, and still am, confused by a violent feverish
cold. The solitude of my apartment is not disagreeable to me, but
tranquillity and reflection strengthen my desire of living in the
country, because I think I could there adopt a consistent plan of doing
good, and see its effects. In town one may be of use in a desultory way,
but not to the same extent, or with the same pleasure. One is divided
from the objects one serves. Those times are past when everything I saw,
every person I met, every employment I engaged in, amused, improved,
or interested me. I no longer study character and seek friends; an
indifference is creeping over me. I see all around me acting a part,
pursuing they know not what, yet as eager in the pursuit as if eternal
happiness depended on it. An anxiety to go everywhere, to know everybody,
to associate with those above them in position, seems a marked feature
of the polished inhabitants of London. Like flies caught in a bottle of
honey, all are smothered in disgusting sweets, and all are trying to rise
above each other, no matter how. The distinctions of vice and virtue are
broken down. ‘Well-dressed, well-bred, well-equipaged,’ is a passport for
every door. The affected lip-deep homage paid to virtue, while every knee
bows to Baal, wherever he appears clad in purple and fine linen, spreads
a varnish over vice, which only throws it out in stronger colours and
darker deformity. I was made for a better life.




CHAPTER II.

1799-1801.


    A large part of the chapter which follows was printed last
    year, under the title of _A Visit to Germany in 1799, 1800_, of
    which a good many copies were privately circulated. It excited
    more attention and remark than I was prepared to expect; and I
    am glad that it should be now placed within the reach of all.
    A few additional entries, but all of secondary interest, which
    were then passed over, have now found a place in the text.

_Oct. 20, 1799, Yarmouth._—I left London on the 16th, with the
consolation of feeling that all my friends parted from me as from a
beloved child, mixing with their affection a degree of care that proved
they quite forgot I was more than fifteen. I have been detained here
since last Friday, waiting for a fair wind, and my imprisonment would
have been comfortless enough, had it not been for the attentions of Mr.
Hudson Gurney, a young man on whom I had no claims, except from a letter
of Mr. Sanford’s; who, without knowing or having any connexion with him,
recommended me to his care, feeling wretched at the idea of my being
unprotected in the first stage of my journey. He has already devoted to
me one evening and two mornings, assisted me in money matters, lent me
books, and enlivened my confinement to a wretched inn by his pleasant
conversation. Mr. Sanford having described me as a person travelling
_alone for her health_, he says his old assistant in the bank fancied I
was a decrepit elderly lady who might safely be consigned to his youthful
partner. His description of his surprise, thus prepared, was conceived in
a very good strain of flattery. He is about two and twenty; understands
several languages, seems to delight in books, and to be uncommonly well
informed.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 27, Cuxhaven._—Arrived yesterday—uncivil captain—wretched passage—a
high wind—never able to quit my little miserable bed. I fancied myself
a good sailor, because I tolerated my Portuguese voyage, when I had the
whole vessel to myself, several attendants, all possible luxuries and
accommodations, and every person on board occupied in sparing me the
shadow of an inconvenience. I find that travelling under the protection
of a husband who deifies one, and is profuse in all expenses that can
promote one’s comfort, gives a very faint idea of the _contretems_ of an
economical and solitary journey. Saw Mr. Harward, agent for the packets,
and Colonel Malcolm—both very kind. The former invited me to his house,
and offered to conduct me free of all expense to Hamburg, if I would wait
till the boat set off with the Government money. This offer for many
trifling reasons I declined. Colonel Malcolm is a Scotchman, devoured by
military ardour, who left Canada, where he was happily settled, because,
_unfortunately_, it was a quiet country. He now commands a brigade at
Tuam.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 28._—Mr. Harward, as I refused to suffer him to accompany me,
offered me the society of his daughter, and we sailed up the Elbe for
Hamburg in a fishing-boat, worked by two sailors. We were thirty-six
hours on the passage. I slept on a bench in a den dignified with the name
of cabin, wrapped up in blankets I had the precaution to bring with me.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 4, Ham, near Hamburg._—Arrived at the Stadt Petersburg on the 29th;
a pleasant inn, as it looks upon a public walk. Here you have a regular
dinner of several dishes for the same price that a chicken costs at a
London hotel; but the beds and attendants are nearly as expensive as in
Pall Mall. Baron Breteuil[9] called next morning, and overcame all my
objections to making him a visit by proving it was as much the wish of
his daughter as himself. She also called and reiterated the invitation.
The Baron is rich as an _émigré_, having near 4000_l._ a-year. He has a
delightful house, and entertains in a very comfortable way, without any
pretension to keeping up his ancient style of magnificence. He sees not
only his friends, but a various and extensive acquaintance. His daughter,
Mad. de Matignon, has a certain share of wit, great pleasantry, the best
manners possible, and unalterable cheerfulness, amounting indeed to what
may be called uncommon high spirits. His grand-daughter, the Duchess
of Montmorenci, is pleasing, lively, and well-bred, less clever than
her mother in conversation, and excessively occupied with her toilette,
but in so unaffected a way it rather diverts than fatigues you. The
whole time of my visit she has employed herself in taking patterns of
everything I possessed, and making up similar dresses with the ingenuity
of a milliner or mantua-maker. The whole family vie with each other in
proofs of civility to me, and in solicitations that I would prolong my
stay. Last evening they accompanied me to the play, and in spite of
the law which commands the gates of Hamburg to be closed at half-past
five, we returned to Ham at ten. This is done by a little manœuvre, and
crossing the river where it is shallow and narrow, an operation of about
fifteen minutes. I saw it was an expedition which did not delight the
Baron, though he undertook it on my account; and I am not surprised at
his repugnance, as certainly in the month of November it was a party only
suited to five and twenty. I met at his house Lady Edward Fitzgerald and
her lovely little daughter, whose eyes and eyelashes are celestial.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 6, Soltau._—Left Ham yesterday, penetrated with Baron Breteuil’s
unaltered friendship, which time and absence have had no power to
diminish. Travelled but one post, crossed the Elbe, and slept in a small
inn on its banks. You are not to expect any luxuries on a German road;
small rooms, with sanded floors, no carpet or curtains, dark little beds
in corners, and wooden chairs, were all I found here. I supped well on
eggs and milk. “I must give you an idea of this day’s journey, not by way
of _complaint_, but of _narrative_. Without delay, dispute, accident, or
ever quitting the carriage, I have travelled from Hopen here, exactly at
the rate of two English miles an hour, in a post chaise, but moderately
loaded, and drawn by four horses. It is two posts, one of four, the other
of three German miles, each of which you know is some four English. The
roads are dreadfully bad, but from the flatness of the country, and the
absence of either wall or ditch, not dangerous. Going so slow, in an
occasional journey, does not signify, but I should be sorry to _live_
where the difficulty of communication is so great. It would be a sad
thing to think that if your child or best friend was in the most urgent
distress at a hundred miles’ distance, you would be fifty hours getting
to them even if you travelled night and day, which on these roads few
constitutions could bear. The sterility and uninhabited appearance of the
country is melancholy to excess. Imagine a dead flat, either absolutely
naked, or slightly covered with a little starved heath, and sometimes
extending three or four miles without an appearance of life, or trace of
the hand of man. After driving for a couple of hours through a desert of
this sort, you cannot imagine the pleasure with which I saw and heard
three or four geese, which formed in my eye a most interesting group.”[10]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 8, Zell._—The second post of yesterday’s journey was more tolerable
to the eye than any I have yet seen, as a river in one place, and here
and there a few trees, broke the general appearance of sterility.
Many of them were firs, whose deep green contrasted agreeably with the
withered leaves of bright brown and yellow that were intermixed. This
is a very small town, without trade or manufactures, and possesses no
attractions of any kind; yet I remained here to-day, partly to rest, and
partly to view at my leisure the castle where Matilda, Queen of Denmark,
died in the bloom of her youth, after having expiated by three years’
confinement either her indiscretion or her crime, for history seems
at a loss to decide whether she was guilty or only imprudent. It is a
quadrangle surrounded by a moat, has once been whitewashed, but is now
very dirty, and the outside has a gloomy appearance, increased perhaps by
our associating with it ideas of banishment and a prison. The apartment
once inhabited by Matilda is a suite of five rooms, terminating in her
bed-chamber. They are all hung with tapestry, and her bed is of green
damask. Though unsuitable to a youthful Queen, they are yet spacious,
convenient, and have a certain air of dignity. Her mattrass and quilt,
the one of white, the other of dark green satin, have been preserved
untouched since her death. I also went to see the church, which is
ornamented with painting and sculpture. A nervous person would have
been startled at seeing in the floor of the chancel a large open space,
discovering a flight of steps leading down to a vault, and on each side
a man in black with a lighted taper. I was soon given to understand that
the burying-place was here the chief object of curiosity. The coffin of
the Queen of Denmark is the most ornamented, and not far from it stood
that of Dorothea, wife of George the First. It was impossible to see
their dust repose so near, and not reflect on the similarity of their
fates. Both were accused of infidelity to their husbands; both ended
their days in banishment and obscurity; no accusation was ever clearly
proved of either; and the presumed lovers of each perished by a violent
death.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 9, Hanover._—Another day of fatigue and two tedious posts have
brought me here. The country has improved during this last day’s journey.
There is a road edged with trees, instead of the miserable track,
scarce discernible, through sand or heath; and here and there the eye
is refreshed with a cultivated field and distant wood. I am not out of
humour with German travelling, slow as it is. I have found all the people
I employed, obliging, though not _empressé_, and there is a quietness in
their manner that pleases. The postilions neither swear, nor beat their
horses, and are satisfied with a very small gratuity, as are also the
maids at the inns. Sixteen good groschen to the first, and eight or ten
to the last, contents them. Two groschen is 3½_d._ of our money.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 11, 12._—So uneasy at not having received any letters either from
my beloved Charles, or my other friends in England or Ireland, that these
two days were a complete blank.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 13._—Received a visit from Mr. Tatler, one of Prince Adolphus’
household. Soon after he sent me a civil note and several books. He is
about thirty; pleasing in his manners and appearance.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 15._—Prince Adolphus, who arrived last night, called on me this
morning. His exterior is highly prepossessing. He is extremely handsome,
tall, and finely formed. His complexion fair, yet manly; his features
regular, yet expressive. His manners bear that stamp of real goodness,
which no art can imitate, no other charm replace; and though he presents
himself with suitable dignity, his address immediately inspires ease and
confidence. His conversation is fluent, various, and entertaining.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 16._—Prince Adolphus called on me about twelve, introducing to
me Mad. de Büssche, whose husband has a place at Court, and whom he
has fixed on to accompany me in my round of visits. She is a beautiful
grandmother, with irresistible manners. At six Mad. de Büssche called
to take me to pay my visits; we only dropped tickets, and afterwards
she introduced me, according to an arrangement of the Prince’s, at Mad.
de Wallmöden’s. The Maréchal de Wallmöden is son to George the Second
and the beautiful Lady Yarmouth. Our company only consisted of our host
and hostess, the two Princes, an officer who played on the violin,
some musicians, and Mr. Tatler, who educated the Princes Augustus and
Adolphus, and now lives with the latter as a friend. It was a delightful
evening, and Prince Adolphus sang with very good taste and a charming
voice. He is extremely animated, and there is a frankness and goodness in
his manner that pleases even more than his graces and his talents.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 18._—The Prince, who regularly sends me the newspapers, was so
kind as to call on me at five in the evening with a French gazette; and
afterwards Mr. Tatler, whose adoration of him is truly interesting, sat
with me the rest of the evening. He enlarged much on his goodness, saying
he never had done, and never would do, anything to give the King, his
father, a moment’s uneasiness. He cannot speak of his father without
tears in his eyes. He rises at six, and takes four lessons daily in
different branches of study and science.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 20._—Dined at Court; an invitation dinner of about thirty persons.
Prince Adolphus of course represents our King; but there is no ceremony,
and the dinner does not differ from that at the house of any private
gentleman, except in the number of attendants and the circumstance of
every person’s being placed at table according to their rank. They rise
from table in about two hours and a half, drink coffee, and separate
between five and six. There is no particular court dress. When I least
expected it the band played ‘God save the King.’ It was the first time
I had heard it since I left England, and in addition to the feelings it
usually excites, it awakened ten thousand fond ideas of home and all the
dear friends I had left behind. It was a painfully-pleasing moment.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 24._—An assembly at Mad. Bielwhal’s. Instead of the constant
ingress and egress from ten till one, as at a London assembly, every one
assembles at about half-past six and goes away about nine. I like this
better; you are sure of meeting your acquaintances by going to the same
place, which does not follow in London. The play here is so very low it
really deserves its name, and no one can possibly make it a business.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 27._—At a supper at Mad. de Wallmöden’s met a countryman, Lord
B——, whom I had always seen with great indifference at home, but whose
appearance in a foreign country gave me great pleasure.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 30._—Went to Prince Ernest’s assembly. He has a pleasant house,
belonging to our King, and has so furnished as to give it a very cheerful
appearance. I am much pleased with Count Münster,[11] one of my new
acquaintances, who appears to have information, taste, and talents.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 3._—A ball at Prince Adolphus’. He was good enough to begin it
with me. His house is very beautiful, both as to taste and magnificence,
and the former predominates just enough. The rooms are chiefly hung and
furnished with Lyons silks, in compartments, and the ceilings, floors,
doors, windows, &c., are painted in the most exquisite Italian style.
The hall is lofty and well-proportioned, the apartments perfectly
distributed, and there is a marble saloon and a boudoir lined with
looking-glass, which more resemble a description in the _Arabian Nights_
than anything one has seen in real life. The ball was gay and brilliant;
many more men than women, which still surprises me, after having been
accustomed to see seven women to one man in London. I never saw anything
like the good-nature of the Hanoverian ladies—no malicious shrugs or
whispers, no sarcasms under the mask of compliments, no satirical glances
from top to bottom at one’s dress, no sign of displeasure at the Prince’s
goodness to a stranger.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 4-11._—Our amusements have been varied by the arrival of Mad. de
Wally, who gives herself out as an _emigrée_ of distinction, and who
supports herself by singing in public. She has infinite taste, skill,
and knowledge of music. I have been fortunate enough to render her some
slight services, of which she seems deeply sensible. She sung very well
at a little concert which I gave to my most intimate acquaintance.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 18._—I have had a little cold, and have not been out in an evening
since the concert at Court on the 9th, except once _en famille_ to Count
Münster’s. Count Münster has a charming collection of pictures, which
he chose himself at Rome, when he was there with Prince Augustus. He
paints himself in oils extremely well for an amateur. At his house I
met Mad. Zimmerman, widow of the writer _On Solitude_. She seems a very
intelligent and is a very pleasing woman. She is not admitted to any of
the great assemblies of any of the first class, but may visit them in
private. The distinction between the _noblesse_ and the other classes
is here kept up with a rigorous exactitude. At first it provoked me. On
reflexion, I believe it contributes more to happiness than the mixture
of ranks in London. Here every one moves contentedly in their own class;
there all are struggling to associate with those above them; whence
proceeds a vast share of envy, expense, and dissipation. Much of these
evils is cut up by the roots, when it is impossible by any exertion to
quit the society of equals for that of superiors; and as this rule only
extends to large societies, it does not break asunder any endearing ties;
for who would not rather see their friend in a society of six than of
sixty persons? Charlotte, in _Werther_, is a character drawn from life,
and passed some time here. She was likewise of the second class, but not
remarkable for beauty.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 21._—An assembly given by Prince Adolphus to the Duke of Altenburg,
who came here to beg his Royal Highness and General Wallmöden would use
their influence with the English Minister to obtain his release from the
obligation of furnishing troops and money towards the present Continental
war. They declined to interfere.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 24._—I this day saw the little _fête_ of Christmas-Eve, so
interestingly alluded to in _Werther_. Mad. de Wallmöden knew it was a
scene that would please me. On that evening all the children and young
people in a family receive from their friends a variety of presents,
called _les étrennes_. They are arranged with taste upon tables highly
illuminated, ornamented with boughs and shrubs, natural and artificial.
Here you see, in agreeable and studied confusion, shawls, ribbons,
flowers, pelisses, ornaments, toys, sweetmeats, books—everything, in
short. One table was spread for the Countesses de la Lippe, two wards of
the Field-Marshal, and one for each of his children and grandchildren.
When all is arranged the young people are admitted, and nothing can form
a greater variety of pleasing pictures than the delight of the children,
their unstudied expressions of gratitude, and the pleasure of the parents
in witnessing the delicious sensations of that bewitching age. I was
sensibly affected by this scene, and equally interested by Mad. de
Wallmöden’s deep but unobtrusive sensibility, and the lively expression
of happiness in the looks and gestures of Mad. de Kielmansegge, a
beautiful little woman, whose animation in the embraces of her children
is contrasted by a certain indifferent _nonchalance_ on other occasions.
The Field-Marshal retained his usual appearance of strong sense, and
conscious, but not unpleasing, superiority, which gives him rather the
aspect of an observer than an actor in every passing scene. I sung
several English songs, which pleased by their novelty those who had never
heard them before; and the Prince de la Lippe’s tutor observed that he
was quite surprised at finding the English language could be so well
adapted to music. As it is much softer than German, the remark added to
the long list I have made in proof that nothing English is appreciated
by foreigners. They willingly overrate the individual, but almost always
underrate the nation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 26._—On the day of _les étrennes_ I laid these lines on the table
of Mad. de Büssche, with some muslin worked with white flowers (I must
observe that the custom of giving presents is not confined to parents; it
is a day for a general exchange of _souvenirs_):—

    While friends long loved, long tried, entwine
    Fresh garlands for Louisa’s shrine,
    Trembling, a timid stranger dares
    To blend her little gift with theirs;
    Framed in her lonely pensive hours,
    These colourless, insipid flowers
    By no bright hues attract the eye,
    No radiant tints of Tyrian dye.
    Thus simple, unadorned, and plain,
    Louisa might the gift disdain,
    If art could add a single grace
    To all the wonders of her face.

_Dec. 27._—A day of leave-taking. The Prince gave me a map of Germany for
my tour, and sent me a kind note, enclosing a letter of recommendation to
the Duchess of Brunswick.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 28._—At five o’clock bade adieu to Hanover. My host, hostess,
children, and family, were all up to see me depart; had prepared spiced
wine, and showed me every little mark of attention. It was of course
quite dark when I set out, and the day seemed to dawn from earth instead
of heaven, in consequence of the ground being covered with snow. I
travelled eight German, or thirty-eight English, miles with the same
horses, rested an hour, and arrived about six at Brunswick.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 29, Brunswick._—This evening saw Mr. Loftus, eldest son to the
General. As I did not think of staying here, even for a day, or being
presented, I brought no letter except that I received from Prince
Adolphus, which I did not know the etiquette of sending. Fortunately, Mr.
Loftus, whose father and mother I am well acquainted with, can assist me
in this and other particulars.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 30._—Sent to inform the Duchess’ maid of honour I had a letter for
her Royal Highness. The reply was an invitation to wait on her at six
to-morrow evening.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 31._—At six went to the Duchess’s _casino_, so they call an undress
ball and supper. She received me with the most winning condescension.
It is impossible not to be delighted with the ease, good humour,
and familiarity of her deportment. She has great fluency in her own
conversation, and is very attentive to that of others, evidently showing
her approbation when anything is said that strikes or pleases her. There
are few ways in which a great person can encourage or gratify more
than this, and yet it is not common in the very highest class. She is
a fair, well-looking woman, with what we call a very good countenance,
and I think when young must have been handsome. She is now a great
deal too large, and her dress made her appear more so, being a thick
buff-coloured satin chemise, with long sleeves entirely lined, as she
told me, with fleecy hosiery. The Duchess invited me to sup at her table
with a party of about ten, and placed me by her. I should have enjoyed
the conversation and her civility much more if she had not, after many
other inquiries, extracted from me my age, which I had determined to keep
secret while here, as people have thought me much younger than I am; and
as so few tell truth on that subject, those that do are always given
a few years more than they really have. Her exclamations of surprise
and declarations that twenty-four was the utmost any one could give
me, did not console me for having been brought to confession. The Duke
of Brunswick is a tall military-looking man, with a fine penetrating
countenance; his manners polite, but imposing and dignified even to a
degree of stateliness.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 1, 1800._—Dined and supped with the Duchess, and sat by the
Hereditary Prince each time. At dinner he was wonderfully affectionate,
considering we had not been acquainted twenty-four hours. At supper,
when time had improved our knowledge of each other sufficiently for
such a confidence, he assured me I was the most interesting person he
had ever met, and that nothing could make him so happy as being able
to prevail on me to stay at Brunswick. This was accompanied with many
sighs, _doux yeux_, and exclamations, to all which I answered with low
bows and _audible_ expressions of gratitude. I could not refrain from
this _malice_, as everything of the soft kind was said in so very low a
whisper that I saw nothing could be more unwelcome, or more likely to
stop such declarations, than thus making them public. In the course of
the evening I was presented to the Dowager Duchess, a wonderful woman of
eighty-five. She is grand-daughter to George the First, whom she says she
remembers seeing when she was eight years old, and grandmother to the
Princess of Wales, so is doubly connected with England. She is sister to
the great Frederick, whose pictures she resembles, has great sharpness
in her eyes, and peculiar animation in her remarkably small features.
Her address is pleasing, and there is a neatness, a purity, if I may
so express myself, in her whole appearance, that one contemplates with
satisfaction.[12] I played Commerce at her table, putting a florin in the
pool, a strong contrast to the high play of London. I had been presented
the night before to the Hereditary Princess, a lively little woman,
about twenty-nine. She has a remarkably good carriage and address, walks
and dances well, and has a certain quickness in her looks, speech, and
motions, that gives an idea of great natural vivacity.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 2._—Dined with the Hereditary Princess—no other woman but Lady
Findlater, who appears sensible, lively, and talkative. In the evening
went to a concert at the reigning Duchess’s. I do not find an atom
of that form I was taught to expect in all German Courts. Not only
the Duchess, but the ladies who played _raco_ with her, worked in the
intervals of the game. At another table there was a large party employed
in knotting, netting, embroidery, and even the homely occupation of
knitting stockings; while the Hereditary Princess, and those idlers who
had no regular work, were busy making lint for the hospital. The Duchess
was extremely kind to me, and I again supped at her table, and she
obligingly desired me to dine with her next day, if I was invited nowhere
else.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 3._—After dinner the Duchess pressed me to stay some time at
Brunswick, at least till the arrival of Lady Minto, to whom she said she
would introduce me. She dwelt on the inconvenience of my going to Vienna
a perfect stranger; and said that a woman of my age and appearance, who
travelled in that way, had ‘_tous les préjugés contre elle_.’ We were
alone, and she enlarged most affectionately on the subject, ending by
kissing my cheek, and assuring me that, despite of this disadvantage,
every one in Brunswick was excessively partial to me, which she kindly
said gave her great pleasure. I supped with the Dowager Duchess. She
conversed with me after she rose from supper: ‘_Vous n’aimez pas beaucoup
en Angleterre le Roi de Prusse?_’ I frankly owned to her we did not.
‘But,’ said she, ‘_il n’est pas assez riche pour faire face aux dépenses
d’une guerre contre les François, et d’ailleurs il ne pourroit pas s’unir
avec l’Empéreur. Les François ont bien voulu lui donner Hanovre, mais il
l’a refusé._’ She expressed great regret at not having learned English.
‘_Vous avez de grandes écrivains en Angleterre; j’aime infiniment Pope;
je le trouve au dessus de Voltaire._’ She then reverted to politics,
extolled Mr. Pitt, and said every Englishman should wear him in his heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 4-9._—Every morning has brought me a regular invitation from the
reigning Duchess to dine and sup at Court, except when she knew I was
engaged to the Hereditary Princess or the Dowager. She has behaved to
me with real affection, and once said to me with the utmost kindness,
‘I think you will love me at last.’ Indeed I should be very ungrateful
if I did not. The only day on which she went out to a private party
she took me with her, and presented me to the lady of the house, Mad.
Munichhausen, a pleasing little woman, but in a bad state of health. The
ceremonial of the dinner at Court on the ordinary days is as follows:—you
go about three, dressed as you like, except that you must not appear
in a hat, bonnet, shawl, or muff. You find the Duchess standing at the
door of an inner apartment, her maids of honour being in the next. The
whole company stand till dinner time (the Duke and Duchess never sit
except when their company can do so too). The chamberlain announces to
the Duchess that it is on the table, and hands her out. She makes a low
curtsey to the Duke and the company. The ladies follow, also curtseying
to the Duke, according to their rank; except foreigners, who, even when
untitled, take place of all others, going in and out of the rooms, and
also at table. At dinner the Duchess sits at the middle of one side, and
the Duke opposite to her. This situation, as far as I have seen, answers
to the head and foot in England. The ladies are all ranged on one side,
and the gentlemen on the other, excepting princes, who are allowed to
mix with the ladies. The Prince de Salm generally fell to my lot, and
once Prince George. The Prince de Salm is rather above par in address,
appearance, and understanding. At dinner there are every day forty
people, and the conversation, of course, is seldom general. Once only
it turned on politics. Some of the company expressed their expectations
that monarchy would be re-established in France. ‘_Je le désire_,’ said
the Duke, ‘_plus que je ne l’espère_.’ He speaks well, in the subdued
voice of good sense, and has a stoop which takes nothing away from the
dignity of his appearance. I have never seen him converse with a woman.
There is an apparent coldness in his manner to the Duchess, and in hers
to him a degree of constraint which it is evident she tries to conceal.
(Her rival, a woman of birth and fashion, is lodged in the palace, and
he dines with her on a fixed day in every week.) Some time after dinner
the company all remove to the drawing-room, where tea and coffee occupy
a few minutes; no one sits down. The Duchess takes leave of her company
about half-past five; the ladies curtsey to the Duke, and return home,
even though they may be engaged for the evening party which begins at a
little after six. The Duchess one evening invited me to retire with her
at this time to her private apartment, which is a particular favour.
She spoke with great gratitude of the affection the English had shown
to her daughter, and with great delicacy of the Prince of Wales, yet
in a manner which showed she felt his conduct. I dined twice with the
Hereditary Prince. There the dinners are more cheerful, about ten people
at a round table, and men and women are intermixed. _On n’y fait pas trop
bonne chère_, but that is to me of no consequence whatever. The Duchess
Dowager’s dinners are more in the style of her son’s; she has near thirty
people every day, so that the three Courts, except when the family happen
to dine together, entertain daily near eighty persons. This dear little
old woman is just like a mummy; she is mere skin and bone in the highest
preserve. On the 9th I had a private audience to take leave, and she gave
me a letter of recommendation, with some very kind expressions. She has
the talent of accommodating her conversation to the age, situation, and
country of those she speaks to in a high degree. Indeed, her address is
pre-eminently good. I supped with the reigning Duchess the last evening.
She kissed me with the utmost sensibility at parting, and the whole
family took leave of me as if I were an old friend. The Princess Abbess
is _most_ caressing. She is easy, lively, and clever; but I hear she is
very false, extremely gallant, and that she entirely governs the Duke,
which I should think difficult.[13]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 10._—Left Brunswick for Berlin, 127 English miles; engaged four
horses for ten louis. Just before I set out, the dear Duchess sent
me a letter of introduction to Prince Augustus at Berlin. Travelled
twenty-five miles through an unvaried expanse of snow, bounded at a great
distance by a few rows of trees, which looked like dark lines across the
horizon. It appeared as if one was in the midst of a wide sea of snow.
Slept at Helmstedt, still in the Duke of Brunswick’s dominions. It is
said to be one of the oldest towns in Germany; and I saw nothing in its
appearance to contradict the assertion. After a journey in England, where
all is busy and populous and animated, one through this country conveys a
strange idea of privation and non-existence.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 11._—To-day’s journey was monotonous and melancholy as that of
yesterday. Slept at Magdeburg. On entering his Prussian Majesty’s
dominions, the precautions at the gates of every city are much increased,
and hurt the pride of an English traveller, who is accustomed to pass
unquestioned and unmolested. You are required to write down your name,
condition, whence you come, where you go; and this paper is afterwards
verified at the inn, where the host makes the same inquiries, and signs a
duplicate.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 13._—As well as I can judge while the ground is covered several
feet deep with snow, the prospect improves as one advances to
Brandenburg, a small town, built with more regularity and appearance of
comfort than any I have seen since I left England.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 14._—Slept at Potsdam. The gradual improvement of the country
from the moment you enter the King of Prussia’s territories is visible
to the most careless observer. Roads, plantations, neat cottages,
pleasant country seats, well-built towns and good inns, take place of
the appearance of poverty and depopulation so strongly marked in that of
Germany I have hitherto seen.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 15._—A dull road to Berlin, where I arrived early, and was settled
immediately in the Russian Hotel. The superiority in cleanliness and
accommodation of the Prussian to the German inns is very great.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 16._—Sent to Prince Augustus a letter of introduction given to me
by the Duchess of Brunswick; received a very civil answer, offering to
arrange my presentation at Court, and regretting that his illness did
not allow him to visit me. It is said he is perfectly well, but confines
himself to avoid meeting the French Ambassador.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 17._—Drove about this very beautiful town, which abounds in public
buildings of great magnificence, that all seem at their ease, instead of
being crowded up like ours in London.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 18._—Saw Mr. Garlike and Dr. Brown, the only English gentlemen to
whom I had brought letters. Received from them every offer of assistance
and civility. Dr. Garlike is Secretary of Legation, Dr. Brown physician
to the King. Had the most polite notes from the Ladies of Honour of the
Princess Ferdinand, and Princess Radziwill. I had been recommended to
the former by the Dowager Duchess, to the latter both by the Hereditary
Princess and the Princess Abbess.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 21._—Was persuaded by Mr. Garlike to go to an Italian opera in
order to see the Queen. It was the first of the eight given by the
King to the public at the time of the Carnival. The house is fine, and
properly lighted. The royal box is in front, very wide, and reaches
from the ceiling to the pit. It is also more lighted than the other
boxes, which, added to its size and situation, enables every individual
in the house to have a perfect view of the royal family. To this box
are admitted no women except those of royal blood and their _Grandes
Maîtresses_. But beside the King and Princes, it is open to many
officers of the Court, all strangers, and the foreign Ministers. The
King is a well-looking man, the Queen extremely beautiful. She is
tall, finely-formed, her neck and shoulders particularly well-shaped,
her hair light, and her features small and agreeable. She is about
five-and-twenty. The prominent traits of her character, as I am told,
are the most entire complaisance to every wish of the King, and the most
excessive passion for dress and for dancing, particularly the waltz.
She did not converse, but read the opera book all the evening. She
was dressed in a purple satin round gown, drawn in the front like an
old-fashioned chemise, with a flat back and long sleeves; nothing on her
head but two or three bandeaus, and her hair lightly powdered.

Monsieur de Burrau, Minister from I forget what Court, accompanied me. I
was engaged to go with his wife, but her illness prevented it. Two other
ladies made acquaintance with me. The one was Madame de Grotthaus, a
prettyish, talkative, silly woman, who addressed me in good English, and
whose obligingness was as prompt as the confidence she chose to place
in me; for in about five minutes she offered me, with many compliments,
letters of recommendation to Vienna, and told me her particular fondness
for the English arose in part from her having had ‘an inclination’ for
a young man of that nation: ‘_J’étais toute-prête à l’épouser; il était
fort aimable, très lié avec le Prince de Galles, très riche; il a une
belle terre près de Londres, son nom commence par un G—; mais enfin j’ai
épousé un autre, ce militaire que vous voyez là, bon homme, tout-à-fait,
qui fait tout ce que je veux_.’ The opera is but indifferent; the scenery
alone is to be admired. The singing and dancing are not above mediocrity.
I did not, however, hear Marchetti, the first female singer, who is
indisposed. The music did not do honour to the King’s taste, who is the
person that chooses it. It was the _Semiramide_ of Himmel, a German, and
had been hissed at Naples. To me, who had heard that of Bianchi, it was
particularly tiresome. The frequenters of the opera are doomed to hear
it four times; for there are but two spectacles represented during the
Carnival. There is no Italian opera except during these eight nights, so
music, I suspect, cannot be very highly cultivated at Berlin.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 22._—Just as I was going to dinner, Madame de Haugwitz, the wife
of the chief Minister, who introduced herself to me last night by an
encomium on my dress, sent her tailor for the pattern of my gown, begging
that this person, whom, in a note he showed me, she calls _mon ami_,
would engage me to put it on, that he might see what a good effect it
had. I think this intolerably free and easy, considering I am a perfect
stranger.

_Ten P.M._—I have just had a visit of two hours from Prince Augustus.
He is taller and larger than Prince Adolphus, and much resembles the
Prince of Wales. His hair is too scientifically and studiously dressed
to be very becoming, but on the whole his exterior is to be admired. He
appears to have a fund of conversation, and great fluency. His vanity is
so undisguised that it wears the form of frankness, and therefore gives
no disgust. I mentioned to him that I had heard of his excellence in
singing, and he agreed that he possessed it without the least hesitation,
adding, ‘I _had_ the most wonderful voice that ever was heard—three
octaves—and I do understand music. I practised eight hours a day in
Italy. One may boast of a voice, as it is a gift of nature.’ Yet his
vanity is so blended with civility and a desire to please, that I defy
any person with a good heart to dislike it.

Mad. de Ritz, mistress to the late King, amassed a fortune of about
eighty thousand louis. She was a woman of very mean birth; but induced
the King, about a year before his death, to ennoble her,[14] and then
appeared at Court, which gave great offence. The King had not been dead a
quarter of an hour, when she was arrested, hurried to a fortress, there
to be confined for life, and all her fortune, except an allowance of
four thousand crowns a-year, confiscated and given to the poor. All this
_without a trial_! I listened, and blessed dear England.

The Lutheran religion, which is that professed here, allows a man to
marry two or more sisters in succession; and of this permission people
often avail themselves, as well as of obtaining a divorce, if either
party complain of _incompatibility_ of temper, a most convenient and
sweeping cause of separation. At this moment a pair, in the very first
circle, are on the point of obtaining a divorce, to enable the lady to
marry a young officer, and the gentleman his wife’s younger sister. A
woman may retain an unimpeached character after an unlimited number of
these separations. Yet the King and Queen give the best example possible.

The King of Prussia is supposed to be remarkably economical. When he came
to the throne in 1797, there was not a guinea in the treasury, and it is
now supposed that in five years it will be as full as at the death of the
great Frederick. In a few years more, according to a calculation made, it
will absorb all the current coin of the country.

Prince Augustus offered me a letter to the Duke of Weimar. He stayed so
long that Mr. Arbuthnot, his gentleman in waiting, came to tell him the
supper he was engaged to was just over.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Feb. 18, Dresden._—The fatigues of my journey, added to a violent cold,
have left a wide chasm in my diary. Left Berlin for this the 23rd of
last month. In driving to Potsdam I had the opportunity for the first
time of observing that a fine, clear winter’s day in these northern
climates possesses more charms than we usually imagine. Sheets of snow,
strongly reflecting the rays of the sun, often remain undissolved on
the plains, when completely melted under the groves of fir, whose deep
green softens its excessive brilliancy. Under these circumstances the
snow frequently assumes the form of a lake, surrounded by wood; and gives
more beauty than it takes away. The hardships and dangers of this journey
were various. I one night ran a great risk of being lost in the snow,
the postilions having missed the track in an extensive forest of fir
trees. I was forced to keep Fitz from falling asleep from the effects of
intense cold, which I knew to be certain death, by giving him repeated
glasses of brandy out of the carriage windows. A distant light at last
directed us to a cottage, where we obtained a guide. I slept in the
most wretched hovels, once was without a bed, and two days without any
food but eggs and coffee. At one of the post-houses the master thought
it his duty to keep me company while my servants supped. He was a young
man, above six feet high, covered with furs, _l’air fier, et même un peu
farouche_, with something terrific in his whole appearance. He seated
himself opposite to me, smoked his pipe, laid his great paws on my work,
and began a conversation. I tried to hide a vague sort of fear under the
appearance of _insouciance_ and civility, but at last took courage to
say I was sleepy, and would wish him good night. The servant girls at
these wretched inns seem half savage. Undoubtedly cultivation, arts, and
sciences, lead to luxury and its attendant evils; but without them man is
even below the beasts that perish.

Mr. Elliot,[15] our Minister at Dresden, is a very pleasing man,
about forty; his style of conversation and tone of voice are highly
captivating. He has a large family of little cherubs, and a charming
daughter who marries Mr. Paine this week.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 10._—The society here possesses many very charming individuals,
but is not what the French call _montée sur un ton agréable_, a phrase
as easy to comprehend as difficult to translate. I think I _see_, and
am sure I _feel_, a certain constraint, which destroys all enjoyment.
I have scarcely ever been less at my ease than in the company I have
frequented since my arrival. Yet I have not wanted that encouragement
which is usually all that is necessary to inspire confidence. Mr. Elliot
in general makes me a daily visit, and when he omits it, apologises as
for a breach of duty. I have constant invitations to his house, where I
always find a small party and a little sociable supper. Mad. Münster, my
most intimate female acquaintance, forgets nothing which can contribute
to my amusement. I have gone with her to morning exhibitions and evening
assemblies. Among the latter, that of Madame de Loss, wife to the first
Minister, was most brilliant—as much so as any I have seen in London.
A numerous suite of rooms, furnished with taste; a very large society,
dressed with more magnificence, though not with as much elegance, as in
England; and a hostess whose address and appearance would dignify any
situation. She is near sixty, but still a very fine woman, her looks
English, her manners French.

I have also been at a concert, where I heard an Italian, Mad. Paravicini,
play delightfully on the violin. She has infinite expression, and
imitates the graces of the voice better than any one I have ever heard.
She manages the instrument well, and avoids all the grotesque which one
annexes to the idea of a _female fiddler_. An assembly at the Hanoverian
Minister’s, with a few evenings passed in very small family circles (to
which it is a great compliment to admit a stranger), have filled up all
my afternoons, except one, which I passed at the opera, where I saw
_Axur_, by Salieri; the music is very pleasing, but the plot absurd, and
the hero kills himself in a moment of pique from causes very inadequate
to the effect. The orchestra is the best I ever heard. That of Munich
alone, in Europe, disputes the palm.

I saw a good collection of pictures at the Comte de Hagendorn’s, where I
breakfasted. A St. Sebastian, by Raphael, was the most remarkable piece.
I did not think a martyrdom could be so pleasing. I forgot the arrow in
his breast because he seemed to have done so himself, and, like him, I
was too much absorbed in the thought of his approaching beatitude not to
be insensible to the idea of mere bodily pain. It is a wonderfully fine
picture. At the first glance you approve, after a moment’s examination
you admire, and from admiration you pass to that state in which the whole
soul is concentrated in the eyes; you cease to approve or admire, you
only _feel_, and, having totally forgot the artist, identify yourself
with the object he has created.

Yesterday I was presented at Court. Here it is an evening assembly
without any form. Women are never invited, but pay their respects on
Sunday evenings, as often as they please. The Electress has the greatest
good humour, ease, and condescension in her manner. Her pearl necklace
is the finest I ever saw. The Elector has something fixed, glassy, and
embarrassing in his eyes. Their only child is a fine young woman, about
seventeen. The whole family, I need not say, receive strangers with the
utmost politeness, for this seems to me so universal in Germany, it
ceases to be the object of a remark. The Elector is said to be a good
and a religious man; even those who seem to dislike him, do not contest
this point. The Electress said she now gave no balls, because the Elector
disapproves of such pleasures while Europe was in its present unhappy
state. The Court never mix in society. When the Elector’s uncle was at
Dresden, dying, for several months, none of his family visited him, as he
was not within the walls of the palace, and it would have been a breach
of etiquette. At Mad. de Loss’s, Alexis Orloff was presented to me, and I
was introduced to his daughter. He does not look like the frontispiece to
his History. His figure is colossal and massy, but his air is not savage,
and his countenance is rather mild than otherwise. The recollection of
the atrocities that he had committed embarrassed me so, that I retain
no very distinct idea of his person and address.[16] He does not speak
French, but we conversed a little in Italian. His daughter has a pleasing
address. She is pale, sallow, and delicate in her appearance, with a
gentle, modest demeanour, and fine expressive dark eyes. She wore no
ornaments except rows of the finest pearls. Her diamonds are valued at
£40,000. Orloff adores her, and declares she shall marry whomsoever
she pleases. She conversed in very good French, and speaks English
wonderfully well in proportion to the time she has learned it. Her father
wears the picture of Catherine the Second covered, instead of crystal,
with a single diamond.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 12._—Dresden is filled with foreigners from all parts, chiefly
Poles and Russians. Of the latter Mr. Elliot told me two horrid
anecdotes. He was invited to dine with a Russian major; and one of his
servants, a recruit who had been thought too sickly to serve in the army,
laid the cloth rather awkwardly. His master beat him furiously, first
with a stick, next with an iron bar. ‘Good heavens,’ cried Mr. Elliot,
‘you will kill the man.’ ‘Why,’ replied the Major, ‘it is very hard that
I have killed seven or eight, and never been able to make a good servant
yet.’ At another time Mr. Elliot dined with a gentleman who talked of the
aversion the Cossacks had to the Jews. ‘Now, I dare say,’ cried he, ‘this
little fellow behind me,’ turning to a Cossack of about thirteen, ‘has
dispatched them by the score. Come, tell me how many did you ever kill at
once.’ ‘The most I ever killed at once was eleven,’ answered the young
savage, with a grin. ‘Impossible!’ said Mr. Elliot, ‘that boy could have
killed eleven men!’ ‘Oh yes,’ answered he, ‘for my father bound their
hands, and I stabbed them.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 14._—The Princess Fürstenberg and Mad. Münster increase their
attentions daily. I have been confined by a cold in consequence of a
round of visits paid to the wives of the different Ministers previous to
being presented. I did not expect to be admitted, and was not prepared in
my dress for going up and down immense flights of stone stairs in frost
and snow. My indisposition has given these amiable women an opportunity
of showing me unceasing kindness (I wish, however, it did not display
itself so much in writing notes). The Princess heard me wish one evening
for the translation of a German poem, and sat up till three o’clock next
morning to accomplish it, that I might receive it the moment I woke.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 15._—Mr. and Mrs. Greathead and their son are persons whom I
regret leaving. They seem to have excellent hearts, and possess many
talents and acquirements. He is author of _The Regent_, and said to be
extremely well informed. She seems a lively, frank, decided, hasty,
clever woman, with a ready flow of ideas and copiousness of diction.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 16._—Last night I was invited to a supper at the Prussian
Minister’s. The company were chiefly Russians; five English were asked,
and Lavalette, the French Envoy, and his wife, were also of the party.
It has caused great sensation here, as it is said that it was highly
improper for a person in that line to invite either Russians or English
to meet Lavalette. I did not go, but I have seen him and his wife at a
public ball. He is unpowdered, mean, squat, and dirty. She is prettyish,
and very becomingly drest, but without much attention to decency. Her arm
is quite bare, from the bottom of her sleeve, about an inch below her
shoulder, to the top of her glove, about an inch above her elbow. Any
exposure one is unused to, offends.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 20, Prague._—Left Dresden for Vienna, and slept last night here.
The road is very interesting in the commencement of this journey,
particularly from Aussig to Leitmaritz, where it winds through a romantic
range of hills by the side of the Elbe. After you part from the river,
the country becomes in general a dull flat. Prague, as you approach it,
has an appearance of grandeur. It is, however, though spacious, a dirty,
ill-built town, with very high houses, and very narrow streets. You
cannot take a step without being reminded you are in a Roman Catholic
country; it is so peopled with Madonnas and saints. I was so fatigued,
I remained to-day at the inn (Rothes Haus) where Suwarrow lived three
months of the last year. He rose every day at two hours after midnight,
dined at eight, and went to bed at three. ‘He is a great bigot and a
great hog,’ the waiter told me, of whom I asked two or three questions
about him, but was soon obliged to desist. He was afraid I did not
understand what was the species of company Suwarrow associated with;
and after long seeking a French word to explain it, found out that of
_coquette_, which he seemed to think a perfect translation of the coarser
expression he had used in German.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 22._—Dined and slept at Iglau, a neat-looking town. How much
exaggerated is the account I have heard of the discomforts of a German
journey. The post-boys are civil, and not in the least importunate. They
seldom ask for more than they receive; a simple denial silences them, and
what we call in England grumbling, I have never heard in this country.
Even the beggars (and in Bohemia they abound) ask with mildness, and
desist at the first refusal.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 26, Vienna._—Arrived here two days ago, after making in six days
a journey usually very much dreaded, without a single inconvenience or
the smallest fatigue. I travelled about fifty miles daily, after leaving
Prague, and with facility, as the roads are good. I set out usually about
seven, and reached my _gîte_ long before dark. Vienna, I fancy, cannot be
a healthy residence; the houses are so high, the streets so narrow, and
the population so disproportioned to the size of the town. One can walk
round the walls in an hour; yet it contains 53,000 inhabitants. The best
shops are far inferior to those even in the obscure parts of the city in
London. Saw the Comtesse de Wayna, who returned my visit in less than an
hour. She is very polite, _empressée_, and conversible; a very handsome
woman, and still young.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 28._—It grieves me to find travelling contribute so little to
the improvement of my mind. A variety of causes operate to prevent
the possibility of a woman reaping _much_ benefit from a journey
through Germany, unless she totally gives up the world. A certain
enlargement of ideas must imperceptibly follow, and she corrects some
erroneous notions; but she finds infinite difficulty in making any new
acquirements. The multiplicity of visits, not confined to leaving a card,
as in London, but real substantial, bodily visits, and the impossibility,
without overstepping all the bounds of custom, of associating with
any but _noblesse_, may be reckoned among the greatest obstacles. To
make travelling subservient to improvement, it must be undertaken on a
different plan from my present journey. I believe there is no undertaking
whatever, in which the first attempt is not condemned to many gross
and obvious imperfections. No foresight, no reflection, no sagacity,
and, I had almost said, no advice, can supply the want of experience,
even in situations where it appears least necessary. It is a melancholy
consideration that we only know how to live, when the chief pleasures of
life, those attendant on youth and youthful spirits, are vanished for
ever.

Last night I went to an assembly at Lord Minto’s; the only difference
between this meeting, and one of the same kind in London, was that here
I saw infinitely less beauty, particularly among the men, less elegance
of dress, and less of those abstractions of different pairs from the rest
of the society, which I must call ‘flirtation,’ spite of the vulgarity
of the term. Steibelt[17] played exquisitely on the pianoforte. So
interesting a performer I never heard. After he had executed a delightful
_capriccio_, he gave some jigs, in which his wife accompanied him on
the tambourine; and these miserable trifles, in which he was quite
subservient to her playing, and sacrificed himself to cover her little
inaccuracies in point of time, were more admired than his scientific
delightful compositions. Accompanying a fine pianoforte player on the
tambourine is like daubing rouge over a Madonna by Raphael; but it shows
a pretty woman to advantage, and suits the frivolous false taste of the
age. The preference of all which is either frivolous or exaggerated to
what is really excellent grieves me. I blush for my cotemporaries even in
the moments when I most profit by their ignorance, and when they mistake
my own superficial attainments for real talents.

The coarseness of the German language, and the patchwork made use of to
conceal its poverty in some instances, displease me. Its beauties are
said to be considerable. More study will lead me to a knowledge of them,
but a little suffices to enable one to discover faults.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 29._—I walked and drove in the Prater, that great boast of the
Germans, who think those who have not seen it, have seen nothing. As far
as I went to-day, I was on a straight wide road, shaded with trees, that
led through an extensive plain, moderately wooded, and perfectly flat.
In summer it must be very pleasant, but a complete flat excludes in my
mind all ideas of pre-eminent beauty. I could as soon think in the living
countenance that fine colours or features could be beautiful without
expression, as that any verdure, any trees, or any river could make
amends for the want of inequality of ground.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 9._—I must correct my judgment of the Prater. The fashionable
alley there is uninteresting; but when the whole is considered as a wood
of near eight miles in length, commencing almost _in_ a great city, it
acquires respectability.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 13._—Before I had been a week here, I had so many engagements I
was only embarrassed in the choice of them. The pleasantest hours I have
spent were at Lord Minto’s, Prince Schwarzenberg’s, and the Hanoverian
Minister’s. There I sat by the famous General Bellegarde, to whom it is
said the Archduke Charles is chiefly indebted for his most brilliant
successes.[18] He is highly agreeable in conversation, polite, lively,
pleasing, the best _ton_ possible, and the most rational way of thinking.
They say he is the person most in the confidence of Thugut, the Minister.
He is about fifty, and his appearance gives a favourable impression of
him. Lord Minto is very pleasing, when he _does_ converse; but, like a
ghost, will rarely speak till spoken to, unless to his most intimate
friends. He is criticised here for not representing with sufficient
dignity, and for confining himself to a small circle, composed chiefly
of Poles and French. He is extremely absent. The Empress gives him
audiences, and he forgets the day. He accepts invitations to formal
dinners, invites company for the same day, and thinks no more of his
engagement. A person here painted very happily in one sentence his
absence, and his want of those manners in his own house which ought to
distinguish him as the master of it, by saying, ‘_Il se fera présenter,
quelque jour, chez lui._’ On the whole, he is censured for his conduct
in trifles; and of his political career I have heard no opinion, for
politics are a subject scrupulously avoided. This is commanded by the
laws, and they seem in this point exactly obeyed. Deep regrets for the
loss of Joseph the Second are all that ever escapes, which has the most
remote tendency that way. Yet many here think that he did much harm as
well as good; that his spirit of improvement led him to risk too hasty
innovations, and that he was so ardent in his desire _de faire le bien_,
he did not give himself leisure _de le bien faire_.

At Prince Schwarzenberg’s I heard Haydn’s famous _Creation_, a very
pleasing oratorio, but which I think is applauded here much above its
merits. The Duchess of Giovine, authoress of several estimable works
which display great learning and uncommon application, has distinguished
me in a very gratifying way. I have met likewise with a very amiable
woman to whom the Countess Münster recommended me. She is a _Berlinoise_,
and the widow of Prince Reuss, but is received in very few of the first
circles here, on account of her birth, her father having been a merchant.
She was originally a Jewess. I went to Mad. Arnstein’s with her, which
I fear was a breach of etiquette, Mad. Arnstein being a banker’s wife,
and of the second class of _noblesse_. However, I found there a pleasant
society, and an easier _ton_ than in most houses at Vienna. She keeps
open house every evening to a few women, and all the best company in
Vienna as to men. She is a pretty woman with an excellent address. I
supped once at the Prince de Ligne’s, whom I was prepared to fear
and admire as a most _aimable roué, plein d’esprit, et de talens_. I
have yet seen in him no resemblance to any part of this picture. In
general, conversation at Vienna seems to me but meagre; little events
are magnified, as in a small town; politics never, and literature very
seldom, mentioned.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 14._—The Ridotto, a very large fine room, well lighted, most
people in their usual dresses—no brilliancy of dress, or whimsicality,
or variety of character. Those who masque, merely disguise themselves,
without assuming any particular costume.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 17._—Breakfasted at Lady Taaffe’s, to see the Emperor pass by
to St. Stephen’s, in honour of the citizens of Vienna, who, on the
anniversary of this day four years ago, rose _en masse_, and took arms to
oppose Buonaparte. The occasion of the fête made it interesting; dazzling
it was not, for the Emperor, who is averse to all unnecessary parade,
was in a plain coach, without guards or any outward sign of royalty. All
the citizens who took arms, marched in a body, with their officers at
their head, and military music. The spectators made a most pleasing part
of the spectacle; not a beggar, or ragged or dirty person to be seen.
All were well clothed, and had the appearance of enjoying habitually the
comforts of life. The Emperor is easy of access, and two days in the week
may be approached by the meanest of his subjects. He is averse to all
pomp, lives in his own family, and is attached to his own wife, which in
Germany is a singular thing, as a mistress is almost considered here a
necessary part of the establishment of a married man. He appears at the
Prater in the plainest carriage, driving the Empress, who scarcely ever
leaves him. She is not beautiful, but possesses, I am told, a thousand
graces; is highly accomplished; mistress both of the theory and practice
of music, and an excellent mineralogist. I dined to-day at Prince
Esterhazy’s, one of the greatest among the Hungarian noblemen. He has a
million florins a-year, but is greatly in debt. He was not at home, but
the Princess is a charming, unaffected, pretty woman about thirty.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 20._—Dined at Prince Colloredo’s. His wife, though very civil,
could not conceal her joy that I was soon to go to England, because I was
to be succeeded by a gold muslin, which I have promised to buy for her.
The abundance of pearls and diamonds worn here is absolutely dazzling. I
am told they are all entailed.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 21._—Passed the evening with the Duchess of Giovine. The oftener
we meet, the more I admire the extent of her information, the clearness
of her understanding, and the vivacity of her ideas. The learned
languages, history ancient and modern, and the various branches of
natural philosophy, especially mineralogy, seem familiar to her. She has
reflected deeply on education, politics, and manners; and owned to me
that she had hoped to have a place about the Empress, which would enable
her to direct the education of the Archduchesses.[19] No woman could be
more fit for such a situation; but court intrigues, and particularly the
influence of the Marquis di Gallo, the Neapolitan Minister, and of the
present _grande maîtresse_, prevented it. That the first should oppose
her was the more extraordinary, as she is highly favoured by the Queen of
Naples. An unhappy marriage, bad health, and a natural taste for mental
improvement, all co-operated to promote her present retired and studious
life.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 25._—A _thé_ at Comtesse Worzell’s, a Polonaise. Lord Douglas, a
late arrival, was of the party. He looks like a public singer, and is
devoted to music, but is easy and well-bred. Saw the real dress of a
Polish nobleman. It is becoming, and is a sort of tunic of two colours,
with sleeves puffed at the top, and a girdle. The colours are blue and
grey.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 26._—The opera of _La Virtu in Cimento_, a charming piece on the
canvass of Patient Grizzle; the music by Paer. His wife sings in it
remarkably well.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 2._—The public walks about Vienna are delicious, particularly the
Augarten, where no carriages or horses are admitted, and which, if less
a garden _peigné_, would be perfect. I have dined three days this week
at the houses of the Ministers. This is no compliment, being a matter of
course. There are about forty persons present at these entertainments.
The dinners do not appear superlatively good, and would not, I believe,
content an English epicure. They all begin at three, end before five;
coffee and cards succeed; one retires about six, and, if one chooses,
returns at nine to an assembly in the same house.—Among the modes here,
I chiefly dislike the use of running footmen. It is so cruel, and so
unnecessary. These unhappy people always precede the carriage of their
masters in town, and sometimes even to the suburbs. They seldom live
above three or four years, and generally die of consumption. Fatigue
and disease are painted in their pallid and drawn features; but, like
victims, they are crowned with flowers, and adorned with tinsel. Dwarfs
as a piece of pageantry also pain me, though I do not well know why.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 4._—Drank tea at a house Mad. de —— possesses in the Prater, a
delicious little spot; and the moving, animated, and varied spectacle
it offers of people of every description and almost of every nation,
apparently happy and entertained, is wonderfully amusing—for a few
moments. The inhabitants of Vienna may certainly be called the Sybarites
of Europe, and their love of diversions proves an obstacle to the
cultivation of intellect, art, or science.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 7._—Was presented by the Baroness de la Vallaise to the Emperor
and Empress. He receives quite alone, she with two ladies of honour; so
in fact you merely pay them a morning visit. He has a mild countenance;
she has as much gentleness in her expression, with more animation. Both
are extremely gracious, and it appears nature, and not art. They place
themselves on a level with you, and do not remind you that they descend.
She is not handsome, but very pleasing. She was well dressed, in white
silk; in her hair, which seems very fine and was dressed with powder,
she wore a row of emeralds, each set flat, and surrounded with diamonds.
A trimming on the front of her gown, and her necklace and ear-rings, were
all of the same kind.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 11._—Supped with Mad. Divoff. Cardinal Albani accompanied very well
on the pianoforte Mons. ——, a banker, who had passed his youth in Italy,
and who sung charmingly. Madame de Kalitschoff, the Russian embassadress,
a lively pretty woman, was so impatient for the pattern of my combs,
that she pulled them out of my head, without the least reluctance to
discompose my toilette, and put them into her own. The women here possess
little taste in their dress. The manner in which they mix every colour,
not merely in the rainbow, but in all nature, and the variety of showy
ornaments they heap on one another, is incredible.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 12._—Saw the Hungarian Guard in gala, a most beautiful sight.
Seventy-two young men, the flower of the Hungarian nobility,
magnificently and tastefully dressed, mounted on white horses, finely
shaped and full of spirit. The costume is rich, yet so well fancied that
it adds to personal dignity, which most splendid dresses diminish. It is
composed of a scarlet vest and trousers, made to the shape, with green
belts, scarfs, and yellow half-boots, all richly trimmed and embroidered
with silver. A tiger’s skin is fancifully disposed on the back, and
covers part of the left arm. A very lofty fur cap, ornamented with green
and silver, is completed with a heron’s feather. Upon the whole it is
rich, yet not heavy; splendid, yet not gaudy; and while every part is
ornamental, none seems to impede the exertion of strength or activity.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 13._—Saw Count Lambert’s collection of pictures—an excellent choice.
My favourite, a storm and shipwreck by Loutherbourg, much superior to his
usual style of colouring, very transparent, beautiful, and expressive.
The Etruscan vases are numerous, and he supposes them coeval with the
Creation, as he declares them six thousand years old.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 14._—Saw the porcelain manufactory. It is said the mass is not so
fine as that of Dresden, of which the white is beautifully clear and
transparent, somewhat like a plover’s egg. It is, however, eminently
beautiful; but the biscuit figures are not in such good taste, nor
so well proportioned, as those of Dresden. A _plateau_, designed as
a present from the Emperor to the Duchess of York, cannot be enough
admired. The biscuit figures in the middle represent the story of Cupid
and Psyche. It costs twelve thousand florins.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 15._—Went to a breakfast at the Prater. I went at one, hoping the
violence of the breakfast would be over, as I do not love sitting long
at table. Unfortunately others do. This social meal had begun at twelve,
and lasted till three, when dancing began. It is the custom to dance
a country-dance and a waltz alternately; but those who only dance the
former are treated unfairly; for, as the waltz is the favourite, and
there is no reason it should ever finish, a vast deal more time is
devoted to it than to the country-dance, which has a stated progress. The
waltz is so passionately beloved by the German women, that numbers of all
ranks fall a sacrifice to it; and every Carnival is usually fatal to one
or two individuals of the first society.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 16._—Found the Princess Rosamoffska at home in a delicious
country-house, or, as they call it here, garden—very like Richmond. I
find her extremely pleasing. She is one of the daughters of Madame de
Thune, the Madame de Sévigné of Vienna. Her husband was a _ci-devant_
Russian Minister, and I see she has a large share of the general
antipathy to the Emperor. She asked me if I had seen two excellent
caricatures of him. In the first he writes with one hand _Ordre_, with
the other _Contre-ordre_, while on his forehead is written _Désordre_.
In the second, Peter the Great is represented with a torch he appears to
have just lighted; Catherine the Second has a pair of snuffers to make
it burn still brighter, and poor Paul an—extinguisher. I left Madame
Rosamoffska much pleased with her conversation, and the _prévenante_
vivacity of her manners.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I found the following verses on a loose sheet of paper, quite
    separate from the journal, and without any date; but if my
    Mother made actually, and not merely in imagination, a visit
    to the famous shrine at Mariazell—which is in Styria, and some
    seventy miles from Vienna—it must have been during this, her
    only residence in that city. I am quite ignorant whether she
    is here recording an incident in her own travels, or in those
    of another; but the description of the scenery in the earlier
    lines appears like that of one drawing on her own experience.
    The story is a touching one, and may help to remind that there
    are other forms of human life besides that highly artificial
    one in which at this time the writer was moving.


MARIAZELL.

    I joined the crowd that from Vienna streamed
    As pious pilgrims to Mariazell,
    Where stands the Virgin Mother’s holy shrine;
    And trod with them the steep romantic paths
    That wound by rushing waters, and through vales
    No sunbeams ever pierced. Full many a dale
    Seemed by the lofty mountains sternly closed,
    Until the narrow path had reached its base,
    And then a sharply sudden turn displayed
    O’erhanging rocks, young groves, and rivulets,
    That sparkling cheered the wanderer’s weary way,
    Till at the last the summit’s airy height,
    Crowned with its antique cloister, was disclosed.
        Chanting their simple hymn the pilgrims rise.
    Then long bright tresses are unbound, to float
    Like hers—the Magdalen, by Guido drawn—
    Denoting penitence, meek humble prayer,
    And recklessness of earthly ornament.
        I rested by a fountain near the top,
    And saw a father, mother, and their son
    Slowly ascend the hill. The boy was fair,
    The woman calm, courageous, and resigned;
    So in her features did I read her soul.
    But he who should have been the guide of both,
    With looks of helpless, all-confiding love,
    Received support from them—for he was blind.
    Around his neck a rosary was hung;
    His fingers told the tranquillizing beads,
    While in a soft and melancholy chaunt
    His wife recited the accustomed prayers,
    That fell like balm upon his wounded heart.
        For the last time the wonder-working stream
    Refreshed his weary lips. The days prescribed,
    Three anxious days of prayer and hope, were past,
    Each altar visited, each vow fulfilled.
        Though poor in worldly treasure, they were rich
    In purer wealth—a family of love.
    Their distant home in green Bohemia lay,
    Where a fair daughter in ripe womanhood
    Hung like a mother o’er the little band,
    Who watched with longing eyes a sire’s return.
    Ere darkness fell on him, he sat and sang,
    Plying the shuttle with unwearied skill;
    And labour, like a ceaseless fountain, flung
    Around his rural home the green delight
    Of rustic plenty. But, the light withdrawn
    From those sad eyes, by slow degrees his day
    Became a sleepless night, and poverty
    Assailed him like an armèd man. At last
    He formed the difficult resolve to save
    A pittance for a journey to these shrines.
    Then all was spared that nature did not need,
    And while the customary fruits were laid
    On the loved father’s board, his faithful wife
    And cheerful offspring shared the coarsest food:
    He knew it not, nor ever would have known,
    But for the prying humour of a neighbour.
        She told this simple tale, and rose to go.
    No ray of light had visited his eyes,
    Yet he was half consoled, and pleased to think
    He had fulfilled his duty to his children:
    And though he had not found the boon he sought,
    He was resigned, and blest the will of Heaven.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 28._—Dined with the Count de la Gardie, Swedish Minister. The
Hanoverian and Prussian Ministers were of the party. The gentlemen,
according to the Swedish custom, were called into the ante-room a moment
before dinner to drink brandy and eat bread-and-butter. At dinner, the
conversation turned on Italy. Count Divoff, a Russian, said, ‘_L’été
prochain j’irai en Italie; alors les rois seront tous sur leurs trônes,
et l’ordre rétabli_.’ Count Keller, the Prussian Minister, said with an
air of _persiflage_—at least, I thought it such—‘_Il est vrai que c’est
un espoir auquel il ne faut pas renoncer_.’ One assigned cause for Sir
Charles Whitworth’s disgrace with the Court of Russia is curious. The
Emperor had given orders no empty carriage should pass a certain part of
the palace. Sir Charles, ignorant of this, had left his coach to speak
with a workman, and desired it might drive on and meet him at a distance.
The sentinel stopped the carriage; the servants insisted on driving on;
a scuffle ensued. The Emperor, ever on the watch about trifles, inquired
into the cause of the dispute, and, on learning it, ordered the servants
to be beat, the horses to be beat, and the coach to be beat (Xerxes
lashing the sea!). Sir Charles Whitworth, by way of washing off this
stain, ordered his servants to be discharged, his horses to be shot,
his carriage, after being broken into a thousand pieces, to be thrown
into the river. The Emperor, indignant at this mark of offended pride,
insisted on his recall.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 4._—At Count Keller’s, the Prussian Minister’s, heard Marchetti,
the first woman singer at Berlin. She has a very powerful expression, too
powerful, perhaps, except for the stage, and a very brilliant execution,
too much ornamented, perhaps, for the generality of her hearers. Her
voice has, upon the whole, more strength than sweetness, though it is
said some of her low tones resemble Marchesi. Supped with the Princess
de Lorraine, once the most beautiful woman of her time. She retains,
though past sixty, very splendid remains, and has an uncommon share of
grace and dignity. From the pension of 12,000 florins allowed her by
the Emperor, she supports several of her friends, relations, and even
acquaintances. She gives suppers four times a week, composed of the
best society among the emigrants, intermingled with a few Germans and
foreigners.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 6._—I passed this morning with Mad. de la Gardie, wife to the
Swedish Minister. She is very kind to me, and I have at her house that
easy ingress and egress which I prefer to formal invitations. We went
together to see Füger’s paintings.[20] He is a fine artist, and a
sincere enthusiast. I believe he ranks very high in the first class of
historical painters. His ‘Death of Virginia’ is a beautiful performance.
Her father has just stabbed her; Appius, who is elevated on the tribune
from which he had given sentence, remains petrified in the posture
into which he had thrown himself from the involuntary motion by which
we mechanically attempt to save an object in danger, even when we know
and feel our help comes too late. The expression, _ordonnance_, and
colouring of this picture are all charming. I also saw his drawings from
Klopstock’s _Messiah_—wild, fanciful, expressive. The dream of Judas,
suggested by Satan, who appears with his hand on the culprit’s heart,
while his guardian angel mournfully retires, particularly struck me;
as did the restoration of one of the fallen angels, who has repented,
is forgiven, and recovers his pristine dignity and beauty. Füger is
a tall, well-looking man, about forty, his countenance is placid,
his eye is open, clear, and _attractive_—I mean, invites you to look
into it, and to repose your soul on his. I have seen this in but few
eyes, and they generally belonged to persons who combined genius with
simplicity. After he had explained to me the subjects of his drawings
from Klopstock, and regretted I could not understand him in German, he
took down an Italian translation of a few favourite cantos, and began
to read it to me. Mad. de la Gardie became impatient to go; however he
went on. At last she tore me away; but not till Füger put the book into
my hand, exclaiming, ‘_Lisez, lisez; cela vous tournera la tête, et
vous échauffera le sang_.’ In the evening went to Lady Minto’s and Mad.
Arnstein’s.—It is said Cesario, the resident _Chargé d’Affaires_ here
from Berlin, had orders from Haugwitz to carry on a negotiation with
Thugut without the participation of Keller. Cesario had borrowed from
the latter some maps; in returning which he sent him by mistake a letter
from Thugut, that discovered their secret intercourse. Keller, enraged,
wrote a remonstrance to Haugwitz, which, it is also said, has procured
his recall. This story is denied by La Gardie, the friend of Keller, who
affirms that Cesario, a confirmed Jacobin, attempted to intrigue, without
being authorized by his Court, and is to be himself recalled. Keller, La
Gardie, and La Vallaise live much together; Lord Minto extremely apart
from all the foreign Ministers. Query, if this is good policy in his
Lordship?

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 7._—On coming home last night from Mad. Arnstein’s, I saw by the
light of the moon a poor female peasant with a load of wood at her back,
praying before a crucifix, placed on one side of the road under a few
trees, with a lighted taper before it. It was a pleasing picture. There
labour and poverty forget their care, and there only exists a momentary,
but a real and consoling, equality. What can those _soi-disant_
philosophers, who endeavour to extirpate religion from the hearts of men,
offer to the poor and the wretched in its place?—Supped at the Prince de
Ligne’s.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 11._—Various symptoms of peace are observed to-day. Thugut is
_rayonnant_ with delight. He has always, it is said, been favourable
in his heart to the French, and his estates in France have never been
confiscated. The Emperor is supposed to be wholly guided by him. The
Empress is averse to this Minister, but, spite of her influence in
politics, cannot displace him. The Emperor has done everything within the
bounds of decent respect to prevent the Queen of Naples from coming; but
cannot succeed.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 12._—I forgot to mention having dined in the course of last month
with Count Cobenzl, who desired me to make my own party, and devoted a
day to showing me his delightful grounds. He is a farmer as well as an
embellisher of nature, and has such a cowhouse, &c., as I have never
seen in any country. I also dined last month at Dornbach, and saw the
villa of Maréchal Lacy, where nature has performed her part in the most
exquisite manner, but where art has been impertinently busy. Great are
the beauties of both these places; Count Cobenzl’s, however, displays
a purity of taste which is not to be found at the Maréchal’s.—Saw this
day from the windows of Baroness Spielman the public adoration of
the Host by the Emperor and Empress. The procession which appears in
honour of this day, the _Fête Dieu_, is the most splendid and brilliant
Vienna ever displays. The Emperor and Empress, Grand Duke of Tuscany,
Palatine, ladies of the Court in gala dresses, friars of the different
Orders, children maintained by charitable institutions, vicars of all
the churches with painted banners, German and Hungarian Guards, officers
of those regiments who rose _en masse_ to oppose the French, &c. &c.,
all proceed to church. The Emperor, Empress, &c., go in state coaches,
but return on foot, preceded by the Host, to which they kneel for some
minutes in different streets. He was dressed in uniform, with the Order
of Maria Theresa; she in a silver muslin gown, her hair dressed somewhat
_à l’antique_, powdered and ornamented with roses and festoons of pearls.
The ceremony would, in my opinion, have been much more impressive with a
mixture of martial and religious music.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 15-17._—Three days at Baden, a small town two posts from Vienna,
celebrated for its warm sulphureous baths. They appear convenient and
well attended. In the largest, men and women of the best society bathe
together, and appear very much to enjoy the amusement. The gentlemen
are in shirts and trousers; the ladies in their usual white morning
dresses, and on their heads caps, handkerchiefs, laces, and ribbons,
fancifully and becomingly disposed. It is the triumph of real beauty and
freshness, as no rouge can be worn or paint of any kind. The bath opens
a vast field for coquetry. A becoming dishabille, graceful attitudes,
timidity, languor, and an affectionate confidence in your conductor, may
here all be displayed to advantage. The lover leads his mistress, and
has perhaps a secret satisfaction in finding himself with her in a new
element; for Mad. de Genlis observes, I think with truth, that to those
who really love every new situation in company with the beloved has a
certain charm. Many of those who have no lovers obtain, however, half
a conductor, as every man who is not devoted generally gives each arm
to a different lady. The old, the plain, and the neglected sit round on
benches, as it is dangerous for women to walk about in the bath without a
guide. Spectators are admitted, who view the scene from a little gallery.
To them the heat and sulphureous smell is very unpleasant. The situation
of this village is agreeable, among hills, which, though minute, are of
a romantic character. An _écluse_, in a very wild spot, at about ten
minutes’ distance, has been made to receive the wood which has floated on
the river from the mountains. It mingles ideas of industry and ingenuity
with those of peace and retirement, a contrast that always pleases.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 19._—Dined yesterday at Prince Staremberg’s, where I saw Count
——, just returned from Russia, who told a thousand strange stories of
the Emperor’s frivolity, punctilio, and pride. He now fears he shall
see the ghost of Catherine (a sublime apparition!); and one night under
the influence of this apprehension leaped out of bed, and threw down
the chairs and tables in his haste to take shelter in the chimney. The
Empress, who slept near his room, terrified at the noise, arose, and not
finding the Emperor, called his attendants. They examined the apartments,
and discovered the place of his retreat. He was so ashamed of the
ridicule he felt conscious of having incurred, that he put the Empress
under arrest, with strict orders never to come uncalled into his chamber.
Count —— also said it was not allowed to invite half a dozen people to
dinner without permission from the police; and if this permission was too
often asked, the person became suspected. I mentioned the conversation
of yesterday at the Count de la Gardie’s, where I dined to-day. ‘_Ce
Monsieur_,’ said he, ‘_fera fortune à Vienne, où c’est la mode de médire
de l’Empereur de Russie_.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 27._—Dined at Maréchal Lacy’s—a large party—his invitation was
in the spirit of ancient chivalry, begging ‘_l’honneur de me servir à
diner_.’ This delightful old man does the honours of his house perfectly.
He seemed quite grieved at parting from me, and pressed my hand most
affectionately as he put me into the carriage. In the evening went to
see a firework in the Prater. The _emplacement_ is perfectly convenient,
the view beautiful, and the representation extremely amusing. Those
spectators who choose to pay a florin are seated on a stage, exactly
opposite, where there is no crowd, and where they are perfectly at their
ease. The difference of colour in the fire, some being perfectly white,
and some bright yellow, has a good effect, and there is a degree of
perspective obtained, beyond what I thought possible. The performance
represented the taking of Genoa, and at one moment displayed a warrior,
who waved his sword, and had a noble yet satanic appearance, which
reminded one of Milton’s fallen archangel. At the close were a range of
trophies, surmounted by a long wreath of laurel, suspended at intervals
and formed into festoons by eagles in different postures, who held it in
their beaks.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 30._—Dined with Count Erclädy, and in the evening went to a concert
at Dr. Franc’s. He is a physician, who is supposed to have great skill
in his profession. His son’s wife sings remarkably well, and with some
other amateurs performed the opera of _The Horatii and Curiatii_—the
words Metastasio’s, the music Cimarosa’s—the former very poetical and
affecting, the latter brilliant, pathetic, and expressive. Paer also sung
charmingly; he is a _maître de chapelle_, and a very agreeable composer.
I find the _noblesse_ can sometimes wave etiquette, and sacrifice their
dignity to their amusement, for the auditors were chiefly of the first
class.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 1._—Breakfasted with the incomparable Duchess of Giovine, who gave
me in the most graceful manner a pair of opal ear-rings and a cross
to match. She hoped their colour might be emblematic of the unspotted
felicity I should enjoy during the remainder of my life. Dined with Mad.
de la Gardie.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 2._—Mrs. —— made many inquiries whether I saw Mad. de la Gardie
frequently, and ended by assuring me she was extremely jealous. I am
certain she is as far removed from jealousy as he is from giving her
cause. Accompanied her this morning to the gallery of Count Truchsess,
a valuable collection. There are above eleven hundred pictures, chiefly
by Flemish and Dutch masters, some by Germans; among which Füger’s are
conspicuous, particularly one of Stratonice and Antiochus, a charming
subject, exquisitely treated.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 3-7._—Dined one day at Prince Staremberg’s, whose garden is much
admired here, and would be thought very tasteless in England. He is, I
see, delighted with a little muddy rivulet, flowing a very short but
serpentine way through two heaps of stones piled on each side, and
ending to the left in a small pool, with an island in it, about the size
and shape of a plate, and to the right in a cascade that falls about
ten feet down five or six regular steps. ‘_Cela va toujours_,’ said he
triumphantly, ‘_et cela m’a couté trente mille florins_.’ I dined also
again with the Arnsteins, who I see hate the Austrian government. She is
a Prussian, and, according to the late cant phrase, ‘that accounts for
it.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 8._—Went to see Prince Lichtenstein’s collection of pictures, which
fills fourteen rooms. We have no idea of such numerous collections in
England. His pictures are chiefly Flemish and Dutch. In these consist
the riches of most of the Vienna collections. Pictures by Italian masters
are comparatively rare. Van Huysum’s flowers, and Sebold’s extraordinary
representations of nature, in which not a hair or pore but is distinct,
were to me the greatest novelties. The latter in the course of a long
life painted but twelve pictures, all, I believe, heads. His own
portrait and that of his daughter, who is still living, are in Prince
Lichtenstein’s gallery.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 10._—The nobility here do not disdain any branch of commerce or
mercantile speculation, not even usury. Prince Staremberg, Maréchal
Kinski, and the Prince de Paer are the chief usurers. The Duchess of
Giovine was employed by the Queen of Naples to negotiate a loan of four
millions, and had recourse to the latter, who modestly asked twenty
per cent. interest, saying to her, ‘_Madame, quant à l’argent, je vous
déclare je ne suis pas délicat; je suis tout à fait marchand. Je suis
accoutumé à prêter mon argent à 20 pour 100, et je ne puis le faire à
moins._’ The great people here also make a practice of selling wine in as
small a quantity as five bottles, or a florin’s worth, at a time. Prince
Staremberg will even consent to sell a single tree out of his favourite
garden, if any one offers a sufficient price for it.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 11._—A ball at Mödling, a water-drinking place, about four miles
from Vienna. Went with the Count and Countess Wickenburg. He is Minister
for Bavaria, and a friend to peace, as are La Gardie, Keller, and La
Vallaise; all, indeed, except Lord Minto. Danced with Ferdinand Count
Palffy, director of the mines, an excellent dancer and an agreeable
little man, but of too finical and foppish an exterior. Supped with
the two Princes of Wurtemburg, _beaux frères_ of our Princess Royal.
Conversed much with him who is tall, of a dark complexion, and about five
and twenty.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 12._—Received a visit from Count Truchsess. He is averse to peace.
He proposes sending his collection to England next year, in order to sell
it. Every one at present is anxious to turn a capital of that sort into
money, having the fear of the French before their eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 14._—Was presented at Duke Albert’s, where I thought myself in
England; his looks and manners so much resemble those of an Englishman of
high fashion. He is son to the late King of Poland. Mad. de Menée, a lady
who is not related to him, was _grande maîtresse_ to his late wife, lives
in his house, and presides at his parties. This is not thought singular
here. At the Duke’s, which appears incontestably the pleasantest house at
Vienna, saw the Duchess of Riario, his niece—a fine woman, between twenty
and thirty, extremely advantageously dressed, with a tolerably handsome
face, and great ease, nay, even confidence, of manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 18._—Dined at La Gardie’s—read _Les Mères Rivales_ aloud, while she
made a _couvre-pied_ for her approaching confinement; her mother worked
a cap for the babe, and he sat down to his netting; it was a black
shawl for his wife. A fine tall man, a soldier, too, with a very martial
appearance, netting a shawl for his wife, amused me—Hercules and Omphale!
I leave Vienna to-morrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Desultory Remarks._—Upon the whole, Vienna is no place of gay
dissipation, except in the Carnival. The spectacles are but indifferent,
the assemblies but little frequented, there are few concerts and no
balls. Married women, or if one happens to be a _chanoinesse_, which
confers the same privileges, go about to all places without a companion
of their own sex. Those who are of notorious bad character are received
in all societies with as much _empressement_ as those of the very best
conduct. The few really virtuous women do not make a class apart, but
associate indiscriminately, and even form friendships, with those who
are most notoriously otherwise. Yet a certain respect is shown to a good
character; for, though gallantry is never blamed, a uniform life of
virtue is often praised. Attentions are reciprocal between the sexes. The
women do not exact homage, and therefore do not receive it. I was seldom
more surprised than on being congratulated by a lady on the attentions
of a young Pole, who distinguished me particularly on the evening of
my first appearance, as in general such congratulations are offered to
the man whose homage is suffered, and not to the woman who receives
it. Scandal is a vice totally unknown; its most general object among
women is here not disgraceful, so hardly ever made a topic, and, when
mentioned, spoken of without censure or enlargement. The best feature
in the character of the society at Vienna is a universal appearance of
good nature. The young Germans do not associate much with women, and,
as the various subjects of political information which are necessary
to an Englishman are merely matters of speculation under a despotic
government, one great motive to study which exists among us is here cut
off. Classical knowledge is not thought essential to the education of
a gentleman; study, in general, not a favourite pursuit; and reading
scarcely considered as an amusement. Consequently the young Austrians do
not excel in the art of conversation, nor do they even possess what we
call small talk, from mixing so little with women of fashion. They dance
and ride, but I believe the variety of sports and exercises which give a
graceful exterior, is quite unknown to them. They have little grace, and
scarcely any beauty.

Upon the whole, however, I love the German character. Calmness and
mildness are its most prominent features. Cruelty is a vice here totally
unknown, with all its attendants, roughness, brutality, oaths, loud
speech, &c. As to importunity and servility, they are alike banished
from the land. The begger asks charity without whining or clamour, and
if not immediately relieved, desists without reproach. There arises from
this universal calmness of soul a certain dignity more easily felt than
described. I would advise every one who has irritable nerves to reside
in this country. He will see none of those melancholy objects who awake
pity, and hear none of those atrocities which excite horror. Safe under
the guardianship of a mild but vigilant police, he may travel over
unfrequented heaths at all hours of the night, and may lie down and
sleep in full security, without even the precaution of locking his door.
He may walk about the streets in any costume without being insulted, and
he may carry his whole fortune about him without any danger of losing
it by the dishonesty of others. _C’est défendu_ acts in this country
with the force the most violent penal laws do not possess in England.
At the play a lady said to me, ‘_On ne siffle plus au spectacle; c’est
défendu_.’ The general wish for peace is strongly expressed; and as the
Emperor has neither men nor money to carry on the war, he must desire it
as much as his subjects. Gold is scarcely ever seen. I did not see one
piece of coined gold during the four months of my residence at Vienna.

Upon the whole, the facility which strangers who are highly recommended
find in establishing themselves in good society, the variety created by
the concourse of people from all parts of the world, those points of
national character I have already stated, and the extreme beauty of the
country, make Vienna a delightful residence. It is also, when compared
to London, extremely cheap. A person may live in the same manner as in
London, as nearly as the difference of each town will permit, for about
one-third of the expense.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 20, Prague._—The road from Vienna here is very agreeably
diversified with hills, vineyards, hop grounds, and abundance of
corn-fields; but, alas! literally the harvest is plenteous and the
labourers few. I scarcely saw a peasant, and in one field reckoned
thirteen women at work, with only two men.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 22, Carlsbad._—Two fatiguing days have brought me here. The
situation of these baths is charming. A variety of hills, covered to the
very top with different species of fir, sweep around and play into one
another in every direction. A small river runs at the bottom, and an
appearance of dignity, repose, and seclusion is the general expression of
the scene.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 23._—Became acquainted with the Countess Brühl, a woman whose
character seems to command universal respect, and whose manners please
me extremely. I preferred seeing a beautiful country with her to dancing
with the gayer part of the society, and was well rewarded for my choice
by her conversation. Though I had no recommendation to her, she has
offered to introduce me here, and presented me in the same evening to the
Princess Radziwill and Duchess of Courland. The former very graciously
told me that I was still regretted at Brunswick.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 25-28._—Lived chiefly with an English society composed of Colonel
and Mrs. ——, Sir Thomas and Lady ——. Early tea drinking and late
supping consumed the evenings; and the mornings were wasted in visits
and shopping, with all their tiresome accompaniments. The conversation
ran chiefly on the decided superiority of England in all points, and
comparisons of different places abroad in point of cheapness, and stale
anecdotes of ourselves and of the English world. The improvement small,
and the amusement less.

       *       *       *       *       *

_August 4, Töplitz._—Remained at Carlsbad till the second. The situation
is charming, the _ton_ perfectly easy, the lodgings tolerable, the hours
convenient, and the manner of living extremely agreeable. Two days have
brought me here. The situation has not the divine romantic beauty of
Carlsbad. I have seen no part of it so agreeable as the _Wiese_ where I
there lodged, and I much regret the change. Went with the Princess Clary
to a _thé_ given in that part of her garden open to the public by the
Princess Dolgorouki, a Russian. The _locale_ made it a pleasing fête,
but somehow or other I was not amused. In the evening was admitted to
the Princess Dolgorouki. As she rose at my entrance I did not perceive
her previous situation; and was a little surprised when I saw her throw
herself upon a mattress, covered with the same calico as her sofas. There
she lay along, dressed in a very dirty, huddled _dishabille_, and wrapped
up in a Turkish shawl. The room was small, low, and mean, like most of
the lodgings here; but was ornamented with pieces of chintz, calico, and
muslin hung round in festoons; the like were suspended from the ceiling;
prints, unframed, were hung about in various places; orange-trees were in
the four corners, and the stove was veiled with drapery of various kinds.
The lady and the room gave me an idea of Bedlam, yet every one admired,
and cried out how enchanting her taste. In Germany be extraordinary,
grotesque or absurd in a new way, and you will surely be applauded.
Conversed chiefly with a wounded officer, the Prince Tour and Taxis, who
gave me a horrid account of the fatigues and sufferings of the Austrian
army during the last campaign. He was left ten hours on the field of
battle, ‘_où je serois mort_,’ added he, ‘_si le caporal de mon régiment
n’avoit bouché les trous de mes plaies avec de la terre. J’aurois été
heureux de mourir, car cela m’auroit épargné bien des souffrances._’ All
seem dissatisfied with the conduct of the war, particularly since Prince
Charles resigned the command.

       *       *       *       *       *

_August 11._—Long airings with the Princess Clary (to whom Töplitz
belongs) fill up my evenings very agreeably. I have been in two of the
carriages of the country. The first holds four, of whom two only can be
defended from the weather. The second holds eight; it is a long plank
covered with a cushion, with a footboard on each side, and on one a sort
of narrow resting-place, which at will may serve for your back or arms,
as you can turn yourself either way. It has four wheels covered with
cases of strong leather to prevent the branches from entangling in them,
and is excellent for going through woods and narrow roads. It is heavy to
the horses, and requires six in a long drive.

       *       *       *       *       *

_August 13._—Went to a _thé_ given by Vicomte Anadia, the Portuguese
Minister, and afterwards saw _Le Sauvage_, a very ugly dance, which I
mean to take to England, where novelty sometimes supplies the want of
every other charm.

       *       *       *       *       *

_August 22._—The last four days have been cheered by the society of
my friend Mr. S——. How delightful to meet a friend and countryman in
a foreign land. He travels with his eldest son, who has passed near
a year at M. de Mounier’s academy in Weimar. He went there merely a
pretty-looking, insignificant young man, devoted to fashion, full of
vanity, and anxious to think on all subjects with those who lead in the
_ton_. Mounier has enlarged, refined, and liberalized his ideas, given
him just notions of politics, a general taste in literature, and cleared
his mind of the prejudices acquired in the round of fashionable life in
London.—Conversed with the Count O’Kelly, who confirmed all I have heard
of the Empress’s unbounded influence over her husband, her devotion to
her mother, and her dislike of the Archduke Charles, which has produced
fatal effects—whole troops at the battle of Marengo having surrendered
without firing a shot, saying, ‘Why should we suffer ourselves to be
massacred for those who have taken our father from us?’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 24._—To-morrow I leave Töplitz. There is one point in which it
differs materially from an English water-drinking place; the expense
may be rated at about one-seventh. I am in a wretchedly comfortless,
but not disgraceful lodging, for which I pay but two florins a night,
and had I taken it by the week or month, it would have been still
cheaper.—Yesterday evening I saw a play represented in the open air. The
piece, _Graf von Walthron_, is military, and founded on a true story.
An inferior officer, who insults his colonel, is condemned to die, and
receives a pardon at the place of execution. Nothing, as far as what I
saw of the pantomime enabled me to judge—for it was a play only to the
eye, as it was impossible to hear a word—appeared new in the details. A
wife, who arrives in great spirits to see her husband in camp, receives
the news of his condemnation with a fainting fit, who kneels, implores,
weeps, embraces, attempts to shoot herself, and, according to custom,
suffers the pistol to be forced from her with great facility, is what
we have all seen a thousand times. I was chiefly employed in reflecting
what astonishing art the ancients must have possessed to give effect to
a piece in the open air. Here nothing could be worse. I sat in one of
the best places, yet heard not a word; and the mere spectacle did not
strike the eye, as I expected an exact reality would have done. At one
moment only the representation appeared to gain by its perfect truth;
it was when a number of horsemen gallop forward with repeated cries,
and produce the pardon of Graf Walthron. Extreme haste to further a
benevolent purpose has always a good stage effect. Count Waldstein’s
horses were the performers. Among the spectators was Mad. de Cachet, who
commanded 22,000 men in the war of La Vendée, was wounded in several
engagements, wishes to be thought daughter to Louis the Sixteenth, and
is really not unlike the portraits of the family. She also resembles the
Margravine of Anspach. I think her about forty, rather well-looking, her
hair _d’une couleur un peu hardie_, and very long; her complexion good,
and not tanned; her throat well-turned, and very white, and her manner of
carrying her head beautiful. She is of a middle height, rather fat and
massy, her dress without taste, but not without pretention—a black gown,
with a white muslin chemise thrown over it, fancifully made and trimmed,
a white muslin on her head, and a great display of hair, one tress of
which hung down from the top of her head, where it was puffed, to the
bottom of her waist in front. Her _confidante_ abused the privilege which
_confidantes_ possess of being hideous. Some one proposed to remove her
chair a little further back, and she turned to Mad. de Cachet, saying,
‘_Je dirai comme vous, je ne suis pas faite pour reculer_.’ Her friend
smiled at this citation with great complacence.[21]

       *       *       *       *       *

_August 27, Dresden._—I have just seen Mr. Elliot, agreeable as ever.
His conversation—‘The Emperor of Russia is a wild beast. I consider him
a greater Jacobin than Robespierre. He has made more Jacobins. A person
of whose veracity I have no reason to doubt, told me the following story.
“I was travelling lately in Russia, and saw one of the carriages used
in transporting prisoners, and sealed, according to custom, with the
Emperor’s seal. I heard a faint voice call for water, and I asked who
was within. The guide desired me to look through a small grated window.
I did, and saw two human figures fastened together by a chain passed
through their cheeks, and secured by a padlock. One of them implored the
conductor, in accents faint and indistinct, for God’s sake to release him
from his fellow-prisoner, who was become a corpse. The guide said that
it was contrary to the Emperor’s orders, and that he dared not open the
carriage till it arrived at the destined spot.” One would willingly go
to Petersburg, for the sake of shooting such a monster,’ In the evening
I met Lord and Lady Holland at Mr. Elliot’s. Her manner is pleasing; she
is tall and _embonpoint_, with fine eyes, and an agreeable countenance,
rather well-looking than handsome. Her husband is agreeable, and they
both possess that vivacity of conversation and mildness of manner, the
union of which forms the _cachet_ of the Devonshire society.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 31._—Dined with Lady Holland. Mr. Marsh, Dr. Drew, and Lord
Dungannon formed the circle. The latter is a very promising young man,
natural, civil, conversible, and good humoured.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 1._—An assembly at Mad. ——’s. On attempting to return home, fell
into a strange perplexity. I removed this day from the inn to a lodging,
but did not know the name of the street; yet having more dread of _ennui_
than fear of losing my way, would not wait at the assembly for my
footman, but got into a chair, and desired the men in bad German to take
me to a lodging opposite the Golden Angel—rather an indefinite direction,
as it might apply to a dozen other as well as mine. However, I trusted
to the good luck which follows me in trifles, and depended on chance for
leading me to the right one. Alas! I find myself on a staircase quite
different from mine, and the chairmen do not comprehend they have made a
mistake. A stranger (Count Romanzow, as I afterwards learned) politely
asks if he can be of service, and desires to know where I wish to go.
‘Indeed, sir, I cannot tell.’ He wishes to know at length whence I came.
That I cannot tell either, as Mrs. Elliot’s carriage brought me, and I
never asked the name of my hostess. He must have thought me mad. At last,
as my most natural resource, he ordered the chair, at my desire, to Mr.
Elliot’s house in town, where Lord and Lady Holland are lodged. I there
supped with them. Mr. Elliot remarkably amusing; no one has so much small
talk, or parries better by a jest an opinion he disapproves, but does
not choose to refute. He has so much wit, originality, and knowledge
of the world, his caprice rather increases than diminishes his powers
of pleasing. He says the Princess Radziwill (_mère_) is like a high
priest in an Italian opera. Those who have seen her will appreciate the
comparison.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 2._—At Mad. Divoff’s. Her husband amused by assuring me how often
the painters who worked here at the Gallery, profited by _his_ advice.
All the artists I have heard speak on the subject, laugh at him; and the
taste he has shown in his collection of prints is execrable. But riches,
omnipotent riches, procure to their possessor all the pleasures attendant
on the consciousness of taste and talents. Every one fancies he possesses
them, and the rich man ever finds that deference paid to his opinion,
which tends to maintain so pleasing an error.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 3._—Drank tea with Mad. de Hoenthal, a very small party, made for
the reigning, or rather the _ci-devant_, Princess Tour and Taxis, who was
forced to quit Ratisbon on the arrival of the French. She has travelled
four nights, yet is as fresh as possible, and betrays not a symptom of
languor or weariness. She is a woman of about thirty, tall, well-made
and graceful, her face agreeable, though her features irregular. Her
deportment and countenance bear some resemblance to those of our Queen,
her aunt. She is on her way to visit her sister, the Queen of Prussia.
Her address is pleasing, and the character I have heard of her is
amiable. Her anxiety to see every work of art worth observation, which
has been strongly marked since her arrival, speaks in her favour. She
is attended by her brother, the Prince of Mecklenburg. His features are
good, and with expression might even be called handsome.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 4._—Breakfasted with Mad. d’Ahlefeld at a public garden called The
Little Osterwiese. It was a very small party given to the Princess Tour
and Taxis. Afterwards we saw the palace of Prince Max,—very mediocre;
and his garden, where the ornament that we were desired most to observe,
because it contributed most to the Prince’s amusement, was a _pipée_,
or contrivance for catching birds in a net. I cannot describe it. There
was a building, several walks, and a great deal of apparatus connected
with it. It is the Prince’s principal occupation. Poor man! We then went
to the Gallery, where the picture that most struck me was a Raphael
representing the Virgin standing on a cloud, with the infant Jesus in
her arms, the saints on either side in the act of adoration, and at
the bottom of the picture two of the loveliest heads of cherubs I ever
saw. The Virgin’s face is divine. The Child, who appears about a year
old, has more the expression of the King, than Saviour of the world.
There is a beautiful haughtiness, mixed with disdain, in his features.
Mad. Wissenberg passed the evening with me, and oppressed me with her
tenderness. She has been educated in a convent in France, which I should
have guessed, had she not told it to me.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 6._—Saw by torchlight Mengs’ selection of casts in plaster of
Paris, from the _chef-d’œuvres_ of Italy. They are lighted by a single
torch carried by the Director, and are supposed to appear more soft, yet
more _prononcée_, more dignified and less glaringly white, than by the
light of day. In some measure _cela les vivifie_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 7._—Dined at Mr. Elliot’s with the Hollands. Her Ladyship’s manner
to her husband is too imperious; it is not the tyranny of a mistress or a
wife, but of a governess to her trembling pupil.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 8._—Dined with the Hollands. She has a mixture of imperiousness
and caprice very amusing to the mere spectators. Her indolence is
also remarkable, and she lies in a very easy posture on a sofa, with
screens between the lights and her eyes, in all the dignity of idleness,
employing every individual who travels in her party, without apology or
intermission. Her husband has the honour of being fag-in-chief, but she
likewise entirely occupies a humorous clergyman, a peevish physician,
and a young lord. There is besides a boy (Mr. Dickens) who comes
occasionally, like those who attend servants in great families, to do
jobs; but he has found out that she dislikes the trouble of repeating
her orders, and often evades them by affecting not to hear.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 9._—This was a busy day to me. At ten I saw the magnificent
Picture Gallery. Pictures which struck me most were an Abraham preparing
to offer up Isaac, imitated from the Laocoon—the finest painting on this
subject I have seen, and the only one that ever pleased me;—a Magdalen
renouncing the pomps and vanities of the world, a discipline in her
hand. She is perfectly beautiful, pale, _touchante_, and in an attitude
expressive of the most perfect abstraction and _abandon_; the soul which
informs that lovely form seems to dwell wholly in the eyes; the rest
of the person has already ceased to exist. The Princess Dolgorouki has
ordered a copy of the Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife—a strange choice!

Supped at the Princess Dolgorouki’s—her egotism and vanity excessive.
‘_J’ai donné une fête au Roi de Pologne, qui l’a presque rendu fou.
Madame de Brune avoit arrangé des groupes que nous répresentions sur un
petit théâtre derrière une gaze—entr’autres la famille de Darius—moi,
j’étois Statire aux pieds d’Alexandre. Après, la toilette de Vénus; trois
des plus jolies femmes répresentoient les Graces; moi, j’étois Vénus, et
il avoit un petit Amour en tricot qui me chaussoit._’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 18._—Arrived at Count Münster’s. He lives at Königsbruck, where he
possesses a large and convenient château, which he has rendered cheerful
by his taste in the disposition and furniture of the apartments. The
family do not assemble at breakfast here as in England. Countess Münster
rises at six, and does not establish herself in her drawing-room till
about twelve. Their life is extremely retired; and I believe it is not so
much the custom to receive company in a German château as in an English
country-house. We dine at two, sup at half-past nine, and retire long
before eleven.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 28._—Left Königsbruck, where I had passed a few very pleasant and
retired days. Countess Münster is a warm partizan of the philosophy of
Kant, who says perfectibility, and not happiness, should be the object
of human researches. Mad. Münster has adopted this idea, and considers
all revealed religion as priestcraft, and Christianity as depraving our
hearts, because it founds our virtues on a selfish hope of future bliss,
and contracting our understandings, because it substitutes faith for
reason. She thinks truth unattainable, but that there is a degree of
relative truth to which each understanding may arrive, in proportion to
its strength and efforts. She is not the most formidable opponent to the
Christian religion it has yet encountered; and I doubt if she perfectly
understands herself on these subjects, which she seeks with an eagerness
that denotes a perfect conviction of her own strength. A lofty contempt
of those who do believe, and great bigotry to her own system, render
her conversation on such topics unpleasing. She has some imagination,
extensive reading, but little tact, and a great deal of vanity; yet she
is altogether superior to the general class of females, and neither wants
sensibility nor elevation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 30._—From the Museum went to the collection of porcelain under the
same roof—eighteen chambers full of the finest specimens of every kind
of Japan, Chinese, and Saxon porcelain. The value of this collection is
incalculable. I saw the Saxon dragon china, which is only permitted to
be manufactured for the Electoral family—the dragons are in shades of
crimson; perfect imitations of the brown and gold, or black and gold,
japan; exquisite biscuit, in imitation of the antique; heaps of valuable,
but by me unvalued, mandarins; a whole room full of Egyptian idols; all
sorts of old-fashioned figures in glazed and coloured china; fine dressed
ladies with hats on one side and crooks in their hands, shepherds with
pink ribbons and yellow feathers kneeling at their feet, the dog and
the sheep partaking in the general smirk; coloured bouquets, insipid,
but curiously accurate; hundreds of such jars as have singly formed the
happiness of many a respectable dowager; the coarse pottery painted by
Raphael when he was in love with the potter’s daughter; and, in short, a
profusion which I had never expected to behold. I then went to Graff’s,
an excellent portrait painter. He is famous for catching the expression
of the countenance, but he leaves nature pretty much as he finds her,
without attempting to obtain as much ideal beauty as is consistent with
the resemblance.[22]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 2._—Dined at the Elliots’. While I was playing at chess with Mr.
Elliot, the news arrived of Lord Nelson’s arrival, with Sir William and
Lady Hamilton, Mrs. Cadogan, mother of the latter, and Miss Cornelia
Knight, famous for her _Continuation of Rasselas_,[23] and _Private Life
of the Romans_.[24]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 3._—Dined at Mr. Elliot’s with only the Nelson party. It is plain
that Lord Nelson thinks of nothing but Lady Hamilton, who is totally
occupied by the same object. She is bold, forward, coarse, assuming, and
vain. Her figure is colossal, but, excepting her feet, which are hideous,
well shaped. Her bones are large, and she is exceedingly _embonpoint_.
She resembles the bust of Ariadne; the shape of all her features is
fine, as is the form of her head, and particularly her ears; her teeth
are a little irregular, but tolerably white; her eyes light blue, with a
brown spot in one, which, though a defect, takes nothing away from her
beauty or expression. Her eyebrows and hair are dark, and her complexion
coarse. Her expression is strongly marked, variable, and interesting;
her movements in common life ungraceful; her voice loud, yet not
disagreeable. Lord Nelson is a little man, without any dignity; who, I
suppose, must resemble what Suwarrow was in his youth, as he is like all
the pictures I have seen of that General. Lady Hamilton takes possession
of him, and he is a willing captive, the most submissive and devoted I
have seen. Sir William is old, infirm, all admiration of his wife, and
never spoke to-day but to applaud her. Miss Cornelia Knight seems the
decided flatterer of the two, and never opens her mouth but to show
forth their praise; and Mrs. Cadogan, Lady Hamilton’s mother, is—what one
might expect. After dinner we had several songs in honour of Lord Nelson,
written by Miss Knight, and sung by Lady Hamilton.[25] She puffs the
incense full in his face; but he receives it with pleasure, and snuffs it
up very cordially. The songs all ended in the sailor’s way, with ‘Hip,
hip, hip, hurra,’ and a bumper with the last drop on the nail, a ceremony
I had never heard of or seen before.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct 4._—Accompanied the Nelson party to Mr. Elliot’s box at the opera.
Lady Hamilton paid me those kinds of compliments which prove she thinks
mere exterior alone of any consequence. She and Lord Nelson were wrapped
up in each other’s conversation during the chief part of the evening.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 5._—Went by Lady Hamilton’s invitation to see Lord Nelson dressed
for Court. On his hat he wore the large diamond feather, or ensign of
sovereignty, given him by the Grand Signior; on his breast the Order of
the Bath, the Order he received as Duke of Bronte, the diamond star,
including the sun or crescent given him by the Grand Signior, three gold
medals obtained by three different victories, and a beautiful present
from the King of Naples. On one side is his Majesty’s picture, richly
set and surrounded with laurels, which spring from two united anchors at
bottom, and support the Neapolitan crown at top; on the other is the
Queen’s cypher, which turns so as to appear within the same laurels, and
is formed of diamonds on green enamel.[26] In short, Lord Nelson was a
perfect constellation of stars and Orders. Marcolini visited him while I
was there.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 6._—Dined with Lord Nelson at the Hôtel de Pologne. Went in the
evening to a concert given to him by Count Marcolini. Paris sung—a fine
bass, with the lowest tones I ever heard; and Ciciarelli, a soprano,
who has lost his voice, but declaims well. From thence went to a party
at Countess Richtenstein’s, Lady Hamilton loading me with all marks of
friendship at first sight, which I always think more extraordinary than
love of the same kind.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 7._—Breakfasted with Lady Hamilton, and saw her represent in
succession the best statues and paintings extant. She assumes their
attitude, expression, and drapery with great facility, swiftness, and
accuracy. Several Indian shawls, a chair, some antique vases, a wreath
of roses, a tambourine, and a few children are her whole apparatus.
She stands at one end of the room with a strong light to her left, and
every other window closed. Her hair (which by-the-bye is never clean) is
short, dressed like an antique, and her gown a simple calico chemise,
very easy, with loose sleeves to the wrist. She disposes the shawls so
as to form Grecian, Turkish, and other drapery, as well as a variety of
turbans. Her arrangement of the turbans is absolute sleight-of-hand,
she does it so quickly, so easily, and so well. It is a beautiful
performance, amusing to the most ignorant, and highly interesting to the
lovers of art. The chief of her imitations are from the antique. Each
representation lasts about ten minutes. It is remarkable that, though
coarse and ungraceful in common life, she becomes highly graceful, and
even beautiful, during this performance. It is also singular that, in
spite of the accuracy of her imitation of the finest ancient draperies,
her usual dress is tasteless, vulgar, loaded, and unbecoming. She has
borrowed several of my gowns, and much admires my dress; which cannot
flatter, as her own is so frightful. Her waist is absolutely between her
shoulders. After showing her attitudes, she sang, and I accompanied.
Her voice is good, and very strong, but she is frequently out of tune;
her expression strongly marked and various; but she has no shake, no
flexibility, and no sweetness.[27] She acts her songs, which I think the
last degree of bad taste. All imperfect imitations are disagreeable,
and to represent passion with the eyes fixed on a book and the person
confined to a spot, must always be a poor piece of acting _manqué_. She
continues her demonstrations of friendship, pays me many compliments
both when I am absent and present, and said many fine things about my
accompanying her at sight. Still she does not gain upon me. I think her
bold, daring, vain even to folly, and stamped with the manners of her
first situation much more strongly than one would suppose, after having
represented Majesty, and lived in good company fifteen years. Her ruling
passions seem to me vanity, avarice, and love for the pleasures of the
table. She shows a great avidity for presents, and has actually obtained
some at Dresden by the common artifice of admiring and longing. Mr.
Elliot says, ‘She will captivate the Prince of Wales, whose mind is as
vulgar as her own, and play a great part in England.’ Dined with the
Elliots. He was wonderfully amusing. His wit, his humour, his discontent,
his spleen, his happy choice of words, his rapid flow of ideas, and his
disposition to playful satire, make one always long to write short-hand,
and preserve his conversation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 8._—Dined at Madame de Loss’s, wife to the Prime Minister, with the
Nelson party. The Electress will not receive Lady Hamilton, on account
of her former dissolute life. She wished to go to Court, on which a
pretext was made to avoid receiving company last Sunday, and I understand
there will be no Court while she stays. Lord Nelson, understanding the
Elector did not wish to see her, said to Mr. Elliot, ‘Sir, if there is
any difficulty of that sort, Lady Hamilton will knock the Elector down.’
She was not invited in the beginning to Mad. de Loss’s; upon which Lord
Nelson sent his excuse, and then Mr. Elliot persuaded Mad. de Loss to
invite her. From Mad. de Loss’s visited Mrs. Neumann, a very obliging
woman of the _tiers état_, and thence to sup at Mrs. Rawdon’s. Here I
found Lady W—— in the midst of a very animated discourse on precedence,
which I soon found took its rise from Mr. Elliot’s having led me in to
dinner at Mad. de Loss’s before her and another lady who had place. She
politely told me he showed his ignorance and his impertinence, and she
was sorry he knew no better. I had been so amused by his conversation at
dinner, I had quite forgot this indecorum.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 9._—A great breakfast at the Elliots’, given to the Nelson party.
Lady Hamilton repeated her attitudes with great effect. All the company,
except their party and myself, went away before dinner; after which Lady
Hamilton, who declared she was passionately fond of champagne, took such
a portion of it as astonished me. Lord Nelson was not behind-hand, called
more vociferously than usual for songs in his own praise, and after many
bumpers proposed the Queen of Naples, adding, ‘She is _my_ Queen; she
is Queen to the backbone.’ Poor Mr. Elliot, who was anxious the party
should not expose themselves more than they had done already, and wished
to get over the last day as well as he had done the rest, endeavoured to
stop the effusion of champagne, and effected it with some difficulty;
but not till the Lord and Lady, or, as he calls them, Antony and _Moll_
Cleopatra, were pretty far gone. I was so tired, I returned home soon
after dinner, but not till ‘Cleopatra’ had talked to me a great deal of
her doubts whether the Queen would receive her, adding, ‘I care little
about it. I had much rather she would settle half Sir William’s pension
on me.’ After I went, Mr. Elliot told me she acted Nina intolerably ill,
and danced the _Tarantola_. During her acting Lord Nelson expressed his
admiration by the Irish sound of astonished applause, which no written
character can imitate. Lady Hamilton expressed great anxiety to go to
Court, and Mrs. Elliot assured her it would not amuse her, and that the
Elector never gave dinners or suppers—‘What?’ cried she, ‘no guttling!’
Sir William also this evening performed feats of activity, hopping round
the room on his backbone, his arms, legs, star and ribbon all flying
about in the air.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 10._—Mr. Elliot saw them on board to-day. He heard by chance
from a King’s Messenger that a frigate waited for them at Hamburg, and
ventured to announce it formally.[28] He says:—‘The moment they were
on board, there was an end of the fine arts, of the attitudes, of the
acting, the dancing, and the singing. Lady Hamilton’s maid began to
scold in French about some provisions which had been forgot, in language
quite impossible to repeat, using certain French words, which were never
spoken but by _men_ of the lowest class, and roaring them out from one
boat to another. Lady Hamilton began bawling for an Irish stew, and her
old mother set about washing the potatoes, which she did as cleverly
as possible. They were exactly like Hogarth’s actresses dressing in
the barn.’ In the evening I went to congratulate the Elliots on their
deliverance, and found them very sensible of it. Mr. Elliot would not
allow his wife to speak above her breath, and said every now and then,
‘Now don’t let us laugh to-night; let us all speak in our turn; and be
very, very quiet.’[29]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 11._—Dined at the Elliots’, to meet Colonel and Mrs. Clinton,
formerly Miss Chartres (daughter of Lord Elcho). They are pleasing,
quiet people, and seem to like one another very much. Mr. Elliot says
I shall not like Berlin. This is the summary of his sentiments on the
subject:—‘The King is a fool, and the Queen a doll. Madame de Brühl an
unpleasant, conceited, proud woman. Her husband ought to have been the
woman, and she the man. The Browns a most uninteresting society, the
Doctor pompous, and the wife tiresome. Beware of the Bishopswerders, an
intriguing, dangerous set. Make no friendships. The Berlin people are
false and unprincipled. You will lose a winter, and probably repent your
journey.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 15._—After three days’ and a half journey through the most
tiresome, flat, and sandy country I have ever seen in so long a
continuity, arrived at Berlin.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 20, Berlin._—I have been here since Wednesday, and am now settled
in the apartments last inhabited by Prince Augustus; I pay ten _louis
d’or_ a month for the rooms he occupied, but of course have not hired
any of those that were occupied by his suite. I have as yet made no new
acquaintance except that of Lord and Lady Carysfort; an excellent and
an amiable pair. She is made for her situation, having both the desire
and the power of pleasing, appears to possess quick parts and strong
feelings, has great pleasantry and a graceful flowing elocution. I have
been there thrice by appointment, and have received a general invitation
for every evening.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 21._—Went to a supper at Prince Ferdinand’s. He is almost
unintelligible from his manner of speaking, and it is difficult to
persuade oneself he was brother to the great Frederick, to the lively
and highly intelligent Dowager Duchess of Brunswick. The Princess played
cards with the gentleman whom Mirabeau speaks of as ‘_le père de ses
enfants_.’ She is good-looking, civil, and gentlewomanlike. The style of
these suppers is _triste_ and ceremonious.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 25._—Passed most of the evening with Mad. de Solms, a beautiful
little widow, who is just going to make a second choice, and is evidently
enchanted at the idea. Finished the evening with Mrs. Hunter and Miss
Jones, with whom I have always found the same French gentleman. She took
the unnecessary trouble of accounting for this, by saying he came to
thread their needles.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 26._—Supped at Princess Henry’s—a very agreeable evening. The
Princess talked much to me across the table, as her _grande maitresse_
desired me to take the place opposite to her. I was a little embarrassed
at hearing my own voice in that way; but received some compliments
on what _they were pleased to call_ (to use the Clarissa phrase) my
_charmante organe_. Made the acquaintance of the Countess ——, who has
married five husbands, and despatched four of these—by divorces. This she
has done, it is said, for the sake of the jewels, which, except in cases
of infidelity, remain with the wife; and which the German _noblesse_
are not allowed to sell without going through some troublesome forms,
that render it difficult, and, unless in cases of evident necessity,
disgraceful.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 30._—Went to the Exhibition, or as some call it, Exposition. It
really _exposes_ the melancholy state of the arts at Berlin. The head of
Herod, formed entirely of little children, whose bodies, artificially
placed, represented his features without the assistance of any other
object, was a curious specimen of misplaced ingenuity, and false taste of
the most odious kind.—Supped at Prince Ferdinand’s; saw Prince Henry, who
desired I should be presented to him. He looks like a little fiend of the
minor class, not Belial, or any of the _noblesse_ of hell. We conversed
so little, I can speak but of his exterior. He appears as if he had just
crept out of the embers, and was half-singed. He has two pretty women
in his suite. They say Rheinsberg, his country house, is a scene of
extraordinary wickedness and depravity.[30]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 1._—At a party at Mad. Podewitz’ conversed with Lord Carysfort,
Mr. Adams the American Envoy, and _Citoyen_ Beurnonville the French
Minister.[31] The latter looks like a Newmarket bullying swindler, but
was full of flourishing civility. Buonaparte, the Consul’s brother, and
Envoy Extraordinary to this country, is short, very dark, and remarkably
serious. His whiskers cover half of each cheek, and add to the dinginess
of his appearance. He is going with Beurnonville’s aide-de-camp to
Warsaw, in order, as he says, to inspect the forts—of which, wherever
he has been, he takes the most exact plans and dimensions—in hope, I
suppose, they will soon belong to his own country. People are astonished
at the imprudence of the Court of Prussia in suffering this journey, as
Warsaw is already filled with discontented minds, and has been half, some
say quite, organized for revolution by the Abbé Sièyes. On the whole,
the favourable manner in which this French mission has been received by
the Court and the Ministers is so strongly marked, it cannot escape the
most inattentive eye. Their preference of French politics and French
principles to those of England appears a degree of infatuation in a
monarchical state not to be accounted for by any of the common motives of
action.


TO H. ELLIOT, ESQ., DRESDEN.

                                                       Berlin, Nov., 1800.

It is always my fate to begin my letters to you and Mrs. Elliot with
acknowledgments for past civilities, or, to speak more justly, acts of
kindness. The last I received from you has been of infinite use, and
promises to contribute very much to the _agrément_ of my visit to Berlin;
as nothing could be more flattering than the reception your letter
procured me from Lady Carysfort; and the manner in which she lives makes
her house a great resource to those who love a little quiet private
society. She is always at home, except when upon duty with some of the
Princesses; and has desired me to pass every evening with her in which
I have not some other engagement. I have passed my time chiefly at her
house, since my arrival. She seems to have all that strong desire to
please, so necessary in her situation, and great powers of attraction in
private society; I have not yet seen her in public.

We have been expecting you these five days. I will still hope you may
come; and that, from being in the same house, I may now and then have the
chance of a little conversation with you; which I would tell you with
truth _I know how to appreciate_, if I had not read the phrase in nine
out of ten of the notes I have received since my arrival here; and if,
alas! I had not often used it in a sense very contrary to that in which
it is usually understood. I will therefore banish it from my intercourse
with those to whom I wish to express my real feelings; and of whom it
seems a sort of profanation to express my ideas in the common jargon of
worldly intercourse.

Is Buonaparte dead or not? This is the first question asked in every
society. If you can answer it, pray do; and give me a new speculation as
to the probable consequences of his death. I will pass it off as my own;
and from your political stores you will not miss it.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 18-23._—It is unnecessary to endeavour to discriminate every day in
my journal, when all are so much alike in my life. I pass it entirely at
Lord Carysfort’s. I have been at a great supper at Count Schulenberg’s,
which did not vary the scene, as I sat by Lord Carysfort at supper in a
very large company instead of sitting by him at dinner in a very small
one. As usual, I saw Beurnonville, who was very attentive. He looks like
an immense cart-horse put by mistake in the finest caparisons; for his
figure is colossal and ungainly; and his uniform of blue and gold, which
appears too large even for his large person, is half covered with the
broadest gold lace. His _ton_ is that of a _corps-de-garde_ (he was
really a corporal), but when he addresses himself to women, he affects
a softness and _légèrete_, which reminds one exactly of the Ass and the
Spaniel, and his compliments are very much in the style of M. Jourdain.
It is said, however, he is benevolent and well meaning.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 28._—I have not, according to Mr. Elliot’s phrase, found a Paradise
at Berlin, but it is quite as pleasant as I expected. However, apart
from the impression it has made on me, which always depends on trifling
circumstances, I conceive it to be less agreeable, less various, less
polished, than Vienna. Both are infinitely more inferior to London than I
had supposed before I saw them.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 29._—Dined to-day with Madame Divoff, saw several curious
contrasts in the entertainment—a dinner dressed by a French cook, and
dirty napkins, &c.—the servants in magnificent liveries of scarlet
and gold, with dirty shirts—the mistress of the house in a point-lace
cap, and a dirty silk pelisse. For two hours after dinner we sang with
Righini, an excellent _maître de chapelle_, who, to prove he was at
his ease, came in his boots, and made love to Madame Divoff. Supped at
the Princess Wyzimska’s; sang duets with Righini, and heard him sing
charmingly—without a voice, but with a variety, taste, and suitableness
to the expression of the air in his _manière de broder_, which I think
unequalled.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 30._—Supped at Mad. Angeström’s, wife to the Swedish Minister, who
is perfectly indifferent as to all the interests of Europe, provided
nothing interrupts her reception of the Paris fashions, for which
she has an uncommon avidity. ‘_N’est ce pas, ma chère, que ceci est
charmant; c’est copié fidèlement d’un journal de Paris, et quel journal,
délicieux!_’ She wears very little covering on her person, and none on
her arms of any kind (shifts being long exploded) except sleeves of the
finest cambric, unlined, and _travaillé au jour_, which reach only half
way from the shoulder to the elbow. She seems to consider it a duty
to shiver in this thin attire, for she said to Lady Carysfort, ‘_Ah,
Miledi, que vous êtes heureuse, vous portez des poches et des jupes_.’ I
conversed chiefly with Beurnonville and Pignatelli. Beurnonville says,
‘_Mon sécrétaire est pour les affaires, mon aide-de-camp pour les dames,
et moi pour la réprésentation_.’ The people about him are conscious he
is _peu de chose_, but say, ‘_Qu’importe? on est si bon en Prusse, et
si bien disposé pour nous_.’ A person asked Vaudreuil, aide-de-camp to
Beurnonville, if the latter was a _ci-devant_. ‘_Non,’ dit-il, ‘mais
il voudroit l’être_’—a reply of a good deal of _finesse_, and plainly
proving how unconquerable the respect for rank, and wish among those who
have destroyed the substance, to possess the shadow. On my return I found
an immense inhabitant of the hair on my tucker. My suspicions turned for
a moment on Pignatelli, but on reflection I am sure he belonged to the
French mission.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 2._—Accompanied Mr. Headlam, a sensible, well-bred, respectful
young man, and the Miss Browns, to the porcelain manufactory, and
observed the whole process which transforms a piece of Silesian stone
into a beautiful, brilliant, and valuable vase. The operation is begun
by a steam-engine, which acts in various ways till the mass is formed.
Then the manipulation begins; round forms are turned as in England; other
shapes begun and ended in moulds without any assistance from the wheel.
Some are painted before they are varnished, but these only receive a
dark blue colour, which is black till it passes through the fire. The
finest are varnished first, which increases the difficulty of painting
them, as the colours used are metallic, the porcelain but an earth: the
intervention of a body which has some analogy with both is therefore
necessary; and for chymical reasons, which I do not retain, the painters
use colours which do not produce effect immediately, so are forced to an
exertion of mind and memory as well as of the hand. This china is cheaper
than that of Dresden or Vienna. It is said that Berlin china excels in
the colours of the painting, Vienna in the gilding, Dresden in the mass.
As to general taste in the forms and painting I place Dresden first, and
Berlin last.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 4._—A ball at Albertleben the Minister’s. No supper, but cakes,
ices, lemonade, orgeat, and punch, very warm and strong, of which the
ladies drank plentifully. It was very like a Lord Mayor’s ball in London,
but the dress and dancing not so good. Lady C. says half the misses were
in coarse muslin over pink stuff; a little exaggeration in this, but
there was not the elegance displayed which I expected. On the whole,
Berlin reminds me of a provincial town with a large garrison, and its
manners seem pretty much on a par with its morals. The women are _borné_
to a degree, and do not even possess ornamental accomplishments. I
forgive this as a consequence of their bad education; but I cannot excuse
their failure in dress and dancing, which are the study of their lives.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 5._—Met M. Gentz,[32] a _Berlinois_, at Lord Carysfort’s. He
strikes me as possessing more energy than any man I had ever seen.
His head seems to be organized in a very superior manner, and his
conversation bears the stamp of real genius. He is one of those who
seem to impart a portion of their own endowment; for you feel your mind
elevated while in his society. In argument he is irresistible; but it
seems to be from fair and honest force, unassisted by trick or artifice.
His voice rises, and his eye kindles, yet his warmth never becomes
displeasing, nor degenerates into either violence or sharpness. In his
writings he proposes Burke for his model, and walks boldly beside him,
for we cannot say he is a copyist, though a successful imitator.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 6._—I have met M. Rivarol,[33] a much-applauded French writer; he
also proposes to be the wit and demigod of the Berlin society, and I
think may succeed; though his powers would not in my opinion assure him
that rank elsewhere.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 13._—This morning I went to Lady Carysfort’s. Mr. Proby, Lord
Carysfort’s nephew and chaplain, gave us the whole church service. It is
interesting in this corrupted town to see a family circle join in prayer,
and an inestimable wife and mother surrounded by her lovely innocent
daughters, untainted, and as yet unconscious of the infection which
surrounds them.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 14._—A little dance at my hotel, composed chiefly of English.
Gentz was of the party, and his conversation, as usual, delighted me.
Rivarol and he are the two men of greatest talent I have seen in Berlin.
I perceive this difference in their conversation, that Rivarol is
perpetually on the watch to display himself, and catch the approbation
of the circle, while Gentz is only anxious to do justice to his topic,
and to lead their opinion. Rivarol labours, and sometimes successfully,
to produce wit; Gentz lets fall from the plenitude of his ideas such
superfluities as he cannot even miss.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 18._—Prince George, Righini, and Lord Carysfort passed the morning
with me. The former said, upon my observing that Prince Augustus could be
amiable, ‘_Oui, mais ses accès d’amabilité deviennent tous les jours plus
rares, comme les apparitions du soleil à la fin de l’automne_.’—Prince
Radziwill has been engaged in a plot to recover the independence of
Poland. A letter of his was intercepted at Vienna, expressive of the
wish, and arranging some of the means, adding, ‘_il faut mettre en avant
un Prince du sang_,’ words which were supposed to allude to his wife’s
brother, Prince Louis, the ‘Duc d’Orléans of Germany.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 25._—Dined at Lord Carysfort’s to celebrate Christmas Day; received
the Sacrament there in the morning. The party consisted of all the
English in Berlin. In the evening we danced country dances.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 27._—Presented to Mad. de Voss, _grande maîtresse_. It is
impossible to receive with more dignity and politeness than she displays.
Supped at Princess Wyzimska’s, and sung _Giuro che ad altro mai_ with
Righini.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 28._—Went to Court, which is here an evening assembly. I was
presented to the King and Queen. He is a fine tall military man, plain
and reserved in his manners and address. She reminded me of Burke’s
‘star, glittering with life, splendour, and joy,’ and realized all the
fanciful ideas one forms in one’s infancy, of the young, gay, beautiful,
and magnificent queens in the _Arabian Nights_. She is an angel of
loveliness, mildness, and grace; tall and _svelte_, yet sufficiently
_embonpoint_; her hair is light, her complexion fair and faultless; an
inexpressible air of sweetness reigns in her countenance, and forms its
predominant character. As perfect beauty in nature is a chimæra, like
the philosopher’s stone, and as it is rarely to be found but in the
higher works of art, I take nothing from her charms in saying she is not
faultless. An ill-shaped mouth, indifferent teeth, a broad forehead and
large limbs are the only defects the severest criticism can discover;
while her hair, her height, her movements, her shoulders, her waist, are
all unexceptionable. These slight faults only prove she is a woman and
not a statue, and altogether she is one of the loveliest creatures I
have ever seen. Her dress was in the best taste. Her hair was dressed in
the fullest and most varied of the Grecian forms, going very far back,
and ornamented with a very tall heron’s feather, and a number of immense
diamond stars, so placed as to form a bandeau quite round, which came
close to her temples. She wore a chemise of crape, richly embroidered
in emerald-green foil, and a _moldave_ (simply a body, train, and short
sleeves) of pale pink silk, slightly sparkling with gold, and trimmed all
round with sable. Her neck was richly ornamented with jewels. She speaks
very graciously and politely to every one. I was also presented to the
Princess of Orange, a beautiful young woman.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 31._—Went to a ball at Mad. Angeström’s, the Swedish Minister’s
wife. Every one seemed to partake in the design of finishing the century
with festivity and cheerfulness. The company was the _élite_ of the
Berlin society, and the ball was unusually animated and brilliant. I had
just danced one dance with Mr. Caulfield, and was resting myself during
the second in an outer room, when I heard that M. d’Orville, a young
officer just one-and-twenty, had fallen down in a fainting fit in the
dance. After some moments he was removed from the ball-room into Mad.
Angeström’s boudoir, where all the common remedies of salts, essences,
cold water, and fresh air were tried without effect. Still no one was
much alarmed. However, a physician and surgeon were called in. They
exhausted in vain all the resources of their art; he was irrecoverably
gone, and afforded an awful example of the uncertainty of human life.
Mad. Angeström, whose nerves had been lately shaken by the death of a
favourite son, was affected in a dreadful way. She fainted, and on her
recovery knew nothing of what had passed, but was impressed with the idea
that something had happened to her children. Her husband went to their
apartment, and brought them to her from their beds, wrapped in large
cloaks. He reminded me of Lewis’s verses—

    ’Tis the father who holds his young son in his arm,
    And close in his mantle has wrapt him up warm.’

At first she did not know her children, and she continued to utter such
incoherent rhapsodies as were both shocking and pathetic. The shrieks,
faintings, tears, and hysterics of every woman who either had really
weak nerves, or who wished to display her feelings, completed the horror
of the scene. I wished to escape. Lord Carysfort and Prince Radziwill
offered me their carriages, but I refused one, and there was a mistake
about the other. At last the contagion of the scene spread to me. I
wept violently, and remember no more than that I was wrapped up by Mr.
Ridley and Mr. Caulfield, who both showed infinite good nature, in a
large cloak, and put into a carriage; that Mr. Ridley accompanied me
home, where Mr. Kinnaird and he remained with me till a few minutes
past twelve, that I might not be left to begin the new century a prey to
melancholy reflections.

    With this entry, closing the year 1800, the journal kept in
    Germany breaks abruptly off, and all of it which should follow
    has been looked for in vain. From one or two letters which
    will be found in a later part of this volume, I gather that
    the writer was brought, during her later stay at Berlin, into
    some nearer personal intercourse with the Queen of Prussia than
    a mere formal presentation at Court would imply; and might
    have something more to say of one who at a later day awakened
    so deep an interest, and in whom the touchstone of sorrow and
    adversity brought out so many noble qualities, probably at this
    time unknown and unguessed of by herself or by others. The only
    document which I have, immediately relating to the remaining
    period of my Mother’s sojourn in Germany (some four months, I
    believe), is the letter which follows.


TO MRS. ELLIOT, DRESDEN.

                                                       Berlin, Feb., 1801.

We are all living here in a very contracted circle, as we are shut out
by politics from the chief part of the houses of strangers, and the
Berliners themselves are more polite and flattering than hospitable. I
do not know whether the Carnival has been here what is comparatively
called very brilliant; but certainly, after having witnessed the varied,
tumultuous, and luxurious dissipation of London, it appears ‘weary,
stale, flat, and unprofitable.’ I sacrificed to it neither my health nor
my time; went everywhere very late, returned very early, and lived in
constant astonishment at having heard so much of an opera much inferior
to ours, and a masquerade where no one appeared in character, and where
_bon ton_ commanded you to appear in deep mourning.

I have no news, except that the Princess Dolgorouki endeavours to put
herself forward on the canvas by every possible means, and appeared
at Krudener’s _fête_ ‘with her very nose in an attitude’—that Miss
Bishopswerder’s match still hangs, neither on nor off—that the Russians
are triumphant beyond all ideas of triumph; but are a little embarrassed
whether they shall make the ‘_husband of the Archduchess_’ (he goes by
no other name) King of Poland, or Elector of Hanover. If Mr. Elliot will
decide this for me, I will impart the opinion to Krudener.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I have found also, belonging to this time, one letter _to_
    my Mother from Prince Adolphus, who had shown her so many
    kindnesses at Hanover. This also, having permission, I will
    insert.


H.R.H. PRINCE ADOLPHUS (DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE), TO MRS. ST. GEORGE.

                                                   Hanover, Jan. 31, 1801.

DEAR MADAM,

I cannot let this opportunity pass of acknowledging the receipt of your
very obliging letter of the 8th inst. Baron Rheden has brought me a very
good account of your health, at which I do sincerely rejoice; and I trust
that the fatigues of the Berlin carnival will not hurt you. The shocking
accident of which you were a witness on the 31st of last month will,
I am afraid, have made a deep impression on your mind. It is at least
very difficult for a person of your feelings to forget immediately such
an event, and as it happened at a ball, all dancing parties must for a
time recal that accident to your remembrance. I do sincerely pity M.
d’Orville’s fate, and I wish he may serve as an example for other young
men, that they may not likewise fall victims to their dress. I have
lately heard from Berlin that Lord Carysfort has played with the Queen at
Court, which I look upon in a favourable light; and the exclusion of the
Russian ships from the embargo, makes me hope that the disharmony which
has taken place between the Cabinets of London and Berlin has ceased, and
that matters will be made up. I am perfectly of your opinion that it is
too often the case of Englishmen in the diplomatic line, that they forget
the situation in which they are, and act entirely according to their own
private feelings. This does their character the highest honour, but I
cannot say the same for their judgment; for in the career of a Minister
he must often do and put up with things for the public good which he
never would do as a private man; and none knew this better than the late
Lord Chesterfield.

Your next letter will, I hope, inform me when I shall have the pleasure
of seeing you here. Be assured, dear madam, that I wait with impatience
for that day when I can have the pleasure of renewing the assurance of
the very high esteem with which I have the honour to remain,

                        Your very devoted servant,

                                                       ADOLPHUS FREDERICK.




CHAPTER III.

1801-1806.


    My Mother returned to England in the spring of 1801, and
    presently passed over to Ireland. Of the period, somewhat
    more than a year, which elapsed before her next visit to the
    Continent, I find few memoranda, and fewer still which need to
    be published. I make an extract or two.

_Aug. 11, 1801._—Arrived at Mr. Alcock’s, Wilton, near Enniscorthy,
an uncle of mine by marriage, and a worthy, valuable man. I find the
Rebellion is the prominent object in the minds of his family, as it is,
more or less, of most who have passed through it. It is their principal
epoch, and seems to have divided time into two grand divisions, unmarked
by any lesser periods; before, and after, the Rebellion. The first of
these seems to resemble Paradise before the Fall. They had then good
servants, fine flowers, fine fruit, fine horses, good beer, and plenty
of barm—that indispensable requisite in rural economy. Since that period
of perfect felicity, the servants have been unmanageable, the horses
restive, the beer sour, the barm uncome-at-able, and all things scarce
and dear. Great part of the evils complained of are undoubtedly felt;
some are imaginary, and some arise from causes which are not so important
or so pleasant to put forward as the word Rebellion.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 13._—Went to visit my farms near Gorey, accompanied by Mr. Alcock.
Mr. B——, my principal tenant, though a rich and thriving farmer, lives in
a state of dirt which really shocked me. He attributed some part of it to
the Rebellion—of the rest he seemed unconscious. His wife seems dawdling,
indolent, and, like most of the lower and middling Irish, oppressed by
either a real or affected melancholy. That it is sometimes the last,
particularly in the presence of those they consider their superiors, my
own observation has convinced me. A variety of causes operate to produce
this effect. The chief of these seems to be an idea that the higher
class have a sort of jealousy of the prosperity of their inferiors, and
a fear, in some cases too well founded, that the increasing opulence and
happiness of the tenant will excite unreasonable and disproportioned
exactions on the part of the landlord. Mr. B. invited me to dinner,
offering ‘to kill a sheep in a crack.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 31._—The latter part of the month I have passed with Mr. and Mrs.
C——. They are good people from instinct and habit, and they have lived in
the country, a situation most favourable to characters such as theirs.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 12-17._—From Mr. C——’s came to Castleton on a visit to Mr. Cox.
From Mr. Benjamin Cox, brother to the master of the house, I have
received great instruction on a subject to which I had hitherto devoted
so little time or thought, that I was perhaps more ignorant of it
than of any other with which females are supposed to be conversant.
He has talked to me of religion, of the God who created, the Saviour
who redeemed, the Spirit who sanctifies; without affectation, without
parade, he introduces this important topic; and, though lowly and meek
to a degree I have seldom witnessed, no raillery or opposition ever
drives him from his stronghold, or induces him to give up the defence
of the saving truths of Christianity. His practice and his theory are
in perfect harmony, and his life an excellent comment on his creed.
Charitable to the extent of not only relieving, but seeking, objects of
distress with whom to share his entire income—generous even to bestowing
one-third of his fortune at three-and-twenty on a brother richer than
himself; self-denying, humble, contented, devoted to retirement, not
from incapacity to shine in the world or to enjoy its pleasures,
but from an opinion that retirement is, with certain exceptions,
favourable to virtue. This opinion has enabled him to conquer all those
inducements to quit an obscure and monotonous life that arise from a
pleasing appearance, an attractive address, a voice the most harmonious
and persuasive, considerable knowledge, and favourable prospects of
advancement and preferment in any profession he might have chosen. The
Church alone, he declares, would have suited him; but from that he is
excluded by the Thirty-nine Articles, to _all_ of which he thinks he
cannot conscientiously subscribe.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I will abandon for once a rule which I have laid down for
    myself in the present volume, which is, to let the writer
    pourtray herself, and to introduce no other portraiture, my
    own or others; and I will here quote some words of Mrs.
    Leadbeater,[34] one of my mother’s most honoured friends, and
    with whom she maintained the most frequent correspondence,
    describing the beginnings of an acquaintance which presently
    ripened into a friendship, only to be interrupted by death,
    and ever esteemed by my mother a signal blessing of her life.
    They occur in the _Annals of Ballitore_, a work which Mrs.
    Leadbeater left behind her in manuscript, and which, when
    published, as I believe it is on the point of being, will
    be found to contain, with other matters of interest, a very
    vivid description of social life in Ireland during the time
    of the Rebellion. The reader will easily understand that,
    had I felt at liberty to touch the passage, one or two words
    might not have remained exactly as they are, and altogether
    I would gladly have set the whole at a somewhat lower key of
    admiration; but I must leave it as I find it. These are Mrs.
    Leadbeater’s words:—

    ‘The inn on the high road from Dublin to Cork was completed,
    and was let to Thomas Glaizebrook. It attained a goodly
    reputation. One night, just as we were retiring to rest, a
    messenger came down from the landlord to say that a lady had
    arrived late, that the house was full to overflowing, and there
    was no room for her to take refreshment in, that she sate on
    the settle in the kitchen reading, waiting until she could
    obtain an apartment; that she would be glad of the meanest bed
    in the house, being much fatigued; could we be so kind as to
    assist our tenant in this strait? My husband went up at once
    for her, and brought her down in a carriage here, when we found
    from her attendants that she was a person of much consequence.
    She retired to rest, after expressing grateful thanks, and
    we thought would pass away with the morrow. But not so. Her
    servants told us that she had an estate in the neighbourhood,
    that she had appointed her agent to meet her at Ballitore inn,
    proposing to take her tenants from under the middleman to her
    own protection;—that she had been ten years the widow of a
    Colonel, and had one son. I had seen but little of her the
    night before; when she entered my parlour the next day, I was
    greatly struck with her personal appearance. My heart entirely
    acquits me of being influenced by what I had heard of her rank
    and fortune. Far more prepossessing than these were the soft
    lustre of her beautiful black eyes, and the sweetness of her
    fascinating smile; her dress was simply elegant, and her fine
    dark hair, dressed according to the present fashion, in rows
    of curls over one another in front, appeared to me to be as
    becoming as it was new. These particulars are not important,
    except to myself; to me they are inexpressibly dear, because
    they retrace the first impressions made on me by this most
    charming woman, who afterwards gratified me by her friendship.
    Melesina St. George, such was the name of the lovely stranger,
    spent two weeks in our house. She asked permission, in the
    most engaging manner, to remain here rather than return to the
    inn. Providence had been liberal in granting to her talents
    and dispositions calculated for the improvement and happiness
    of all around her, while her meekness and humility prevented
    the restraint of her superiority being felt, without taking
    from the dignity of her character. I was surprised and affected
    when I beheld her seated on one of the kitchen chairs in the
    scullery, for coolness, hearing a tribe of little children of
    her tenants _sing_ out their lessons to her. I wished for her
    picture drawn in this situation, and for its companion I would
    choose Edmund Burke making pills for the poor. It was with
    difficulty I prevailed upon her to bring her little school
    into our parlour, because, as she said, she would not bring
    them into her own. Admiring her method of instructing, I told
    her she would make an excellent schoolmistress; she modestly
    replied, with her enchanting smile, not an _excellent_ one, but
    she had no dislike to the employment, and had contemplated
    it as a means of subsistence when the Rebellion threatened to
    deprive her of her property. She came to Ballitore again, and
    had apartments at the inn, where she entertained us with kind,
    polite attention, and amused her leisure with taking sketches
    of the views from thence with a pen and ink, not having her
    pencils, &c. &c., with her, thus cheerfully entertaining
    herself with what was attainable.’

    The following letter is the firstfruits of a correspondence
    which continued for a quarter of a century.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                                     1802.

Your prose _Ballitore_[35] resembles a highly finished Dutch painting;
in which one of the best artists has represented village scenery and
manners, and where one is not only struck by the general effect, but
amused and interested by the details, which all bear to be separately
examined. Your minutest touches have their value, and the whole wears
the stamp of truth and nature. As a faithful portrait of the manners
of a small but interesting circle, it is really curious, and will
become more so every day, as those minute particulars, neglected by the
historian, and exaggerated by the novelist, increase in value as they
increase in years. They throw the strongest light on the progress of
luxury, and the changes of modes and customs; so perhaps many of the most
trifling circumstances you have recorded may furnish matter whence our
great-grandchildren may draw important conclusions.

    In the spring of 1802, France, after having been closed for
    nine years, again became for a short period accessible, by the
    Peace of Amiens, to English travellers. What my Mother intended
    should be a short vacation ramble to Paris with her son, took a
    shape altogether different, and in fact fixed the whole fashion
    of her after life. Detained at Paris, first by indisposition,
    then by her approaching marriage, and lastly, by her husband’s
    captivity, her sojourn there continued, not for a few weeks
    only, but for five years. Of the period anterior to her
    detention I can find only the journal of the first three weeks;
    from which I shall make some extracts. They differ little
    from the observations of any other curious and intelligent
    sight-seer; still, as the Paris of that day was to be so soon
    shut up anew against English visitors, I may be excused for
    finding room for them.

_July 5, 1802._—Landed at Calais, where, besides the pleasure of escaping
from a ship, one feels at Dessein’s Hotel the satisfaction of treading
classic ground, and sees Yorick, his interesting French widow, and his
incomparable monk, gliding about in every apartment. While my imagination
offered me these mild and gracious figures, my eyes presented me with
Arthur O’Connor and a group of his associates. His features are regular
and his person good. At the moment I saw him, he had a dark and scowling
but sensible expression. He wore a green handkerchief as a neckcloth, and
a tricoloured cockade. Before I could obtain leave to land my carriage, I
was forced to sign a bond to bring it back to England within four months,
under a penalty of twelve hundred francs—a testimony of the superior
excellence of English carriages very inconvenient to travellers.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 7, Abbéville._—The appearance of the harvest during these two
days’ journey exceeds every idea I had formed of plenty. Almost the
whole country is under tillage, chiefly of wheat, intermixed, however,
with other grain, with flax, and with vegetables. When I saw the peasant
girls leading their lean cows by a rope to pick up a scanty meal on the
edge of the road, I could have wished for the intermixture of meadow.
There were no animals whatever grazing; but with the whole country thus
under tillage, nothing but sour black bread was to be seen in the common
post-houses, though they were kept by farmers; and at one village where I
wished to buy a little white bread, it was searched for in vain.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 8, Breteuil._—Where is the gaiety we have heard of from our
infancy as the distinguishing characteristic of this nation? Where is
the original of Sterne’s picture of a French Sunday? I have seen to-day
no cessation from toil, no intermixture of devotion, and repose, and
pleasure. I have seen no dance, I have heard no song. But I have seen
the pale labourer bending over the plentiful fields, of which he does
not seem, if one may judge from his looks, ever to have enjoyed the
produce; I have seen groups of men, women, and children, working under
the influence of a burning sun (for the heat at present is extraordinary,
such as has not been remembered since the year 1753), and others giving
to toil the hours destined to repose, even so late as ten o’clock at
night. Indeed, to judge from the extenuated appearance of the peasantry,
one would conclude they were overworked and underfed. The children,
however, give a promise of becoming a hardy race, and seem healthy,
strong, and blooming.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 9, Paris._—A shocking accident took place at the close of my
journey. My postilion, in spite of my repeated orders to the contrary,
galloped through the streets with six horses, three abreast, and
unfortunately threw down an elderly man and woman of the lower class,
who were severely wounded by the horses. A crowd instantly gathered, but
they behaved with the greatest moderation; and though I got out of the
carriage to see what could be done, none among them blamed or insulted
me as the cause of the accident; neither was anything pilfered in the
general confusion, either from our persons or from the carriage. The
police officers were sent for, who instantly exonerated me from all blame
by saying I appeared _une dame timide_, who did not like to drive fast;
and, after making the best arrangements I could think of in the confusion
of the moment for the poor sufferers, we were allowed to proceed. I found
the journey infinitely fatiguing from the heat of the weather, and the
inns more expensive than in England, with much worse living and less
civility. The journey from London to Paris cost me above fifty guineas. I
travelled with a courier, a man servant, and my son.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 12._—In the evening walked in the garden of the Tuileries. The
total want of verdure and the straightness of the stems of the trees,
which rise without a leaf to a considerable height, made me fancy myself
in a room where a number of lofty poles had been placed, and adorned
with branches. Still, I acknowledge the walk to be magnificent, though
not delicious.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 13._—Saw the manufacture of Gobelin tapestry. My guide first
brought me into a long room well-lighted and well-aired, where about
a dozen men were working at what is called _la haute lisse_. They sat
behind their frames; the weft is perpendicular, and they weave it from
the bottom upwards. The picture, thus growing from the ground, faces the
spectator, and the artist has not the pleasure of seeing any but the
mechanical progress of his work. All in this room were employed on fine
historical paintings, either French originals or copies from good Italian
masters. I then followed to another room, where were the workers _à la
basse lisse_. These work on a frame placed horizontally, and remove each
second thread by a pedal worked with their feet in the usual manner;
whereas _à la haute lisse_ they remove the threads only with their hands.
These persons, not above half a dozen in number, were copying flowers,
game, &c., and working from pictures almost defaced by time. I suspect
the _haute lisse_ has superior merits. I could not compare them, as the
tapestry of _la basse lisse_ cannot be seen while working, its right side
being turned down. The guide owned it was less healthful to the artists,
and did not pretend it had any advantage to balance this defect.

‘_Mais pourquoi donc le continuer?_’

‘_Ah, c’est l’ancienne mode. On travailloit comme cela au temps de Louis
XIV., quand les Gobelins furent premièrement établis._’ After this
satisfactory explanation, he led me to the finished pieces, which are
indeed very beautiful.

From the Gobelins we went to the Hameau de Chantilly, a tolerable little
garden, fitted up by its proprietor with all that can attract such
visitors as usually frequent these places—a hundred little dirty rooms by
way of cottages, a swing, a place to ride in the ring, seats, tables, a
green pond with three or four boats, and above all, every sort of _boire
et manger_ at an instant’s warning, but at an exorbitant price.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 15._—The celebration of the anniversary of Buonaparte’s birth,
and of the signature of the Concordat. Went to Nôtre Dame to see the
consecration of the Archbishop of Lyons, uncle to the First Consul.
The various branches of this ceremony, which was performed by Cardinal
Caraffa, the Pope’s Legate, were so puerile and multifarious, that, being
unsupported by fine music, which is an essential in the effect of the
Catholic form of worship, it became extremely tiresome. There was nothing
to remind one of praise or adoration, nor during the whole service did
I see any appearance of devotion. In the Tribunes was a strange medley
of persons, apparently of every rank. We went late, but were given front
places by two good-natured women, who, in their plain but clean dresses,
trimmed with Valenciennes lace, though made in the simplest form, gave
me the idea of being still what the most valuable part of the class of
_moyenne bourgeoisie_ once was. An immense crowd assembled outside, in
the hope, which was not gratified, of seeing the First Consul. In the
evening the hope of seeing Buonaparte brought me again. His canopy
was prepared nearly opposite to that of the Archbishop of Paris, but
somewhat nearer the sanctuary. However, he came not, nor did he leave the
Tuileries the whole day. About nine o’clock we walked about the streets
to see the illuminations. They were certainly more brilliant than those
of London as to the quality of the light, lamps in the open air having
a better effect than tallow candles behind glass. The whole area of the
Place Vendôme was strewed with pyramids, which looked better than any
other forms, possibly from being nearest to the natural shape assumed
by fire. This spot, rendered extremely beautiful only by the adornment
of this terrific element, seemed fit for the pleasure-garden of Satan,
and reminded one of the noble description of the Hall of Eblis given in
the _Caliph Vathek_. At ten in the evening, a single and very mediocre
firework was let off; by which the people, who expected something finer,
and had stood for hours to see it, were much dissatisfied.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 16._—Went to hear the Abbé Sicard’s lecture on the manner of
teaching the deaf and dumb. The Abbé has a very animated and agreeable
countenance; his pupils have more beauty than is usually seen in an equal
number of children who possess all their senses; and they have in general
a happy union of vivacity and calmness in their expression. He receives a
pension from Government; and every Department has a right to send to him
its deaf and dumb children.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 17._—The Louvre. When I walk among the best Grecian statues, I
feel a sort of dignified calmness take possession of my soul. A secret
influence seems to overshadow me, that keeps off all little and agitating
ideas. Pictures please, statues both please and elevate.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 18._—The Louvre, again. The pictures which occupied me were two:
1. Rubens’ Descent from the Cross, taken from the Cathedral at Antwerp—a
beautiful and tragical scene. The tenderness and grief of the Virgin,
who seems to fear the body should be injured by too rough a seizure—the
variety of the figures, which, without affecting contrast, all differ
in age, expression, attitude, and situation—the exquisite posture of
the dead Christ, and the charms of execution and colouring, which rob a
subject in itself horrible of all that can inspire horror, entitle this
picture to the unbounded applause it has received. 2. A Holy Family,
by Raphael. The colouring of this picture is very purple. Whether this
is owing to the _restauration_ and varnish of which the French are so
liberal, I know not. It is a beautiful piece. As to _restauration_, it
certainly requires great industry and knowledge; but it provokes me to
see the French, when they have restored a picture, forget they have not
painted it.

Saw _Andromaque_, that interesting piece which bears so imposing a
character, that it deserves to occupy the evening of a day devoted to
Grecian sculpture. We will not examine whether the characters possess
real greatness; they wear that splendid counterfeit most fit for tragedy,
and all possess it in different degrees. All are highly impassioned,
all bear names we have lisped with respect from our infancy, and all
are dignified by their misfortunes and those of their family. Orestes
was performed by Talma, and with infinite skill. His face and figure
are fine. He was incomparably dressed in a white robe, seemingly of the
quality of a Turkish shawl, which fell in folds of very picturesque
drapery: it was embroidered round the edge with a deep antique pattern
in gold; and he perfectly realized the dress and attitudes of Grecian
sculpture. His voice is deep and susceptible of variety. I cannot say
he affected me, but the fault was probably my own. Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois,
a _débutante_, played Hermione, and bids fair to be a favourite. Her
ugliness resists all the art of dress and all the illusion of stage
light. Her voice has no great power; her attitudes are forced and
Etruscan; but she feels strongly, and has an _abandon_ in the expression
of her feelings, which, though it appeared to me to ‘overstep the modesty
of Nature,’ gave great satisfaction to the audience. When I thought her
disgustingly violent, those about me cried out, ‘_Voilà ce que s’appelle
sentir_;’ and a gentleman told me, that were she a pretty woman, ‘_elle
embraserait la salle_.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 19._—The Louvre. Guido’s sweet picture of the union of Design and
Colouring pleased me much; but I know not why he makes both appear so
melancholy. I must suppose they are going to paint the likeness of a lost
friend. No picture I remarked to-day gave me more pleasure than a head
by Raphael of a boy of fifteen. It is not ideal beauty, but it is the
beauty of real life heightened with all the charms of sweet and sensible
expression.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 22._—Saw David’s beautiful picture of the Sabine women reconciling
their husbands and fathers. It is seen in an apartment of the Louvre,
at thirty-six sous a-head. He is the first French painter, I believe,
who has taken this method of reimbursing himself. The picture is very
large. Romulus, a fine spirited figure, is in the act of lifting his
spear to strike Tatius, who actually projects from the canvas. Hersilia
throws herself between. She is standing, her arm extended, in the
attitude of one breathless with haste and apprehension. Romulus, on the
right, has his back to the spectators, and his face is seen in profile.
I am not quite satisfied with his figure. Those of Tatius and Hersilia
are admirable. These three form the foreground, combined with a group
of lovely children; a graceful female figure embraces Tatius’ knees;
another, on the ground, points to an infant scarcely six months old. The
Roman leader of cavalry is seen sheathing his sword; some of the enemies
are already disarmed, and you see that the rest will soon be so. David
has admirably united the most attractive brilliancy of colouring with the
appearance of the dust raised by the contending armies. The background is
formed by the troops, through which the women have forced their way. Some
of the soldiers are indistinctly seen holding up their helmets in sign
of peace; and there are several females in different postures, who all
excite a sufficient degree of subordinate interest to give life to the
whole picture.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 25._—Again the Abbé Sicard.—‘Pour le pont qui conduit du monde
visible au monde intellectuel, voici comme je le construis. J’ai un
portrait de Mossieu, fort ressemblant, d’à peu près deux pieds de haut,
que je fais descendre. Tous mes sourds-muets l’appellent Mossieu. Je
l’appelle le faux Mossieu; ils font de même. Je l’appelle lui-même le
vrai Mossieu; ils m’imitent. Je fais remonter le portrait, et je le
dessine moi-même. Je leur dis, “Mais j’ai aussi un vrai Mossieu; _où
est-il_, puisque je puis le copier?” Ils me répondent quelquefois, que je
l’ai dans mes pieds, dans mes mains. Mais la plupart me répondent, que
c’est dans ma tête; tant il est naturel à l’homme d’y placer le siège
des opérations intellectuelles. Mais je leur demande, “Est-ce que je
puis couper, plier ce vrai Mossieu qui est dans ma tête?” non; “Et puis
qu’il a cinq pieds dix pouces de haut, comment puis je le placer dans ma
tête?” Ils conviennent donc que j’ai dans la tête une espèce de toile,
sur laquelle les objets se dessinent, absolument différente d’aucun être
qu’ils connoissent déjà, puis qu’elle peut recevoir des objets beaucoup
plus grands qu’elle-même, les retenir, et les reproduire à volonté. Ils
avoient déjà soupçonné quelque chose de cette vérité. Ils désirent savoir
la nature de cet être. Je souffle sur leur main, j’ouvre une porte, je
leur fais sentir le vent; je leur explique que comme mon souffle, comme
le vent, existent et produisent des effets, quoique nous ne pouvons les
voir, les plier, ou les couper, de même manière existe cet être qui
retient le portrait du vrai Mossieu—cet être auquel dès ce moment nous
donnons le nom de souffle, de _spiritus_, d’_esprit_ enfin.’

In the evening, went to the garden of the Tuileries, where the trees are
old and varied enough to rescue it from the class of French gardens in
general, which are sandy flats, where straight poles, with bushes on
their tops, are planted in straight lines.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                     Paris, March 8, 1803.

Nothing else [but ill health] should have detained me so long at Paris,
a place which in cold weather I think excessively disagreeable and
peculiarly unwholesome. In fine weather, when a stranger can visit the
various works of art which the tempest has assembled here from every
quarter of the globe, it is highly interesting; and it is encircled by
so many delightful gardens, that one may pass the summer here without
feeling one’s absence from the country. Yet I have never seen a spot
where I should more grieve at fixing my residence, nor a nation with
which I should find it so difficult to coalesce. A revolution does not
seem to be favourable to the morals of a people. In the upper classes I
have seen nothing but the most ardent pursuit after sensual or frivolous
pleasures, and the most unqualified egotism, with a devotion to the
shrines of luxury and vanity unknown at any former period. The lower
ranks are chiefly marked by a total want of probity, and an earnestness
for the gain of _to-day_, though purchased by the sacrifice of that
character which might ensure them tenfold advantage on the morrow.[36]
You must not think me infected with national prejudice. I speak from
the narrow circle of my own observation and that of my friends; and
I do not include the suffering part of the nation, who have little
intercourse with strangers, and who form a society apart. I have been
presented to Buonaparte and his wife, who receive with great state,
ceremony, and magnificence. His manner is very good, but the expression
of his countenance is not attractive. Curran says he has the face of ‘a
gloomy tyrant.’ Another has compared him to a corpse with living eyes:
and a painter remarked to me that the smile on his lips never seemed to
accord with the rest of his features. I have the pleasure of sending you
a little picture, very like him, which may enable you to form your own
opinion.

And now let me thank you a thousand times for your most flattering and
beautiful verses, in which you have decked me with merits that I owe
entirely to your partial friendship and lively imagination. I do not,
however, wish you to awaken from the illusion; on the contrary, I feel
a pride and pleasure in reflecting that, strong as is your discernment,
your affection for me is still stronger.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Mrs. Leadbeater, to whom this last letter was written, was
    at this time comparatively a recent friend; this may perhaps
    explain the absence in it of any reference to the writer’s
    approaching marriage, which took place at the English Embassy
    in Paris very shortly after the letter was written. She and my
    father, who had not very long been called to the bar, were on
    the point of returning to England, when they were overtaken
    by the somewhat abrupt termination of the Peace of Amiens.
    They, like so many other residents and travellers in France,
    had been quieted in the near prospect of war, by the assurance
    that, according to the universal rule in such cases, full
    opportunity would be given for quitting the hostile soil. How
    far the conduct of our Government palliated, or, as pleaded by
    Napoleon, justified, the course which he took in detaining the
    English whom he found in France at the moment when war broke
    out, need not be entered upon here, and as little the general
    story of their detention. How they in whom I have nearest
    interest, found their way to Orleans, a brief memorandum of
    my father’s will explain. ‘Aug. 7, 1803.—Left Paris with a
    passport granted by Junot, for Tours; arrived at Orleans on
    the 10th; waited on the Commandant, to obtain permission to
    remain in case Mrs. T.’s health should require it. He seemed
    much surprised we had not preferred Orleans to Tours: “_Il est
    deux fois plus grand_.” I replied that Orleans seemed a very
    charming town. He talked to me on politics, a subject I did not
    wish to enter on—set out with a profession of impartiality,
    and blaming both Governments for the war; but could not hold
    it two sentences: “_Pourquoi est-ce que vous-autres Messieurs
    veuillent garder la Malte?_” “_Je n’en sais rien, Monsieur,
    je suis ici prisonnier de guerre._” It was with difficulty
    I could persuade him of the indelicacy of pressing me on the
    subject.’

    My Mother, as I perceive from letters addressed _to her_,
    maintained a tolerably active correspondence with England
    during the time of this her constrained residence in France,
    which endured for four years, till the spring of 1807; but
    with one or two exceptions, the only letters of hers during
    this period which have reached my hands, are written to her
    husband, whose detention she shared; and selections from
    these will follow. A word or two may be necessary to explain
    the circumstances under which they were written, and some of
    the references which they contain. While my father was, so
    to speak,’ascriptus glebæ,’ and confined by his _parole_ to
    Orleans and its immediate vicinity, she was at liberty to move
    freely in the interior of the country, with no other restraints
    than those which she shared with the French themselves; indeed,
    could at any moment have obtained with little difficulty a
    passport allowing her to return to England. More than once
    she had actually obtained one, although when it came to the
    point, and under the doubt whether she would be permitted
    to rejoin her husband, she never could bring herself to use
    it. Every year during their detention at Orleans she paid a
    visit of several weeks to Paris, and in 1804 two visits—having
    always on these occasions the same object in view—namely, to
    make the most of what little interest it was possible there
    to command, either for the mitigation of the character of
    his detention, or the bringing of it to an end altogether.
    Sometimes it was necessary to employ all interest to prevent
    his being sent to Verdun, where the great body of the English
    were detained. It was accounted no little favour to be allowed
    to remain at Orleans, and more than once a relegation to the
    remoter depot, in all respects a most undesirable residence,
    seemed imminent. At other times the object was not so much
    that his position might not be made worse, but that it might
    be amended, and that he might be permitted to reside, as a few
    of the more favoured English were, at Paris, instead of in a
    dull country town—or, if this could not be granted, that he
    might be allowed to visit Paris for a few weeks, in the hope
    that, this once permitted, he would not be again sent away. Or
    if friends seemed willing to exert themselves, and the French
    Government appeared more favourably disposed, as it was during
    Fox’s negotiation for peace immediately after his advent to
    power, a bolder request would be urged; namely, that he might
    have leave to return to Ireland for six months on his _parole_,
    his interests there suffering much through his absence; or even
    that he might be permitted to return definitively home, with
    no obligation to replace himself in his captivity. This, as is
    well known, not a few of the English, one by one, obtained; and
    at length, early in the year 1807, by exactly what interest I
    know not, he obtained, after a captivity of four years, such a
    permission of unconditional return; in this more fortunate than
    many of his countrymen, whose detention was only brought to an
    end by the advance of the allied armies into France in 1814.

    My Mother’s letters during this period touch very seldom on
    public matters. The notices of Consular and Imperial France
    are slight and of no great interest. There is, moreover, about
    all such notices a visible caution, an evident sense that what
    was written might very possibly come under other eyes besides
    those for which it was intended. But in addition to this,
    she was, in the nature of things, remote from the centres
    of intelligence. The society in which the detained English
    could move was of necessity very limited. Attentions to them
    were not supposed to be favourably regarded by the Emperor.
    The good French houses which were open to them, were a very
    few of the old _régime_; and many circumstances combined to
    throw the English together, while yet the number of them was
    too small to allow much selection among them of congenial
    society. But for all this, the letters do contain glimpses
    of some of the French celebrities of this time, as the Abbé
    Delille, Isabey the miniature painter, Mad. Récamier, Mˡˡᵉ
    Raucourt, Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois, Berthier, and others; and a lively,
    though not always a very flattering, picture of those our
    English compatriots and their way of living among themselves.
    If it should seem to any that they retail too many of the
    trivialities of social life, it must be remembered that they
    were written to cheer and enliven, if possible, a very dull
    captivity, made at the moment far more cheerless by her own
    absence; and that everything was welcome which might contribute
    to this end. The letters are unfortunately—unfortunately that
    is, for me, who would otherwise have been spared no little
    trouble—for the most part without their dates, nor have they
    postmarks to supply this want. Knowing the exact _months_ of
    each year, during which they must have been written, I have, by
    one help or another, put most of those which I publish in their
    right order; but I am not confident that I have done this with
    all.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                       Paris, April, 1804.

I think I live here as if I was under the ban of the Holy Roman Empire.
Is not that the phrase? No mortal comes near me. I wish the interdict
was raised. I shall expect to be denied fire and water. Indeed, the last
is so scarce in this house, and the first is so dear at Paris, that it
is almost the same thing. I wish the sentence of excommunication was
recalled.

I have read _Werther_, _faute de mieux_. I still admire it as an eloquent
picture of love, which must always enchant those who have not drank
at the fountain-head; but I find that the vivid colouring of a great
attachment makes all shadows and representations appear at once faint and
affected. ‘I have heard the nightingale,’ as the Athenian answered, when
he was invited to hear an actor imitate her notes; and for the rest of
my life I can never be extremely delighted at what my imagination used
formerly to embrace as the height of perfection. I regret the sensibility
I wasted on _Werther_, as a girl, and shall never let it appear in my
house now I am a mother of a family. I picked it up at an old lady’s,
where my grandfather took me to sit at the corner of the table, while
he played his rubber. I borrowed it, brought it home, got it by heart,
thought every one who did not admire it enthusiastically had a ‘flinty
heart,’ shed torrents of tears over it, adopted its opinions, and laid
the first stone of that false taste by which I was for some years
subjugated.

I am delighted you went to the Marets. It is of consequence that you, as
a prisoner, should be liked; and I wish them to lay all the _sauvagerie_
of our life upon me. Nothing I should like more than their saying, ‘_Il
est très aimable, et il le seroit encore plus sans sa femme, qui est bien
bizarre_.’ I wish I could _soufflé_ this to Mad. d’Oisonville for one
society, and Mad. Baudot for another, and it would soon be echoed about
and be received as one of the dozen established phrases which form the
whole conversation of Orleans.


TO THE SAME.

                                                       Paris, April, 1804.

After much driving about after General Hardy’s address, I at last
obtained it, and drove to his lodgings, with my letter to him in my hand,
enclosing a copy of the memorial to General Berthier. I deliberated,
should I send up the letter, or see him, when I found he was visible. I
recollected your advice to speak, and it decided me. It was dusk, for
I could not get the address till late. I walked under a dark and dirty
_porte cocher_, where the carriage could not turn in, and up a very
narrow staircase _au second_. The variety of my thoughts while walking
upstairs would fill a page. Will he think me very forward? Shall I be
too much embarrassed to speak? Shall I find a levée of young officers?
Is General Hardy an impudent dashing young Irishman (for I knew he
was our countryman), and will he think it civil to make love to me? I
was a little reassured in passing through an ante-room, and seeing a
very domestic-looking _couvert bourgeois_ for four people. I walked
into the inner room with trepidation, and there, to my comfort, saw
two quiet-looking women, a modest and pretty girl, and a tall, fair,
pleasing-countenanced man of about fifty, with a very gentle, civil
address. He read my letter, looked at my memorial, and from what he
promised, and the certainty he seemed to have that he would be the judge
of our petition (unless Berthier had some private reason for or against
it), I have little, I may say almost no doubt, that our affair is nearly
done. Nothing could exceed the civility and appearance of interest I
received from the whole party. I trembled so at the beginning I could
hardly speak; but, like all constitutionally timid and morally courageous
people, after the first instant I was bold as a lion.


TO THE SAME.

                                                       Paris, April, 1804.

I went last night to see Mˡˡᵉ Raucourt[37] in _Semiramis_ with the lady
I mentioned in my last. No one sees me. I go dressed like a housekeeper,
with my prodigious large old brown Orleans bonnet, get into a shut-up
_loge_, and bribe the box-keeper to let no one else in. _Semiramis_ gave
me no pleasure. A woman who has coolly assassinated her husband, merely
to reign alone, cannot be made interesting by any subsequent events; and
her inflated grandeur, though not in my opinion imposing, throws all the
other characters so much into shade that you care little what becomes
of them. It was prodigiously applauded, being a piece of great pomp and
show, and the heroine having so much of what is now called _caractère_.
But what was most curious, was the frantic manner in which the women
applauded Lafont. Several of these were like so many Bacchantes. He is
good-looking, without _noblesse_; but does not affect me in the least.


TO THE SAME.

                                                    Paris, April 18, 1804.

I was at a _largish_ party last night at the Baroness’s. Through some
mistake I did not receive her invitation till the same morning, so
conceived it was a little English society, and went in my morning dress.
I felt a little awkward amongst the long trains, feathers, _bijous_,
and laces of about a dozen women who were very _magnifique_, among whom
not the least so was Lady Clavering; but I did not _suffer_ so much as
poor Lady I——, who, though much more dressed than me, was not prepared
for strangers, and did nothing but look down on herself, and examine her
dress with an air of mortification and humility, which struck me as so
great a _ridicule_, that it made me ashamed of being at all disconcerted.

I have just been with Lady ——. She received me as women usually do
visitors sent by their husbands—_c’est tout dire_—civil and icy; _she
never asked a single question about him_, whether he looked well or ill,
whether we saw much of him, in short, not one token of interest....
Remember not to let Lord —— think I was otherwise than very civilly and
properly received. I dread your excessive sincerity and impossibility of
disguising any feeling; but I love, and above all _respect_, you for it.


TO THE SAME.

                                                       Paris, April, 1804.

My child is asleep in his cradle. Kitty is _boudé_-ing in the little
street room, and Antoine extremely woful, as he always is now when she
_boudés_. Sally is pert, active, and _very happy_ because I scolded
Kitty last night. Pierre is asleep, and the horses are, I believe, very
uncomfortable, if I may judge by the way in which they crawl, and the
miserable look they have, so different from their sleek dowager trot of
Orleans. Certainly a woman has no business with horses; and the lady who
married because her carriage never was at the door in time, had as good a
reason as many very wise people who seem to have taken those who afford
no excuse whatever. However, no woman has a right in France to rail
against matrimony, for certainly, in the Anglo-Parisian set, every fault
seems on the side of the wives. I went to choose Mrs. F——’s veil for her,
and she was as worrying as any one could be about such a trifle. I have a
sort of delicacy about those who seem subservient, that extends itself to
shopkeepers, though I know that in most places they make one pay for the
trouble one gives; and I really felt ashamed of the way she pulled about,
and tumbled, and tried on the most valuable laces. The struggle between
Sueur’s civility and her alarm was very comical.

It would have been a stiff holding back not to have called on Lady ——
after what _he_ had said. I told you she was _icily civil_; but I am
always amused by hearing Mrs. F., to whom she was _icily rude_, say what
a charming creature she has been to _her_, how fond they are of one
another, and how much better she loves Lady —— than any creature in the
world, &c. &c. There certainly is this convenience in rank, that it seems
to save the trouble of being civil to nine-tenths of those who have none;
and who think if a titled person does not turn them out of the room, they
are remarkably kind.

The lady’s wearing Lady T——’s clothes cannot surprise _me_, as I know one
here, who told me she was commissioned to send a supply of millinery to
a friend in the country, and that she wore it all a few times; also that
she sold her some of her own old things, putting new ribbon, &c., on the
wearing points. She told me this, _apropos_ of nothing, in a way that
showed she was so far from thinking it dishonest, it did not even strike
her as shabby, or cunning, but what every one would do in the same case.


TO THE SAME.

                                                         Paris, May, 1804.

It is certain the Captain[38] is _au secret_, it is _said_ in irons,
but this I doubt. The precautions _pour l’époque du couronnement_ are
infinite; no persons to have passports from any town but such as are
_mandé_, except on the most urgent business, and of them a weekly list
to be sent to Paris; the name of every individual to whom a place in a
window is let or given, to be sent to the police; the Departments to come
at different times, and not to meet till the ceremony, lest they should
cabal. It is rather provoking that I refused Mrs. F——’s offer of a place
in a window that gives on the Pont Neuf, where I should have seen the
cortège _going_, better than from any other spot in Paris; and she has
since given it away. Forty-two louis are now paid for a window, eighteen
francs for places at the risk of people’s lives, on scaffolding; such
a crowd to see the crown of the Empress at Foncier’s, that it was a
service of danger. I went at a moment when she had sent for it to try on,
and did not repeat the attempt.

Some say Mad. de Montmorenci _asked_ for her place of _Dame de Palais_,
and has _projets de conquérir_ the Unconquered. She is about thirty-six—a
plain face, fine figure, _beaucoup de tournure_, infinite taste in dress,
_médiocrement d’esprit_, but great _enjouement_, mixed with languor and
perfect _usage du monde_. Such, at least, is what she appeared to me in
my short burst of dissipation in Paris. She was presented in a robe of
velvet, _couleur de cérise_ (the colour of mine), covered with stars, and
richly embroidered all round with gold. Her curtsey on presentation was
said to be the most graceful possible, &c. &c. &c.


TO THE SAME.

                                                         Paris, May, 1804.

I have just opened a book in which I find a paragraph so suitable to our
detention, and the close intimacy and dependence on each other which have
followed it, that I cannot help transcribing—‘_Quand on est parfaitement
heureuse par ses affections, c’est peut-être une faveur de la Providence
que certains revers resserrent encore vos liens par la force même des
choses_.’ This struck me as very just, and what ought to silence all our
murmurs on the subject of our detention. It is really gratifying to find
we have been happy without any of the usual interests of life, without
society, without plan, without fixed occupation, without enjoying either
the beauties of nature or the refined accommodations and luxuries of
art, and, on my part, without even health. It seems a hint to us not to
confide that happiness of which we are already sure in each other, to
any other projects but those which arise from affection, and tend to
make our children capable of the same species of enjoyment as ourselves.
For my own part, I feel so strongly _qu’il faut respecter le bonheur_,
that I never will again form a wish that you should pursue any scheme of
ambition or advancement. _A quoi bon?_ In living for ourselves position
would be useless, and our fortune is already equal to our wishes,
and of a nature which, without effort, will, in the common course of
things, insensibly and moderately increase, so as to keep pace with the
increasing advance around us. When absent from you, I exist only in my
reflections, and all those I have made since we parted are of this stamp.

I have been asked for every evening to Mrs. Latten’s, and have never
gone yet, which I mention to show you how little you need regret my
retirement; for I am convinced that if I had opportunities of going out,
I should not use them; yet I like the Lattens. She is pretty and civil,
and he has the sort of animal spirits which always excite mine, and I
think him remarkably clever, till he leaves the room, and then I find I
cannot recollect one thing he has said which might not have come from any
other person.


TO THE SAME.

                                                         Paris, May, 1804.

I have got an _Annual Register_ for 1803, through Sir M. C., and am
blinding myself over it day and night. I wish it was to be had, and I
would send it to you. This is the night of the _fête_ for the Emperor at
the opera. I have been too miserly to take a box, and have been a little
tempted to go to the orchestra, which is the resource of those who have
not boxes; but I feel so strongly that it is not my place, that nothing
I could see from thence would make up to me for that idea. So between
my avarice and my pride I shall lose the only brilliant _fête_ open to
a stranger; but I have been formerly so used to find my pleasures come
unsought, that when I am to purchase and look for them, I feel myself
ill-used and inclined to _bouder_ at home. I went muffled up last night
with Mrs. Sheldon to see Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois in _Esther_. The house very
thin, though almost all the good actors appeared in tragedy or comedy.
Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois is the sweetest creature in _Esther_ I can conceive—so
innocent, so harmonious, so _touchante_, so timid, so animated, so
_young_ in mind as well as appearance. She gives me in that part the idea
of a little white dove, and I have an extraordinary respect for talents
which can so represent the flames of Phèdre and the purity of Esther.


TO THE SAME.

                                                         Paris, May, 1804.

My angel child being comfortable and quiet at five this day, I ventured
to dine with the Lattens to meet the Abbé Delille. I found him much
changed, as it is many years since I saw him. But he, being now almost
blind and always _très galant_, addressed several compliments to the
favourable recollection he retained of me, which would have been then
within the pale of that exaggeration authorized by the habits of society,
but were now ridiculous. This little foolish circumstance took off from
the pleasure I should otherwise have felt in being next to him, and
in finding he remembered every trifle relative to our former meeting
(mem.—he is sixty-four[39]). He was very entertaining; but as an _old_
man, repeating anecdote on anecdote, whereas formerly he _conversed_;
and from loss of teeth he no longer recites with that exquisite charm
which once gave me so much pleasure. My first thought was, when he began,
that now you would never hear him recite as I did formerly. He gave some
beautiful lines on Ariosto, sparkling, close, and like a firework. He
makes him ‘_l’enfant du goût et de la folie_.’[40] Altogether, it was the
pleasantest day I have had in Paris. A French gentleman, on finding the
Abbé could not recollect some lines I had asked for on Rousseau, drew his
chair close to mine, saying, ‘_Eh bien, Madame, puisque Monsieur l’Abbé
ne veut pas réciter ses vers, je vous en dirai des miens_,’ and set out
immediately.


TO THE SAME.

                                                     Estampes, Oct., 1804.

I think you will be amused with the _Memoirs of St. Simon_,[41] though
written so incorrectly as to be sometimes unintelligible on first
reading. They are more inaccurate as to punctuation than any book I ever
saw; and you will frequently detect faults in the stopping so marked,
that by a trifling change you can find a meaning in what, as now printed,
appears absolute nonsense. You will see that those women who excited the
envy of others paid very dear for their admission into the brilliant
parties so extolled by Mad. de Sévigné. Once in that coach which she
compares to Paradise, they must not presume to feel dust, sun, cold,
heat, fatigue—always full-dressed, always tight-laced, always in high
spirits, and always with great appetites. Pray read the chapter, which is
curious. The author shows a strong mind, and paints with shadows as well
as lights, which distinguishes him from most of those who have described
the hero of that day.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Oct., 1804.

I send you a little allegory, the first I ever wrote. It amused my
_tristesse_ for above an hour, and I see I shall again be a scribbler.


THE BIRTH OF CALUMNY.

Dulness, who was daughter to the roving nymph Idleness, and whose other
parent was unknown, found herself so favoured and enriched by the
fondness of Wealth, one of her reputed fathers, and the most powerful,
perhaps, amongst them, that she was often highly caressed, distinguished,
and even invited to usurp the honours due to Learning and to Wit. Indeed,
she was in many external circumstances peculiarly fortunate; though fond
of tumult, noise, and show, she generally escaped unhurt from the dangers
into which this taste seduced her; she seldom found her steps pursued by
the prying eyes of Curiosity, and the snakes of Envy were scarcely ever
seen to hiss at her as she passed. Her outward appearance, neither formed
to excite admiration nor disgust, was that which many philosophers have
professed to think we ought to desire for ourselves, and for the objects
of our love. Her eyes never sparkled with intelligence, her cheeks never
mantled with sensibility; but no irregularity was discoverable in her
features, and when crowned with her favourite wreath of poppies, there
were not wanting flatterers who attributed dignity to the slowness of her
movements and the complacency of her countenance.

Amongst the foremost of these was Malice. He knew that Pride and Apathy,
who would both have fain claimed her for their child, had joined to
form her a shield of curious texture, which even his keen and poisoned
arrows had no power to pierce. He felt a kind of involuntary respect for
one who could repel without effort what caused such exquisite pain to
Beauty, to Genius, and to Virtue. On the other hand, _she_ had a faint
glimmering of gratitude to him, because her only enemy, the fiend Ennui,
by whom she was constantly followed and often tormented, and who had the
power of raising fogs and mists against which her shield was no defence,
immediately fled when Malice advanced; for though frequently companions
in other societies, they seldom appeared together before her eyes.

These circumstances in time gave Malice opportunities of paying
successful court to one whom he saw enriched by the gifts of Wealth, and
shielded from almost every species of accident or enmity by the hands of
Pride and Apathy. He finally obtained her, and their union was followed
by the birth of a daughter, to whom they gave the name of Calumny, and
whom, in spite of her piercing and discordant cries, they cherished with
equal fondness. Her mother prevailed on Credulity to be her nurse, and
her father engaged Envy as her governess. Dulness insisted on forming
her understanding, and Malice undertook the management of her heart,
while each promised to second the other, even in the department they had
resigned.

Such was the parentage and birth of Calumny. It would be superfluous to
say more of one whose empire is so widely spread, and whose attributes
are therefore so universally known.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Nov., 1804.

At a private party last night, I saw a Spanish girl dance the _bolero_
and the _fandango_ with castanets to a Spanish guitar, played by a
Spaniard. He sung to the _bolero_. The music, his voice, the instrument,
were all very touching. By the bye, the Spanish guitar, with Spanish
tunes, sung by a man’s tenor, is the most affecting music to me in the
world. It was all I could do last night to avoid exposing myself, and it
would have been very strange in appearance, while looking on at a gay
dance; and I am sure no soul in the room but me listened to the music.
The girl was pretty, with eyes so admired by the French, _à fleur de
tête_, not ‘odious sunk eyes;’ and she held herself so much up and back
as to have what Mons. Récamier very accurately called ‘_un air martial_.’
She sat by me, and told me all she was to do, in the beginning of the
evening, and said she had danced the _bolero_ and _fandango_ at the
Duchess of Somebody’s at Madrid, and was supposed to dance it perfectly,
‘_parceque pour cela il ne faut pas beaucoup de mouvements des pieds,
mais infiniment de grâce_.’ She also told me she was thirteen, and the
lady before her was her sister—two mistakes, I believe, as she looked
about eighteen, and Mons. Récamier told me the other lady was her mother,
who chooses to pass for her sister. Her costume was very pretty,
and the applause was extreme; but none so loud in their applauses,
_admires_, and broad flattery to her, and almost everybody else, as was
the F——. Some women, conscious of envy, take this vulgar mode of hiding
it. Frenchwomen, to do them justice, never do; you scarcely ever hear
them admire another woman. The F. told the Baroness, who had a silver
trimming, that ‘it was all beauty, modesty, and elegance, like herself,’
and many other things to different people _de cette force là_.

The company was totally a different class from what I had seen last year.
If I was settled here I would not dress and go out, to mix with the
society to which _only_ the English can _now_ be admitted. One always
gains some advantages in the first circle, and one finds some members of
the _corps diplomatique_ in other places, as one moves about; but once
away from Paris, one would never hear of or see again those in the set
our _compatriotes_ live with at present.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Nov., 1804.

I often wonder the comparison between women and magpies has not been
enlarged upon, taking their common love of hoarding into account. It is
astonishing to what an extreme we carry this passion. My last female
acquaintance, however, exceeds all I have ever met. I thought my aunt
——, Lady Yarmouth, and Mrs. F., were pretty strong instances; but this
lady excels them all. She has the most extraordinary hoards of every
kind of wearable, every sort of _bijou_, and is avidly inquisitive in
search of _more, more_. Really, if women hoarded money, a younger child
would sometimes be unexpectedly provided for; but it must be a provoking
thing to a very generous husband to see them _buying up_ necessaries and
trifles, which every hour can present, as if they feared the day would
come on which they would not have a guinea to dispose of. It always gives
me the idea of a _femme entretenue_, who is ‘making hay while the sun
shines.’ This lady is collecting antiques, collecting precious stones,
collecting _lace_—literally _collecting_; for on asking my opinion about
giving 260 louis for a trimming, she said, ‘I have more in England, to
be sure, than I can ever wear, but I can always _dispose of that_.’ What
_noblesse_ Paris gives to the way of thinking!

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                        Paris, Nov., 1804.

I was last night at a _thé_ of Mrs. P——’s, with one set of French country
dances. It was one of those little parties she gives continually to
practise and improve her very indifferent talent for dancing, in which
she never can excel. I should not make such a _little_ remark, if she
would allow one to think she danced to amuse herself; but she cannot
refrain from telling how much she studies, and how many lessons she has
had, and how she hopes to do better; and how she _can_ dance ‘pretty well
for an Englishwoman;’ but that something or other interferes at the
present moment, &c. &c. There were no fine dancers amongst the ladies,
and only Mons. Lafitte (who looks like a flying hair-dresser) among the
men. There were, however, more pretty women than I have seen in so small
a society, and four or five of the noted Parisian beauties. Mad. Récamier
was there, and looked much handsomer than ever I saw her before; indeed,
I thought her very handsome, for the first time. She danced very heavily
and _genteelly_, in the French country dances; somewhat like an English
married woman—no steps, but a very good air.


TO THE SAME.

                                                      _Paris, Dec., 1804._

I was yesterday evening with all the English at Colonel ——’s. I played
three rubbers of twenty sous casino with my Baroness and the Copes; never
looked to the right hand or the left, and walked off. It is certain that
being perfectly happy at home totally takes away one’s relish for the
amusements one meets abroad. I always used to deny this, and conceived
it was a vulgar error, and could argue very prettily upon the delight
of mixing a certain degree of dissipation with the highest domestic
happiness; but my mind is not expansive enough for both; and I now begin
to see the truth of the commonplace observation, that people become
less gay, and agreeable to the world, by being married and fond of each
other. It is not because one loses one’s spirits, but because one makes
involuntary comparisons between the _gêne_ and the unsatisfactoriness of
common life, and the perfect confidence and fulness of pleasure in the
company of those one loves.

The complaint here that the race of good servants is extinct, is not, I
believe, ill-founded. The equalizing education of the Revolution, and
the idea instilled so industriously into that class that servitude was
at an end, and that the relation of master and servant was not that of a
bargain, but of usurpation, together with the deep and growing love of
_spectacle_ and contempt of religion, must all unite to give grounds for
this complaint.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Dec., 1804.

I never saw anything so affecting on any stage as the despair of
Antiochus when he finds his brother assassinated, and doubts whether
his mother or his bride was the murderer. It is the most _déchirante_
situation I ever saw; and the whole last act of _Rodogune_ is the finest
display of theatrical effect and of the art of moving the passions. I
now yield Racine up for Corneille. Mˡˡᵉ Raucourt, in my little opinion,
is as far above Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois as Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois is above Mˡˡᵉ George.
She bears the stamp of the character impressed on her whole air. She
is always Rodogune, never Mˡˡᵉ Raucourt. You see her front _rongé de
remords_, and wrinkled with artifice. You find her eye speak as much as
her lips, nay, more; and she has the uncommon power of giving dignity to
the blackest crimes. I wished much for you.

I saw Mrs. S—— this evening. I was surprised to see how much less
well-looking her pretty daughter is at home than _au bal_. I am sure this
is in the air of France; for in London a fine girl is prettier at home,
at her ease, in her white dress and in her hair, than ever she is abroad;
but this young lady had the lounge, the home-stoop, the loose dress, the
big shawl, and the neglected hair, of a French beauty _chez elle_.

L—— has grown ten years older since I was last here. I believe, in spite
of his apparent _insouciance_, he frets inwardly about the total want of
all that domestic comfort which results from affection. Indeed, men or
women who _afficher_ indifference on that subject often do it to hide
strong feelings.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Dec., 1804.

I do not think I shall often go into public with that party, for we were
stuffed _eleven_ in a box, a thing as disagreeable as it is vulgar. We
were ourselves nine—rather more than enough; but the Violent Gentleman
introduced two odd women, whom the rest of the party hardly spoke to; one
of them was a prettyish girl, whom he says he admires for her ‘mental
QUAlifications.’ [Make the _Qua_ very broad, as he pronounces it.] She
was certainly very humble to join a party where the women took no notice
of her. I was very sorry to be jumbled with such heterogeneous matter;
but the house was empty, else people must have laughed to see seven
females in one box, like bees in a glass hive.

Mrs. F. gave me this day her two young ladies to take to the Bois de
Boulogne. I found they knew, by name or sight, all the Parisian young
men, without being acquainted with any. It is astonishing how some young
ladies acquire this knowledge, and can _class_ every marriageable man
according to his exact species and order, without any help from personal
acquaintance.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, July, 1805.

I could not resist blinding myself with Mad. de Sévigné, whom for the
first time I really taste and admire. She gives one, in the pleasantest
and most easily remembered way, a very clear idea of the difference of
manners, hours, value of money, &c. &c., in her time, from what they
are at present. This is a very subordinate merit to her feeling, wit,
humour, and spirit; but still it is a merit, particularly to me, who can
never remember such circumstances except when they are connected with
something which interests or amuses. I have always said that love depends
on the merit of the person who _feels_, not who _inspires_ it. This is
universally felt, though not always allowed. These letters which I have
just read are a strong proof of it. They are filled from the beginning
to the end with the praises of Mad. de Grignan’s perfections; yet one
shuts the book quite indifferent about her, and really attached to Mad.
de Sévigné, of whose character one knows but little, this all-pervading
attachment excepted.

Have you a mind for a new French idiom? On my remonstrating with the
hostess at Estampes for charging seven francs for the horses, she
answered, ‘_Madame, vous ne pensez pas que je vous étrange_.’ Pray
remember the new verb.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, July, 1805.

Thérèse dit que Paris est si beau, ‘que les yeux lui en font mal.’

‘C’est si beau, que les yeux m’en font mal’—on pourrait philosopher sur
cette idée, appliquée aux plaisirs d’une grande ville. Son costume, qui
contrastait avec une calêche, a un peu attiré les yeux, dans une ville
où tout le monde entend toutes les convenances de l’habillement; ce qui
me prive de la commodité de la mener quelquefois dans les boutiques:
car je lui ferais du tort si je la faisais quitter son habillement de
paÿsanne. Ou elle le reprendrait à regret, ou ses parents la blâmeraient
de l’avoir quitté. Les femmes qu’on voit à pied actuellement dans les
rues, sont plus élégantes que je ne me rappelle de les avoir jamais
vues. La symmétrie et la légèreté de leurs tailles, les grâces de leur
maintien, et le goût de leur parure, sont plus frappantes que dans aucun
autre moment que je puis me rappeler. Elles portent presque toutes le
blanc orné des couleurs à la fois gaies, vives, et délicates, et elles
paraissent toutes entre dix-huit et vingt-cinq ans. Je crois qu’aprés
cette époque on les envoie en province.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, July, 1805.

Mrs. —— has just the _no manner_ which, without being civil, always
puts those at their ease who have not been used to good society; and
though good-looking, has what I have heard some of the London women
call, something ‘ordinary’ in her air, which counteracts the effects
of a dress the most _magnifique_ as to expense so completely, that it
cannot _écraser_ the plainest. Mad. Demidoff has the same _tournure_ (but
without any pretensions whatever to beauty). I have just seen a gown of
hers (Mad. Demidoff) at 260 louis, composed of one yard-and-half square
of Brussels lace. Mad. Sueur brought it to show me, as a sop to Cerberus,
for having disobliged me about Mrs. C——’s cloak. She is so civil and
obliging (for she did all she could about that commission), that I pay
her without regret, while I grudge all the other saucy _marchandes_ with
whom I have any dealings.

I saw a birutsche to-day, which the Baroness has bought for 150 louis. It
seems to my eyes clumsy, and has no resemblance to an English carriage,
except in being perfectly plain. It is the ‘coloured gown,’ but _without_
the air of a first-rate mantua-maker. It is _all_ green, and looks like a
great Muscovite duck. I asked the coachmaker to let me know when he had
a good second-hand one, but in the true spirit of ‘_Ne voulez-vous pas
que je gagne?_’ he assured me there was never any such thing. Certainly
the Baroness encourages tradespeople to talk such nonsense; for though
an extremely sensible, unaffected woman, her manner to them savours of
a simplicity I cannot remark in her general character. It may possibly
arise from not having always had the disposal of so much money as at
present, and therefore thinking it beneath her to make the slightest
effort to obtain the value of it.

Erard has, in the simplest manner possible, without saying one phrase,
_lent_ me a pianoforte, which is to come home to-morrow. This is very
German; no people are so silently obliging.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, July, 1805.

Isabey[42] cannot give me a _séance_ for a fortnight. After having had
painters begging one to sit without their having any emolument by it,
but merely to put one’s picture in their _atelier_, it seems odd not to
be able to get one for money. I will write a poem called ‘The Progress
of Woman;’ a fine occasion to show one’s skill in the degradation of the
tints. I look, however, to living my vanities over again in my daughters.

I told you I had met Mr. Don at dinner at F——’s; but I did not tell you
he was _dans un transport de bourgeois_ at having accidentally spoken to
the Emperor in a retired part of the Bois de Boulogne, at a hunt, and
informed him which way the stag went. The Emperor did not perhaps like to
find himself _tête-à-tête_ there with a tall young Englishman, and was
still less pleased, I suppose, at finding the person was one who remained
here contrary to his last orders, and had escaped the vigilance of his
police and _surveillance_ about two months. In short, poor Mr. Don’s
civility cost him two nights’ lodging in prison and a removal to Verdun.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, July, 1805.

The Emperor has adopted an idea which I admire very much, of having a
small garden under his windows, into which no creature ever enters,
except himself and the Empress. I think the idea of having a little
sacred spot, very beautiful; and I wonder it has never been thought of,
as it is almost as practicable as it is refined.

I now find the convenience of having been well taught French. It is
certain, the advantages of those branches of education rigid moralists
consider as only ornamental, such as foreign languages, &c., are much
oftener felt in life than it appears possible they could be when the
matter is theoretically considered. Mothers who cultivate them as
marriage-traps are mistaken; for, generally speaking, men do not marry
women for what are called accomplishments; and upon the whole, except
drawing, I think they deter as many as they attract. One man is afraid of
a ‘learned lady,’ another of having his house the _rendezvous_ of wits
and poets, of actors, or fiddlers, or singers, &c. &c. The stragglers
who marry for them are those whose mothers and sisters are remarkably
unaccomplished, and who therefore overrate little acquirements.


TO THE SAME.

                                                      _Paris, July, 1805._

Just home from a very pleasant dinner at Lord ——’s. The party were Hunt,
Visconti, another _savant_, and the Italian who invited me to his house
in Italy three years ago, but who did not know me again. She thanked
me in the prettiest and most expressive manner for our civility, &c.,
to Lord ——, and said the time he passed with us were the only pleasant
moments he had at Orleans. He appears to great advantage in his own
house; and with her one is immediately at one’s ease: I felt more so in
two minutes than I can be with any woman in Orleans after two years, so
great is the difficulty of an Englishwoman’s coalescing with a French
one. In the evening she showed me a number of fine _broderies_, laces,
antiques; and as I love _les belles choses_ like a woman, and am as
little envious of them as a man, I was very much amused at tumbling
them over. She is _magnifique à l’excès_, beyond any woman I have yet
seen. She presses me greatly to lodge in their hotel, and took me to see
apartments in it. Like a true woman, she seems to think nothing good
enough for herself, nor too bad for any one else; for, I assure you, I
can never think without laughing of the miserable _trou_ she wanted to
stuff me into, and to persuade me was comfortable. She begs I will go
there every evening. The flame of friendship crackled and burned, and
ten years ago I should have put myself anywhere to be near a person who
seemed to express such a fancy for me, and talked so confidentially,
telling me how much her family disliked her marrying Lord ——; how
differently she would act, were it to do again, &c. &c. but I have lost
my _goût_ for sudden female intimacies; with me they have always led to
vexation.

Berthier was at Cobenzl’s; so think how ill-natured to prevent me from
going. There is a vast difference between asking a favour from a great
person, when they are in the midst of business, and have their refusing
powers all up in arms, and soliciting when they are in good humour, and
surrounded by all that unbends the mind.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, July, 1805.

Twelve at night. Just returned from the F——’s. I went from _faiblesse_
and indolence, not knowing how to refuse peremptorily when people beg
fiercely....

On reading over my letter, I feel ashamed to have guessed at Mrs.——’s
_little_ motives long before _you_, who have so much more penetration in
matters of consequence. The reason is probably because a man is always
treated with more kindness and _bienveillance_ in proportion as he has
any advantages which succeed in society; while a woman, in proportion to
these advantages, though they may be the means of her being flattered and
distinguished, is always the object of a degree of malice and ingenious
spitefulness from her own sex, and from such men as resemble women in
their worst qualities, which very soon enlightens her on the subject, and
enables her to descry from afar the attacks of envy and littleness. A man
never excites these feelings, except he is placed in a _petite ville_,
or a country neighbourhood, with such characters as the poor sufferer in
question.

In the midst of his civility, our countryman threw in yesterday
with great address, that ‘none of the English were sent on the late
occasion to Verdun, except those who had been teasing the Minister with
applications.’ _Il me voyoit venir de loin_, and was beforehand with me.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, July, 1805.

General Berthier was very civil; I was not forced to wait in an
ante-room, as I expected, with a variety of people in the same situation,
but received as a visitor. He seemed unwilling to enter into any detail,
and rather put aside all my attempts to give it to him. He asked me
where you were, and seemed to know nothing about us. I said at Orleans.
He said, were you not sent to Verdun? I told him you had got leave to
stay at Orleans on account of your illness, and that the favour I asked
was, leave for you to come to Paris to be treated by your physician here.
He answered, ‘_J’aimerais mieux qu’il reste à Orléans. Pourquoi ne pas
rester à Orléans? c’est une belle ville; il y a d’excellens médecins._’
I dwelt on your wish for a particular physician here, &c. &c. He said
that this physician might go to you, that the French were all sent out of
London, and that no English could come to Paris. I said you were Irish
(to which he seemed to allow no weight), and said that I had hoped you
would not be an exception to the indulgence he had shown _aux malheurs
particuliers_. He said, at this moment no indulgence could be shown. I
dwelt upon _illness_; he said, in that case, everybody would be ill, and
that if one was allowed to come to Paris, all the others would expect it,
and that _nobody_ was allowed to come. I had the boldness to contradict
him, and quote F., upon which he said, ‘_Eh bien, nous verrons; qu’il
reste à Orléans, et avec le temps je pourrais accorder quelque chose de
plus peut-être. Mais il y avait des circonstances particulières dans la
position de Monsieur F. Je ferai ce que je pourrais, mais n’en parlez
pas, car cela entraine._’ I do not here remember the words, but the idea
was that others would plague him. ‘_Vous restez à Paris?_’ ‘_Non, mon
Général, je pars tout de suite pour Orléans._’ ‘_Je voudrais que vous
pourriez rester deux ou trois jours, et revenir içi à la même heure
Mardi._’ ‘_Vous me donnez donc l’espoir d’accorder cette grâce?_’ He
was then very diplomatic, with ‘_Nous verrons_,’ and speeches that were
neither yes nor no; but the result is that I am to go again, Tuesday.
I then asked, how they were to know at Orleans that you were not to
be sent to Verdun, and he said he would write on Monday. I had then to
persecute him to write to-night, which he promised. What do you think of
all this? I assure you he has left me in complete doubt. Certainly his
reception and manner, &c., may give hope, if the stories Mrs. F. and Lady
C. tell of his difficulty of access are true; but we do not know whether
they are or not. The latter says she has been five weeks trying in vain
to see him, or get at some one who can; and I wrote to you, I believe,
that the former said she went every day for three weeks together in vain.
At the same time he was very guarded in not making any promise.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Aug., 1805.

Mrs. F. came yesterday again at three, and I only got rid of her by
sending for a carriage, and setting her down where she was to dine, at
the other end of the world, and out of the way of any affairs of my own.
In the evening she ordered her carriage to wait for her _here_, and came
again. She is the most terrible little caricature of the most determined
dissipation I ever saw. It consoles one for being _farouche_, and not
showing to advantage in society, when one sees how much more disagreeable
the opposite extreme of living for the world may become. Other people
whom one finds tiresome one loses in a great town, especially when they
live three miles off; but her unfortunate activity multiplies her into
twenty little _facettes_, all ready to blind your eyes and scratch your
fingers.

Poor Mr. Palmer looks very ill. Indeed, my eyes are grown _difficile_,
for it appears to me that people in general, whom I had known of old,
look much worse than they are entitled to do by the lapse of time.
Mad. Visconti, who has been detected by her Italian friends as having
a grand-daughter of fifteen, and being fifty-six, and Vestris _the
younger_, who is said to be fifty-four, both of whom I saw last night,
are the only persons who persuade me of the truth of Hufeland’s doctrine,
that those who do not live to two hundred are carried off prematurely,
and that sixty is the flower of one’s youth.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Aug., 1805.

Isabey is a fine _exact_ likeness-taker; but if he had read Winckelmann,
he would know that as a painter cannot give the advantage of life and
variety, he is bound to advance to the boundaries of the _beau ideal_,
as far as he can consistently with resemblance, in order to endeavour to
make some compensation. I saw a likeness of Mad. Cabarrus, beautifully
done, but with a cruel truth of resemblance in the nose, which to those
who do not carry _her idea_ in their heads from having seen her, makes
it a very disagreeable negro-ish picture. Mine is growing formal and
frightful, and just _me_ when I am tired of my company. I showed him
your picture. As he has no pretensions to looks, he praised your beauty
much; but he praised the painting just as one pretty woman, one actor,
one musician, praises another, _c’est-à-dire, d’une manière froide,
triste et contrainte_. Any person that applauds _warmly_ a person
_going_, and still more _following_, in the same road, is deceitful;—I
mean if they have ever brought their wares to market, and sought for
admiration. Those who have not, can praise with sincerity. I am sure
he admired it much, so you may safely tell Bertrand all he would like
to hear. He begged leave to keep it to show to his _élèves, pour leur
donner de l’émulation_. I am sure he thinks Bertrand _too good_ to come
to Paris, and Madame desired me to advise him to go to Russia, where he
would soon make his fortune.


TO THE SAME.

                                                Fontainebleau, Aug., 1805.

I arrived last night at eleven—much frightened (without reason) at
passing the forest so late. To-day I went out before breakfast, not to
lose any opportunity; waited from ten till three in the roads, courts,
and porter’s-lodge—Antoine a millstone, a damper, and an _épouvantail_,
frightened at his shadow, and equally endeavouring to frighten me. At
three every one said the Emperor would not go out to-day, and I found
myself too weak to wait longer, from not having eaten a morsel. The
Empress was walking in the garden, and I went to her, requesting she
would _appuyer_ the _placet_, of which I gave her a copy. She received
it graciously, and asked if I had presented the _placet_ itself. Upon
my saying not, she desired me to give it to her, and _she would_. This
I did, but consider it unlucky, as he is reputed to attend more to
those immediately given to himself, than to those given in any indirect
way. To-morrow I shall go again, and try for an opportunity to tell the
Emperor I am the person who presented a _placet_ through the Empress
to him. The Empress seems to me, as I at first thought her on my
presentation, exceedingly attractive. The face was entirely covered by a
fine lace veil and large rich bonnet; but her figure and _maintien_ are
highly graceful and beautiful. She recollected my having been presented
to her three years ago. A poor woman gave her a petition on her knees
immediately after; and her distress and anxiety to make the woman get up
was very interesting. Every one more than civil. I penetrated everywhere,
in spite of the supposed difficulties.


TO THE SAME.

                                                Fontainebleau, Aug., 1805.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of giving you a second proof of affection,
and whether it succeeds or not, nothing can deprive me of the
satisfaction I receive from the act. _A travers_ all the embarrassments
and tumults of a _retour de chasse_, guns firing, horses prancing, _la
meute des chiens_, _piqueurs_, gamekeepers, guards, in short, a thousand
objects, from each of which I should have fled on any other occasion,
I delivered my _placet_ to the Emperor, who received it willingly
and graciously. He was just driving off in his _calèche_, after a
successful hunt in the Park of Fontainebleau. Now the little agitation
and fretfulness of the business is over, I have leisure to look back and
be surprised at the kindness and politeness with which I was treated,
and the respect I uniformly received in circumstances the least likely
to inspire it. With the smallest knowledge of the _local_ customs or
_entours_, I should not have suffered any fatigue or inconvenience;
but being a total stranger, without one common acquaintance here, and
Antoine a millstone, as I said yesterday, I had every disadvantage.
It was not true, but a mistake, that I could not go into the court I
mentioned yesterday. The Empress had ordered women should not remain
there; but the wife of the _concièrge_, whose apartment was in it,
offered me her _salon_, newspapers, &c., where I was quite retired, and
much better lodged than travellers usually are anywhere. I never in the
whole business met the slightest incivility, insinuation, freedom, or
rebuff. I glided everywhere, whether others were refused or not, and I
met with every mark of interest and _bienveillance_. By the bye, the
_placet_ itself was a most pitiful performance, ten degrees lower than my
address beginning ‘_Etrangère et seule_,’ which had something like style
and energy. It is singular, too, that one who was First Secretary, &c.,
_made_ me, against my own opinion, make an official mistake in it—_Votre
Majesté_ and _Vous_, instead of _Elle_. How few people know their own
_métier_.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Aug., 1805.

The Baroness, Col. ——, Mrs. F——, and her young ladies, passed the
evening here yesterday. Mrs. F. was in great spirits. While I was at
Fontainebleau they had all dined with Lady ——, and danced in the evening.
They were in such raptures with _his_ dancing as I thought only Zephyr or
Dupont could excite. I must tell you the —— show us particular respect in
being so _happy together_ before us; for they have the most disgraceful
fights in the presence of others. Not a word of truth in Mrs. ——’s
elopement. I regret all the good morality I wasted upon it. As to your
insisting on my not telling you all the scandal I hear, I am sorry to say
it is a vain command. Until I get a female friend, you _must_ listen to
it; for I will not be at the trouble, like Midas’ wife,[43] of digging a
hole in the earth to tell it to; and ‘_un secret est un pesant fardeau_.’

We have really a curious set of Anglo-Parisians. Col. —— puts me in
mind of some one in an English farce, when he tells one, _à propos_ of
nothing, how he and his wife always travel separately, with two equipages
each; and how they never go to sea in the same ship, as ’twould be
hazarding too much in one bottom; and how he ‘likes things in a Great
Style, because he has always been accustomed to things in a Great Style.’
In short, if you were to be ever so angry, I must be diverted with these
people, and must tell you what diverts me. My mind reposes on my little
Baroness, who, I see, is quietly making the best of a tiresome husband,
and, seeming completely meek and gentle, is yet always contriving to rein
him in from exposing himself by heat of temper and vanity, which he is
ever on the point of doing; educating her son so well, and giving all the
credit of it to him; keeping clear of all the _petite ville_ squabbles,
civil to everybody, and intimate with none except one, to whom she is
uniformly and impressively attentive.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                        Paris, Jan., 1806.

No woman dined at the Baroness’s but Mrs. ——, a banker’s wife,
brimful of all sorts of vanity, but all easily ranged under three
general heads—vanity of _wealth_, of _extensive acquaintance_, of
_accomplishments_. She asked the Baroness and me to go home with her to a
rehearsal of dancing, and I was obliged to go, as the Baroness would not
leave me, and was visibly anxious not to lose the party. The rehearsal
was dull, as the dancers were mediocre. The dancing-master attended,
and it was exactly an academy. Mrs. —— told me she had had but _seven_
lessons, and forgot she had told me a few months ago she had had but ten;
so they go _diminuendo_. She also told me that she took particular pains
when at Hamburg, ‘not to be _more elegant_ than other people;’ and if you
saw the little woman you would say she might have spared herself so very
unnecessary an exertion.

I hear every one is reading _Alphonsine_. A lady, speaking of the
author’s introducing _un enfant de l’amour_ into all her novels,
remarked, ‘_Il n’y a rien de_ naturel _dans les romans de Mad. de Genlis
que les enfans_.’


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Jan., 1806.

This morning I went with Mrs. —— to the Gallery. She is the same
obliging creature as ever, and always ready _to go_ anywhere. We had a
sensible white-eyed German Minister, from some little Court, who took
care of us, and knew enough to point out the most remarkable amongst
the new paintings. _Les Pestiférés_ is, I believe, fine in grouping and
colouring; at least it looks very _distingué_ amongst the figures like
waxen images or scenes from the opera, without _ensemble_, expression, or
truth, which form the greater part of the new Exhibition of historical
painting. We hurried so much, as one always does the first time, that
nothing struck me but _Les Pestiférés_, and a very pretty drawing by
Isabey, in black and white, of the Emperor and Empress visiting the
manufactory de Bazin, and some beautiful little highly-finished paintings
that remind one of the Dutch pieces in point of nicety, and of Wright of
Derby in the choice of subjects and the effects of perspective. I am not
in the least ashamed of talking to you on subjects I know nothing about.
I know that if by chance I make a lucky hit, you will give me credit for
it; and that if I am guilty of the greatest error, you will not like me
less; so I have a possibility of winning, and cannot lose.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Jan., 1806.

I have been asked yesterday and to-day to the F.’s, but sent an excuse
each day. All I regret there now is Col. ——, for he is _so_ like a
character in an English farce, from his broad comic look, provincial
accent, strange phraseology, undisguised vanity, and perpetual surprise
and joy at finding himself a rich man, that though he provokes me at the
moment, I laugh ten times a day by myself afterwards in recollecting him.
I am sure if the playwriters and actors could lay hold of him, they would
turn him to good account. He not only diverts me, but I feel a _besoin_
of somebody to mimic him.

By the bye, Mr. F. and Col. —— are strong instances of what you have
often said, that the Irish can sooner conquer the want of refinement in
early life than those of other nations. Both entered late into the world,
and both obtained an unexpected rise in circumstances. The one improves
every day; the other has his vulgarity burnt in. The one may not please,
but never offends; the other shocks some one or other in company every
time he speaks.

It was very ill-natured of me not to seize the idea of our taking the
little Yarico, and I shall be unhappy and feel remorse if you do not do
it. If you find upon _reniflé_-ing that she is sweet (for some of them
are insupportable), I will educate her for a little nursery-maid; if
not, we will make of her something which comes less close. Pray let us
not neglect this good action which Providence throws in our way.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Jan., 1806.

In the evening we saw Mˡˡᵉ George in _Phèdre_. I have learned how liable
one is to error in judging of merit except by comparison. Till I felt the
_ennui_ of seeing her in that part, and the damp it threw on the play
in general, I did not perceive the full excellence of Duchesnois, who
_vivifies_ the whole piece. I am told I must not judge of her in that
_rôle_, as it is of all she plays the least favourable to her looks,
which are her only merit. The _abandon_, so necessary in the attitudes of
Phèdre, betrays her want of _mollesse_ and softness in her motions, and
particularly displays those strangely-formed feet, of which the shape and
movements are so uncommonly ugly; while her anxiety to hide their defects
often gives her a constraint in the moments which ought to be the most
devoted to passion. The chief merit of her expression, dignity, is lost
in a character always given up to strong emotions; and its chief fault,
harshness, is absolutely contrary to all one’s ideas of a creature

                                ‘dissolved away
    In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day.’

Mad. Demidoff called for her diamonds a day or two after her ball,
to show a new _aigrette_ to a lady of her acquaintance. Her maid, on
opening the box, and missing this very _bijou_, fell into fits. She was
taxed with either dishonesty or carelessness, as she had the care of her
mistress’s jewels, and in defending herself, said that she suspected
Madame (I forget the name), a German Countess, who was the intimate
friend of Mad. D.,—did not live in the house, but dined there almost
every day. Her grounds for this suspicion were that this lady had asked
her to show the diamonds a very few days before, and had examined them
narrowly. Mad. D. silenced her, and continued to have some suspicion
she was the guilty person. The next time she saw her friend, she
mentioned what the maid had said as to having shown them, which this lady
positively denied. Upon this denial, the maid was so convinced of her
guilt, that she insisted on a police-officer searching the house, which
he did next morning, and found the _aigrette_ in a cup of _aqua fortis_,
where it had been left to dissolve the setting. She was of course
immediately taken to prison. This is a _mesquin_ mean story to return for
your magnificent anecdote, but is now the chief subject of conversation.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                        Paris, Jan., 1806.

Kitty is, I believe, settled. Her plausible manner of abusing us, and
of telling her own story, is such that the hotel-keeper here, and all
my tradespeople, think her a very ill-used person; and trifling as
is this prejudice against me, I have been accustomed to being so much
considered a good kind of person at least, that it frets me. I believe
she has gone about to everybody I know, of every rank; for all have said
to me with an air of coldness and mystery, ‘_Quoi, votre femme-de-chambre
vous quitte—c’est bien extraordinaire. Elle vous aimait tant. Elle vous
a servie si long temps._’ Antoine was as busy for her at the prefecture
as her counsel. I am sorry I am awakened from my _beau rêve_ about the
good qualities of servants, to two truths—one, that a servant who has
lived with you ten years, will prefer to you the partner who has arrived
yesterday; the next, that although they may be at the point of the sword
together, they will always unite against you. The expression of the
ancient, ‘humble friends,’ was not half so just as that of the modern
antique, the old Duke of Queensberry, whom I heard say, ‘They are spies
upon you, whom you pay yourself.’ I am afraid the ancient philosopher had
not so many to attend on him as ‘old Q.,’ and was not so good a judge.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Feb., 1806.

I went yesterday with Mr. S. to Mons. ——, an artist, to see some very
fine drawings. They are chiefly copies from Raphael, and one of the
‘Last Supper,’ of Leonardo da Vinci, which is beautiful. He values them,
I believe, too highly, as he asks a hundred louis for this last, and
the others in proportion. He uses no colours but sepia, a _soupçon_ of
yellow, the same of blue, and some white body colour. From thence I
returned to dine at Mrs. F——’s with Mrs. —— and Mr. Crispy. Mrs. ——, with
a volubility seldom equalled, gave me all the details possible of her
domestic management, tending to prove that she was at once as fine a lady
and as good a housekeeper as any in Paris—that she lived magnificently,
had a great establishment, and spent a very large fortune with the
highest degree of taste and economy united. Amongst other details, she
was so minute as to tell me that on the last great dinner she gave to
twenty-four persons, _she saw_ 134 pounds of beef cut up merely for
soup and sauces. I was a little astonished at this aldermanic puff, and
everybody else showed symptoms of surprise, the greater in proportion to
their knowledge of housekeeping. I forgot to say the little baronet, our
former fellow-lodger, also dined there; whiskers and eyebrows were all
japanned and blackened like your boots, and a light _couleur de rose_ on
his cheeks, and his figure set up as if he had got a pair of Coutant’s
new corsets; and after we left the room, he showed love-letters to the
gentlemen. It is a great comfort to the poor husbands whose wives expect
constancy and all their affections, that gallantry seems to have got
into such hands as it has of late. I declare it seems to me as if that
vice had seen its best days, and was fallen into complete disrepute. I
hope it will not rise again till Fred’s character is formed; for though
some escape with undiminished sensibility and refinement, I think the
dispositions of nine men out of ten are miserably injured by it for all
the rest of their lives.

I laughed out loud at your description of the _Pétillant_; and I must say
I have a generosity of soul about a good story, which makes me uneasy at
having no one to tell it to. I feel about it like a hospitable epicure
about a delicacy, quite uneasy, if I must feast on it alone.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Feb., 1806.

I had rather a pleasantish day at the Baroness’s. Mad. de Richelieu is a
very pleasing old dame _de l’ancienne cour_. There were some others of
her society, and they all showed me that sort of politeness which, when
thoroughly ground into the manners, bears the semblance of interest and
preference. I met also a gentleman who lodges in the house, and whose
servant ran up to him on the day of my arrival, to announce it, telling
him I was _la veuve d’un Général tué à la bataille d’Austerlitz_. So
because I was not _sémillante_, but dressed _en couleurs tendres_, I must
be described as a Melpomene.

Think of my having _given a breakfast_ to-day. My company were the F——’s,
who expressed a wish to hear Tarchi, and who, according to the custom
of the world, attended more to their veal cutlets and their chat, than
to _us_, to Tarchi’s evident displeasure. _She_ had thought of learning
from him, and as she is a tolerable musician, with a harsh voice, he
might have made something of her; but the twelve francs she could not
submit to, and takes Blanquini at six, who will teach her nothing. So
much for economy. You may see I have nothing to say on the grand point,
by beginning with these _frivolités_. I called again on the _bella
Italiana_, who did not return my former visit, but I swallow _couleuvres_
now. I send you a note, a volunteer from my Irishman. You see by his
writing _apropos_ of nothing, he seems to take a certain interest in our
business. Fred is _gros et gras_ and florid; and admired, as whatsoever
deserves to be so always is in a great town, where pretensions do not
come so close as elsewhere. The unaffected admiration the F——s show of
him gives me continual pleasure. Both the ladies nurse him, literally
nurse him, for half an hour together. He thinks Mrs. F.’s violent manner
and clamorous talk is to amuse him, and when she is engaged in general
conversation he _coos_ at her with evident acknowledgment.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Feb., 1806.

The Emperor was last night at the _Théâtre François_, where the
applause was very moderate. It is said he goes to the opera to-morrow,
notwithstanding which scarce a third of the boxes are taken. The ladies
of Paris are a little mortified that the few balls and _fêtes_ of this
winter are interrupted by his arrival, instead of receiving fresh vigour,
as was expected. He has announced his desire that all the great ones
intended for him should be put off till May; and the small ones, no one
knows why, have felt a sort of _contre-coup_. Mad. Duboyne’s, however,
took place last night; but it made so much sensation as proved that a
ball was a scarce thing. How different from London, where half a dozen
East Indians might give one the same night, and out of their own circle
no one know a word about it. I do not wonder the class of women who place
their happiness in show and entertainments, and whose rank and fortune
do not allow them to _briller_ in that way in London, are very anxious
to settle here. I think it fortunate for England that it is not known
how easy it is; and that the respect for the _elegance_ and _manners_
of _Paris_ awes a London citizen’s wife, or we should have a rebellion
amongst them against their husbands, who would be brought over here to
perish of _ennui_, like poor Cope.

Poor Fred is here, ‘wasting his beauty on the desert air;’ for I know no
one who receives morning visits. I proposed bringing him to show to one
lady; but she seems to think a woman, who had been _established_ once
before, having taken a husband _since her_ daughter came out, is the
most odious of all monopolies, forestalling and regrating; and, though
unaccountably civil in other things, she threw cold water on the offer,
and always turns any conversation which could lead to the idea.

I have just seen McMahon. I must tell you a pretty trait of Lord Elgin.
He obtained, somehow or other, a statement of Mad. Thiebault’s case;
assembled all the first physicians at Paris, had a consultation, and sent
the opinion resulting from it to the General. I think it was a trait of
genius in good-nature.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        Paris, Feb., 1806.

Lady Clavering’s party was very good indeed—rooms well furnished, well
lighted, well disposed—agreeable music, by professors, a good supper
(which I saw, though I did not wait till people sat down), and everything
going off, not like a _first_ or _second_ party (which it was), but as
if they were given habitually. The company were of the _ancien régime_,
or English. The F—— was so dirty last night I was ashamed of her; as the
French, who deny us _goût_, allow us _une propreté exquise_; and she had
a muslin of such extraordinary beauty and costliness, it could not escape
observation; and ‘I assure you, ma’am, it looked as if it had cleaned
the floor.’ I heard Gérat for the first time, the Orpheus of France.
They swear by him. I confess I liked his singing a simple romance, of
which the words and music are Rousseau’s, most exceedingly. I find it is
possible for French music, _rendue_ by a French singer, to delight me. By
the bye, the last phrase is a strong proof that, whatever people assume
steadily and boldly, one yields to them at last; for here am I, giving
Jean Jaques to the French, and merely because _ils l’ont crié, je le
répète après eux_. Unluckily, I went too late to hear Gérat sing Italian.
The Baroness, who is a good judge, and has, I hear, been a good singer
in her day, disliked it much, and so does Tarchi; but from his manner of
singing the romance, I am afraid I should have approved.

Mad. de Mouravieff, my old Russian friend, has been here, and passed
most of the evening: her news is, that the German Countess who stole
Demidoff’s diadem is to be tried to-day, and ’tis thought she will have
her head shaved by the _bourreau_, and be imprisoned two years. Divoff’s
gaming-table, where she played high, is supposed to be the source of her
crime. Mad. Mouravieff has brought her seven children here; and she told
me that when my old Baron heard she had that number, he said, ‘_Ah, fi,
c’est bien bourgeois._’ Think of the Divoffs ruining themselves solely
by her _toilette_, for neither had any other expense that their fortune
could not easily support. You may see, by the style of my _news_, that I
have passed the evening in a female _tête-à-tête_.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                     Paris, Feb. 23, 1806.

You will wonder at seeing me date again from Paris, which can have no
attraction for me at present; an English person being, equally from
choice and necessity, separated from all French society, and there
not being any straggling English left with whom I have the least
acquaintance. Lady ——’s house was a great resource to me when I was last
here, as she was always at home, and to a very pleasant society; but she
obtained a passport for England about five months ago. I hear, however,
she soon intends returning. At present our hopes are very sanguine for
peace. I am just at this instant returned from seeing the image of war,
or at least a preparation for it, in the Emperor’s parade, which is now
a finer sight than when you saw it, as the houses then in the Carrousel,
opposite to the Tuileries, have been pulled down, and the _emplacement_
made regular and greatly increased. This gives for the parade a most
beautiful _locale_; and you know what effect scenery has upon every
similar exhibition.

My business at Paris has been the old work of trying to get a passport on
_parole_ for Mr. Trench’s going to Ireland; or else permission for him
to live here in the capital, instead of being confined to a miserable
country town. I have little hope of success; but, like the spider, as
soon as one of my webs is destroyed, I set about spinning another with
undiminished activity.

I wish I could send you some of the many useful and pleasant objects of
literature, taste, and _agrément_ with which Paris abounds; but I can
find no one who will take the smallest parcel to England. Indeed, at
present I know no person going. I am therefore reduced to sending you a
dry and vulgar hundred pounds, with which I beg you will buy something
pretty, and fancy it is your mother’s choice.

I am delighted to find you have acquired such facility in writing, as
I perceive in your letters, and that you take such pains to form your
style. I believe there is no trouble more fully and frequently repaid, no
expense of time which brings such immense interest in worldly profit and
pleasure.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                     Paris, Feb. 24, 1806.

Antoine procured us the best places possible to see the parade: a window,
_au premier_, in apparently a private house, opposite the Tuileries,
where there were none but what seemed very good company, and where Fred
was extremely admired. He interests every creature who sees him. There
are people who in youth have that gift, which I look at as separate and
independent of every other merit, charm, or advantage; and it certainly
contributes highly to happiness, and facilitates everything. I fancy it
was that which Venus breathed over Æneas, or Ascanius—I forget which
of them—in the _Æneid_; for I can never bring myself to think it was
mere personal grace, which one supposes the descendants of the goddess
must have possessed naturally, and which is too material a thing for
the refined Virgil to have had only in his thoughts. I stayed with him
there from before twelve till past four, _dévorée d’ennui_, except
as I received pleasure from his: and, by the bye, it is a species of
complaisance I never had for any other human being; for though I _think_
I am complaisant (perhaps I am very much mistaken, like many others whom
I have known entertain the same opinion of themselves, to which opinion
they never made a convert), it is certainly not in that way, nor ever
was; in spite of the lectures both of Baron Bretueil, and of another,
whose judgment I more respected; who each of them used to tell me that
in order to be a _distingué_ person in any line, one must learn to bear
_ennui_, and so conceal it under smiles. For the first time I saw, in
the same room with him, a pair of eyes which rivalled his, belonging to
a little nice interesting girl about eight years old. Hers were much
darker, of the Indian, Portuguese, and Jew black, with jet eyebrows much
pencilled and immense eyelashes. After due deliberation I gave his the
preference, as more susceptible of variety of expression, and equally
capable of mirth as of melancholy, whereas the jet kind can only mark the
soft and serious passions.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I possess no continuous journal of my Mother’s during her
    constrained residence in France, though I believe she kept one.
    I have not found more than a few entries, made in a volume
    by themselves, and all referring to the death of the eldest
    child of her second marriage, mentioned more than once in the
    foregoing letters—then, indeed, its only child; for a daughter,
    subsequently born, had only lived a few days. The impression
    which this loss made, as will be seen by the many subsequent
    allusions to it, was profound and lasting.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                   Orleans, June 12, 1806.

... You will not wonder that I cannot write more fully at present, when
you hear that Heaven has been pleased to take from me, not many days
ago, my lovely and doted on child. I will not _attrister_ you with any
account of the circumstances, _all_ of which were calculated to deepen
my anguish. I will only tell you the blow was the more unexpected, as
till his last illness his health and strength were equal to his beauty;
while his grace, sprightliness, and intelligence, made him appear as if
expressly sent from Heaven to be the solace of our captivity. The loss
of my infant daughter, which seemed heavy at the time, shrinks into
nothing when compared with this. She was merely a little bud; he was a
lovely blossom which had safely passed all the earliest dangers, and gave
clearest promise of delicious fruit. God bless you; I hope you will be
more fortunate than your poor mother, and never know from experience the
pain she has now three times endured.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 24, 1806._—My Frederick’s sufferings are over with respect to
himself, but they still exist in my bosom. _I_ still feel and lament
them. I consider that my sins have been visited upon him, and that I
was the author of them all. Oh, my child, my child! your fever, your
cough, your difficulty of breathing, the nauseous draughts that were
forced upon you, your restlessness, your blindness, your blisters, your
torments—how has my hard heart survived them all? When those beautiful
eyes from whence a stream of light and pleasure ever flowed into my
bosom grew dim and closed—when those lovely hands _felt_ for the little
refreshments you could be prevailed on to take, and which you could no
longer _see_—when that voice once so strong and sweet, grew too feeble
to make its wants and wishes known—and when, finally, the last breath
forsook those lips from whence had flowed music and perfume—when I saw
you cold and motionless before me, how came it my heart did not break
at once? You are now forgot, or nearly so, by all but me. Your beauty
so vaunted, your intelligence so admired, your goodness of heart, your
generosity, your strong affection, all are as if they had never existed.
Yet, perhaps, you do not sleep; perhaps your spirit, though yet disunited
from your body, awaits its union with consciousness and enjoyment, every
stain of original sin effaced by the merits of our Redeemer; perhaps
you are permitted to protect and watch over me, to detach me from this
vain world, and guide me to that which you inhabit—‘_Là-haut, là-haut,
là-haut._’

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 26._—‘Il devroit y avoir dans le cœur des sources inépuisables de
douleurs pour de certaines pertes. Ce n’est guère par vertu ou par force
d’esprit qu’on sort d’une grande affliction. L’on pleure amèrement, et
l’on est sensiblement touché; mais l’on est ensuite si foible ou si
léger, qu’on se console.’—_La Bruyère._

I believe this applies to every loss but that of a lovely and beloved
child, who is not only the flower of one’s present path, but the object
of one’s future hopes, and in whom one sees an ever-widening perspective
of happiness. But Bruyère was not a mother. He who _formed_ the human
heart speaks on such an occasion, of ‘lamentation, and weeping, and great
mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and _would not be comforted,
because they are not_.’ No _man_, no father, however affectionate, can
conceive a mother’s grief; this I always believed, and am now convinced
of.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 12._—I now view the whole creation expanding into the full bloom
and ripeness I had promised to show him, and had anticipated his seeing
and enjoying. The fruits hang on those trees, whose blossoms I exultingly
compared with his complexion, whose perfume I traced in his sweeter
breath. All nature is bright, vivid, animated; he pale, cold, and silent,
‘in his narrow cell for ever laid,’ and with him, his mother’s highest
joy and fairest hopes. The gay perspective of that happiness he was
born to receive and to impart, has melted ‘into air, into thin air.’ A
fine prospect now reminds me that he who took such early delight in the
beauties of nature is no longer here to give me a reflected pleasure,
stronger than what I have ever felt from immediate gratification. His
quick sensibility gave me every hope that my inventive fondness would
make the happy days of infancy still happier; and all the visions I had
formed on that exhaustless subject, now recur to increase my regrets by
the unceasing comparison of the future I had painted with the dark and
sad reality.

Let none think themselves truly miserable till they have seen the last
moments of the object they have best loved on earth; and if that object
were not their child, let them still own themselves far, far from a
mother’s anguish; and if that child were not lovely, promising, full of
sensibility, affection, and intelligence—if it has not boasted such a
flow of health and spirits as set all apprehension at defiance—if they
do not accuse themselves of errors and deficiencies in that care which
might have preserved it—if they have not seen it suffer under torments
inflicted by the hand of man—if they have not been an agent in its
sufferings, through vain and dubious hopes of cure, then is theirs a bed
of roses when compared to mine.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 1._—I received this day my passport for England, and my husband
his, giving him permission to accompany me as far as Brussels. Four
months ago this would have made me happy. Now it is too late. But why
such poignant regrets for anything which _can_ occur in this passing
world? L’éternité ne tardera point à mettre fin à la scène de la vie, qui
lui sert d’introduction. Elle s’avance vers nous comme les flots d’un
vaste océan, prêts à engloutir tout ce qui appartient à l’humanité, et à
ne laisser subsister que le souvenir de nos vertus, et le repentir de nos
fautes.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 2._—Je ne sais plus comment marche le temps; il me semble que
tout ce qui s’est passé dans mon âme depuis le septième jour de Juin n’a
pu avoir lieu dans une espace aussi courte; cependant il est bien vrai,
c’est ce jour là que j’ai reçu le dernier soupir de mon enfant. Pourquoi
le son de l’airain a-t-il pris quelque chose de si lugubre? Chaque fois
qu’il retentit, j’éprouve un frémissement involontaire. Pauvre Frédéric!
chaque coup t’éloigne de moi; chaque instant que s’écoule repousse vers
le passé l’instant où je te voyais encore; le temps l’éloigne, le dévore;
ce n’est plus qu’une ombre fugitive que je ne puis saisir, et ces heures
de félicité que je passais près de toi sont déjà englouties par le néant!
Les jours vont se succéder, l’ordre général ne sera plus interrompu; et
pourtant tu seras loin d’ici. Le printemps reparaîtra sans toi, et mes
tristes yeux ouverts sur l’univers n’y verront plus la beauté ravissante
de mon enfant. Quel désert! Je me perds dans une immensité sans rivage;
je suis accablée de l’éternité de la vie; c’est en vain que je me débats
pour échapper à moi-même, je succombe sous le poids d’une heure, et pour
aiguiser mon mal la pensée, comme un vautour déchirant, vient m’entourer
de toutes celles qui me sont encore réservées. Lorsque je veux fixer ma
pensée sur l’idée que _jamais_ je ne le reverrai, un instinct confus la
repousse; il me semble quand la nuit m’environne, et que le sommeil pèse
sur l’univers, que peut-être sa perte aussi n’est qu’un songe. Mais je
ne puis m’abuser longtemps; il est trop vrai—Frédéric n’est plus; sa
main glacée est restée sans mouvement dans la mienne; son beau corps
est devenu pâle, froid, immobile; et un silence profond, éternel, a
succédé à cette respiration entrecoupée et difficile, que j’avais seule
écoutée dans le monde pendant son effroyable maladie. La mort et mon
Frédéric! non, il m’est impossible d’unir ces deux idées! N’était-il pas
la vivacité, la force, la jeunesse en sa fleur, la beauté même? N’avait
il pas une surabondance de ce principe vivifiant que nous appelons la
vie? Ne semblait-il pas, qu’être près de lui, c’était être en sûreté? et
l’embrasser, n’était ce pas embrasser la perfection elle-même. Quand j’ai
visité pour la première fois la chambre qui a été sa dernière demeure,
quelle vide! quel silence! Je l’ai quittée; j’y suis revenue; je l’ai
quittée encore; j’ai erré dans la maison pour me sauver de moi-même.
Often in that room, I involuntarily turn towards the glass which
reflected his last looks, and expect to find some outline, some trace,
some shade of him.

    ‘But he is gone, and my idolatrous fancy
    Must consecrate his relics.’

What relics? one poor, solitary lock of shining hair; the little,
simple clothes that he embellished; not a picture, not an image of that
loveliness unparalleled!

       *       *       *       *       *

    The following lines, ‘On being pressed to go to a Masqued Ball
    not many months after the Death of my Child,’ belong evidently
    to this time:—

        Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train,
          With faltering step and faded brow;
        She such a votary would disdain,
          And such a homage disavow.

        But art thou sure the goddess leads
          Yon motley group that onward press?
        Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes,
          Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.

        When last I saw _her_ smile serene,
          And spread her soft enchantments wide,
        My lovely child adorned the scene,
          And sported by the flowing tide.

        The fairest shells for me to seek,
          Intent the little wanderer strayed;
        The rose that blossomed on his cheek
          Still deepening as the breezes played.

        Exulting in his form and face,
          Through the bright veil that beauty wove
        How did my heart delight to trace
          A soul—all harmony and love!

        Fair as the dreams by fancy given,
          A model of unearthly grace;
        Whene’er he raised his eyes to heaven,
          He seemed to seek his native place.

        More lovely than the morning ray,
          His brilliant form of life and light
        Through strange gradations of decay
          In sad succession shocked my sight.

        And since that agonizing hour,
          That sowed the seed of mourning years,
        Beauty has lost its cheering power,
          I see it through a mother’s tears.

        Soon was my dream of bliss o’ercast,
          And all the dear illusion o’er;
        A few dark days of terror past,
          And Joy and Frederick bloom no more.




CHAPTER IV.

1807-1812.


    In the spring of 1807 the long-sought-for permission to return
    to England was at last obtained. As I have no intention of
    writing a Memoir, but record only the events of my Mother’s
    life so far as is necessary for making these _Remains_
    intelligible, I shall at once proceed with my selection of
    these. They will for the most part, if I mistake not, with
    only here and there a brief elucidation, sufficiently explain
    themselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 7, 1807._—There seems to be a physical as well as a moral effect in
the return of the season, the month, the day, the hour on which a beloved
object has been torn away from us. We know that many disorders of the
body are periodical. Why may not the violent pains of the mind bear some
analogy to them—those tempests of sorrow which tear up every pleasure by
the root, and sweep away the very soil whence new ones might have sprung,
leaving nothing but the bare old rock behind?


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                       Dublin, Dec., 1807.

I send your map, though late, and _Corinne_. Do not you think d’Erfeuil
drawn with uncommon skill, and in point of _character_, the best of the
book? It is a slight sketch, but, as far as it goes, perfect. Oswald
and Corinne are ‘beauteous monsters’ like Darwin’s rose-nightingale; and
are made to exhibit qualities, to commit actions, not merely opposite
and unnatural, but contradictory. No man could unite such weakness and
such energy; and, with such superabundance of the former, he would never
attach any woman whatever. No woman could be pedantic, disserting,
ambitious of the public applause of the mob, and emulating the tricks
of a mountebank, with the character and feelings she is represented to
possess, wherever her affections are engaged. Besides, I am provoked all
through with the absolute necessity of changing their dress, and giving
him the petticoat and her the Scotch plaid.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Among my Mother’s papers I have found the notes which she took
    of more than one of Kirwan’s sermons; but immense, and, I
    believe, deserved, as was his reputation as a preacher,—I do
    not say as a divine, for his statements of Christian doctrine
    are most inadequate and defective—these, like everything of
    his which has seen the light of day since his death, are quite
    insufficient to explain to the reader the marvellous effects
    which his eloquence produced on those who actually heard it.
    More interesting than these is the following sketch of his
    character as a sacred orator. It leaves on me the impression of
    having been prepared for publication; but I am ignorant whether
    it has been published or not. It may be needful to observe that
    the posthumous volume of Kirwan’s sermons was not published
    till many years later, in 1814. I do not know when this sketch
    was written; but as Kirwan had died during the writer’s absence
    in France, in 1805, I think very probably soon after her return
    to Ireland, and I place it here.

Kirwan, in the language of Grattan, ‘disturbed the repose of the pulpit,
and discovered a mine of charity in the breasts of his countrymen with
which the owners were unacquainted.’ He taught the passions to move at
the command of Virtue; his eloquence could with equal facility melt and
subdue, or animate and inflame, terrify the libertine in his mid career,
or relax the purse-strings of the usurer. Time seemed concentrated to
a point while his lightnings flashed or his thunders rolled; and when
he ended, a sensation of regret and privation preceded the vivid and
animating glow of high and just applause. In his charitable discourses
(most difficult branch of pulpit oratory), he never failed to discover
some untrodden path; and the tears and gifts of his hearers bore equal
testimony to his power. Year after year has he pleaded the cause of
the same institutions with increasing effect, and still surprised
his audience with new motives for their liberality. He had the art
of discovering analogies new but not fantastical, unexpected but not
overstrained, between the passing events of the times and the necessary
subjects of his discourse; and from these events he often deduced
arguments the most forcible, or imaged scenes the most pathetic. When
his thoughts were condensed, their brevity was never affected, and, when
most expanded, lost none of their force; for, if he repeated the same
idea in hope to impress it more firmly on a popular audience, he dressed
it in such vivid colours and such breadth of light and shade, that his
repetition had all the charm of novelty. His hearers were often reminded
of Burke, often of Grattan; for, though he disdained all imitation,
apparent similarity to great models must arise from variety of
excellence. His eloquence appeared like inspiration, yet his sermons were
not, in fact, extemporaneous. It is said that he wrote them, like Pope,
on scraps of paper, committed them to memory, and then—for Genius is
ever careless of her Sybil leaves—condemned them to the flames. Perhaps
he feared their being less admired when read in the closet than from the
pulpit. Was this an excess of modesty, or of vanity? Whatever may have
been the cause, deeply is the effect regretted by all his hearers, and
great the loss to the morals and literature of his country.

I have seldom seen him in mixed society. He was serious, silent, and
reserved; and, when he did speak, his remarks were occasionally tinctured
with somewhat of sharpness and severity. The affection of his amiable
wife, and his habit, when absent, of writing to her daily, give a most
favourable impression of his domestic character.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Sir Francis Hutchinson, of whose virtues the following lines
    contain a slight record, was an uncle of my father’s by
    marriage. He died full of years and full of good works, at the
    close of the year 1807. The death of his wife, to which there
    will be found references a little further on, was only divided
    from his by about three months.

_Dec. 1807._—Lines on the Death of Sir Francis Hutchinson:—

    Thy useful labours, Hutchinson, are o’er,
    And heaven has gained one kindred spirit more.
    Wise, cheerful, pious, active, and humane,
    Acknowledged lord of learning’s wide domain,
    Thy path was graced with all that blesses life.
    Cheered and illumined by a tender wife;
    Honour was thine, health, virtue, length of days,
    And thine the soul whose undiminished rays,
    Bright to the last, with living lustre burned,
    Then to the Fountain of all light returned.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                  Hounslow, March 6, 1808.

After you left me, I passed Hounslow Heath in a state of moderate fear
and alert disquietude. I will tell you, because it will give ease to
your mind, that I am at this moment less alarmed and distressed at your
absence than I was before it really began. I would not say this perhaps,
if you were not what you are, as I might apprehend that it would make
you less sensitive to my fears and sorrows on another occasion; but such
apprehensions on my part would be as mean as ungrateful.

On Hounslow Heath I made an address _improvviso_ to a gander. You say I
have the power _d’improvvisare_, and I thought I could not make my first
essay to a less formidable object, but one whom I had _in fact_ mistaken
for a highway robber. I imitated the style of some modern sonneteers,
with what success you will tell me.


TO A GANDER ON HOUNSLOW HEATH.

    Poor Gander, on this wide and lonely waste,
    Patient of ill, and hopeless of all good,
    Thou seek’st with toilsome industry thy food,
    Hardly obtained, and bitter to the taste.
    Yet here, thou careworn fowl, thy lot is cast,
    By selfish pride and callous wealth debarred
    From all the comforts of the farmer’s yard,
    Vile yard, by gates and bolts and bars disgraced!
    While distant yet, thy mild and drooping form
    Like some bold robber to these eyes appeared;
    My purse prepared, I watched the coming storm,
    And much I trembled, Gander, much I feared:
    From fools exalted in a chaise and pair
    Such insults virtuous poverty must bear.

I own that a ludicrous imitation of the style I have chosen, seems _now_
like giving a blow to a man who is down; or, _they_ might say, my blow is
the Ass’s kick to the expiring Lion; for the whining pity for things not
pitiable, the contempt and hatred of all who are comfortable as to this
world’s goods, and of all institutions calculated to keep them so, as
well as addresses to frogs, fleas, donkeys, and spiders, are equally out
of fashion.

I have been reading _Cymbeline_, and find five pages of admiring
criticism on the song, ‘Hark, hark, the lark at heaven’s gate sings.’
Pray read it, and then tell me whether you do not agree with me in
thinking Shakespeare wrote it to ridicule some compositions of the time,
now forgotten; as he often has done in other pieces, particularly as
it is introduced with praise by his fool, Cloten. The language is so
forced and unnatural, the imagery so far-fetched and overstrained, the
grammar so bad, and the sacrifice of sense to rhyme so evident, that I
cannot view it in any other light, and am surprised it has not been so
considered. You see how I am obliged to keep thought at bay by every help
I can pick up.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                   London, March 10, 1808.

Your kind letter found me safely deposited in London with my babes. A
heavy cold, in consequence of travelling through roads dug out of snow,
combined with other circumstances to delay my answer. We set out in the
softest, finest weather possible; and the same day our journey began,
the snow began also, and locked us up in a small and solitary inn in the
wildest part of Wales during four days, which, however, I passed very
pleasantly. I _need_ not explain this to you, and to many I _could_ not
explain it; for I assure you the excess of pity which has been lavished
on my husband and me, for having been four days wholly dependant on each
other’s society for amusement, has raised in me many an inward smile,
as being (while intended for politeness) the very essence of rudeness.
‘Dear me, so you were four days in that terrible way. How you must have
suffered from _ennui_, &c. &c.’ In vain I tell people that I am not
subject to _ennui_, &c. &c. they will continue to pity, till I am more
tired _of them_ than they could be of retirement.

Your idea of the motive for writing _The Butterfly’s Ball_ is so
ingenious, one inclines to suppose it just. My dread of some insects
was long troublesome to myself and others. Your favourites, the bees,
formerly excited in me a degree of terror and disgust never entirely
removed till I was once or twice stung. Many would say this was a
strange method of cure, but _you_ know enough of imagination to feel
the advantage of correcting her caricatures by comparison with reality.
My children, on the contrary, are pleased with everything that has life
and motion; and I find some exertion necessary, when they insist on my
admiring the beauties of a huge beetle or the labours of an enormous
spider.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                   London, March 15, 1808.

I am just returned from performing the most solemn act of our religion,
which, as you know, I had much too long deferred. As I feared, those
thoughts I wished to silence _would_ arise, and those tears which ought
to have proceeded from devotion, sprung, in fact, from recollections of
my lost darling. I never saw a stronger proof that London is a religious
town, than in the numbers and the respectful awe of those who remained
to-day to receive. This, you know, was a common Sunday, no festival, no
charity sermon, no good singing, no popular preacher, and the weather
was intolerably cold; yet I dare say more than a hundred stayed in this
private chapel; and these persons, of whom a great part were young _men_
and women, and whose dress announced at the least opulence. _More_
solemnity and attention, both in administering and receiving, I have
never seen. What a contrast to the manners we have left, where no one
ever thought of giving more to Heaven than _les restes du diable_.

I was so low last night, yet so unwilling and unfit for company, that
I persuaded Mrs. Arabin to go to Walker’s Orrery and lecture. It is
very interesting, but I must go again before I find it very improving.
However, something remains; and at all events, it is equal (from the
feelings it inspires) to the finest sermon of Blair or Porteus. I
was much better all night from having given my mind this magnificent
subject for awe, wonder, and self-abasement. The fulness of the pit and
gallery gave a strong proof of the knowledge disseminated in the middle
classes. Women who, from their appearance, you would think never turned
their thoughts beyond their kitchen or laundry, were there, numerous
and attentive listeners. I think if I had a female to educate of a
scientific turn, I should lead her to astronomy in preference to the more
fashionable studies of botany, chemistry, &c. It elevates the mind much
more, and it is less easy, I should imagine, in that science to dazzle
the multitude with a little knowledge than in most others; and it seems
more like a commencement of those floods of knowledge we shall gain in
another existence, than anything relating to the material world, which
can be learned here.


TO THE SAME.

                                                   London, March 17, 1808.

I have just seen Lady ——, who is, as usual, entertaining. She exercised
some of her powers on me. First, ‘London is too dear for anybody to
live in,’ leaving me to draw my own conclusions how I could exist,
if she found it so. Next, a little quizzing of the old-womanish style
of my dress, _through_ Mrs. ——’s, which she described as exactly
what I wore, and then said she was always dressed like a person of a
hundred. Next, a discovery that —— (though _en gros_, she says they
are both beautiful) is very like the print of my grandfather in Lord
Chesterfield’s _Letters_. This, to be sure, I should be glad of. She
pressed me much to go there continually to dinner, while you were away;
and said, with tears in her eyes, that ‘her heart was once _all_ my own.’
But the knowledge of what she has said of me appeared too plainly, I
fear, in the total insensibility with which I received this declaration;
I promised, however, to go sometimes in the evening. People think I have
lost my memory, because I do not appear to remember what I do not think
they desire I should. You must not allow me, even if hereafter I am so
inclined, to renew my intimacy with Lady ——, for her conversation is of
the kind which always leaves little stings; and she chooses, I know not
why, always to try and lower all those I esteem and love, or whom she
thinks I esteem and love; while my happiness depends almost entirely on
raising them. Those constant complaints of her poverty, intended to prove
to others by the Rule of Three that they are _paupers_, may perhaps help
to keep one at a distance. I do not allow that this flows from any false
shame one would have of being _poor_, if it was really the case. But it
is a rule in polished society not to remind one of being ugly, or old,
or poor, or low born; and though one would not blush at any of these
circumstances, one thinks oneself not treated with sufficient respect,
when they are constantly hinted at as having fallen to one’s lot.

Mrs. —— dined with me on Wednesday. She _likes_ me for being attentive
to her; but she _respects_ Lady —— for being what she calls ‘too much
engrossed with the great world to take any notice of such an old woman,
&c. &c.’ If one had no higher motive than standing well in the opinion of
the old and retired, one would treat them with _hauteur_ and neglect; for
except a Lady Hutchinson and one or two more, they all respect you for it.


TO THE SAME.

                                                   London, March 18, 1808.

I have this instant heard of Lady Hutchinson’s illness. I did not think
I could have fretted so much about anyone out of my own circle of
_possessed_ treasures. Her conversation, her letters, above all, the
silent lesson of her life, are inestimable, and can ill be spared. She
is the only person I have associated with for many years from whose
society I always feel better and wiser. Many others are so superior
to myself that they _might_ have that effect, but it is only with
her I am _sensible_ of it. Perhaps she is already happy, has seen my
Frederick, knows everything I am now saying, and smiles at the vanity
and shortsightedness of a mortal, whose faults may now be all laid open
to her, stript of that veil with which we naturally seek to conceal them
from those we respect and love. I think _that_ a painful reflection on
losing a friend. She will, however, see that I loved her much. My eyes
fill so fast that I can hardly see what I am writing; but at the same
time, without any painful emotion that is not more than counterbalanced
by the consoling and elevating thoughts with which the close of such a
life is contemplated. I begin to think that she left us on the night
before last. This is superstition, because I had a splendid vision on
that night; but why may she not have been allowed for a moment to undraw
the curtains of some of our future habitations? My dream was merely that
I saw a prospect before me of such exquisite beauty as this earth owns
not, in which was united the softness of moonlight with the splendour of
sunshine, and _shaded_, if I may so express it, with different degrees of
golden brightness.


TO THE SAME.

                                                           March 19, 1808.

Your conversation or your letters alone animate my existence enough to
prevent me from fixing my eyes steadily on the misfortune from which I
date my second life, as different, certainly, from the former, as two
separate modes of being. Why cannot I interest myself in what interests
so many wiser and better people? I know not, and I feel I cannot walk
in their path. _Là-haut, là-haut_—if I can but follow the bright track
which may conduct me thither, little does it signify how devious or how
absurd my steps appear in the eyes of mortals. I awakened this morning
with an impression of _him_ as powerful as any I felt in the beginnings
of that melancholy tranquillity which followed my first distress, and it
has accompanied me all day. I shall, however, struggle to divert my mind
from it, and will send for some musical person in a day or two, not, like
Saul, to drive away the evil spirit, but to detach my thoughts from the
angelic spirit that hovers about them.

I have been very attentive to Mrs. ——. Poor woman! her old age is but
melancholy. Too unsteady to fix in a place where she had friends, or
indeed in any place—not _deeply_ attached to any one, finding no pleasure
in books, in intellectual conversation, nor in acts of charity, she can
think of nothing but self, and at eighty, what a melancholy prospect;
indeed, at what age is it not so? I have been obliged _to rest from
her_ (as poor Breteuil called it) to-day. Talking much, without going
deeper than the mere dust of the earth, but just scratching the surface,
fatigues me more than labour or application. I think people are not
sufficiently pitied, who, with a taste for intellectual pleasures, are
married to mere _materialists_, if you will allow me to use the word
in a new sense. Everyone pities those who marry a person extremely
disagreeable in externals, and surely the other misfortune is far
greater, as minds come into contact at every moment of existence; and yet
the world always think and talk of it as a kind of jest, when people are
greatly mismatched as to understanding. I reproach myself for having done
so a thousand times.


TO LADY HUTCHINSON.

                                                   London, March 19, 1808.

I shall not attempt to tell you, my dear Lady Hutchinson, with what
pleasure I heard to-day that you were in progress of recovery. Your
illness was only made known to me yesterday, and indeed my feelings were
more proportioned to my quick sense of your perfections, and of your
kindness to me and mine, than to the date of our intimacy. For our sakes,
and for the sake of the many to whom you are dear, and who benefit by
your example, your influence, and your protection, apply, I beseech you,
a little of your prudence to the case of yourself—the only point in which
I think it fails.

I think Mrs. ——’s bearing with so much temper the disappointment of not
going to a birth-night ball, when ready dressed, as you mention, shows
she is superior to at least half the petty subjects of fretting which
diminish female happiness. Really I have seen more peevishness wasted on
the disappointments about public places, during the short time that mine
was a dissipated life, than was excited by any other cause, and you know
Hayley has chosen a similar mishap as one of the most severe trials of
his heroine. However, I am sorry she had the opportunity of this ‘Triumph
of Temper,’ and think her husband deserved a curtain lecture, if he did
not exert himself to the utmost to prevent it.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                   London, March 26, 1808.

As this was a day of low spirits and indisposition, I indulged myself
with a novel, and one fell into my hands which I beg you will read,
if in any country town you are compelled to such an amusement. It is
called _The Hungarian Brothers_, and is written by Miss Porter. Nothing,
perhaps, shows the superiority of English literature more than our
novels. This is really almost equal to any of Mad. Cottin’s, which
make such a noise in France, yet is lost here in the crowd of others,
_as_ excellent in principle, taste, and feeling. It describes what few
novelists have touched on, the closing scene of a valuable and beloved
_old woman_. Alas! why have you men made this almost a term of reproach?
It is _very_ ungrateful. Mrs. Arabin sent it to me when I asked _au
hazard for a book_. You know how I plague people sometimes in that way.
This, however, quieted me a whole morning.

... But how foolish these weak, faint flashes of ambition and cupidity
in my mind. After _what I have seen_, I am surprised such thoughts can
ever rise in a mind so constantly aware of the fragility of every earthly
good. Certainly I do not limit the power Heaven has over our hearts; but
I think when I forget the angel whose loss first made me sensible of this
plain and evident truth, or cease to lament him, it will prove, not that
I am consoled, but that some decay has taken place in my feelings and
faculties. Till then—

    ‘Each lovely scene must him restore,
    For him the tears he duly shed,
    _Beloved_, till life can charm no more,
    And _mourned_, till Pity’s self be dead.’

You know I have no weak, vain pride in being inconsolable; on the
contrary, no sooner did anything divert my thoughts, than I adopted and
cherished it. Neither do I profess at all moments to feel the wound,
although I always feel its general effects on my mind. I need not
apologize for the last page, you well know I cannot love you as I do
without speaking to you of what lies nearest my heart, my master passion.

What you say of Lady Hutchinson not feeling that confidence which is
so often remarked in those far her inferiors in piety and virtue, does
not surprise me. We do not expect that _any one_ temporal reward should
be uniformly extended to the good, and certainly that of a happy exit
appears to be the greatest of all. But I am sure, ‘he that goeth on his
way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall _doubtless_ come again
with joy, and bring his sheaves with him.’ We know that the Author and
Finisher of our faith was not exempt from mortal pains, as appears by
His pathetic exclamation; and, therefore, I am astonished that so many
divines dwell on the certainty that the righteous will be distinguished
by the serenity of their closing scene.


TO THE SAME.

                                                    London, April 4, 1808.

I sat yesterday at Mrs. Dawson’s between Baron Montalembert and a
young man about two and twenty, who, hearing me speak French fluently
to my neighbour who knew not English, and seeing I was applied to on
Continental matters, was suddenly seized with such a desire to dazzle and
enchant me from the idea that I was a foreigner or professed traveller,
as was very amusing to everybody. He began immediately to talk French,
to say he would go to Paris the hour there was a peace, to sigh over the
charms of archduchesses and the fascinating manners of Poles, to call
foreign princes by their names—the Radziwills, the Mecklenburgs—to say
what pleasant houses they kept, and to repeat such French _bon-mots_ as
are in every collection of anecdotes, at the same time trying to talk
over such parts of Germany as I only had seen, and this not in a whisper,
but so as to preclude the conversation of others. Mrs. D. says it was a
_Continental fit_, assumed entirely for poor me.

By the bye, I saw a curious instance of the sameness of French character
in a _marchande de toilette_ whom Miss A. employs. She came from a
provincial town, has been fifteen years out of France, and yet is
precisely a second-hand inferior Mad. Canot. After Miss A. had given
her three guineas for two little quizzical things, bought at one of the
worst shops in the Palais Royal for a _petit écu_, she packed up, saying,
‘_Pour moi je serai toujours pauvre, car je déteste les gains excessifs.
Je ne puis pas souffrir les grands profits._’

Now I am wound up for letter-writing, I am going to _compose_ one to Mrs.
——. You know, some letters _we write_; some _write themselves_ (as ours
to each other); and others _we compose_. Thank heaven, there are none
which _we invent_, though I fear this last branch is in several hands.


TO THE SAME.

                                                    London, April 6, 1808.

I have read Mrs. Grant’s _Letters_,[44] and am charmed with them, but
they were very unfit for me, as we were both wounded in the same vital
part. I am now certain that my wound will never close, though it only
throbs and pains at intervals. But every agitation revives in me the
sense of my loss; even those of a pleasurable kind. I am like a man who
bears in his breast the weapon which has wounded him, and who, when
quite still, does not always feel it, but the least movement makes it a
torment. I think if I could have seen my angel’s vivid smile to-day it
would have calmed all my anxiety. He was certainly sent to give me an
idea of celestial happiness. There is a source of bitterness in my love
for you; for one of us must survive the other; but I used to think with
a certain satisfaction of _his_ closing my eyes and living _happily_
afterwards, which I can scarcely hope for you. Then ‘Hope waits upon the
flowery prime,’ and _that_ which we think we shall see improving for
years acquires almost a kind of immortality in our eyes. I give up all
idea of being more consoled than I am, though I will not oppose the
designs of Providence; but as my feelings interfere with no duty, and
assist in giving me that indifference we ought to have for the pomps,
and vanities, and follies of the world, I rather think it would be wrong
to try and repress what I know has made me less faulty than I am by
nature. When our Saviour said ‘Weep not’ (which is the text I most often
recollect) to the widow who had lost her son, He intended to restore him
to her once more in this life, as He afterwards did. Besides, I cannot
possibly in any way hope you will never be absent from me; and I expected
to have enjoyed his constant company and constant happiness for ten long
years, of which only four and a half would have now expired. Adieu! I
know I grieve you a little; but I trust it does your mind no injury to
recall it now and then to what it is useful sometimes to think on; and
I prefer your feeling a momentary pang, to the least chance of your
forgetting him, which I should think a faint shadow of losing him again.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April, 1808._—On receiving Lady Hutchinson’s watch, after her decease:—

    This watch, uncouth to modern eyes,
      My care shall rescue from neglect;
    Its sculpture rude, its antique size,
      Diminish nought my fond respect.

    It marked her well-divided hours,
      The faithful friend, the matchless wife;
    Whose gifted mind, of various powers,
      In virtue found the charm of life.

    Oft has it seen her summer day,
      When nature blushed with brightest glow,
    In calm attendance pass away
      On heirs of sickness, want, and woe.

    Oft has it seen her winter eve
      Glide on, absorbed in tender cares,
    How best their sorrows to relieve,
      Their garments while her hand prepares.

    Oft has it pointed to the time
      For grateful praise and humble prayer,
    Reclaiming vice, preventing crime,
      And softening tearless pale despair.

    Undazzled, she beheld the blaze
      Of earthly pleasure, earthly pride;
    ’Twas thus she numbered well her days,
      To wisdom thus her heart applied.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                    Bognor, Aug. 25, 1808.

I continue my early rising, and have overcome my reluctance to visit
_sick_ poor, which I felt to a great degree of weakness; and as the
command is positive, ‘Visit the sick,’ no Christian should indulge it.

As to society, the two B——s do not afford me much resource. The maiden
lady is very good, and sees clearly all that is _very_ near her; but her
circumference is so small, that conversation dies for want of aliment.
The married one is too much studied to bear a close inspection, stage
effect being her principal object; therefore intimacy destroys her charm,
and every step one makes behind the scenes, lessens one’s admiration.
She, too, is _good_ in all main points.

... Do not think I am _sniffing_ at your franks. On the contrary,
I am learning properly to value 1_s._ 3_d._, by seeing at once how
hardly-earned, and how useful, money is in the country. In towns it
appears contemptible, because one has always in view the baubles for
which it is exchanged—the useless and fatiguing ball or assembly, the
cadence of the public singer, the bill for frippery at the milliner’s,
the trinket which it is more troublesome to keep than gratifying to
show; but in the country, where one sees how much hard labour is
necessary to realize a shilling, one is more ready to part with it for
the relief of indigence, and less willing to throw it away on vanity and
self-indulgence.


TO THE SAME.

                                                   Bognor, Sept. 15, 1808.

To amuse Miss Agar, I went yesterday to see Goodwood. Fine undulating
lawns, and a luxuriant growth of trees, give it that degree of beauty
which few large places in England are without; and the pheasantry is a
little spot of great charms. This is a little _dip_, nearly oval, almost
on the top of a high hill, and thickly fenced all round with trees and
shrubs. The ground rises from it abruptly, opposite the entrance, and
more gradually on either side. In the bottom lies the neat cottage of
the protector and guide of the most beautiful race of gold and silver
pheasants, which wander about _apparently_ free from restraint, but alas!
a few unseen feathers have been clipped, which completely rob them of
the liberty of quitting the little circuit allotted to them. There is a
total want of water, for which your being able by an effort to see the
sea, and your discovering the Isle of Wight with difficulty, when you
have mounted to a particular spot, can by no means compensate. The house
is unfinished, and the windows seem too small for a building of such
extent and magnificence as it is intended to be. You may be sure we did
not go to see the dog-kennel, which is the grand curiosity of the place,
and of such magnificence as makes one blush; but we were persuaded to
pick our way through an ugly, gloomy, damp collection of little rocks and
moss and tombstones, to which you descend by a short flight of steps; and
this, forsooth, is the dogs’ burial-ground!


TO THE SAME.

                                                               Jan., 1809.

I have been reading Petrarch lately, not his sonnets _before_, but
_after_, the loss of Laura. He is not a true mourner. His genius enabled
him to guess at the workings of grief, and to clothe them in beautiful
and appropriate expressions; but oh! how different from the deep sorrows
of the truth. Yet many passages brought my own loss home to my mind,
particularly his delight in her loveliness of form, of manners, and of
voice; and his sense of his own privation from these being no more.

Probably the fair unknown is amiable, since her person is so attractive.
I have ever found more talents, sense, and, above all, _gentleness_,
amongst handsome young women than plain ones. Indeed, the highest
kind of beauty, expression, is essentially indicative of softness, or
intelligence, or sensibility; as the lower kinds give proof of that
perfect health and organization which is always favourable to good-humour
and vivacity. If handsome women do not shine so often in mature life as
artists or authoresses, it is from having generally had a wider choice
in marriage, and therefore becoming wives and mothers; while the others,
remaining single, have had leisure for improvement.


TO THE SAME.

                                                      London, March, 1809.

I brought to my box last night Mr. and Mrs. Langham. No party is so
comfortable to me as a happy married pair. They are usually satisfied
and amused with the spectacle: the lady is neither looking askant at
the door, nor regretting that my box conceals her from the public eye,
nor hinting at the number of men that are in other boxes, nor wanting
to go into The Room; while the gentleman takes care of me out, without
expecting to be repaid by my chatting and being on the _qui vive_, in
return for the favour. I was particularly pleased at taking _them_. She
is the favourite niece of Lady Jones, and he the son of Lady Langham, two
excellent women, who loaded me with attentions, invitations, and tickets
for concerts, &c., on the delightful first winter I passed in London,
when (deprived of my birthright by a concurrence of circumstances
one would think could hardly have occurred to one whose infancy and
girlhood was so hedged round by precautions, and by all the foresight
of provident affection) I appeared in this great town literally as a
_desolate orphan_, without one appendage of affluence, ignorant, when the
fifty pounds in my last draft were gone, where to get another; in short,
exactly like the birds, with nothing to recommend me among strangers
but my plumage and my song (insignificant as they were), and, like them
also, ‘content and careless of to-morrow’s fare.’ Excuse this egotism;
you encourage it when it tends to cheerful reflections; and I cannot look
back on that winter, the kindness shown me, and the protecting hand of
Providence in throwing me not merely among affectionate, but _moral_ and
_good_ people, without infinite gratitude to that Power which brought me
happily through a situation so dangerous in every point of view. What
might have become of me in the world’s eye, if at that age I had fallen
into the intimacies which it was unfortunate to make at any time; but
which were of so much less consequence when youth, bloom, and novelty
no longer made me conspicuous; when poverty no longer threatened to be
my companion; and when I was quietly _domiciliée_? However, Providence
has brought me now to the haven where I would be, as far as this life
goes: and I wish and pray for nothing but a continuance of my present
blessings. _For nothing!_ a strange-sounding phrase, when I possess
_everything_ I can desire.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April, 1809._—On reading Lord Byron’s _English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers_:—

    Here wit and humour willing smiles excite,
    Yet who can read the volume with delight?
    Or, pleased, behold a youthful censor rise,
    Disdain and anger flashing from his eyes;
    Who tears the silken rose to show the thorn,
    Bids Genius quaff the bitter draught of scorn,
    Spurns the soft charities of social life,
    And rends the veil that hid domestic strife?
    Prompt with misguided hand, and zeal misplaced,
    The keen, bright shafts of ridicule to waste.

      Pope, brilliant star of our Augustan age,
    For dulness and for guilt reserved his rage.
    The mighty master of the Northern lyre,
    Dowered with a painter’s eye, a poet’s fire,
    Scott, spirit-stirring bard to Fancy dear,
    Had ne’er endured from him the cutting sneer.
    Well had _he_ marked the beauties that belong
    To the wild melody of Southey’s song,
    (Though strangely destitute of taste and rule);
    Nor given this cordial to each rhyming fool,
    That if he fall, the same unsparing blow
    Had purposed to lay Scott and Southey low.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                   London, April 29, 1809.

I dined at the Grattans with Catalani and her husband. They spoiled the
party, as professors always do, when made of the company; and Valabrègue
got a convenient _colique_; and they went off as soon as he came up from
dinner, without her singing. She did not choose to open her mouth for
fine speeches, and a good dinner, as was expected; and to prove that
Mrs. Grattan might subscribe and come to the concerts of Catalani, they
said at dinner that _vingt estropiés s’y faisoient porter_ both in London
and Bath, also in Dublin. It was a curious day. She is coarse in person
and manner in private; nay, even in voice, which is extraordinary. He is
presumption and impudence double-distilled.

Lady —— is really a firebrand. I hear the two younger brothers of her
husband are not very cordial, which I can easily conceive with such a
person in the family. Her husband does not attempt to make the slightest
reply to any insult she offers him, either in his own person or that of
his relations. Is this love, philosophy, Christianity, or what? Love,
I think, though it bears much violence and passion from its object, is
easily roused to anger by _insult_, especially before a third person.
Philosophy would probably teach a line of conduct that might reclaim
by dignified firmness. And Christianity, which says, ‘Wives, _submit_
yourselves to your husbands,’ should, I think, instruct a man to keep his
place. ‘Honouring her as the _weaker_ vessel,’ is not allowing her vessel
to shove his out of its place, and scatter it in fragments in the dust.


TO THE SAME.

                                                             July 7, 1809.

As I always fall on something melancholy when my guardian is absent,
I this morning have happened to read a wife’s adieu in _Gertrude of
Wyoming_, and a beautiful passage on the loss of a child in Morehead’s
_Sermons_, which were both particularly calculated to affect me. All
Gertrude says of the topics of consolation left to her husband, with the
exception of the stanza complaining of her not leaving a child, I beg you
to apply to yourself, if ever you happen to want them. The words are few,
but so true to nature, that they will suit ours as well as any fancied
situation.

Mrs. —— seems an excellent woman, and wholly without background. I have
seen few more estimable as a wife and mother, or more easy and safe as
an acquaintance. As to _friendships_, no married woman can really _form_
one. The most she can do is to _continue_ one or two made when single.
The intimacies made afterwards may be ‘confederacies in pleasure,’ but
nothing more.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 9, 1809._—There is a strong resemblance between St. Pierre’s
_Paul et Virginie_ and _Gertrude of Wyoming_. Perhaps the one may have
elicited the other. I am far from detracting from the merit of one of
the most beautiful poems in the English language by this remark. It is
not the resemblance of plagiarism, but a species of likeness independent
of imitation, which the admirers of both will find pleasure in tracing;
and it is not uninteresting to observe what a different character may be
stamped on events and situations nearly similar. In each we are presented
with exquisite pictures of the lonely smiles of nature in a remote clime,
where we suppose an almighty hand to have scattered with ‘boon profusion’
those beauties we endeavour to obtain by the slow progress of art and
industry. In each the mind reposes on the idea of primeval innocence, and
of lovers whose pure affections are guarded by their situation from any
ills that may spring from intercourse with the world: who not only derive
from each other their chief felicity, but to whom inconstancy, and even
jealousy, are happily impossible. In each the hero is bowed to earth by
the premature and sudden death of the woman he loves, who meets her fate
with courage and sensibility before his eyes. In each a friend of mature
age and high endowments endeavours to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’
and to soften that grief ‘which knows not consolation’s name.’ These
beautiful tales have also this in common, that we conclude them with
regret, wish we had been _so_ pained a little longer, feel our hearts
raised and ameliorated, our sense of domestic happiness more lively, our
interest in the fate of our fellow wanderers in the path of human life
more strong and tender, than before. Such ought to be the effect of every
work of imagination that bears the stamp of genius, and such effects
alone give immortality to its productions.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                              Sept., 1809.

I was greatly disappointed in _Madoc_, which I have just read, though,
I believe, it is not very new. What a strange delight Southey takes in
wounds and tortures! I would almost as soon visit the Inquisition, or
witness a boxing-match, as read it again.

I have seen an interesting letter from Hannah More on the subject of
_Cœlebs_, and was greatly pleased with the candour and simplicity of her
sentiments and style. She says it has gone through ten large editions,
and has been the means of sending many readers to ‘the best of books;’
but she apologizes for the marks it bears of having been written when her
health and spirits were somewhat impaired; and she owns _that_ lady may
have been right who said ‘it was a bad novel and a bad sermon.’

Your admiration of _Gertrude of Wyoming_ is not greater than my own.
There is an exquisite sensibility in some passages, and a pomp of
poetical diction, united with apparent truth of descriptive painting, in
others, which cover all the faults of its meagre, disjointed, improbable
narrative, and its occasional obscurity of expression. Its condensed
beauties are numerous, and particularly to be admired at present, when
the art of saying much in few words seems almost forgotten.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                      London, April, 1810.

I find myself lonely and low and alarmed and anxious and uncomfortable to
an uncommon degree. The strangeness of this house and of all the faces
round me, makes me very nervous. Cornwall, you know, wanders round me
like something between an old Irish mourner, a troubled spirit, and an
undertaker’s assistant. In short, I am miserable, and every forgotten
spectre of past sorrow gathers round me. I cannot express to you what
I feel at finding myself here to-night with only this melancholy woman.
What a witch is Imagination, and how she can darken, as well as brighten,
the same groundwork, so as to make it appear perfectly a different
picture!

I met an old acquaintance to-day. She told me she would not have known
me had she met me anywhere; but added, as a consolation, that I was
grown very ‘stout and jolly.’ ‘Stout and jolly;’ charming epithets! But,
indeed, I am very indifferent about this. Nobody has gone so far in
speaking of my change as the looking-glass; so I am still much in debt to
the politeness of my friends.

I was amused by ——’s apprehension of meeting with ‘a careful wife.’ I
never found any of the fears my friends entertained relative to their
fate in marriage realized. Though the hydra-headed monster of matrimony
may have produced to them ‘Gorgons and Chimæras dire,’ these have never
been precisely of the kind they apprehended. A notable wife was often
troublesome in the last age, when the feudal hospitality and profusion
of some families were contrasted in others with a species of narrow
bustling husbandry that has long bustled its last, and subsided into the
temperate and well-regulated economy of our time; which requires not the
sacrifice of more than the daily half-hour, and will amply repay it in
a consciousness of utility and of fulfilling the claims made on us by
children, friends, servants, the community, and the poor, all of whom
must be injured, more or less, by every species of waste.


TO THE SAME.

                                                            Dec. 17, 1810.

There is no party at present here except Mr. —— and his wife, who is just
the person formed to distress me, by always talking to me of _my_self and
_her_self—two topics on which a fair easy dialogue is impossible, as I
cannot possibly say exactly what I think of either of us. Her compliments
to me are very strong, but _now_ such compliments give me pain. Though in
the exuberance of youth and spirits I could once bear a powerful light,
I am now scorched by what used only to warm me. She is quite miserable
at her husband being ‘so stupid a thing’ as a clergyman. I thought this
opinion was extinct, and was quite surprised to hear of its revival.
I own it appears to me a particularly happy fate, if one likes one’s
husband, to have married a clergyman. He is safe not merely from the
dangers of a profession, but of a duel, and his wife has _un gage de
plus_ for his moral conduct and his leading a domestic stationary life.
Add to this an eternal comparison with poor me—my garnets, my shawl, my
house in Hampshire, all wished for; and finally, she assured me, when we
were alone, she would be very glad we could exchange husbands, that she
heard you were very much to be liked, and I should have ——, and welcome.
Now, you think I exaggerate, and upon my word I soften the picture.
I have written a whole page of gossip. I hope we shall continue to
associate but little with those who give materials for it.


TO THE SAME.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Dec., 1810.

None of us have been out of the house since Monday, and there was a fresh
fall of snow to-day. How I thank my _young_ self for having cultivated
such a taste for occupation that my _old_ self never knows _ennui_. That
I prefer society to loneliness, is quite another thing; and I am glad to
see clearly that I do so, and no longer to be cheated by the false ideas
a warm imagination picks up on the subject from books, or an impatient
spirit from the momentary disgust inspired by unpleasant company.

... I think to be excellent as a husband a man must be excellent in many
other points; and if women were more convinced of this than they are in
general, there would be fewer marriages, and perhaps more happiness; or
else, in hope of pleasing us, men would improve themselves. The greatest
fault our sex can be accused of, is being too easily pleased by yours;
who seem to take an unfair advantage of it in being as much _over_, as
we often are _under_, nice; since the smallest fault of temper, manners,
or even person, is thought a sufficient apology for your breaking loose;
while _poor we_——; but this is too copious a subject, and my poor baby is
crying. I hope Buonaparte may have a sick child, as I think the cry of an
infant, whose pain one cannot know or assuage, would make him feel his
want of power, though nothing else has done it.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                             Jan. 2, 1811.

I have never seen Miss Edgeworth, which I do not very much regret, having
invariably been disappointed whenever I have greatly admired a book, on
being introduced to its author. This may partly be my own fault, but I
believe it is so common a feeling that those to whom admiration gives
pleasure, ought rather to wish to retain their idea of a favourite writer
than to exchange it for reality. You might say this was ‘sour grapes,’
if I did not also acknowledge that, if an opportunity offered of making
acquaintance with a person so distinguished, and of such eminent talents,
as Miss Edgeworth, I should certainly embrace it; so my little theory
will never deprive me of any positive pleasure, and only serve to save me
from unavailing wishes.

(_Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 26._)—You will be pleased at knowing we are
all well; and that I, who for many, many years, have never seen the
country, but when visiting at other peoples’ houses, and of course
under some constraint, feel a childish delight at watching the first
crocuses, snowdrops, and the gradual unfolding of the honeysuckles and
other creepers. My children are equally entertained, and find a great
difference between the liberty and variety of a garden, and the formal
pacing up and down town flags, ever either damp or dusty. Indeed, as to
education, being in the country lops off half the difficulties which
attend it in town.


TO THE SAME.

                                                      London, May 1, 1811.

The letter on the _strenuous idleness_ of those who devote their whole
leisure to needlework, I imagine to be Mr. Lefanu’s. Am I right? My
grandfather was more averse from this employment than even the writer
of that letter, and could never bear to see a needle in my hands. Your
friend does not go so far, and argues not against the _use_ of the
needle, but the _abuse_ of it. I think he is right. But in general I
own myself a friend to what we females call _work_. It fills up the
_interstices_ of time, if I may use the expression. It accords with most
of the indoor employments of men, who, if they care for us at all, do
not much like to see us engaged in anything which abstracts us too much
from _them_. It lessens the _ennui_ of hearing children read the same
story five hundred times. It can be brought into the sick room without
diminishing our attention to an invalid, while it seems to release the
sufferer from any obligation of conversing with _us_. It is a sort of
composer, a _calmant_ peculiarly useful, I believe, to the delicate and
irritable spirits of women. Those who can use the pen so well as the
friend whom I have the pleasure of addressing, are, I think, entitled to
lay aside the ‘shining store,’ but they are so few as to be considered
merely as exceptions.

I am glad you like Mrs. Carter’s _Letters_. I know they are heavy, yet
I _do_ like them, and read them with great pleasure, and am angry when
I hear them called dull, which has happened to me very often. I love
the turn of her mind; and though she may be a little tedious, it is to
me like the tediousness of a friend. If you have a mind for brilliancy
and flippancy, and some sense and wit, mixed up with a certain hardness
and insensibility and vanity very unpleasing in a youthful female, turn
to Mrs. Montagu’s _Letters_. They are vastly more entertaining for once
reading, but you do not love the writer half so well, nor am I sure you
would be so apt to _return_ to the volume. Besides, there are a few great
truths which Mrs. Carter places in so many lights, and impresses so
strongly, that I think her _Letters_ are highly useful in a moral view,
and an excellent book for the library of a young girl.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                        London, May, 1811.

I have _guttered_ about through the rain, shut up in a long shawl and
thick veil, and have seen West’s picture. Beautiful it certainly is,
though we are perhaps a little too national if we prefer it to the
‘Descent from the Cross,’ and the ‘Transfiguration.’ Our Saviour’s
face disappointed me extremely; it is not nature, and it does not
strike me as sufficiently noble for Divinity. But we cannot too much
admire his figure, drapery, and hands. As a composition, it seems to be
admirable; and its _clearness_ and _distinctness_, those great charms
to an unlearned eye, do not seem to injure its effect as a whole. The
expression of sensibility in the principal female faces is beautiful,
and does not disturb the harmony of their countenances; but they are all
three too much alike.

The —— always leave me in doubt by their manner, whether I have not
done something to offend them, and really have an expression between
distracted and _distrait_, that one knows not how to comprehend. In
general, it is a great misfortune to be rich without being well educated.
People expect from fortune they know not what, and are angry if it does
not command _all_ the different kinds of respect and attention, which are
due to such a variety of circumstances. In a small circle it will have
its weight; but when people step into general society, the effect of mere
money is immediately neutralized, and ‘Nabob’ or ‘Nay, Bob’ comes to much
the same thing.

I am glad Mrs. C. is so cross, as I like you should now and then see that
the innocents who never have seen the world, nor heard a civil thing, are
worse than us poor decayed toasts, against whom you wise ones so often
declaim as unfit for domestic life. A race-horse draws as well in the
family coach as if he had never been on the turf.


TO THE SAME.

                                                        London, May, 1811.

I heard excellent music last night, and the last public notes of the
sweetest singer I have ever heard, or probably shall ever hear—I mean
combined with so much power; for I have heard many moderately strong
voices _still_ sweeter, according to the usual equalization of Heaven’s
gifts. Mrs. Billington professedly sang for the last time; but as I saw
Mara’s resurrection about six different times in ten years, I am not
without hope of hearing her again. Her last Italian air was that which
Tarchi taught me, _Sarah’s Lamentation_; it was marked MS., and everyone
is wishing for it. Harrison, Catalani, a delightful ballad singer, Mrs.
Ashe, and almost everything else that was good, sang there. Harrison’s
singing was like a lover’s whisper by moonlight.

Mr. A—— has inflicted on me the task of reading his _Journey through
France_—on lazy _me_, who would not read the admired poem of _Psyche_,
because it was in manuscript. I catch a word now and then about a
‘church and altarpiece,’ a ‘capital picture,’ ‘charges _moderate_ in the
_extreme_’ (is not that a bull?), ‘the lively chit-chat of a beautiful
_petite_ brunette,’ &c. &c., and so I hope to persuade myself I have
read it. Mr. Hastings, in a note which accompanied the book, gets out of
the scrape of giving an opinion with admirable dexterity; for he says it
‘is _as_ interesting from the authority from which it proceeds, as from
its own intrinsic merit.’ There are not so many _froms_ in his phrase,
but this is the idea.... I have finished Mr. A——’s book. He talks of
the mildness of the present French Government, and is enchanted with
everything Parisian; makes Mad. Frémont a fourth Grace; the _Hôtel du
Cercle_ the Palace of Armida; and, finally, he makes me sick.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, July 30, 1811.

Pray indulge me with the characters of the youthful part of your
family. I once heard Lady Yarmouth say, to justify herself for liking a
disagreeable young man better than a sensible old one—‘I have a decided
taste for youth.’ Now, though this is not my case, in her sense of the
phrase, yet I certainly have particular pleasure in contemplating the
characters and actions of those who are fresh from the hand of nature,
and alive to all the enjoyments she so liberally bestows: ‘Hope waits
upon the flowery prime.’

Your _Good Nature_ appears to me a beautiful poem, and I strongly
recommend its publication. It will be a valuable addition to the small
number of those one may put into the hands of youth, without feeling any
secret wish to expunge even a line. Thanks for your eulogium on Clarkson.
He is not enough praised by the world. The _first_ promoter of every good
work is always less valued than he ought. Like the foundation stone, like
the precious seed, his fame too often lies buried.

The opening of your book on old age, reminds me of an anecdote of the
late Duke of Queensberry, which I had from an earwitness. Leaning over
the balcony of his beautiful villa near Richmond, where every pleasure
was collected which wealth could purchase or luxury devise, he followed
with his eyes the majestic Thames, winding through groves and buildings
of various loveliness, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, that wearisome river, will it
never cease running, running, and I so tired of it!’ To me this anecdote
conveys a strong moral lesson, connected with the well-known character of
the speaker, a professed voluptuary, who passed his youth in pursuit of
selfish pleasures, and his age in vain attempts to elude the relentless
grasp of _ennui_.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I gather from the following, evidently the sketch of a preface,
    that it was my Mother’s intention to edit a selection from the
    correspondence of the two honoured friends of her youth, one a
    connexion by her first marriage, whose names are mentioned at
    its close. It has a further value to me, as expressive of her
    sentiments in respect of the posthumous publication of letters.

_Sept. 1811._—Many letters and fragments never intended for publication,
have lately been drawn from the shade, and exhibited in the glare of day,
without any prominent merit to entitle them to notice; yet all have been
widely read; and the fastidious critic, who exclaims against the vanity
of editors, and the folly of obtruding private letters on the public, is
not always the last to peruse the decried volume. Is it not unfair that
works which contribute so largely to general entertainment, should meet
with general censure? Where nothing is published that the dead would
have wished to conceal, or that can hurt the feelings of the living, it
is a blameless gratification to diffuse and prolong the remembrance of
those we have loved, to place all that remains of them on earth beyond
the reach of those accidents to which MSS. are liable, and to enlarge
through their means the stock of innocent amusement. It may even be
added, that the curiosity excited by anecdote and private letters turns
to general good, by substituting sketches from nature for the monstrous
fictions and insipid ravings of modern novels.

Will the editor be excused for adding another volume to the class in
question? The characters of those who wrote the following letters were of
no common order. Many will recollect having been exhilarated by the wit
and humour of Edward Tighe; some, too, will read with interest the ardent
expressions of the eccentric but highly gifted Mansergh St. George, whose
talents, sensibility, quick sense of honour, and high courage, commanded
admiration; though by some strange fatality they never reached the end
for which they seemed designed by Providence, and were buried in an
untimely grave.

    Of the latter of those named above, I find another and fuller
    portrait; see also in the later part of this volume, a letter
    of date Nov. 9, 1826.

Few men were more highly endowed by nature than Mansergh St. George—rich
in the elementary qualities most essential to the formation of the poet,
the painter, or the hero; warm affections, a lively imagination, powers
of conception equally quick and strong, deep sensibility, undaunted
courage, unaffected indifference to the common objects of ambition, and
exquisite skill in the transmitting his impressions, either by the pen or
pencil. Shakespeare has said that ‘spirits are not finely touched but to
fine issues;’ and he is surely right, if we take a future existence into
calculation. Did we look to this world alone, we should say the talents
of Mansergh St. George were splendid and useless gifts;—‘their memorial
is perished with them.’ In fulfilling the duties of his profession as a
soldier, he received in the American war a frightful wound, which carried
away a portion of the skull; and, though it clouded not the brightness
of his intellect, it deprived him of health and vigour, except in those
moments of enthusiasm when his body seemed to borrow strength from his
mind, moments ever followed by increased debility and depression. He
was eccentric, but his singularities were not such as derogated from
the respect and affection claimed by his sensibility and genius. He was
conscious of them, and sometimes attributed them to a defective system of
education, but they were certainly increased by the sedentary and retired
life to which ill-health condemned him, and by the attention to his own
sensations it enforced.

    I find only two or three letters of him who is thus praised
    among my Mother’s papers; though, doubtless, she must have
    possessed many more, when meditating this publication. In
    one, of date Aug. 1792, written soon after the loss of his
    wife at Clifton, there is a passage which I am well pleased
    to preserve. ‘I would shake hands with Sir —— ——, but grief
    communicates with grief like madness, and we are both too apt
    to dress our sorrows in idle weeds and fumitory. Affliction is
    a curious thing. Her threatening aspect becomes mild on a near
    approach. Her snakes become lambent, and lick our wounds. She
    has an _agreeable_ ugliness. But perhaps I am partial; for we
    have long been playfellows.... I have suffered the _worst_; in
    due time, my present agony will be mellowed into those sweet
    regrets, that delicious _desiderium_, the balm which the mind
    naturally produces for its own cure.’


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                            Oct. 12, 1811.

I am sorry I cannot answer your query about the Duchess of York. I
know she has several dogs, but I suspect the number of 170 to be an
exaggeration. I remember ten years since hearing Col. ——, a man nicely
attentive to his own convenience, lament that eight or ten of them
usurped every good place near the fire, and made the drawing-room
extremely offensive. She passes for being what is called ‘a good sort of
woman;’ person of whom nothing can be cited remarkable enough to merit
praise or blame. I was presented to her at her first drawing-room, when
her manner was uncommonly gentle, and her appearance pleasing.

How often I have thought of the affecting circumstances of Miss
Keatinge’s bequest. It is a most beneficent dispensation of Providence
that sickness and sorrow so often prove the seeds of charity and
sympathy. In consequence of _one_ pang felt, how often are a thousand
relieved or prevented. And as to the sufferers, I believe there is none
of us who cannot say, ‘It is good for me that I was in trouble.’ If
we perceive _that_ now, how much more clearly shall we see it when in
another state of existence, if we are then endowed with a faculty of
looking back on those springs of action which gave an impulse to our
earthly life.


TO THE SAME.

                                                               Nov., 1811.

I have been much interested by your _Tobit_; and, as you desired, have
not yet read the original, which I have nearly forgot. This, however,
is not a work which would have much chance of pleasing the public; as a
Scripture story is a millstone which, I believe, would now sink any poem.
Strange it is, and unaccountable. Mr. Sotheby has struggled nobly against
this prejudice in his _Saul_; but scarcely anyone has read this charming
poem. In the whole circle of my acquaintance I never met one who had; nor
could I ever prevail on any person, even among Mr. Sotheby’s friends and
relations, to do so, except my second self; yet it had the advantage of
being introduced, in an extract of considerable length, in the _Annual
Register_ ten or a dozen years since. I think Johnson did some injury in
declaring religious subjects unfit for poetry.

You will have great pleasure in conversing with Lancaster, who is
communicative and fluent. He has given a great stimulus to the public
mind, and awakened those to a sense of duty who were too long dormant
on the great subject of education. That he appears not to have been
able to resist that temptation ‘by which angels fell,’ and that he has
been so far intoxicated by praise as to claim the _entire_ merit of an
invention, which certainly he adopted and published and fostered with
more energy and success than the real parent, is to me a matter of regret
rather than surprise—perfection and human nature being incompatible. The
_bitterness_ of the controversy is indeed to be deplored; it is clear
that the controversy itself has already been of use.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The following was written as a contribution to a miscellaneous
    volume projected by a literary friend. I am ignorant whether
    the volume was ever published; or, if so, under what name.


THE ENVIOUS MAN: IN IMITATION OF THE PICTURES IN ‘THE MICROCOSM.’[45]

The next picture is distinguished by the peculiar expression of the
countenance. Mark that painful smile. It inflicts on the spectator
a slight tincture of the uneasiness it bespeaks. This is an Envious
Man—sworn foe to Excellence, Eminence, Enjoyment. United, these form a
triple cord, in which he would willingly hang himself; and separate, any
one of the three suffices to wring his heart.

The man who rejoices in the success of those who tread the same path to
distinction with himself, has conquered some of the strongest foes to
happiness and virtue. He who feels a slight difficulty in doing justice
to a competitor is touched by human infirmity. But what shall we say of
this man, who is Envious _in the abstract_; to whom all happiness is
baneful, all beauty deformity, all music discord, all virtue hypocrisy
or weakness? In vain you think yourself safe, because you can never be
his competitor; your ages are dissimilar, your pursuits opposite, your
situations remote. Mistaken man! In your life ‘if there be any virtue,
and if there be any praise,’ there will he cross you, like a basilisk, in
your path. Even though you possess no splendid gifts, no social charm,
nor riches, nor honours, nor domestic joys,—still, if content be yours,
there you sin against his creed, and incur his anathema.

A youth speaks of a lovely woman with admiration. The Original of this
portrait points out, as a counterpoise to all her graces, that slight
blemish in person or manners, which is but the stamp of humanity. Tell
him a witticism, he has heard it before: a splendid act of beneficence,
’tis ostentation: an instance of family affection, ‘Dear Sir, this may
be so, but who can peep behind the curtain?’ When the length of a young
lady’s raven tresses was pointed out to him as remarkable, he whispered,
‘False, depend on it; I know where they are sold.’ ‘Sir,’ said a friend
of the young lady’s, ‘the hair must have grown on some human head, why
not where we see it?’ ‘No, no,’ says the sceptic; ‘be assured, hair of
such a length never grew from any head whatever. False, false, depend on
it.’

This is the only man whose wishes are ever crowned with final success.
Vigour declines, beauty decays, wit is extinguished, the tenderest ties
at last are broken, the noblest monument crumbles to dust. So far, time
alone insures the accomplishment of his desires. Folly, vice, and natural
evils, accelerate the work. All the ministers of darkness are his
allies. ‘Shadow him with laurel,’ ye spirits at enmity with man. He is
already one of your fraternity; he has enlisted in the service of your
master, _without a bribe_.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                         Bath, Feb., 1812.

Your gleanings are very entertaining. Why is it that one appears to hear
more odd and comical sayings in the first twenty-four hours after an
Irish arrival, than in many following days? I suppose the novelty of the
accent excites attention in the beginning.

I was last night at Lady Newcomen’s. I cannot tell you how kind people
are. I meet more _bienveillance_ than when I was younger; and to _me_
this more than compensates for that mixture of flattery, nonsense, and
spite, of which what is foolishly called admiration is compounded. No one
affronted me by saying I looked as well as ever, or even simply well.

Your friend seems quite uneasy under the present fashion of not flirting,
and looks as if he was saying ‘Othello’s occupation’s gone.’ For my part,
I think the present ‘sabbath’ much pleasanter than the former ‘laborious
idleness.’ If everyone told the truth, they would own that fishing for
_agreeable_ chat often tired them as much as more strenuous employment;
and to some the double duty of talking well, and looking well, in all
humours and under all circumstances, was really fatiguing.

This is my day of moving. The servants are very angry at my leaving this
house, and the domestic machinery creaks in every wheel.


TO THE SAME.

                                                      Bath, Feb. 20, 1812.

I am just returned from seeing Betty, and greatly disappointed. His
figure and face are ignoble, his voice not pleasing, his gesticulations
vulgar, and his manner in general high rant. Yet in the last act of _The
Earl of Essex_ he showed feeling and a just conception of his part. I
know not how he pleased others; as to me, he made no impression, and I
never desire to see him again. _The pair_ by my side were as much in a
state of performance as he was. There is no love on either part. She
wishes to marry him as a _bon parti_; and he wishes, whether he intends
to marry her or not, to make her violently in love with him. In this he
fancies he has in part succeeded, and so did I till this evening; but
he is much mistaken. I could almost fancy she will carry her point; one
is generally safe in deciding for the woman. As we were a _quartetto_,
I thought it right, on quitting the box half an hour before the play
was over, to offer to take her home, as it appeared to me unfeminine to
leave her shut up in a little cage with him; but she refused me under a
very ingenious pretence, and much will depend on the use she makes of
that time. She was in a state of high romance and affected suffering;
and it was painful to hear on each side the language of high-wrought
affection used for selfish or worldly purposes and in a theatrical
tone; and also to see love played at like a game of chess, each party
advancing and retreating according to a premeditated scheme. She has a
thoroughly foreign manner, and admirable French accent, having past much
of her life in France; shows great _sharpness_ both of intellect and
temper; but patches it over now and then with a sentiment of softness
and self-devotion, borrowed from Claire d’Albe, or Malvina, or Corinne.
Heaven help him and his daughter, if he marries her!


TO THE SAME.

                                                      Bath, Feb. 22, 1812.

No letter from you yet, and it is now a week since I have heard; but I
will continue to write, and heap coals of fire on your head. All Bath is
much more interested at present in Mrs. Williams’, late Mrs. Bristow’s,
dancing than in the change of Ministry. She announced her intention of
making up a French country-dance last Thursday, and it attracted several
hundreds—partly from the reputation of her beauty and dancing, partly
from the singularity of seeing a woman past fifty, and a grandmother,
still so handsome, and able to perform in a _cotillon_. She danced, I
hear, not in the theatrical indelicate manner of the present day, but
with the flowing gracefulness of the preceding, and is to perform again
next Thursday, when a much greater crowd is expected, as those who came
to ridicule her stayed to admire, except a few inflexible Bath Cats. I
fear I must not venture that evening, as, without going very early, no
art or good luck could secure a place where I could see her. Her husband
danced in the same dance as her _vis-à-vis_ (which, you know, is not her
partner), and performed also remarkably well; but he is a youngish man.

I have wanted you to protect me from a person who has taken possession
of me—not a man. She began by humility and falling in love with me and
mine—not by admiration, which I know how to resist, but by affection,
which I shall never resist; and she ends by _exigeance_ and assumption,
and, without being distinguished in any way, by an extraordinary display
of vanity, which is always interrupting the common course of things.

I am giving —— —— something very like regular lessons in singing; and I
have the vanity to think I have improved her. She has powers, and has had
an immensity of instruction; but I think her instructors have made a job
of her, and have hid from her, or at least not shown her, some of the
simplest principles in singing.


TO THE SAME.

                                                      Bath, Feb. 26, 1812.

I heard so often that Betty acted ill the first night from _mauvaise
honte_, that I was seduced to see him again to-night, and fell upon
_Alexander the Great_, fancying I was going to see _Tancred and
Sigismunda_. He certainly pleased me much better; and I shall not be
surprised if the strength of his genius and intelligence conquers the
impression made by his physical defects. At the same time, I shall
regret it, for the ‘stock of harmless pleasure’ is much diminished when
external grace is not united on the stage to superior talent: and if he
is borne to the head of his profession, _manœuvring_ will keep down all
his competitors as long as my life lasts; and I shall be compelled to see
as Hamlet, Romeo, and Coriolanus, a clumsy, short-necked, large-stomached
hero, with a red dumpling as a face, an obstructed articulation, and
an audible manner of recovering breath, like what one hears on board
the packets. I foresee this is likely to be our fate, for he has great
energy, pathos, and a complete conception of his part. In short, he _has_
every mental, and _wants_ every physical requisite. Lady —— is his great
patroness, and I hope I never shall forget her manner of applauding,
for it makes me laugh whenever it rises to my mind. It was not with her
eyes, it was not with her hands; it was an undulating motion of her whole
person, and all its appendages. In a pathetic part, the only time when a
tear was forced from me, it was instantly dried as I turned my eye on her
(it was ‘Said a tear to a smile’). I have tried to do it, but I want her
activity.

At Lady Cosby’s affectionate request I sang at her house last Monday,
and her thanks and praises were far above what my performance could
deserve. I heard a lady behind me to-night say I sang quite in the style
of Braham. It is of all others the style of which I should like to catch
the least shadow. When I hear a lady sings like Catalani, I am always
alarmed, for I dread anything approaching to her _powers_ being let
loose upon me without an equal proportion of her science and skill; and
if it is a young untaught lady, who is ‘quite a natural genius,’ I am
very anxious to run out of the room.

I hope you remember me affectionately to the kind friends you are
surrounded with. You know how much I love many amongst them, and how
completely the _second_ circle in my heart (for the first contains but
six souls) is filled by the friends and relations you have given me;—I
will not say _relatives_; ‘relations’ was good enough for Milton and
Thomson, and shall be good enough for me, spite of modern refinement. It
is a word _set_ in the gold of two of their best passages, and therefore
I will not change it.


TO THE SAME.

                                                      Bath, March 1, 1812.

I passed Monday evening with an old friend, Mrs. Morgan, who has known
me from the time I was six years old. She has a mind most pregnant and
original, and a superior flow of conversation, but is not generally
liked. She is so indifferent to common forms, visits only those she
prefers and approves, never goes to assemblies, and is perhaps _a little_
more candid than is necessary. Her lamentations over me at my having lost
what, as Clarissa always says, ‘she was pleased to call’ ‘the prettiest
and lightest figure she ever saw,’ were really entertaining, from their
contrast to the fibs one is in the habit of hearing; adding, ‘Ah, my
dear’ (for she has some Irish phraseology), ‘what a beautiful creature
I remember you, and now, even your face is grown fat and broad. Well,
you will always be delightful _to listen to_.’ I am very much obliged to
her for remembering what she once thought me, but I had the weakness to
feel a little involuntary melancholy. In spite of _broad_, Mrs. Morgan
is a delightful woman, so delightful, that, though dressed to go to Mrs.
Lemon’s, I sent an excuse, and spent the whole evening _tête-à-tête_
with her. She illuminated the past for me, and gave me an infinity of
anecdotes from the fountain-head, relative to Mrs. Bowdler (her intimate
friend), that prodigy, Miss Smith, the Edgeworths, who live near her
daughter, and other equally interesting people. Mr. Edgeworth’s present
wife goes with all her children to the parish church, has introduced the
Bible, and has added to the whole family the charm of religious feelings
and principles.

Mrs. Williams will put some hundreds into King’s pocket, such crowds
attend the rooms to see her dance. I have not ventured to go since she
has performed; for you cannot get a place near enough to see her without
going at eight o’clock. She has taught her husband to dance; he is always
her _vis-à-vis_; and he said to an old maid whom he heard abusing her
for _exhibiting_, as they call everything they cannot do themselves,
‘Ma’am, _if you had a husband_ that liked you should dance as well as
I do that Mrs. Williams should dance, I dare say you would do it too.
She is my wife, and I hope she will dance as long as she is able.’ The
consternation of the old maid was great. Certainly it is a foolish thing
to be so anxious to see a woman perform, because she is a grandmother,
whom nobody came particularly to see when she was sixteen years younger
and a good many more pounds lighter; for she is very large; but the folly
is in the spectators, not in her.

       *       *       *       *       *

_August, 1812._—The paucity of French works fit for young women is
remarkable. From Mad. de Genlis they learn to overrate worldly pursuits,
externals, accomplishments, and all the frippery of life; for though
there are charming passages and delightful stories, and she disavows
this doctrine, yet such is _the general impression_ her writings leave.
Besides, they have a tendency to foster duplicity, and a species of
address which requires to be discouraged in females, as experience proves
that most of us have too much of it without any superadded cultivation.
A mother, as in _Adèle et Théodore_, is to form her daughter’s heart by
a series of little _plots_ and _falsehoods_, which she calls _scenes_;
and all these are to be acknowledged to the daughter on her day of
marriage, in order to increase the respect for truth necessary for the
happiness of that connexion. From _Télémaque_ girls may learn abstract
principles of politics and the art of governing kingdoms; or rather,
as they cannot understand these topics, they learn to be unable ever
to read with pleasure a very fine work, from the recollection of the
_ennui_ it inspired as an exercise. From _Gil Blas_, which was once
at least a school book (perhaps it may be so no longer), they will
learn what are the habits and manners of gamesters, pickpockets, kept
mistresses, robbers, &c., and they _only lose_ the attic salt and
exquisite humour that form the whole merit of the book; as, to relish
these, some knowledge of the world is absolutely necessary. Mad. de
Sévigné is delightful to a cultivated mind, well read in the anecdotes
and history of her period, and versed in the conversation-idiom of the
French language; but she is so full of allusions, so like a speaker, and
so sure her daughter has read the same books and knows the same people
as herself, that a poor girl is quite in the dark, who has no store of
information about Louis XIV. and his Court, who has never heard of Racine
or Descartes, who knows nothing of the tenets of the Roman Catholic
religion, &c. Besides, as Mad. de Sévigné writes to a married daughter,
whom she endeavours to amuse by all the anecdotes of Versailles without
selection, her _Letters_ are more suitable to female maturity than to
early youth. When a very young girl has professed to me great pleasure in
this work, I have usually found she talked from _hearsay_.


TO MAD. DE LA GARDIE, SWEDEN.

By favour of Admiral Bertie.[46]

                                             Bursledon Lodge, Sept., 1812.

L’interressante, l’aimable Comtesse de la Cardie, a-t-elle oublieé une
amie dont le séjour à Vienne a été embelli par des prouves continuelles
de son amitié,—Melesina, qui a changé son nom de _St. George_ pour
celui de _Trench_, par un mariage des plus heureux, n’oubliera jamais
les heures qui ont coulées dans la société d’une famille où tout se
réunissoit pour plaire à l’esprit et le cœur. Je ne puis pas exprimer
les sensations avec lesquelles j’ai trouvé hier dans le portefeuille de
l’Amiral Bertie, une gravure qui avoit sur l’envelope deux lignes qui
prouvoient que cela venoit de votre main. Il me donne de vos nouvelles
avec tout l’empressement de son caractère, animé par le plaisir qu’il
trouvoit à rendre justice aux qualités de ses amis. Il parle avec
beaucoup de reconnoissance de vos bontés, et de celles de Monsieur le
Comte de la Gardie, et il m’a dépeint le château hospitalier où vous
m’avez invité avec tant de grâce; et dont j’ai tant desiré de voir les
beautés pittoresques. C’est avec un plaisir trés-vif que j’ai su par lui
que votre santé, et celle de ceux qui vous sont chers, est telle que vous
pourriez la désirer, et que l’enfant que vous attendiez quand je suis
partie de Vienne est actuellement à cette époque, où une mère commence de
trouver dans son fils, un ami aussi sûr que tendre.

Je possède à present _cinq_ amis de cette espèce. Mon fils ainé fait ses
études à Cambridge; les autres animent la retraite charmante où nous nous
consacrons à leur education pour la plus grande partie de l’année; et je
possède aussi une fille de quatre mois, qui promet de jouir d’une santé
et d’une vivacité pareille à celles de ses frères.

Puis-je me flatter que votre réponse m’assurera que vous me continuez
vos bontés, et me parlera en détail d’une amie qui me sera toujours
chère. Veuillez bien assurer Monsieur le Comte des sentiments d’amitié et
d’estime qu’il m’a inspiré.


TO A FRIEND.

                                               Cheltenham, Sept. 20, 1812.

Before you can read this letter, I earnestly hope the stream of your
domestic happiness will have returned to its own clear and unruffled
course. That any circumstance has disturbed it, I much lament; but I
am sure it is not necessary to remind you how often an event which has
approached us under an unpleasing form, has become afterwards one of
the primary sources of our happiness; and it is only to the _form_, to
the _dress_, if I may so express myself, of what has occurred, that
your maternal heart can object. Virtuous love, that great blessing of
human existence—I should say great_est_, if I were not a mother—always
appears in my eyes still more virtuous when it is founded on an
intimacy and knowledge of each other commenced in childhood or early
youth. One is sure in this case that intellectual and moral qualities
have had the principal share in producing it; for such an intercourse
precludes all illusion, all deception from the imagination; and none
but the truly amiable and excellent are likely in this situation to
feel a mutual passion. Allow me, then, my dear friend, to offer you my
congratulations. I am not surprised that —— should feel herself pained,
because every point in the manner of ——’s marriage is not exactly what
you could desire. At that age one expects all the occurrences of life
to accord _perfectly_ with one’s wishes, and the lightest deviation
from these discomposes the youthful mind; but when experience has shown
that there is no light without shade, that the brightest summer has its
passing clouds, one scarcely bestows a thought on slight and transient
mortifications, which only remind one that earth is not heaven.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                               Cheltenham, Sept. 22, 1812.

I pay nine guineas a week, which I see is three too much; but I must
submit to the law of necessity, and the inconvenience attendant on having
been taught, for more than the first half of my life, that it was a
disgrace to know how to make a bargain—as silly an idea as can be grafted
on the mind of youth, and one I will take care my children shall not
be encumbered with. Indeed, they will see that one of the most liberal
and dignified of men is perfectly well qualified to do himself the same
justice he would do to another, which is all that is necessary. It is not
generosity that ever prevented any sensible person from making a bargain,
but timidity, want of _aplomb_, false shame, and a desire to please by
facility and yielding.

There are much the same set of people here as last year—Mrs. Fitzherbert
among them, who was _judiciously_ invited to a _fête_ by Col. —— in
honour of the Princess Charlotte’s birthday. He first treated Mrs. F.
as Regentess, by leading her into the supper-room before all the women
of rank, and then gave toasts and made orations upon the merits of the
Prince and Princess, _and the lovely fruit of their union_. Was ever such
folly, inconsistency, and want of feeling? On the whole, the society
here is bad, but the walks, air, and water are delightful. I long to see
my own coronet of jewels once more on its emerald ground; above all, to
assure myself that the last little pearl is as round and perfect as when
I left her.


TO THE SAME.

                                               Cheltenham, Sept. 24, 1812.

I passed yesterday evening at Col. ——’s. Under the _régime_ of _Madame_,
he is far less ridiculous than when allowed to go alone. A map or survey
of his Jamaica estate was ostentatiously displayed on a flower-stand.
After having so lately read John Woolman,[47] I felt a little awkward in
sharing a _recherché_ supper, and seeing so plainly the source whence it
flowed. ‘Negroes-land,’ ‘Sugar canes,’ were marked in different parts of
this melancholy map. John Woolman, you know, was ‘_not free_ to share in
even the necessaries of life,’ when obtained by the labour of slaves.
How would his mild spirit have been afflicted by seeing this ostentatious
display of our shame! Yet I supped upon turkey _piqué au lard_, as if I
never had read John Woolman.


ON A REPORT OF THE DEATH OF BUONAPARTE.

_Nov., 1812._

      Quenched is thy light
    In endless night,
    Thou flaming minister of wrath;
    Struck from thy lofty and eccentric path;
      Where, like a comet, through the troubled air,
    Impelled by some unknown mysterious law,
      Shining with lurid wild disastrous glare,
    Thou didst impress intolerable awe:
    And though thy light, as the volcanic fire,
    Brought death, brought terror,—who but must admire
    (E’en while they fear, condemn, or hate,)
    Thy steadfast mind, as fixed as fate,
    Thy keen and penetrating soul,
    Tempered to conquer and control,
    Thy powerful glance, that measured earth
    As thine inheritance by birth.
    Thy scornful smile,—thy searching eyes,—
    We might detest, but not despise.

    Thou prodigal of human life!
    Nor only in the battle’s strife:—
    Behold a captive Turkish band;
    Indignant, pale, and mute they stand.
    Inclosed by living walls, they view
    The features of thy dreadful crew,
    And see the mark of Cain imprest—
    Clouds and darkness shroud the rest.

      Appalling scene—but not the worst!
    Another rises more accurst;
    For thine, in every danger tried,
    (Thou most ungrateful homicide!)
    Feeble and wounded as they lie,
    But taste thy venomed cup—and die!

    Why glare these torches in the rifted earth,
      Deepening the midnight gloom of upper air?
    Does Nature teem with some disastrous birth,
      Or fiends abhorred their secret rites prepare?
    No! ’tis thy death-winged thunder flies,
    Speeds its detested course, and D’Enghien dies!

      Successive phantoms fill the mind,
    Dark, terrific, undefined;
    Torture in a dungeon’s gloom—
    A noble captive!—secret doom!
    And starting, vengeful, from her sleep,
    The offended Genius of the deep;
    Who vows to thee relentless hate,
    Deploring Wright’s mysterious fate.

      But dimly seen, these visions fade,
    Like flitting shadows of a shade.

      Thy stubborn will, when once impelled,
    Its onward impulse keenly held.
    Like the Eastern idol’s car it rushed,
    Heedless what victims may be crushed:
    Or, writhing underneath the wheel,
    What tortures may those victims feel.
    Ages of penitence in vain
    Would struggle to efface that stain.—
    Yet shall thy story loudly preach
      An awful lesson to mankind:
    Through future ages it shall teach
      The great supremacy of mind.

      ’Twas not, as modern sages tell,
    A compact with the powers of Hell:
    Nor yet a soldier’s happy chance,
    Due to the faulchion or the lance;
    Nor chain of circumstance alone,
    That placed thee on the imperial throne.
    No! it was courage, promptness, skill,
    The soul resolved, the steadfast will,
    Nor sensual bliss, nor trivial aim,
    Could e’er seduce, could e’er inflame:
    Ardour that glowed in polar snows,
    And energy that feared repose.
    Had these not mingled with thy crimes,
    The tragic theme of future times,
    Nor diadem had bound thy brows,
    Nor Austria’s daughter heard thy vows,
    Nor had thy hand that sceptre swayed,
    Which half the astonished world obeyed.


A MOTHER TO HER INFANT DAUGHTER.

    Silent pleader! living flower!
    Shining proof of beauty’s power!
    Little gem of brightest ray!
    My Child, how poorly words essay
    The mixed emotions to define
    That spring from loveliness like thine.
    Mysterious are the charms we trace
    In a beauteous infant’s face;
    Celestial secrets seem to lie
    Within thy dark and dazzling eye;
    The flame of pure affection glows
    In thy refreshing cheek of rose;
    And on that polished lip of thine
    Love, and hope, and pleasure shine;
    There, in fragrant coral cell,
    Enamoured silence loves to dwell;
    No articulated sound
    Has ever passed that ruby bound:
    But in thy sweet and Sybil face
    Each rising thought I clearly trace;
    Language may blush, when looks so well
    Can every shade of feeling tell.
    In the clear mirror of thine eye
    To read thy fate I sometimes try;
    And musing o’er thy future years,
    Dim the fantastic scene with tears.

      Thou wilt be Woman! that alone
    Echoes to Compassion’s throne;
    Man may his destiny create,
    Woman is the slave of fate.
    Thou mayst be lovely!—in that word
    Ten thousand sorrows are inferred;
    Adored when young, neglected old,
    By passion bought, by parents sold!
    Seduction masked in friendship’s guise,
    Envy with sharp malignant eyes,
    Satire with poisoned poignant dart,
    Shall all conspire to pierce thine heart;
    And, in thy short and brilliant reign,
    These fiends may give thee bitter pain:
    Yet when the sober evening grey
    Of life steals on, and charms decay,
    When Time detaches, one by one,
    The blossoms of thy floral crown,
    Oft shalt thou sigh for youth again
    With all its peril, all its pain.

      But hark! a long-lost voice[48] I hear,
    Like distant music, soft and clear;
    It bears the tone of mild rebuke,
    Yet such as pride itself might brook:
    ‘Cease, wayward mourner, to complain,
    And learn a wiser, purer strain;
    Weave not the web of fancied woes,
    But bless the gift high Heaven bestows:
    Thy Cherub, in a woman’s form,
    Shall sheltered rest from many a storm,
    By which the bark of man is tost,
    Till virtue, peace, and heaven are lost.
    Act rightly thou the mother’s part,
    From vanity preserve her heart—
    Small creeping weed, yet strong in power
    To check the fruit and blast the flower.
    Then will she see her charms decay,
    As calmly as she views the ray
    Of summer’s suns whose soft decline
    Inspires tranquillity divine.’




CHAPTER V.

1813-1816.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                            Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 7, 1813.

I am very happy to find you once more exerting your powers for our
instruction and amusement. The second part of the _Cottage Dialogues_
appears to me worthy of its predecessor; less humorous, perhaps, and less
marked by a certain undescribable _naïveté_, but often pathetic, and
always inculcating the purest morality. I could have wished the dialogue
on Seduction, and the subsequent death of Thady’s victim, omitted, as
it makes the volume less fit for children, to whom it might in so many
respects be useful. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it appears to me that
it is safest to keep all such events, with whatever purity they may be
described, out of the view and the thoughts of children and very young
people: and on this principle perhaps _Pamela_ and _Clarissa_ may be
considered as highly dangerous works. How the former could ever have
been mistaken for a novel of a _moral_ tendency (though I fully believe
the author intended it as such), is very surprising. As to _Clarissa_, a
judicious selection from it, with slight alterations, would be a valuable
present to the rising generation; one that should wholly conceal the
blackest part of Lovelace’s conduct, and make her death proceed from
remorse for her elopement, and grief for the implacability of her
father, the sorrows of her mother, and the hastiness of her choice,—as
she might be supposed to have discovered Lovelace to be unworthy of her
in a variety of ways. In this _Clarissa for Young Women_, as it might
be called, all the objectionable details should be omitted; and those
parts of her character preserved, which are so well calculated to excite
an enthusiastic sense of duty to parents, of charity, of religion, and
_particularly_ of the value of time. But all this is idle prate; and
perhaps it is best the ‘Young Women’ should never open the book.

I could not but smile at the graceful _naïveté_ and enthusiasm of
friendship which sent one of my letters to Mr. Wilkinson, in order to
be placed amongst those of ‘eminent persons.’ I feel obliged to make
poor Mr. Wilkinson some amends for your thus imposing on him, however
unintentionally on your part. I therefore asked Mrs. Barnard, who
happened to be present when your letter arrived, to procure me one of
_the_ Mr. Windham’s; and I send you for him an Italian sonnet, in the
fairy penmanship of Miss Ponsonby, of Llangollen. I believe the sonnet is
unpublished.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                     Bath, March 12, 1813.

I have not passed four evenings from home since we parted. The false
animation of acquaintances pretending to be friends, the slight gaiety of
an assembly, and the satisfaction of hearing I look wonderfully well _for
my time_, have done their duty, and divert me no more. My sweet children
are my only real pleasures. —— has a depth of feeling very extraordinary.
He began to question me upon _one_ whom you and I speak of no more; and
was very anxious to know why no other since that time had made me _quite_
so happy. At last he said, as if he was satisfied at having found out
the cause, and conceived it not to disparage my present love for him—‘I
believe it is because he _did_ die,’ with a certain solemnity of accent
which I cannot describe. How much he must have felt and observed to
arrive at this conclusion.

—— thought Miss K. handsome on the report of _two_ or _three_ people, but
_four_ or _five_ have found her coarse, slouchy, red-armed, and somewhat
like a housemaid; you know how much ‘love’s arrows go by hearsay.’
Moreover, she _splashed_ through a _bolero_ at an assembly where no one
else danced but her and her partner; and with her large figure and strong
countenance looked as if she was going _to box_. _That_ is an improvement
on the general expression of the dance, which always seems to say, ‘My
name is Temptation; Touch me not.’ This ingenious dance is, you know,
contrived to show how great a degree of assurance and _airs de dragon_
can be united to pretty music and measured steps. Its gaiety and boldness
will always recommend it to the majority; but there cannot be worse taste
than making _young ladies_ the performers.

M—— has written a kind letter to inform me of his intended marriage. I
am delighted that people who love should marry; but when I know not the
other party, and that it is _my friend_ that has the worst of the worldly
part of the contract, it is mere affectation and deceit to pretend to be
quite satisfied, until one arrives at being a saint.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 14, 1813._—The variations of the English climate may assist to
increase the sensibility of the English character. Yesterday the sun
shone resplendent on a country covered with the softest, deepest verdure,
blushing with roses, and perfumed with honeysuckle; while a few fleecy
clouds added pomp and richness and variety to the bright blue sky. The
mind, enlivened by the scenery, expatiated on scenes of love and life and
joy. To-day the whole horizon is enveloped in a thick fog; a chilling air
distracts our thoughts by a slight sense of suffering from the objects
around us, which, shrouded in mist, have lost half their beauty. The
heart which but yesterday was filled with ideas of pleasure, is turned
to-day to thoughts of privation, of fading glory, of decaying nature. In
what variety of lights do these sudden changes present the same object,
and what food do they furnish for meditation!

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 24._—The collection of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ pictures now offered
to the public eye, is perhaps _unique_ in its kind, as composed of more
fine works by a single artist than have ever yet been seen together.
They derive peculiar interest from this circumstance. The collection
seems to be animated by one soul—the emanation of one powerful mind.
Ugolino is probably the most pathetic picture extant, as exhibiting the
highest degree of moral and physical suffering inflicted on those whose
countenances bespeak exquisite sensibility, and accompanied with the
utter extinction of hope—each individual agonizing at once by his own
pains, and by the sufferings of those who are dearest to him. It is like
a tragedy of Shakespeare on canvas.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                    London, June 27, 1813.

I got a Director’s ticket for Sir Joshua Reynolds’ on Friday evening.
They were in great request, being no more in number than the three rooms
would conveniently hold, and were bespoke for weeks before. The evening
exhibitions, which were only once a week, closed that evening, and only
the Directors had tickets. It is the order of the day to call these
meetings ‘the best assembly in town.’ They began at nine, and ended
nominally at eleven, but the Duchess of York did not come in till past
eleven. What a ridiculous freak of fashion to be anxious to see pictures
by candlelight, merely because money will not admit one, when people can
admire them so much better by daylight on any morning they please to go;
or was it set on foot by the superannuated beauties, who do themselves
justice, and know they are not fit to be seen by daylight?

Ugolino is the most pathetic picture I ever saw (N.B. I went in the
morning also)—unutterable, hopeless anguish, moral and physical, suffered
in one’s own person, and in the persons of the dearest objects of one’s
love—a suffering to which all human beings are exposed, and which none
can ridicule as romantic, or despise as ignoble. If it was as old as the
Laocoon, it would be as much, perhaps more, admired. It is delightful to
see at once, transferred into so many works, the whole soul and genius of
an artist so elevated as Sir Joshua.

Tell me about the babes; I long for their sweet musical clamour, and to
see them circling me like the spheres, all in harmonious, beautiful, and
perpetual motion.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                    London, July 31, 1813.

The great object of curiosity now in London, is Mad. de Staël. The envy
she excites in her own sex is painfully disclosed by their continual
remarks on her total want of grace and beauty, in short, on her being
a large, coarse, and homely woman. One is tempted to say—‘_Who_ ever
inquires what is the plumage of the nightingale?’ Mrs. Jones, a lively
friend of mine, put an end to a discussion of the kind in three words,
‘In short, she is most _consolingly_ ugly,’ thus by one happy phrase
criticizing the critics with a light yet sharp touch. These critics would
inveigh with more justice against the tiresome uses she often makes of
her powers. One hates to see a drawing-room turned into a fencing school.
I always wish somebody would say with Richard III.,

                        ‘but, gentle lady,
    _To leave_ this keen encounter of our wits.’

She has been received with all the honours due to her genius, sought
for in every society; and the Prince Regent, with more appearance of
taste than he _now_ often displays, went to Lady Heathcote’s one evening
purposely that she might be presented to him previously to her appearance
at his _fête_, where she could not have gone without being introduced
before it.

I suppose you know that Tommy Moore has lost all his prospects of
advancement by publishing _The Twopenny Post Bag_;—Lord Moira refusing
on this account to take him to India, where he had intended to provide
for him. He has gained in fame what he has lost in profit; as, although
his former works had many admirers, some disliked, and some despised
them, how justly I will not pretend to say; but all acknowledge the
wit and humour of this last production. It is not free from blemishes,
but perhaps as much so as any work we know, entirely and professedly
satirical.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 4, 1813._—Met Lord Lauderdale at dinner at Lady Lansdowne’s.—“I
once saw Sheridan and Mad. de Staël together. She praised his morality,
while he extolled her beauty. I sold a book at the highest price ever
paid in England, Fox’s work.[49] Two booksellers offered me £4000; I told
them it was impossible to decide between them. One refused to add to his
first offer, the other offered £500 more. He lost by it. Robertson’s
_Charles the Fifth_ sold for £5000. The size of the book considered, it
was not so much. No other has ever sold at so great a price. Mad. de
Staël has received here £1500 for her work on Germany, suppressed at
Paris. She publishes it with notes, marking the passages she supposes to
have been obnoxious to the French Government.” He should have said to
‘Buonaparte,’ for despotism is an unit, and ‘Government’ to English ears
implies plurality.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                          August 14, 1813.

Mr. Marsh dined here yesterday, supposed to be the author of the
admired letters that appeared this year in the _Times_ under the name
of _Vetus_.[50] He did not talk so much or so well as usual, for we
had a _petrifying_ coxcomb of the party. He mentioned that Mad. de
Staël, who was always clumsy, and had a peculiarly large foot, once
exhibiting herself on a pedestal as an antique figure, one of the
spectators whispered, ‘_Voilà un vilain pied de Staël_,’ a _bon mot_,
though an ill-natured one. We had music in the evening. Miss M—— is
a fine thundering player of the new Beethoven school; and Lady A——’s
sweet little robin red-breast finger made a pretty contrast, pleasing to
me who can admire merit in various styles. Indeed, I believe the less
exclusive is one’s taste, and the more one can extend its limits, so as
to like what is good in every direction, the more one will naturally
enjoy, and perhaps animate, social life. Adieu. Honour me not with
needless envelopes. ‘_Ce petit garçon oublie que je suis dévote_,’ said
a _ci-devant_ mistress of Louis XIV., when a servant offered her a glass
of liqueur; so you sometimes forget that I have arrived at thinking all
waste is blameable.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct., 1813._—_The Giaour_ is a trial of skill how far picturesque,
animated, and eloquent description will please, without dignity or
delicacy of character, novelty of scene or manners, interesting
narrative, or elevated sentiments. Events similar to those recorded
in this tale have not only been thrice told, but three hundred times;
and, in point of manners, every one who has read a book of _Travels in
Turkey_, knows too well all of which he is here reminded, not to feel a
certain disappointment at being carried so far and shown nothing new.
When St. Pierre in _Paul and Virginia_ leads us to the Isle of France,
another world is opened to our view; a refreshing, invigorating clime
enchants our senses, where we see the pure and simple sources of human
happiness, the sparkling, living fountains of innocence, and love, and
joy. It is an earthly paradise, worthy to succeed that where Milton has
placed our first parents; and assimilated to our tenderest feelings by
ties more numerous, if singly less powerful. The East also may have its
‘fresh fields and pasture new,’ but Lord Byron has not introduced us to
them.

The story of _The Giaour_ could hardly be comprehended by human
ingenuity, if it did not turn on circumstances the most commonplace, as
we are only presented with unconnected fragments from the lips of two
nameless narrators, who ask a variety of questions, and whom we should be
glad to question a little in our turn. Fragments of this uninteresting
story are tricked out in gaudy colouring, and amidst a greater proportion
of indifferent lines than are fairly admissible in so short a production,
we meet occasional proofs of originality and genius. Still _The Giaour_
ranks far below any former production of the same author. It contributes,
as far as its mite goes, to injure the taste of the age, by reducing
poetry merely to an amusement for a vacant hour, instead of employing
it to elevate our minds, soften our hearts, and refine our pleasures.
Whether these effects are produced by sentiments, by characters, by
imagery, is immaterial. When they are not produced, when poetry addresses
herself chiefly through the ear to the eye, she must be on the decline;
and this decline works like _The Giaour_ at once accelerate and proclaim.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 22._—How rapid is the fall of this ‘Lucifer, son of the morning,’
whose portentous splendour so long dazzled and misguided the nations
of the earth. England, that citadel of the world, that guardian of
civilization, the asylum of fallen royalty, of persecuted genius, and of
proscribed virtue, now begins to reap the harvest of her generous toils.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 23._—Overcome to-day with joy at the intoxicating rapidity of
our successes. I felt a throb of exultation and gratitude only to be
tranquillized by raising one’s heart and one’s tearful eyes to Heaven. I
am glad I left my retirement and am amongst a multitude on this occasion.
The joy that is shared with numbers seems purified and exalted. I found
Bath to-day in an effervescence of joy;—the waggoners and chimney-sweeps
decorated with laurel in honour of Lord Wellington’s victories, and the
hope that Holland will break her chains. It is pleasing to see the pulse
of public feeling beat in the very extremities. I met Mrs. Bonnefée,
the Dowager Lady Ely’s mother, also wearing her sprig of laurel—at
eighty-four.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 24._—Je lis Mad. de Staël sur l’Allemagne. Il me paroit qu’un
peintre d’un génie supérieur me montre les desseins qu’il a faits sur
des lieux qui m’interessoient vivement, et que je ne reverrai plus.
Elle donne une idée précise de cette philosophie de Kant que mon amie,
la Comtesse Münster m’a tant pressée d’étudier.[51] C’est la morale du
Christianisme dépourvue de l’amour, et de l’espoir, et mélée d’une espèce
de stoicisme moins imposante que celui des anciens. Il est beau de voir
que les recherches métaphysiques les plus sévères nous conduisent au
même but moral que le Christianisme, quoique c’est par un chemin aride,
loin des sources d’eau vivante—ou, dans les paroles de David, ‘dans un
désert sec et stérile où l’eau ne coule pas.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 3._—Saw the Indian Jugglers. They act on a small slightly elevated
stage, surrounded by a blaze of lamps. Two are men between twenty and
thirty, the other a youth of sixteen. Dressed in white, with turbans,
the ease of their attitudes, and serenity of their countenances, where
light and evanescent shades of melancholy and gaiety alone break the
predominant expression of repose, strike a European eye as novel and
pleasing. Deep thought has never contracted those brows; strong feeling
has never quivered on those lips; that face is a waveless lake, sometimes
gently swelling, sometimes sparkling in the sun, but never agitated with
tempests, or chafing against its bounds.

In the tricks of jugglers I have small delight. I see without interest
the ball under the cup, though I may have had reason to suppose it in the
juggler’s hand; or the beads strung with his tongue, or the entire thread
so adroitly substituted for that which has been reduced to fragments that
my senses are completely deceived. I view with pain those exhibitions
where skill is ever on the verge of danger; and I have a sensation of
mingled disgust and horror when I see a man actually sheath in his throat
a bar of steel twenty-two inches long, a quarter of an inch thick, and
one broad. The prettiest part of the exhibition was a sportive manner
of throwing about in all directions, with ease, grace, and skill, four
bright brazen balls. It seemed like the coruscations of a firework, or as
if a fallen spirit amused himself by flinging stars and meteors in the
air.

All was accompanied by songs from the youngest performer, somewhat
monotonous, but not unpleasing, and expressive of a sort of melancholy
gaiety, if the expression may be tolerated.


TO WILLIAM LEFANU, ESQ.[52]

                                                            Dec. 15, 1813.

I have many apologies to offer for my long silence, having been occupied
by arrangements relative to my son’s departure for the Hague. You know
the dreary vacuity which succeeds the departure of one we love. It is
rendered still more striking by the preceding bustle of preparation, and
is a faint shadow of

    ‘That first dark day of nothingness,
    The last of danger and distress,’

which most of us have already experienced.

I have received no reply from the Duchess of Dorset. Retirement sadly
clips one’s wings as to any power of being useful. For that purpose
they certainly grow best ‘in the various bustle of resort.’ I had more
influence when I less knew how to make a reasonable use of it.

Your idea that a considerable portion of eternal happiness may arise
from seeing the full blow and ripe fruits of any good seed sown in this
life, is extremely natural. The converse has presented itself to my
imagination more than once as a just representation of ‘the worm that
never dies.’

You did me the honour to ask what I thought of Kean. I saw him but once,
and imperfectly, being shut up, like a mouse in a telescope, in one of
the wretched private boxes, which savour more of self-denial, penance,
and privation, than any views of pride or pleasure. The diminutive oval
aperture at the end of our long and doleful den gave me no opportunity
of seeing him well, as we were a large party, and I was too distant to
judge of his countenance. Yet he delighted me in _Richard the Third_. He
carries one’s views forwards and backwards as to the character, instead
of confining them, like other actors, within the limits of the present
hour; and he gives a breadth of colouring to his part that strongly
excites the imagination. He showed me that Richard possessed a mine of
humour and pleasantry, with all the grace of high breeding grafted on
strong and brilliant intellect. He gave probability to the drama by
throwing this favourable light on the character, particularly in the
scene with Lady Anne; and he made it more consistent with the varied lot
of ‘poor humanity.’ He reminded me constantly of Buonaparte—that restless
quickness, that Catiline inquietude, that fearful somewhat resembling the
impatience of a lion in his cage. Though I am not a lover of the drama
(will you despise me for the avowal?), I could willingly have heard him
repeat his part that same evening.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 15, 1813.

Both your letters reached me this evening on our return from a journey
to Bath and London, which absorbed about a fortnight. I feel for the
mother’s grief in losing her little blossom. ’Tis a more serious
calamity than any one, except a mother, can imagine—I should have said,
a _parent_, for I do believe with you, that a father often suffers quite
as much. Do you remember Mrs. Grant’s stanza on the loss of her husband?
What you say recalled it to my memory:—

    ‘I have sighed o’er the bud, I have wept o’er the blossom,
    And beauty full grown ’twas my lot to deplore;
    But the voice which was wont to speak peace to my bosom
    Shall whisper compassion’s soft accents no more.’

There is something to me inexpressibly affecting in these lines. Pray
tell me soon that your daughter continues to recover. Unless under very
peculiar circumstances, the loss of an infant is much less injurious
to a youthful mother than the sight of its sufferings. I cannot bear,
however, to hear any one too decisive on what _may_ or _may not_ deeply
wound the bosom of another. Mad. de Staël justly says, ‘_Nul a le droit
de contester à un autre sa douleur_.’ There is much implied in this short
sentence.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 20, 1813.

What meanness of mind it shows to fasten upon the plain person of a woman
of genius, the imprudence of a wit, or the dulness of a beauty. I am very
much displeased with the constant remarks on Mad. de Staël’s exterior.
However, it consoles many for the thought that she will be admired when
we are all forgotten. As to Canning’s conversation giving her more
emotion than pleasure, it is easiest to be understood by supposing her
to like him in some _nuance_ of loverly feeling. In this light there
is great honesty in the confession. All eloquence creates emotion, but
that emotion is pleasure; while the emotion created by the conversation
of a lover may be of every shade from Stygian darkness to the most
dazzling brilliancy. I am surprised that Mad. de Staël, herself the wife
of a diplomat, and having lived in good company at Paris, should have
_questioned_ the Regent. As you say, it is a breach of royal prerogative.
But I think royalty itself readily forgives failures in etiquette, though
its satellites are most indignant on the occasion. When poor Mel walked
out before all the princesses of the German Empire, it almost threw some
of the _vieux routiers_ into convulsions; but the persons concerned
looked on it as it was, a pardonable forgetfulness, and distinguished her
just as kindly after as before.

I passed a pleasant day at Mrs. ——’s. We were nearly a female party;
and the only blot on the conversation was the little, mean, detracting
gossip against Lady —— (who has taken Mr. Baring’s for the honeymoon)
and Mrs. ——, a _ci-devant_ London _belle_ come to settle for a time at
Southampton. They do not forgive the former for having a ducal coronet
in prospect, nor the latter her fading advantages of person and manner,
and her grown-up daughters, fine girls whom she has brought to the
overstocked balls at Southampton. Lady R—— is ‘_very sorry for Miss_
B——,’ and says so as if she could Roast her. She cannot yet bring herself
to call her Lady ——. It appears they were intimates at Bath.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 23, 1813.

I am a little angry with the lady who might have introduced me to your
friends at Bath; but do you know I am _the less surprised_ in proportion
to the years I have passed in the world; for generally speaking, people
have a strange dislike to introducing their friends to each other. This
is very common, and, according to Hannah More, ‘much too common to be
right.’ I suspect it proceeds from the consciousness of endeavouring
to be, not in the best sense of the words, ‘all things to all men,’ of
acting somewhat a part, and of appearing to different friends rather
what the actor thinks will please, than what he really is.... All this
is pitiful: how different is my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, who is uneasy till
all her friends know and like each other. What a gem is simplicity
of character, and how careful in educating ought we to be to weed out
all _finesse_ and management. I know children _so_ educated will often
fail in politeness, till their knowledge of what gives pain or pleasure
becomes extensive; but their sincerity is often amusing, even when at the
expense of civility. ‘——, my dear, pray read _to yourself_.’ ‘Yes, mamma,
and I wish you would _sing to yourself_.’ There are many whom I hear,
to whom I should make use of this phrase, if I were not restrained by
feelings _he_ cannot understand.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The following poems certainly do not belong to the later period
    of the writer’s life, and I therefore insert them here.

        How quickly life forgets the dead!
          To soothe the fleeting shade
        A few fond tears at first are shed,
          A few slight honours paid:

        The fading leaf in dim decay
          Awhile we thus deplore;
        But whirled by autumn’s breath away,
          We think of it no more.

        The parting bark thus leaves a line,
          Where friends are sailing on,
        A moment sees it rippling shine,
          A moment sees it gone.

        That heartless lesson—to forget—
          Then all around us preach;
        Whate’er the tie—whate’er the debt—
          Oblivion they would teach.

        Ye who this chilling draught infuse,
          From me the cup remove;
        Nor let me be condemned to lose
          The memory of Love.

       *       *       *       *       *

        Not one who bears the name he graced,
          Not one endeared by early ties,
        A brother soldier here has placed
          A stone to mark where Frederick lies.

        Oh light of heart, of spirit free,
          Consummate courage, mild, resigned,
        A form and face were given to thee,
          Well suited to so bright a mind.

        Obedient to thy country’s call,
          ’Twas thine for her to yield thy breath,
        Though not in battle didst thou fall,
          But thine a soldier’s lingering death.

       *       *       *       *       *

        There is a grief that knows no end,
          A sorrow time can never quell,
        Barbed arrow which remorse can send
          For ever in the heart to dwell:

        And each offence to those we love,
          How slight soe’er in others’ eye,
        The never-dying worm will prove
          When in the silent tomb they lie.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

                                            Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 3, 1814.

I am now reading Mad. de Staël’s _Allemagne_: I find it amusing to skim,
but not to read attentively. The eternal comparison between France and
Germany becomes tiresome, when pursued through three large octavos; and
she is often unintelligible to me. Her being so, the Edinburgh Reviewers
state to proceed from her superiority to her readers, alone. Dangerous
doctrine for the guardians of literature to promulgate! I retain a strong
prejudice in favour of those who write to be understood, as well as to
be admired; and all who have stood the test of time unite clearness with
eloquence. Fine writing may possess deep and refined beauties, only to be
felt by superior minds, but in the same passages there is ever a plain
meaning obvious to all who are fully acquainted with the language. In
this it somewhat resembles true religion and the style of the sacred
Volume.

Mad. de Staël’s well-bred determination never to see any but the
beauties of the German authors whose works she describes, who are mostly
cotemporaries, is graceful, conciliatory, and prudent; but lessens the
value and interest of her discussions. The merits of an author are best
understood and felt when contrasted with his defects. When his beauties
alone are displayed, we have a Chinese picture, painted without shade,
gaudy and obtrusive, without the softness of nature, or the mellowness of
the best style of art.


TO THE SAME.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 16, 1814.

_Zadig_ entertained me when I read it; but I know not any author who less
improves or animates than Voltaire. And I have never known any man rise
above mediocrity who habitually sought amusement from that voluminous
but monotonous writer; for monotonous he is, except in his tragedies.
He presents only the same trite and discouraging ideas in a variety of
dress. The sauce is _piquante_, but the meat detestable. ‘_Il a plus que
tout le monde l’esprit que tout le monde a_,’ describes his style very
exactly; nothing original, but the general pleasantry and wit of Parisian
society and _Belles Lettres_ and _Esprits Forts_, concentrated and made
up into packets of all sizes—compact little doses of poison in vendible
and attractive forms.

I am reading Miss Seward’s _Letters_. Walter Scott, in reducing to six
octavos the _twelve folio volumes_ of her own _Letters_, which she
left for publication,[53] has cruelly lopped her eloquent panegyric of
your mother, who is dismissed with the laconic phrase of ‘lovely and
accomplished.’ So there are no further hopes of immortality from that
quarter.


TO THE SAME.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 29, 1814.

We are still snow-bound; and if we had been a quarrelsome pair, we have
had a fine opportunity, as the bad weather found us _tête-à-tête_, and
after its commencement all hopes of relief were at an end. We have
nothing to do but wait patiently for its close, which, after near a
month, seems rapidly approaching. _Feb. 2._—The above was written a few
days since. The snow is now nearly thawed, and I was delighted to see
this beautiful country throw off its glaring white mask, and give us once
more its own charming, varied, and expressive features.

As all the external changes of my life consist now in the books I read,
I must talk to you of them. We have been amused by Colton’s _Hypocrisy_.
It is a witty, entertaining production—a country cousin to _The Pursuits
of Literature_—less courtly, less eloquent, less conversant with capitals
and fine people, but still showing a strong family likeness.

Je relis actuellement Mad. de Sévigné, et La Fontaine. Je veux dire ses
_Fables_; car on dit que ses _Contes_ ne sont pas faits pour les yeux
d’une femme. Pour Mad. de Sévigné, le reproche qu’on lui fait de montrer
plus d’amour pour sa fille qu’elle n’en ressentait, ou que le cœur humain
n’en pouvait ressentir, me paroit très ridicule, quand j’examine mes
sentiments pour vous. Ecrivez-moi promptement, je vous prie; parlez-moi,
premièrement, de _vous_, en second, et en troisième lieu, de _vous_, et
de _vous_. Ainsi vous êtes sûr de me faire plaisir. Avez-vous dansé,
chanté, dessiné? Enfin, comment vont les beaux arts? Avez-vous fait des
vers? Patinez-vous? Avez-vous fait une course en traineau? et comment
trouvez-vous cet amusement? Je n’ai été en traineau qu’une fois, à
Brunswick. Il m’a paru fort agréable; mais dans tout ce qui se lie avec
mes souvenirs de l’Allemagne, je me soupçonne d’un peu de prévention.
Il est sûr que la langue n’est pas douce, et, malgré cela, quand je
l’entends par hazard et subitement, elle me fait toujours l’effet d’une
musique touchante et inattendue. Je suis fâchée de vous dire, malgré
cela, que, faute d’étude, je l’ai presque oubliée. J’en ai eu la preuve
l’autre jour, en cherchant à retrouver dans _Werther_ une idée exprimée
par Mad. de Staël.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                    London, June 13, 1814.

Business has brought us to London; and the difficulty of procuring good
apartments while the Great People were there, detained us till after
their departure. My curiosity is not lively, and I made no effort to see
them, except going one morning to Portsmouth to witness the _entrée_ of
Alexander; which enabled me to say I had seen the _outside_ of a shabby
coach containing an Emperor within. This is the ‘head and front’ of my
knowledge of this last truly brilliant and heroic _spectacle_. I should
have been pleased to see the King of Prussia, from my gratitude for the
peculiar kindness with which I was distinguished by his charming Queen.
She was the means of my taking a near view of so much Court parade as has
entirely satiated my curiosity or interest on that subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June, 1814._—Lord Nelson’s _Letters to Lady Hamilton_, though
disgraceful to his principles of morality on one subject, do not appear
to me, as they do to most others, degrading to his understanding.
They are pretty much what every man, deeply entangled, will express,
when he supposes but one pair of fine eyes will read his letters: and
his sentiments on subjects unconnected with his fatal attachment are
elevated—looking to his hearth and his home for future happiness;
liberal, charitable, candid, affectionate, indifferent to the common
objects of pursuit, and clearsighted in his general view of politics and
life.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July 3._—Saw the Duke of Wellington received at the opera with rapturous
applause. Every eye beamed on him with delight, and cold must have been
the heart which did not throb with an accelerated movement. The unanimous
expression of that noble sentiment, admiration of great actions, is
extremely affecting; and those indefinite sounds of exultation and
applause used by men to express feelings for which words are inadequate,
form part of that universal language more impressive than the speech of
any individual nation.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, July 12, 1814.

I have just passed a pleasant fortnight in London, and went to say my
prayers at St. Paul’s on the day of the Thanksgiving, where certainly
the assemblage of nearly all that was dignified by rank or station in
England, collected for a solemn purpose in a magnificent building, formed
a fine and imposing spectacle. I met an old friend, Sir J—— D——, on the
steps of the cathedral, and was surprised to see him grown old, with grey
hair, red face, and a large stomach. He must have seen greater changes in
me; but I always think I am to find people where I left them. However,
for what _he_ has lost in the gifts of nature, there was some little
compensation in those of fortune, for he was splendidly decorated with
stars, ribbons, &c., and attended by smiling aide-de-camps and fierce
grenadiers. He was really very glad to see me. I also met on the same
spot Lady Frances Beresford, whom I had not seen since she was nearly
as young as the daughter who then hung on her arm; and her I did not
recollect, nor she me, till I spoke; and then we began to stare and
wonder at each other. How few have honesty to say that such meetings are
at first unpleasant.

Had you received my former letters, you would have known that your adding
German to the list of your acquirements gives me great pleasure. En
apprenant les langues on exerce et on fortifie son esprit. On élargit
le cercle de ses idées, et on les rend plus nettes et plus précises.
Rien n’est plus faux que l’opinion banale qu’en étudiant les langues on
ne s’occupe que des mots. C’est une des phrases, inventée par l’envie,
et mise en crédit par la paresse. D’ailleurs il y a des trésors dans la
littérature allemande; et le peu que nous en connaissons en Angleterre,
n’est précisément que ce qu’il faut pour nous en donner une idée très
injuste.

Enfin vous avez vu l’Empereur. Rien dans les personnages impériaux et
royaux qui nous ont visités, n’était si extraordinaire, que la curiosité
qu’a témoignée toute l’Angleterre de les voir, de leur parler, de
les _toucher_. Comme Shakespeare dans _The Tempest_ a bien remarqué
ce trait national! Cherchez le passage. L’Empereur a été, ou a paru,
charmé de tout le monde, et tout le monde charmé de lui. Il s’est plu
particulièrement dans la société de quelques membres de l’Opposition, et
il a dit, ‘Ils sont les meilleurs hommes du monde, et _je veux avoir une
Opposition_ aussi, quand je serai de retour en Russie.’ J’aime bien cette
phrase d’un Autocrat. C’est vraiment comique. Au reste, il s’est bien
laissé voir, entendre, et toucher. Il a embrassé une trentaine de dames à
Portsmouth, qui se promenaient la nuit pour voir les illuminations; j’ai
vu le mari d’une de ces personnes favorisées, qui était aussi le frère
de deux autres également distinguées, et il a dit:—‘Indeed, it was very
condescending of the Emperor and the Regent. I am sure it was a thing
we never could have expected.’ Au reste, le Régent est charmé de leur
départ.


TO THE SAME.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, July 28, 1814.

Votre dernière lettre m’a fait rire et pleurer. Il y a peu de personnes
dans le monde qui possèdent le don d’exciter _ou_ les ris _ou_ les
pleurs; encore moins qui ont le double talent que vous avez montré. Votre
dessein d’étudier le Français dans toutes ses nuances me fait plaisir,
et comme nous oublions rarement les fautes que nous avons commises
nous-mêmes contre le génie d’une langue, si quelqu’un les relève, je vais
chercher votre dernière lettre (qui est déjà serrée parmi les _bijoux_
les plus précieux de Cornélie) pour voir si je puis en découvrir.

... To perfect yourself in French, I would advise you to read Bruyère and
Mad. de Sévigné with great attention; because their style has something
of life and vivacity; which fastens itself on the mind, and forces one
in some measure to become intimate with the idioms of the language. It
does more good to meditate a page of a good close writer than to run
over a volume of an indifferent one. The common opinion is against me.
Many think the more _words_ they read in a given time, the more they
will advance in a language; but I believe in this as in every other
study, it is not the quantity, but the quality of what we read, and that
meditation by which we make it our own, that improves. I am now skimming
Mason’s _Life of Gray_; for you know late rising, the children, natural
indolence, and the inclination for family chat, leave me no leisure
for aught but skimming. I was pleased with Gray’s opinion of Rousseau’s
_Emile_. It confirms my own, and gives me in one condensed paragraph the
result of the opinions I had long formed on the subject of this singular
book.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                            Bursledon Lodge, Aug. 3, 1814.

We are again alone, living like those ‘in the world before the
flood’—gardening, admiring the flowers and the clouds, conversing,
singing, playing with our children, hiding from the visits of our
neighbours, and devising excuses to avoid their hot, ceremonious,
long, and fine dinners, surrounded by people dressed out as for an
assembly;—‘for, my dear ma’am, this is _a delightful_ neighbourhood; we
never dine at home except with company;’—something equivalent to this
eulogium I have often heard pronounced here.

I am very far from despising either the fine arts or their effects
in awakening the dormant seeds of genius; and I believe _The Society
of Friends_ profit in their manners and enjoyments by the insensible
and general atmosphere of those arts they contemn. But I am sure, as
individuals, your self-denial in this matter causes your expenses to flow
in streams more conducive to the comfort and advantage of yourselves and
others than ours do. In comparison with the greater number, _we_ are
peculiarly reasonable on this subject (am I not like the Pharisee?),
yet I am often surprised to see how much we sacrifice at the shrine of
frivolity, fancied pleasures, and _beaux arts_.

I saw not Mad. de Staël, who has left an unpleasing impression in
London,—except on a few, worth all the rest. People expected her to be
well dressed, well-looking, soft-mannered, refined; making no allowance
for the effects of study, composition, energy, anxiety, and all the
disturbances which must affect a woman whose life has been employed in
the pursuit of literary fame.


TO CHARLES M. ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Aug., 1814.

I believe my Baron Breteuil’s maxim is just for common minds, ‘_il faut
savoir s’ennuyer_.’ This is necessary to them, because if they do not
_ennuyer_ themselves, they will often do worse. But it is, like most of
his maxims, quite unfit for the uses of a superior character. Such ought
not to _ennuyer_ themselves. If they really find their resources fail,
they should be satisfied something is wrong in them or the life they
have adopted, and should struggle to release themselves from a state so
foreign to their well-being. You possess a love of study, and the four
golden keys which will introduce you to the most brilliant assembly of
the dead—_Greek_, _Latin_, _English_, _French_. The first introduces you
to those who have instructed, the next, to those who have conquered,
mankind; the third, to her who has been the depository of true religion,
pure morality, refined taste; and the fourth, to one who, among many
striking advantages, may consider it as her proudest boast, that she is
entitled in some things to be the rival of England herself.

I knew Lord Wellington in my youth; that is to say, he has often dined
with me in Henrietta-street and at the Park, but I was so reserved at
that time that we never exchanged six words, as he was also reserved,
except to those who made the first advances. However, as he has passed
some time as my guest in the country besides these casual meetings, I
should not feel the least reluctance at any time in writing a letter of
introduction for you to him.

I go on Tuesday next to Cheltenham. How much I shall miss you, and I
shall often think of our lost friend, Mrs. ——, whom I could not but like,
spite of the pains many people took to prove to me my liking was not
built on a good foundation. How foolish, by the bye, are all such pains!
There are two ways of considering everything and everybody (if we lay
aside the grand questions of religion and morality). Even your friend,
whom you have lately described as _faisant les délices de la société_
by his musical talents and other accomplishments, I have just heard
described as a most ridiculous, frivolous, tiresome coxcomb; _ainsi va
le monde_. The mania for going to France is spreading rapidly. You know
you have infected me by a touch of the pen. Has the last novel of Lady
Morgan (_née_ Miss Owenson) reached the Hague? Mr. Lefanu saw a letter
from Miss Edgeworth to her ladyship, in which she says it is _glorious_
for Ireland to have produced such a work. Strong language when applied
to a novel. I should have thought it too forcible if addressed even to
Fielding or Richardson.

I am very grateful to the Duchess of Brunswick for her recollection, and
can never forget the kindness with which she honoured me at Brunswick.
Tell her so, if a proper opportunity should offer. Her character and
abilities rendered her kindness a real distinction. The more you see of
her, the more you will value her _esprit_, and her natural, easy, and
pleasing manners.

We are reading Miss Edgeworth’s diffuse and wire-drawn novel, called
_Patronage_, which is much below her ability and literary place, but has
been hurried off from a good family motive—that of assisting to provide
for the fatherless infants of her late brother—such, at least, is the
report.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The letter which follows is the first in date of a very few
    copies which I possess of letters, or parts of letters,
    addressed by my Mother to Miss Agar, sister of the late Lord
    Clifden, one of her oldest, and, beyond the circle of her own
    family, by far her dearest friend. Their correspondence, which
    was constant, had begun some twenty years earlier. The half of
    the correspondence which is of no service to me I possess; but
    the other half, I fear, has long since perished.


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                                Cheltenham, Sept. 1, 1814.

We are packed into Pine Cottage. It abuses the cottage privilege of being
small and simple. One says at first, ‘Dear, what a charming little spot,’
and enjoys one’s own good sense in being easily pleased. One remarks with
how little space the real wants of man are contented, and one is tempted
to criticize palaces. But in a few hours the philosophical fit subsides,
and one wants more space and more convenience.

I think with you it was a cruel _persiflage_ in Lord Byron to produce
_Jacky_ as an attendant foot-page on his lofty and vigorous production.
The reviewers once placed him and Rogers on a level. This must have
been his motive. ‘It was the smile that withered to a sneer.’ You have
probably observed that one of the leading features in this tale seems
suggested by Falkland’s revenge on one who had insulted him, and whom
he suffered not to live to tell the tale. Lara’s merciless desire to
wreak his _cruelty_ (for he has not even the poor excuse of _revenge_)
on a fallen enemy, ranks him in the worst class of bad men. It is
extraordinary that Lord Byron should so often waste his admirable powers
in celebrating the unnatural, and, thank Heaven, the unfrequent, union
of guilt and genius; and should forget that the province of poetry is to
elevate, soothe, or amend the heart.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                Cheltenham, Sept. 8, 1814.

Your account of the resigned and ancient pair, who have borne affliction
with so good a grace, is one of those tonics which strengthen the mind,
and assist in repelling the contagious air of general society, where one
of the great objects aimed at is the exclusion of all that can remind us
of ‘the changes and chances of this mortal life.’

You are kind in wishing us in Ireland. A superior education for our
children, the power of enjoying all the innocent pleasures of life
without injuring _their_ future prospects by expense, and my own health,
all conspire to detain us here. We leave no gap, and interrupt no
course of duty. No deserted mansion claims us within its ruined walls;
no ancient followers look in vain for our protection. Had my husband
been an elder brother, our case would have been different. As it is,
we have acted from serious, and I hope conscientious, motives. Setting
our own case aside, nothing has been more mistaken by the friends of
Ireland than the effects of the occasional residence of some of her
children in the sister country. Who are most anxious for her prosperity?
With some brilliant exceptions, we must say, Those who have mixed with
English society, who have visited England, witnessed the humanity of
her landlords, the prosperity of her peasantry, the smiling neatness
of her cottages. To improve a country by forbidding her inhabitants
to know by experience what is done in those foremost in the race of
virtue and civilization, is a solecism. Already has much been done by
the infusion of English society. All seem aware of the benefits arising
from the interchange of the militia. Is it amongst the lower ranks alone
that acquaintance with a superior tone of morals, manners, and knowledge
is to prove beneficial? Allowing that absentees are truants, will
_lecturing_ bring them home? All prudent wives know the inefficacy of the
prescription. This does not apply to your kind wishes. You never lectured
any one, yet I believe you have made many converts.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

                                                Cheltenham, Sept. 8, 1814.

This place is as full as possible—crowds of independent men, who
seem to keep aloof from the women—of old ladies who, after a life of
gallantry, come here to lose themselves in a crowd; and of young ones,
many of whom seem eager in the pursuit of matrimony. You do not tell
me whether you sing, draw, or write verses. I am idleness itself, in
spite of my early rising, as to everything but books; and though I do
not _study_, I contrive to _read_ some hours every day. I have just read
_A World without Souls_. The idea is well conceived, but the work is
but indifferently executed; and contains an attack on the principles of
the useful and venerable Paley, which I could wish spared. I have also
read Montgomery’s _World before the Flood_, in which are some beautiful
passages; but the dead weight of a dull and heavy story will, I fear,
sink the whole into oblivion, in spite of the charms of the poetry. Lord
Byron’s _Lara_, an interesting _vaurien_, and Mr. Rogers’s _Jaqueline_,
an insipid shepherdess, who is bound up and introduced to the public with
this discordant mate, have also formed part of my studies, relieved by
the agreeable flippancy of Lady Morgan’s _O’Donnell_. Byron certainly
persuaded Rogers to allow their poems to see the light together, in order
to prove the immense distance between a pair whom the reviewers had
lately bracketed together.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                          Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 29, 1814.

Your kind letter found me reposing at home after a pleasant visit of
three weeks to Cheltenham—that delightful spot which unites all an
invalid can desire, in pure air, beautiful scenery, fine climate,
easy habits; and is ornamented by the most pleasing style of villa
architecture, cheerful, light, and airy, something between the cottage
and the _maisonnette_, sprinkled in all directions through one continued
garden.

In our way home we passed a day at Gloucester, and heard a morning
concert of sacred music, given for a charitable purpose, in the beautiful
cathedral. These music meetings are the most thoroughly national
amusement we have. Polished, pure, and dignified, they owe nothing to
the glare of tapers, the false spirits of the evening hour, the splendour
of ornaments, or any theatric illusion. Handel’s _Dead March in Saul_
was singularly affecting. The soft sounds of wind instruments floating
through the lofty roof with the most plaintive sweetness, interrupted
at intervals by the double-drum, echoing, reverberating, and dying away
along the aisles, like cannon among distant hills, were at once awful
and pathetic. Braham’s performance of _Jephtha’s Lamentation_ is one
of the finest pieces of tragic singing in our time, and combines every
excellency music can possess.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., BRUSSELS.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Oct., 1814.

If I did not speedily reply to a letter so full of anxiety for my
good spirits, I should be a most _undutiful_ mother. Some may contest
the propriety of the epithet, but I maintain it. There is nothing for
which I feel more obliged than a desire that I should enjoy that prime
blessing, cheerfulness, so interwoven with my original character, that,
when deprived of it, I appear in the eyes of those who love me to be not
myself. Many friends are desirous we should enjoy the physical goods
of life. It is only real affection and superior intelligence that look
to one’s feelings; or, indeed, are fully aware of the _spirit_ of Mrs.
Sullen’s reply, when her husband reproaches her for being discontented
amidst all the goods of fortune—‘What, sir, do you take me for a charity
child, to sit down contented with meat, drink, and clothes? There are
certain pretty things called pleasures.’ Mrs. Sullen not being a very
correct person, we must reject her idea of pleasure, and adopt one more
refined.

Do not you underrate _The Corsair_ in not admiring the description it
gives of strong and tender feelings? Except in _Paradise Lost_ and
_Gertrude of Wyoming_, I know not where conjugal affection is more
beautifully described than in the character of the Corsair; and his
sufferings in the dungeon are a most spirited Salvator Rosa sketch.

Pray have you ever read _Nugæ Antiquæ_, some preserved, others written,
by Sir John Harrington, a godson and favourite of Queen Elizabeth’s?
Much amusement may be culled from the second and third volumes. With
your views and intentions you should read original papers, as well
relative to the private characters as the remarkable actions of those
who make a prominent appearance in history. The details respecting Queen
Elizabeth are particularly amusing; and Harrington’s wit and humour
throw considerable _agrément_ on every subject. When you meet Mrs.
More’s _Hints for the Education of a Princess_, read the _Historical
Reflections_. Those respecting princes who have obtained the title of
Great, are admirable. Voltaire throws so much glare on the character
of Louis the Fourteenth, that it refreshes one’s sight to look at him
through the spectacles of sober morality.

Jekyll is amusing as ever in point of wit and humour, though not of
imagination. He has turned his mind so much to playing on words that
he attends little to thoughts—a common error in professed wits, and
one which accounts for their giving less pleasure in society than those
who only hear their _bon mots_ quoted are led to expect. We read in the
papers of a brewer drowned in his own beer. ‘Yes,’ says Jekyll, ‘Unwept
he floats upon his watery _beer_.’ Conversation at Paulton’s hardly
consists in reciprocal communication. Jekyll talks; others applaud,
excite, and listen.


TO THE SAME.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Oct. 14, 1814.

I send _Lara_. Here are all Lord Byron’s accustomed powers of language
and description, his energetic seizure of our attention, his forceful
manner of stamping images, so that we cannot erase them if we would,
of identifying them with our thoughts, so that they pursue when we
attempt to fly them; his verses have fangs. Here is also his accustomed
celebration of the unnatural and unfrequent union between genius and
crime. That it is an union not unfrequent, knaves endeavour to teach, and
fools willingly believe. But experience denies the fact, and it suits not
the higher walk of poetry, which, without giving direct lessons, should
always elevate, soothe, or mend the heart.

... The sooner you tell us the day we may hope for you, the more on every
account you will oblige your best friend, and perhaps the _only_ one who
considers _you_ solely in all the opinions she gives. Vanity, prejudice,
envy, self-interest, enter into almost all advice except from a parent.
Therefore, consider what has been said as coming from a second self, but
one who views your situation from the eminence of years and experience.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1814.

I do indeed congratulate you on your having regained a title so dreaded
by the vain and frivolous, so desired by the affectionate. You must
know in the circle which calls itself the world, the _word_ is nearly
exploded, and grandchildren are taught to distinguish their parents in
the first and second line as _Mamma_ This and _Mamma_ That, without using
the terrific _trisyllable_.

My daughter, whose name has excited so much interest in your valuable
circle, is Elizabeth Melesina. Her father affectionately wished she
should bear my name, but I seduced him to suffer Elizabeth to be joined,
which unites my mother’s name, that of the excellent Lady Hutchinson,
and of her kind godmother. I had some objection to my own name, combined
in _my_ mind with many faults and many sorrows; and I also know by
experience that an appellation which is more suited to the pages of
fiction than to real life ministers to vanity and romance; besides its
tempting coxcombs to ‘soften stanzas with her tuneful name,’ as is well
expressed in some stanzas addressed to poor me; who can now and then be
wise for others, not having expended much wisdom at home. So my daughter
is now Bessy, under which domestic and social name I hope to see her good
and contented, and to present her in time to my dear Mrs. Leadbeater.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                            Dec. 23, 1814.

Yesterday we dined at Miss Short’s. Mr. —— talked to me when he was a
_little_ drunk, just as Mr. —— did twenty years ago, and resembled him
exactly. I barricaded myself in a seat on the sofa, putting M. on one
side, Miss M. on the other, and a desk screen before me. But he talked
away through all impediments; and you know my good nature never allows me
to use the defensive armour Providence has given me against forwardness,
unless I am more provoked than I can be by a mere determination to
converse with and try to please me. He talked to me of his _capital_
house in Portland-place, his having dined with Lord Spencer, his wife
being cousin to Lady —— ——, of his being a book-fancier, and having
offered £200 for _Boccaccio_; in short, he collected into one focus all
that was to dazzle me, and offered to lend me the most curious French
romance extant, &c. &c., which you may be sure I refused.

Miss O’Neill is said to be more natural than Mrs. Siddons was, but to
gain no more by it than wax-work does by being a closer representation of
nature than the Apollo Belvedere. Very few discriminate sufficiently in
the arts between the merit of an _exact_ representation and an _ennobled_
one; and people are not fair enough in general to allow that something
must be sacrificed of fidelity in order to reach that elevated imitation
which alone gives strong and repeated pleasure.


TO THE COUNT DE LA GARDIE.

                                                    Bursledon Lodge, 1814.

J’ai appris avec plaisir, Monsieur le Comte, que le choix de votre
Excellence pour être ambassadeur de sa M. le Roi de Suède auprès de la
Cour de Naples vous a conduit dans ce pays. Le souvenir des heures, à
la fois, animées, douces, et tranquilles, que j’ai passées dans votre
hôtel à Vienne, et qui m’ont rendu cette ville si agréable, ne s’effacera
jamais. J’ai vivement regretté que mon séjour forçé en France après mon
mariage, mon mari ayant été fait prisonnier de guerre, quoiqu’il n’avoit
jamais embrassé l’état militaire, a interrompu la correspondance dont
j’ai joui pendant quelque temps. J’ai tâché de la renouer par l’entremise
du Chevalier l’Amiral Bertie. Je ne vous exprimerai pas ce que j’ai senti
quand il m’a rapporté, sans être décachetée, ma lettre, destinée pour la
plus douce, la plus cherie des mortelles, mais écrite à un ange du ciel.
Je ne me permets de suivre les idées que cet evenement m’inspire. Agréez,
M. le Comte, l’expression du désir que je ressens de vous remercier
——[54]


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.

                                                        Bath, April, 1815.

Have you seen the late Maréchal Lacy’s country house? I thought the
grounds extremely beautiful. He was one of the many who were kind to
me, that have been removed to another existence since I left Vienna.
Fifteen years’ absence from any place gives one a terrible lesson on the
instability of life, when one seeks for the friends or even acquaintances
one has left. Those I have lost there exceed in number those I have
preserved, and were among my chief intimates, for I now know none there
so well as I knew Mad. de Thun, Lady Guilford, Maréchal Lacy, and Mad.
Colloredo. Are the great dinners still at two o’clock? We were very much
interested by Lord Clancarty’s last despatch, describing the reception
of Buonaparte’s propositions, which is certainly an admirable State
paper, and written with a strength and terseness too often neglected in
diplomatic composition. Its openness and manly directness are also to be
admired; there is a stamp of truth and firmness about it, and no opening
appears to be left for wavering or indecision.

Adieu. It is a rare thing for me not to fill a sheet, but I am not full
of ideas, and am so conversant with trees and shrubs that, like one of
Ovid’s heroines, I think my feet will soon take root, and my fingers
germinate, only, however, with leaves and buds. Have you heard that both
Mad. de Staël and her daughter have married since they left England?
I suppose this country gave them a taste for domestic life, as it is
certainly the spot on the globe where it is best understood.

The ——s are in London. He is exerting all his energies—to get into _The
Alfred_. Pitiable that with so good abilities he should be reduced at
sixty to anxiety for an object so frivolous. How wise are they who take
advantage of the opening given by English laws and customs to rise above
the every-day detail of mere society, and take their share in politics,
literature, or great works of benevolence, which, if we add to them the
learned professions, take in all the objects really worth attention.

Have you happened to see Alison’s _Sermons_? If not, bulky as they are,
I must try to send them. One upon the fiftieth anniversary of our King’s
reign is exquisite in feeling, taste, and style.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                     Bath, April 16, 1815.

You have no notion how much I enjoy my escape from the jaws of the
hill—opening, just as if they designed to close on us again. I must never
put myself _dans la gorge des montagnes_. With a thousand reasons for
being in worse, I am in better spirits, and enjoy my loftiness and my
airiness. In short, I hate to _look up_, except to people, and that is a
pleasure I am used to, and have been _particularly_ so during the last
twelve years.

I was at Mr. Lemon’s last night, and was mistaken and talked to for
Mrs. J. Hayes, which, as she is but four-and-twenty, I accepted for a
great compliment. I personated her as long as I could, not to distress
the speaker; but when, after inquiring for all Mrs. Hayes’ near friends
and relations, she came to solicitude for _our friend Mrs. Wiggins_,
I could not hold out or do the honours of four-and-twenty any longer.
I returned Mrs. ——’s visit at her cottage on Saturday. It is one of
those cottages described in a novel, where one finds a pair of runaway
lovers or a fair unknown. The flame of friendship on her part burned
and crackled immediately. It would have done so equally on mine (for I
am not ungrateful, and her manners are charming), if my friendship did
not flow with my love in so broad and deep a channel that I do not find
it easy to divert it into any smaller streams. Formerly my heart could
sincerely feed innumerable little streamlets of female friendships,
platonic friendships, literary partnerships, serviceable warm good
wills, and cheerful self-sacrificing intimacies; and though I have been
sometimes blamed for this apparent diffusion, I had affection enough
in my composition to answer all these demands; but ‘the seven heads of
the Nile’ have now each their appropriate destination; even the little
pleasure I had last year in the variety of mixed society is now quite
absorbed in my superior happiness at home.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                              May 4, 1815.

So I said in February last that I had not leisure for many works of
fiction. Alas, poor human nature! since that time I have read _Waverley_,
_The Queen’s Wake_, _The Curse of Kehama_, _The Lord of the Isles_, and
skimmed over _Guy Mannering_, _Discipline_, and _Charlemagne_. _The Lord
of the Isles_ is a charming poem, as a full-length portrait of Bruce,
whose dignity and sweetness are admirably portrayed; but the misses and
masters of this work are _too_ uninteresting. _The Curse of Kehama_ is
full of exquisite beauties, and I know nothing in the whole range of
imaginative descriptive poetry that impresses me so much as the City
under water. I was also charmed to meet my dear nursery friends, the
Glumms and Gawries, who had so delighted me in _Peter Wilkins_.

_May 11._—I wish I could tell you anything of the Queen of Prussia; but
there are characters which defy description, and, if one attempts to
give them _colour_, one falls into invention. She was beautiful; and
well conducted in those points peculiarly exacted from women; in nothing
distinguished. Dress and dancing she was fonder of than even the majority
of her sex, and devoted to them to a later period. She was so uncommonly
obliging to me that I feel as if I was ungrateful in mentioning these
trifles; but I cannot resist your inquiry. Her beauty was not of a
distinguished kind as to face, but her figure was fine and commanding.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.

                                                                May, 1815.

I am not surprised you admire the Prater. It is, I believe, the most
beautiful public place in the world; and its first burst of spring, so
prompt, so rapid, so rich, though not so delightful to a resident as a
more gradual approach, is more splendid and striking. One would not wish
it so always; but for once it is a beautiful _coup de théâtre_. And the
great enjoyments of the labourer and artizan in their holiday summer
evenings on this spot give a spectacle probably unique. The populace at
Vienna seem the best and happiest I have seen. They are incomparably the
best fed; and this forms no small praise of their superiors. Have you
been presented to the Emperor? You ought; and there is no place where
it is so little troublesome. It is a _duperie_ not to be introduced to
the most remarkable people, and particularly to those whose actions
influence the destiny of thousands both existing and unborn. Never ‘lay
the flattering unction to your soul’ of being _presented_, &c. &c., when
you come back; for one hardly ever retraces one’s own path. Friends often
say, ‘It is not worth the trouble—I am sure you would not like it;’ but
one must cut this short, or may lose half what one travels for.

_June 14, 1815._—One should be very cautious to prevent habitual
politeness from degenerating into involuntary, or at least unintentional,
dissimulation. The daughter of the landlady of the inn where I slept last
night at Bagshot, at two years old, gave her sister of seven, without
any provocation, so vigorous and well applied a slap, so perfectly
_aplomb_, as proved the exercise habitual. The mother seemed delighted at
this display of spirit before me; and instead of a timely word or hint
of disapprobation, the vile habit of involuntary politeness led me to
sanction it rather by a civil and approving smile.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                    London, June 23, 1815.

We are in all the triumph and tears of a dear-bought victory. The Prince
was at dinner at Mrs. Boehm’s when the news was brought to him. Ministers
and all wept in triumph among the bottles and glasses. The Regent fell
into a sort of womanish hysteric. Water was flung in his face. No, that
would never do. Wine was tried with better success, and he drowned
his feelings in an ocean of claret. They seem to have been a little
disturbed in their natural course, for he called Jekyll, and said, ‘Lady
Gertrude Sloane’s brother is killed. Take my carriage and tell her so.’
Jekyll expostulated that Lady Gertrude was gone to bed—just ready to be
confined, and the surprise might be fatal, if the news was announced in
that way at that hour. The Regent persisted, and at last said, ‘Well, go
to Lord Carlisle’s; for some of them _must_ know it,’ which Jekyll also
resisted.

He is made one of the Masters (in Chancery, I suppose), and gets between
two and three thousand a-year. I wish his dear wife was living;—but I
hope I wrong her much by so mean a wish.

Do not quote Jekyll in this account of the Regent. One of my Hanoverian
friends is killed, a worthy man as ever fought—Omptéda his name; and one
of my acquaintances in that quarter, Büssche, the fine-looking son of my
beautiful friend, has lost an arm.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.

                                                 Cheltenham, July 3, 1815.

Mrs. —— was at Cheltenham six weeks, and went to an hotel, where she
lived at the _table-d’hôte_. This was not the choice of very good taste;
_mais n’importe_; it amused her, and no one ever thought of criticizing
but those who had not kindliness of heart to take pleasure in her being
amused. Among these critics were the Ladies B——, who told Mrs. —— their
_propriety_ would not allow them to visit her at a place where they
_might_, _would_ or _could_ meet _so many men_ on the stairs, &c. Did any
one ever hear such _trash_? What strange points people choose for their
propriety; and how few are there who may not go up and down stairs with
perfect security.

There is a great influx of Petticoats, and Irish petticoats, in the
place; but man is a rare bird, and, when he does come, _very shy_, to use
a sportsman’s phrase.


TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 2, 1815.

You ask me how I like _The Pilgrims of the Sun_. It abuses the privilege
assumed by modern poets of setting aside all respect for _le vrai_
or _le vraisemblable_. It is a reverie, a rhapsody, a long tour in
an air-balloon—what you will; yet it has pretty lines, and shows
some imagination; but these one finds everywhere. It is one of the
distinctions of this age, that so many attempt to write verses, and so
few fail of producing something which may be read, _once_ at least,
with pleasure. But I have read _Roderick the Goth_ with reverence and
admiration—a stately Gothic temple, in ornament rich and elaborate, yet
losing nothing of its general effect from the beauty and high finish of
its details; exciting in the mind a religious awe which composes and
invigorates, at the same time awakening the tenderest affections. The
application of the words of our Liturgy and Scripture is often very
beautiful; and I am not so scrupulous on this head as the Edinburgh
Reviewer, who (pious man) is shocked at the introduction of Catholic
ceremonies, as indecorous and irreverent. They are highly picturesque,
and suited to poetry; and I do not think Mr. Southey’s description of
auricular confession will either make one convert to Popery, or excite
the smallest sentiment of irreverence for Christianity. But these
Reviewers seem to praise him with great regret, and, I believe, are a
little angry that any one on this side the Tweed should have written so
fine a poem. However, I grant that it is too universally sombre; the
mixture of justified and avowed revenge with Christian feelings on other
matters is incongruous; while the hinge on which the story turns is a
crime which by no skill whatever can be divested of meanness and ferocity.

How could Lord Carysfort think I had _forgot_ his reading? On the
contrary, his reading not merely fixed in my memory what was good, but
has also left an indelible impression of some of Lewis’s _diableries_,
and Wordsworth’s inanity, which I wish to forget, and cannot, though I
have in general a happy facility in that way; and I sometimes find myself
involuntarily repeating—

    ‘What’s the matter, what’s the matter,
    What is it ails young Harry Gill?’

and so on for three or four stanzas. The whole is in an _Annual Register_
which was sent to Berlin, and I heard it but once read in the corner
where Lady Carysfort’s sofa was placed, and where she sat with feminine
work in her hands, and more than feminine eloquence on her lips; now
discussing with prophetic spirit (as events have proved) the fate of
Europe, and now consulting on the form of some simple ornament for her
daughters. How much has been erased from memory of what has happened
before and since; yet how well do I recollect those _sweet_ evenings.
Forgive me the Irish epithet; I cannot always do without it.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., DRESDEN.

                                          Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 11, 1815.

I address this to Dresden in great hope of its missing you; as it is a
pity the Gallery there, which every day will improve, should detain you
from the treasures of art, _now_ collected in Paris—but which will soon
be crumbled away. Every hour some star is blotted from the constellation,
some borrowed plume plucked from the daw. There, too, the materials of
future history are forming. The great game of power is playing on a large
scale. Paris is now the _focus_ of the mind of the civilized world, and
one may exist more there in a week than elsewhere in years. But all this
is evanescent; while petty princes, warm baths, and waltzing misses, are
always to be had.

The Polish women, whom you mention as nationally agreeable, have all
the ease and adroitness acquired by living constantly in a crowd, and
having no pursuit but dissipation, and very little restraint from
principle. There is, however, much tinsel and frippery in their manners.
The colours are gay, but roughly laid on; and in a short time those
persons of good taste who have been accustomed to that beautiful union of
refinement and simplicity (the perfection of female grace) which is found
amongst English women, are annoyed by a certain mixture of coarseness
and _finesse_. They please at first; for their gold is hammered into
the most airy thinness, and all spread on the surface; and though they
rarely excel in anything, they are _tolerably_ advanced in a variety
of languages, and other accomplishments, which they are ever anxious to
display—their morning all rehearsal, their evening all performance.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                          Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 30, 1815.

Your amusing packets always diffuse cheerfulness over my horizon, or
rather increase that which, I thank Heaven, does not often forsake
me. Indeed, I do consider that moment as fortunate to me which made
us acquainted; you know not of how much use you have been to my mind,
nor what moral benefit is derived from intercourse with you and yours,
including your excellent friend Mr. ——. I am sorry I mentioned those
‘eccentricities,’ to borrow your word, which I thought I perceived in
his character. I am sure, however, I was right, since you have not
contradicted me. Believe me, I do not esteem him less for knowing on what
side lie those shades which are the inevitable lot of humanity. On the
contrary, he is more interesting to me, as I am better acquainted with
his individuality; and, knowing that every virtue verges on some defect,
I am not the least surprised that a mind so active and energetic, should
be in some degree positive and self-opinionated. We must not expect from
eagles the gentleness of doves.

    The next few entries contain the record of a short visit to
    Paris made at the conclusion of this year.

_Nov. 3-5, 1815._—From London to Dover you are received at all the inns
with a jerking _empressement_, that shows travellers to France are
considered as the spoiled children of the travelling world, who are
trying to get rid of themselves, and must be flattered and humoured.
Elsewhere one meets an easy, quiet civility, as if one’s object might
be one’s own business, and it was not necessary to incite and indulge
one’s whims to keep up the spirit of change. But on this road the whole
family pour out on all occasions, not excepting the young ladies _en
papillotes_; there is a double portion of alacrity, and one is treated as
if carrying despatches on which hung the fate of Europe.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 14, Hôtel Mont Blanc, Paris._—After an absence of eight years, I
find that while the French have veered to every point of the compass as
to morals, religion, and government, they have been constant to their
milliners, opera-dancers, and _restaurateurs_, who are all the same I
left. Madame Gardel still bears the palm for grace; _Madame_, or rather
_Monsieur_, Le Roy, for millinery; and Véry and Beauvilliers are still
the princes of _restaurateurs_. The gentleness, the smoothness of manners
of the English, the harmony of their voices, and the repose and educated
expression of their countenances, form a striking contrast to the harsh,
sudden, angular, impatient appearance of the French. Sometimes these
assume a veil of softness, but it is transparent, and suddenly thrown off
when anything touches or even threatens their interest or their vanity
in the most distant point.

I inhabit an apartment that affects to be luxurious. The suite of rooms
are seven, and the walls ornamented with large looking-glasses; but my
bedroom is without a carpet, and the curtains both of bed and window are
of embroidered muslin, unlined, so I shiver in state. My bedroom also is
without a bell, so that whenever I want my maid I must _run_ or _roar_,
which disagrees extremely with the dignified of _coup-d’œil_ of my
apartment.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 18._—My dear little —— has begun to take lessons in dancing from
Mons. Reichard, who modestly says—‘_Je suis le premier démonstrateur du
monde_;’ and who tells me that _if_ —— attends to his dancing he will be
a very handsome man—a whimsical connexion of cause and effect, recalling
Molière’s _Vous êtes orfèvre_.

I had the pleasure of seeing in one evening, Corneille’s _Menteur_, and
_Les Plaideurs_, by Racine. To see on the same night the first good
French comedy (which, however, is an acknowledged translation from the
Spanish), and the two best comic productions of the greatest tragic
writers of this nation, was fortunate. But _Les Plaideurs_ being founded
on an alienation of mind, gives pain, in spite of all its humour and
brilliancy. No superstructure can universally please on this foundation,
which appears to me radically faulty, and equally an offence against good
taste and good feeling.

When I saw the Comtesse de Pimbeche she immediately reminded me of my
dear friend Mad. de Sévigné, who says, ‘_Je suis une vraie Comtesse de
Pimbeche_;’ and I was glad to laugh at what had diverted her.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 20._—The poor dismantled Gallery! Here are the empty frames of
the fine pictures, which have been restored to their rightful owners; a
mournful memento, however just the act of restoration. Still, much is
left. Albano’s Cupids still whet their arrows, and Cuyp’s soft light
still beams from the walls.

The _Hôtel des Invalides_ is one of the most glorious monuments of the
reign of Louis XIV. The veterans are well fed and clothed. They lodge in
a palace, and command a view spacious and magnificent, as far as regular
plantations and wide alleys can make it so. Sixty years of age, or wounds
that disable from service, are the titles of admission. They receive
forty sous a month pocket-money.

The general idea of such a retreat for the veterans of war, flatters
the imagination at a distance; but when we approach, it is in detail
a melancholy sight. There is something so disproportioned between the
grandeur of the building and the maimed, old, and debilitated figures who
creep and shiver through its magnificent arcades; and also between the
remuneration of a mere provision for the necessities of life, and those
acts, always of self-devotion, sometimes of eminent heroism, connected
with a military career, that one gladly escapes from so painful a
contrast; and when one has said, This is _the best_ that unlimited power
can do for valour in the aggregate, one turns shuddering to _the worst_,
and sees in their true light the calamities of war. A few priests and
_Sœurs de la Charité_ glide along among these feeble veterans, these
remnants of themselves, adding to the solemnity of the picture. The
day was bitterly cold; possibly the summer sun might have given it a
different colouring.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 21._—Saw _Les Ménechmes_, and _Crispin Rival de son Maître_.
_In Les Ménechmes_ the hero turns off as a jest a written promise of
marriage, for which it appears he had received a valuable consideration.
This dishonourable action would not be tolerated in England. In _Crispin_
the dishonesty of a servant who gives proof of ingenious and hardened
roguery, is not only forgiven, but his master promises to try him again
in the same situation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 22._—_Les Horaces_ is perhaps the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Cimarosa. The
music is worthy of the subject. Catalani, whose want of feminine softness
always leaves something to be desired in a woman’s part, was a charming
young Roman, uniting the soldier and the lover with admirable grace. In
the first part of the piece, where spirit, love, and happiness were to be
exprest, she was delightful; it was all sunshine trembling and glittering
through roses, or fountains sparkling and playing in the beams of the
moon. Curiatius advances like the spirit of happiness to receive the vows
of his bride. The sacred flames are kindled, the priests pronounce the
nuptial benediction, the bride has permitted her veil to be withdrawn,
their hands advance to join, when the three Horatii, similar in dress,
appearance, and expression, enter, like the Fates, and interrupt the
rites, never to be renewed. Their number, their resemblance to one
another, gives to their appearance somewhat supernatural and imposing.
One trembles at the expression of one will in these three human forms,
whom one cannot distinguish from each other. One loses all hope of
softening by prayer those who seem divested of individuality. From this
fatal moment all is tragic; and, finally, we see these victims to their
patriotism go out to a combat which leaves no hope for the victors or
the vanquished. The piece closes at this awful period. The sacrifice is
consummated; Rome or Alba may be saved, but the happiness of those for
whom our interest has been strongly excited, is for ever gone. I know no
piece more animated, interesting, noble, and energetic. _Touching_ it
would surely be, in the hands of those who know how to strike the chords
of the pathetic; but here Catalani’s genius forsakes her; she commands
admiration and smiles, but never excites a tear. She is, therefore, much
finer in the first part of this opera than in the second.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 30._—When an Englishwoman enters a milliner’s shop, every
individual flies at her, like birds of prey on a tame dove. In the
highest of these _magazins_ a _beau garçon_ is always to be found, who
gives the cap its last arrangement when tried on, and decides on its
being extremely becoming. He is an amphibious being, dressed in an
effeminate and highly ornamented manner, who ‘now trips a lady, and now
struts a lord.’ One of these creatures took the liberty of asking an
English lady to let him see the English corset she wore that day, as they
were always so becomingly made about _la gorge_. The presence of these
supernumeraries prodigiously inflames a bill, on which Lady C. said she
never went to shops where they are to be found, as ‘she had no idea of
paying for the sight of a man.’

Talleyrand says of the Duke of Richelieu, his successor as prime
minister, ‘He is well bred, well conducted, and no man in France knows so
much—of the Crimea.’


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                                      Paris, Dec. 2, 1815.

Your letter from Chalons was kind and _seasonable_, for it arrived on
a day when I was very ill and very low. If I had not seen you well and
happy, I should very much regret my visit to Paris, for, being unprovided
with proper letters of introduction, and confined by my cold, I have
had no pleasures of society, and we are so much embarrassed at this
moment by failure of rents, that even the trifling sum which it will
cost is a matter of some inconvenience. I shall regret nothing but the
dancing-master, by far the best that I ever saw, and I have observed
the art with some attention. When I announced to him that —— could take
no more lessons from him, as we were on the point of leaving Paris, he
looked at him with commiseration, lifted up his hands and eyes, and
exclaiming, _C’est un enfant perdu!_ hurried away.

I see the Diet at Frankfort is thickening. Pray present my compliments to
Prince Hardenberg, whom I had the pleasure of knowing at Berlin in 1801;
and if you ascertain that his wife is living, inquire for her in my
name. Three of the persons whom I most esteemed and loved amongst those
whose acquaintance I made in that well-remembered tour, are no more, Mad.
de Büssche, Mad. de Walmöden, and Mad. de la Gardie. If you ever see any
of their near relations, recall me to their remembrance. Sometimes I
regret being forgotten and out of remembrance, and almost extinct as to
all the purposes of social life, except within my own family circle; and
at other times I say to myself, that sphere _ought_ to content a woman.
So it ought, but you, I know, will rejoice in seeing I have momentary
aspirations after the living world, and am not always imbarked and rooted
in my geraniums and myrtles.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                            Dec. 25, 1815.

You ask me of Mrs. Piozzi. She is a lively, animated woman, far advanced
in years, and peculiarly agreeable in countenance, conversation, and
manners. So she appeared to me, who have only met her in mixed company,
and so I have heard her described by others. She is a woman of very high
spirits, and only two years ago went to a masquerade in Bath disguised as
a constable, Lady Belmore (the dowager) and Miss Caldwell attending her
as watchmen; and they amused themselves throwing the whole assembly into
consternation by pretending they had a warrant to disperse and imprison
them as engaged in an illegal amusement.

Alas, and have I seen in the _Farmers Journal_ Mr. Lefanu’s eulogium on
boxing, and has he condescended to use the old hackneyed argument that
boxing is better than the stiletto! In my youth I used also to hear that
‘cards were better than scandal,’ as if there were no _third_ manner of
passing the evening.

       *       *       *       *       *

    1815.—The following are some of the thoughts and observations
    which I have found scattered up and down in my Mother’s
    note-books and journals, often without a date. More of them
    seem to belong to this year and the preceding than to any
    other, and I have therefore grouped them together at this place.

Our friends may commend us above our deserts without corrupting
our hearts, because we know their opinions _must_ be attributed to
partiality, and cannot be shared by any indifferent persons.

       *       *       *       *       *

A witty man is a public benefactor. Every time one of his brilliant
sayings is repeated a portion of pleasure is imparted, keen according
to the susceptibility of the hearer; a smile is called into tearful
eyes; severity relaxes her brow, and anxiety forgets her cares. Social
enjoyments are increased, the hearers like each other the better for the
pleasure they have shared together. What an amount of enjoyment Jekyll
has given to the world, raised for how many the leaden mantle of _ennui_,
and eased them for a moment of its weight.

       *       *       *       *       *

To write daily in absence is an excellent habit in marriage. As daily
prayer nourishes our soul, so does daily correspondence feed the religion
of the heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

Man seems to bear a strange resemblance to the planet he inhabits. His
mind appears composed of layers, like the earth. There is the layer of
education, and that of habit; the ideas he avows to the world; those
within, which he avows to his friends; under those, what he acknowledges
to himself; and yet deeper, what he really feels without daring even a
self-avowal.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Macobar Islands everything a man possesses is buried with him, and
the dead are spoken of no more. In highly polished and dissipated society
this practice seems gaining ground.

       *       *       *       *       *

A jesting account of women by a woman.—Women are kind to men, unkind to
one another. The best point in their character is that they are good
nurse-tenders; the worst, that they seldom speak a word of absolute
truth. They are envious of beauty, singing, dancing, dress, wealth, and
rank, in their own sex, but not the least so of goodness, sense, or
domestic happiness.

       *       *       *       *       *

To have too clear an insight into one’s own mind is sometimes a
misfortune, for one magnifies one’s own meditations and chimeras, till
they assume ‘a local habitation and a name,’ and then one acts upon them
as if they were realities.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are few more effectual ways of displeasing, than dwelling on our
own happiness, except to those who consider themselves as the authors
of it. Artful and designing women are so aware of the converse of this
principle, that an interesting and melancholy story of which self is the
heroine, is one of their most common and yet most successful means of
seduction.

       *       *       *       *       *

An enthusiastic manner generally denotes either mediocrity, or
affectation, or both. Those who possess a deep knowledge of the fine
arts, never converse on the subject but most reluctantly, and by a sort
of force. Such, I recollect, was the case with Sir William Hamilton.
Smatterers cannot see a parish church without a comparison between Gothic
and Grecian architecture, nor a Turk’s head on a sign-post without
referring to ‘classical contours’ and ‘the Apollo Belvedere.’

       *       *       *       *       *

A charity sermon is a satire on man. That he should require to be adjured
by every motive spiritual and temporal, and courted by every form of
eloquence, to grant a small portion of his superfluity for the relief of
human misery, is most wonderful.

       *       *       *       *       *

The affectation of sensibility seldom imposes on those who possess the
reality. The performer may have learned the tune, but will be out of
time. The _poco piu_ or the _poco meno_ will expose him.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Alps you sometimes find yourself under a clear blue sky on a
bright sunny throne above the clouds—the top of the mountain being
divided from the lower world by this magnificent boundary, which,
occasionally unfolding, presents partial views of the earth beneath. A
just emblem of the state of those who truly love.[55]

       *       *       *       *       *

The sense of shame is so fine a weapon, it is a pity to risk its edge, or
even its polish.

       *       *       *       *       *

Happiness! a fearful word, seldom uttered but as the forerunner of
calamity. It seems as if happiness, like the lamps in the ancient
sepulchres, is of a nature to burn only while unnoticed and unknown.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no subject on which people betray more of their character than
in their unprepared opinions on the marriages of others. How much sordid
littleness and pitiful calculation breaks out on these occasions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fine taste in music prevalent in some Roman Catholic countries,
is accounted for by the excellence of their Church Music. Perhaps the
universal good style of writing in England may be owing in part to the
beauty of the language of our liturgy. Any person who will take the
trouble of comparing the epistolary style of the middle classes in other
countries of modern Europe may perceive our superiority.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no virtue which is not caricatured by some defect. Christian
charity is caricatured by that worldly-minded prudence which receives
contumely and neglect, at least from equals or superiors, with a sort
of awe approaching to admiration; and which more willingly renders its
tribute of praise or favours to fear than love, alive to apprehension and
dead to gratitude.

       *       *       *       *       *

One may cut down one’s own ambition, but the shoots will spring up for
one’s children.

       *       *       *       *       *

To be in a passion with one’s superior is dangerous; with an equal,
imprudent; with an inferior, cowardly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Travelling gives weak minds an exaggerated idea of the value of those
personal advantages which, in a country where the character and
connexions of strangers and the gradations of English rank are unknown,
obtain distinctions, attention, and flattery, far beyond what they would
obtain at home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Travelling is the most selfish of all pleasures, whether we consider the
number of painful scenes we avoid, or of duties we elude, by absence from
the natural sphere of our duties.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shakespeare should never be mentioned with an epithet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps few have ever written thoroughly good and musical prose, who
did not at one time or other exercise their pens in verse. Experience
seems to corroborate this, and it is a strong motive for encouraging all
poetical attempts.

       *       *       *       *       *

Things to be avoided in society:—

Excessive laughter on any subject.

All jests on poverty, infirmity, plainness of person, sickness, debility,
or whatever else may be _felt_ as a misfortune.

Story-telling, or mimicry, repeated in the same circle.

Discussion of ages or incomes.

Superlatives and enthusiasm.

Any quotations exceeding a line, or generally known.

Any discussion on the fine arts, unless we can produce new observations
of our own.

Any account of our travels, except the subject is introduced by others.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is singular how ill, in general, _men_ bear _little_ talents and
accomplishments, and how much more overweening they are made by them
than by great ones. This seems to justify what one considers at first
an English prejudice—the sort of contempt that excelling in ornamental
branches of education is so apt to bring on a man, unless managed with
great address and apparent indifference to them; and, indeed, even then
I believe they rather take from his dignity.

       *       *       *       *       *

The moral uses of pain and sickness. Humility, patience, courage,
sympathy, and compassion. A just appreciation of beauty, strength,
rank, talents, and riches. A willingness to think no assistance to
our fellow-creatures too considerable to be given, or too small to
be received. An extraordinary increase and development of the social
affections. Besides these general uses, sickness has often the particular
advantage of breaking vicious or dangerous connexions, and arresting us
in the career of guilt and folly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why should a ready laugh, a general shake of the hand, and that
difficulty of living alone or in a family circle which makes all new
comers equally welcome, constitute a good-natured man? Good nature is no
great laugher. Nine laughs out of ten spring from a contemptuous feeling
toward their object, or a triumphant consciousness of superiority. Good
nature is too affectionate to shake hands with every new comer in the
same cordial manner; and above all, good nature can cheerfully pass her
time alone; for her hours, always sweetened by the kindliness of her
feelings, cannot be tinctured with _ennui_, while she can either serve or
gratify another.

       *       *       *       *       *

The liberty of the press acts like a perpetual alterative, curing, or
lessening by imperceptible degrees, the ailments of the body politic.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 18, 1816.

I am distressed at finding you do not receive my letters. This I
am assured of, you will take it for granted I have written, as I
never claimed from your duty those kind attentions you have always
shown me from friendship and affection; and therefore could not be
guilty of enjoying your entertaining letters without offering my
thanks. Lady Rumbold gives a ball to-night. Mrs. Dott and Mrs. ——
have already done so. The latter gave hers on the christening of her
little boy. The tenants dined with them next day, and Mr. —— made a
speech of extraordinary length, in which he talked of his _tenantry_
and his _ancestry_ in as pompous a style as if he were of the line of
Plantagenet, and possessed of half a province. It is curious to observe
how much more flattered people seem to be by standing on the lower steps
of the pyramid than by perching near the pinnacle. A little height above
our fellows seems to give more pleasure than a great elevation.

As you rise in the scale of language I descend, for I do not recollect
enough of German even to decypher the short story you have sent to me.
It is as completely locked up from me as if it were written in modern
Greek—of which, by the bye, I am quite tired. Every one is prating and
writing and publishing about Greece and modern Greek. Have you read
Leake’s _Researches_? He is, you know, a brother diplomat. The _Edinburgh
Review_ for February, 1815, has minced him up in a very amusing way.
The dish is pungent, and excites appetite, but not for Mr. Leake’s book.
Lord —— is going to marry Mrs. ——, a fat, fair, and fifty card-playing
resident of the Crescent. They each received anonymous letters abusive of
the other, compared them, and became better friends than ever.


TO THE SAME.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, March 5, 1816.

The objection you make to _Roderick_ struck me forcibly, though _late_.
Perhaps in description of country scenery it excels every poem except
_The Seasons_; and some of the finer feelings of the heart are admirably
portrayed, both in their sources, progress, and consequences. I think
_the hinge_ on which the poem turns is radically ignoble, and forms its
principal defect. It is in parts highly pathetic. From the time Florinda
and Roderick join Count Julian till _her_ death, I know nothing more
affecting. In short, it is a fine epic; and I believe I prefer it to any
poetical work by any living author. I am not surprised it is not much
admired as yet; and I found a few lines to-day in Dryden which seem so
applicable to the subject that I will copy them here:—

‘A well-weighed, judicious poem, which at its first appearance gains no
more upon the world than to be just received, and rather not blamed than
much applauded, insinuates itself by insensible degrees into the liking
of the reader; and whereas poems which are produced by the vigour of
imagination only have a gloss upon them at first which time wears off,
the works of judgment are like the diamond, the more they are polished
the more lustre they receive.’

I cannot think why I have copied this, as I am very angry when I receive
a word in _your_ letters not your own.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, April 1, 1816.

I have just bought Edgeworth’s _Readings on Poetry_. Professing to
explain _the popular poetry in daily use_, the author devotes thirty-six
pages to Parnell’s _Pandora_[56]—a poem little read, though admirably
written. Any person who has frequented society could have told him that
half the lovers of poetry know not that this piece exists. In another
point of view it was an injudicious choice. It is a bitter satire upon
women, full of _finesse_ and talent, but the spirit of it is wholly
unintelligible to the young. A _boy_ would not understand it, and on a
_girl_ the vulgar exclamation, ‘What _a beautiful figure_ would Pandora
_make_ at a masquerade,’ will rather produce the effect of causing her
to long for the garland, the veil, and the crown, and perhaps for the
masquerade, which had better have been left out, than inspire her with
any disgust of the character. I am surprised how to reconcile the choice
of this poem, and the remarks on it, with the practical good sense of
Edgeworth Town. There is also a bitterness of sarcasm on the females
of the present day expressed in some of these remarks (see p. 85),
quite unworthy of that mint. I do believe the girls of the present day
have _not lost_ the power of blushing; and though I have no grown-up
daughters, I enjoy the friendship of some who might be my daughters;
in whom the greatest delicacy and modesty are united with perfect
ease of manner and habitual intercourse with the great world. Pray do
not communicate these remarks _in any shape_ to Edgeworth Town. Your
peculiarly gentle and even diffident feelings do not permit you to know
how much unsought-for criticism offends.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                             Bursledon Lodge, April, 1816.

I received about the same time your delightful volume and magnificent
present. I am absolutely Queen of Pekin and Canton. You have obliged me
very much by this affectionate proof of your recollection and of your
desire to please. Besides, these beautiful specimens of art will often,
often furnish me with an occasion of conversing about my son; and as love
is the same in all ages, I shall be able to say, ‘’Tis a present from
_him_,’ with as much pride as Mad. de Sévigné felt when she was dressed
in her brocade petticoat, and said, ‘_C’est un présent de ma fille_.’
I hope the light of your own eyes may soon be turned on your vases and
jars, which are placed in great order in the drawing-room, at least as
many as the drawing-room can possibly contain. Mr. T., who was as anxious
_de faire valoir_ your gift, as if I had not admired it sufficiently
myself, assisted me in all the nervous task of unpacking—that is, he
assisted me as the coachman in La Fontaine _assisted_ the fly on the
wheel. _Enfin, voilà nos gens dans la plaine_; and very little damage had
occurred, none from want of care on your side in the packing. Mr. T. did
the honours, and was affronted if there was any light and shade in my
admiration, if I did not think every cup, saucer, jar, vase, and grinning
_magot_, equally beautiful.

I know nothing of the Byron separation, but from report, reflected,
refracted, and far remote from the fountain-head. We know how _he_ was
spoiled by flattery, or rather by just praise, and self-indulgence; and
we know _she_ was, unluckily, young, lovely, of great mental endowments
and acquirements, an heiress, highly allied, an only child, educated
by doting parents, and had as yet received no lessons from the great
instructors, time and sorrow. Strike out any of these circumstances,
and she might have been more suited to yield to the caprices of temper,
and the irritability of genius. I suspect they were a pair of spoiled
children, and that each might have been happier with a thousand others.

    My Mother often contemplated an English translation of a
    selection of Mad. de Sévigné’s _Letters_, her favourite book; I
    do not, however, find among her papers any letters translated,
    but only the following.

Preface to an English translation of Mad. de Sévigné’s _Letters_:—

Madame de Sévigné has not yet appeared in any English dress but one which
has obscured her charms; and those who have not an intimate acquaintance
with her own language are as yet entire strangers to a writer the most
interesting and amusing. A moderate knowledge of French, such as will
enable us to read with pleasure Bossuet, Fénélon, Racine, and La Bruyère,
is insufficient for the perfect comprehension of her letters, filled as
they are with French idioms, allusions to proverbial expressions, to
well-known passages in favourite authors, and to the historical events
of the time. It is hoped that the following translation and explanatory
notes will be acceptable to those who are yet unacquainted with this
charming writer.

The little that can be known of her history has been so often repeated,
it seems superfluous to insert it here; yet as a few of my readers may
desire some information here, I will briefly mention that she was an
heiress, and of a noble family; that she was born in the year 1627, and
in the reign of Louis XIII.; that she married at eighteen the Marquis de
Sévigné, a dissipated and profligate young man, who was killed in a duel
in 1651, leaving her a widow at the age of twenty-four, with one son and
one daughter; that she was adorned with beauty of the most attractive
kind, and with first-rate abilities, highly improved by education; that,
in spite of these dangerous gifts, she passed through the ordeal of a
licentious Court with an unblemished reputation, educated her children
with affection and judgment, regulated their pecuniary concerns with
discretion, established them both in marriages which seem to have been
honourable and happy to a degree very uncommon in her time. Anything more
that is known of Mad. de Sévigné may be collected from the following
letters, for her history is all domestic. It might abate the present
ardour of our females in quest of notoriety, did they remark that one of
those women who have obtained the highest celebrity, never sought for
it, but, pursuing the quiet path of maternal affection, has, like the
glowworm, involuntarily attracted admiration by her native brightness.

May I be permitted to hint to mothers, that the letters of Mad. de
Sévigné are not a collection suited to extreme youth, though hitherto
made a medium for learning the French language? They are _unintelligible_
to a beginner; and if they had not this radical fault, we must still
inquire whether the confidential letters of a lively communicative
Parisian mother, that mother being in the centre of a corrupt court,
and writing as news all the gallantries of the day, ought to enter into
the studies of very young girls, however moral the writer might be in
her own conduct? In short, let not Mad. de Sévigné be introduced to any
one who is not of an age to appreciate her merits, and to understand
from her general conduct both where she speaks ironically, and where
she disapproves, though she does not happen to censure. In the present
selection the passages we allude to are not introduced.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 16, 1816, Pulteney Hotel, London._—We breathe imperial air, as we
occupy a part of the hotel inhabited last year by the Russian Emperor;
and the waiter assured me, _with a complacent attention to my feelings_,
that he always wrote in the same spot that I had selected for the
purpose. He does not seem to have inspired much respect; though in answer
to my inquiry whether he had left the house in as dirty a state as I had
heard, the waiter justified him, and said, ‘We have had others full as
dirty.’


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, June 14, 1816.

Deeply do I sympathize with your anxiety, and eagerly do I wish for
another letter to say your dear daughter is better. Do not, I pray, delay
it. There is everything in favour of her recovery, but, alas! I know how
precarious the heart feels all these _everythings_ to be when a beloved
object is in question. Our fears are magnified in that case, as well as
our hopes, and it is most fortunate that they bear divided sway.

I have been much gratified by Mr. White’s acquaintance, short as was
our interview. His open, intelligent countenance, and an ease of manner
which princes might envy, make a strong impression at first sight. Why
is it that some among the Society of Friends possess an ease of manner,
hardly ever met in the first approaches of those in the great world
who are most anxious to acquire it? I believe it may partly arise from
your never being trammelled by all those forms with which our children
are embarrassed, and which may have an effect on the manners like
back-boards, collars, and braces on the body. I wish we may see Mr. White
here, for it is like seeing a person in a dream, to receive a short visit
in the bustle and hurry of a London hotel.

You do me too much honour in supposing me well dressed. I am rather
negligently than carefully; I mean negligent, as opposed to fashionable
and studied, but not to neat or fresh; and as I think there cannot be too
little seen of my present changed appearance, I always wear a veil and
shawl when I can, partly, perhaps, from pride, but partly from modesty,
having observed how much pains are thrown away by my cotemporaries to
make their _exposures tolerable, ‘et pour réparer des années les outrages
irréparables.’_ I am, besides, of an indolent disposition on many
subjects, and dress is one. I hate shopping, dislike conferences with
milliners and dressmakers, fidget while anything is trying on, and give
no credit to the pert Miss who always assures me the most expensive of
her caps is exactly the one which becomes me the best.


TO THE SAME.

                                                            Aug. 29, 1816.

In whatever disposition of mind I may be when I receive your letters,
their effect on me is the same:—

    ‘Round an holy calm diffusing,
    Love of peace, and lonely musing;’

and none tend more to elevate and ameliorate my heart than those in which
you describe the passage of any of your beloved circle from this world
to a better. You and yours live in a peaceable atmosphere of family
affections, of well-directed energies, and of pure religious sentiments,
which seems so fit a preparation for a superior existence, that the loss
of one of your friends seems more like a sad and tender separation than
that total and frightful disruption which in other cases fills the mind
with awe and terror. The loss of your admirable niece must be deeply felt
by those who knew her; and the frequent instances in which we see parents
survive their children, turns the balance of happiness greatly in favour
of the childless. But perhaps I ought not to say this. It is ungrateful
to that Providence which has blessed you and me with deserving and
hopeful families, and, upon a second thought, I even believe it is untrue.

I do not feel there is any merit in my avoiding egotism. It is rather an
effect of education than disposition, for I am naturally communicative;
but I was brought forward almost a child as a puppet upon the theatre
of the world—where no one is permitted to speak of self,—and wisely too,
since nine times in ten the _truth_ would not be spoken.

I admired the verses on the death of Sheridan. I believe _the other
person_ you mention, to have been applauded in early life far beyond his
merits. When I first saw, and occasionally conversed with him, he had
long past ‘the liquid dew and morn of youth,’ and had suffered much from
‘contagious blastments;’ ‘all was false and hollow.’ At an earlier period
higher hopes were entertained.

We are just reading _Rimini_, and are crammed with description till we
are crop-full. Pity that one who now and then reminds us of Dryden, and
who really sees and feels, should thus bury himself in the exuberance
of detail; and instead of allowing you to look quietly at the object he
describes, turn it round and round, and force you, like a showman, to
examine it on all sides, ‘about, above, and underneath.’ There are some
admirable lines in Boileau’s _Art Poétique_, ending ‘_Et je me sauve
enfin à travers le jardin_,’ which I refer you to, as exactly apposite to
Hunt’s account of a palace garden; yet when he touches on the feelings
of the heart, and describes the dignified yet natural penitence of the
guilty lovers, he is admirable, and the beauty of his thoughts overcomes
all the peculiarities of his style. He has written a silly dedication to
Lord Byron, with an affectation of familiarity unsuitable to a public
address, and in colloquial phrase, which I must agree with Johnson in
thinking ‘unfit for a _printed_ letter.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 18, 1816._—Read Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s _Letters_. I pity
Mr. Wortley in the beginning of their acquaintance. There are marks
of sincerity and love in his letters, whereas I suspect her of only
following up a design to marry him from motives of prudence; and she
certainly does show great address in both piquing and soothing him,
without ever committing herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 20._—Of the numerous class who have affected ‘to wear a window
in the breast,’ we feel little confidence in any but Montaigne and
Rousseau. Mad. Roland tries to persuade herself and us that she follows
their steps; but the head and heart alike refuse to believe her. She
seems never to forget the effect to be produced by what she writes. She
may speak truth, but it is truth presented with selection and address;
while Montaigne and Rousseau abandon themselves to the current of their
thoughts, apparently indifferent to the impression they will make on
their readers.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                       Bath, Oct. 1, 1816.

No letter from you, but the weather is so fine I cannot participate
in ——’s fears of your having been drowned. I dined yesterday with the
——s; only the ——s and the ——s. Mr. —— was sensible enough in his talk,
but I wish he had not told me in his wife’s hearing something about
having _thrown himself away_,—which sounded very odd,—and being very
low-spirited in consequence in his youthful years, but having reconciled
himself to it by degrees. Lady M. has a great desire to please the
present and criticize the absent. At the same time, I think her a
pleasing as well as valuable woman; but the spirit of petty criticism is
so strong in us Irish, that scarcely any degree of goodness lulls it to
sleep. I am becoming in too great request as a _chaperone_, which I must
stifle, as I have no taste for duennaship. Miss E—— is growing stouter
and stouter in her manners, and she and the N——s stump about the room
with a deportment which appears to me a mixture of a ploughboy going
over rough ground and a grenadier marching to the charge. A lady asked
me yesterday in a half-audible whisper, ‘Who is that strange-looking
ghost?’ ‘_Lady_ Prudentia ——.’ It was curious to see the effect of the
first of these three words. She was spell-bound. Regret at having lost
a good acquaintance, and remorse at having called an Earl’s daughter a
strange-looking person, with surprise at the simplicity and _external_
humility which reigns in that school, were all visibly depicted on her
countenance.

Adieu. I have mused much on you since we parted, ‘chewing the cud of
sweet and bitter fancies,’—bitter only in the thought that _time_ and
_chance_ happen to those who love, as to others.


TO THE SAME.

                                                         Bath, Oct., 1816.

As to Mrs. M., she only thinks aloud, and shows what other women, equally
devoid of sense with herself, keep to themselves. _I_ can bear her
very well; but those who envy others _perfect self-satisfaction_, and
groundless but _happy-making vanity_, must dislike her. Indeed, it can
only be _groundless_ vanity that makes any one happy. Any other kind is
_enlightened even by its own successes_ to see their futility. ‘_A coup
sûr si la vanité a rendu quelqu’un heureux, celui là était un sot._’ So
says Rousseau, and Mrs. M. is a practical commentary.

I am reading Mrs. Marcet’s _Political Economy_. It is all _Say_, thrown
into dialogue, with the objections which might be made. This is a good
plan for chemistry, where a well-educated and thinking person _may_
begin the book entirely ignorant of the subject. But it is a bad plan
for political economy, on which every one has some information, more
or less. One has not patience to be stopped every minute by a foolish
objection, to which one knows the answer. It may do as an elementary
book; but though I could read her _Chemistry_, I cannot read this; and
I should suppose the effect would be similar on all _grown people_. It
shows a laudable spirit of industry, but I think it unfair to Say, of
whom it is a sort of unavowed translation; for though she professes
it to give the quintessence of other authors, all of it which I have
read, except what is avowedly quoted, is cribbed from him without even
changing his phrases. She is very nonsensical about the Poor Laws, saying
that the diffusion of education will give the poor a ‘spirit of dignity
and independence’ that will prevent them from taking advantage of them.
Now, the answer to this position is, that the willingness and eagerness
of the poor to become paupers—to receive from the taxes levied on their
fellow-subjects money or support, for which no equivalent is given by
them—has kept pace with, instead of being checked by, the diffusion of
education; and that education never yet made any man refuse a sinecure,
which is relief from the kingdom instead of the parish.

I have found a person here who almost openly forms herself on my model,
and quotes my old sayings, long forgotten by _me_, as authority; but I
have gone over so much ground since, that she is like a Catholic, who
obeys the early Councils, without knowing that two or three others since
that time have promulgated different decrees; and, as I am not the Pope,
I am sometimes puzzled to reconcile them.

—— is going to receive his wanderer again. I cannot laugh at him, as
others do. In a man, not otherwise deficient in sense and firmness,
so much confiding love for a wife—against experience,—against
probability,—against hope,—against advice,—against all but affection,—is
in my eyes interesting, and partakes of the feelings a superior being
might have for erring mortals.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Friday, Nov. 1, 1816._—My beloved child, my docile, gentle, joyous,
affectionate Bessy, resumed by Heaven at seven o’clock this morning.


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                            Bursledon Lodge, Nov. 1, 1816.

The lovely one is gone. I am more deeply wounded than religion permits.
Pity and pray for me. My visit to you is not to be thought of; I would
not sadden any society by my presence. God bless you, and long preserve
to you the objects of your dearest affections. My beautiful blossom,
whose loveliness I had diminished in order to surprise you—foolish,
wicked vanity—died as she had lived, loving every one better than
herself. The last phrase she uttered, except those expressive of her
latest wants and pains, was a desire the window-curtain might be
withdrawn, that she might look at the stars. A little before, she had
asked her afflicted maid if _she_ thought she would go to heaven. Keep
this note. I like to think she will not be forgotten.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                            Bursledon Lodge, Nov. 4, 1816.

You are so kind to me, my dearest friend, that I should feel wanting in
due respect for friendship so tender if I suffered you to hear from
common report that my lovely blossom is now in her little coffin, where I
have just kissed her beautiful marble brow; for she was and is beautiful,
though I restrained myself from talking of her personal perfections. What
is more important, she was heavenly-minded as far as four years and three
months would admit. I am well in health, and I hope I am resigned; but
you know how the loss of an only daughter, who to the weakness of mortal
eyes appeared faultless, and who had all the attractions which endear
a child to strangers as well as friends—you know how it must darken
the remaining years of a mother, past the age of hoping for any new
blessings, but clinging too eagerly to those she already possessed. God
bless you, and preserve you from such affliction.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 10, 1816._

    She smiled and sparkled in my sight
      Four happy months, four placid years;
    No fairer babe to fond delight
      E’er changed a mother’s secret tears.

    Sweet miniature of womanhood—
      Such as in Paradise might rove,
    E’er Eve desired a fancied good,
      And lost her heaven of peace and love.

    To me she brought returning youth—
      Fair promise of a second spring—
    Fond fancy’s dream, surpassed by truth;
      Image of love, without his wing.

    To five protecting brothers dear,
      Last precious care of long-tried love,
    Gay, gentle, blooming, not a fear
      Could this exulting bosom move.

    Mine Eden of domestic joy
      I saw so richly fenced around,
    So strongly sheltered from annoy,
      I wandered o’er enchanted ground.

    And if a tear could find a place,
      To think the wasting hand of time
    That prospect must at last deface,
      And mar, at last, that happy clime,

    How could I deem the freshest flower
      To death’s cold grasp the first was doomed;
    No blossom left to mark the bower
      Where all its vernal sweetness bloomed?

    Emblem of purity and peace,
      How beautiful in death she lay!
    Affliction won a short release
      In gazing on that lovely clay.

    Her shining locks of richest glow
      Still wore of life the brilliant hue,
    And parted o’er her brow of snow
      A gleam of sunny radiance threw.

    She lay as in a peaceful trance,
      Her snowy garb adorned with flowers,
    So grouped as for the sportive dance,
      On Pleasure’s robe, in festal hours.

    Oh loved! oh lost! and yet I know
      How just, my child, is Heaven’s decree,
    Which bids me bear this weight of woe,
      And bliss eternal gives to thee.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1816.

It will be a relief to you to hear that my health is unimpaired by an
affliction, of which you cannot know the extent without having witnessed
the delightful qualities and endearing habits of the lovely little being
it has pleased Heaven to resume.

You have too much feeling to be ignorant of the irreparable loss a mother
incurs by being deprived of an only daughter, such a joy-inspiring
creature, gifted with every endowment of mind and body desired either
by the wise or the unwise—gentle, gay, blooming, beautiful, and
affectionate. I looked to her for consolation under the total privation
of your society I am likely to suffer, and in all the other calamities
which may occur in the destiny of an affectionate woman. A son _may_ be
alienated by an unfeeling wife, a husband _may_ be seduced by a mistress;
but a daughter is a benignant star, shining through the clouds of
adversity, and embellishing every scene of joy, her mother’s companion in
sorrow, her attendant in sickness; it is on her a mother relies to close
her eyes, and cherish her remembrance, which the scenes of busy life may
soon efface from the breast of man. I spoke of her but little, partly
from a natural tendency in the heart to silence on what interests it
very deeply, and partly that I feared to show my triumph and exultation.
She was my secret hoard of promised pleasure and gratification; and I
had a sort of dread of letting in too much light on the fairy picture of
happiness.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I have not thought it right to omit the following letter,
    though in one sentence it is a repetition of that immediately
    preceding.


TO MRS. TUITE.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 20, 1816.

I thank you for the sympathy you express in my deep affliction, and
am aware (for I am practised in sorrow), of the effects of time and
religion. Truly does Wallenstein say, under deplorable calamity,

        ‘I know I shall wear down this sorrow;
    What sorrow does not man wear down?’[57]

But how much must one suffer before the weapon loses its edge. A daughter
is a benignant star, shining through the clouds of adversity, and the
chief embellishment of every scene of joy; a mother’s companion in
sorrow, her ministering angel in sickness. It is on her a mother relies
to close her eyes, and to cherish that remembrance of her, the scenes of
busy life may soon efface from the breasts of others. Uninterested as I
always am, except by what touches my affections, I seem to be more so now
than ever; and have lost almost the only link which connected me strongly
with my own sex, in their common pursuits and amusements. The flowers in
my path are gone, and although when I look at my sons I must say, ‘my
banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,’ yet I cannot cease to lament
my fallen blossom:—

    ‘Die Blume ist hinweg aus meinem Leben.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 25, 1816._—We arrived last night in London, the populous, the
powerful. It was grievous, as I sat with my children, to see the little
circle had closed in, and lost its loveliest flower, its brightest gem,
since last Christmas-day, when I looked round on it with perhaps too much
pride.




CHAPTER VI.

1817-1821.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                     London, Jan. 7, 1817.

I had obtained a frank for my kind friend the evening before I received
her letter; being always a little impatient under her prolonged silence,
and particularly so at present, when I am impressed in no ordinary degree
with a sense of the ‘changes and chances of this mortal life.’

I am just returned from Lord Clifden’s, where we have passed some days.
The quiet, sensible conversation and tranquil life of his small party,
have been of use to me; while total change of scene and of topics
accelerates in some degree the effects of time. I do not disdain any
means, nor neglect any efforts, which can aid me in returning to my usual
_habits_—to my usual _feelings_ it is impossible I can ever _entirely_
return. We may lose the sensation of pain, where a limb has been
amputated; but I know by experience that the sense of privation _must_
frequently recur. And were affection to be much fainter than it ever has
been in my heart, the very spirit of calculation on one’s pleasures must
ever recal the lovely, lively image of one who would have embellished
the home of advancing years, and sparkled like the evening star on
one’s approaching night. I say not this in the language of complaint. I
know, and I best know, that I have been favoured by Heaven far above my
deserts, and that I have blessings far above the usual lot of mortality.
I say it from the habit of opening my heart with _some_ of its weaknesses
(who will dare to say they open _all?_) to a dear and candid friend.


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                                    London, Jan. 12, 1817.

I have been long musing in my bed this morning, and ended by finding that
no subjects of consolation, but those drawn from the invisible world,
could have any effect in my present loss. It is true, I have many and
most valuable treasures in the husband, children, and friends I have
left; for though the latter are few, I do not complain of this, as it is
a matter of choice, engaged as my heart is by those few. But you know I
possessed all these treasures, when I had _her_ also; and such is the
avarice of the human heart, it cannot patiently resign anything which has
once engaged its affections, though it may previously have been happy
without it. I often wish I loved _things_ more, and _persons_ less. I
see women who set their minds on worldly advantages, on being sought for
in crowded circles, on casino, on dress, on baubles, extremely happy
to an advanced age in these childish pursuits. Of these they cannot be
dispossessed, and may be so occupied very harmlessly—better employed,
perhaps, than I am in my readings and my _reveries_. I own I ought not
to have expected the situation of my last two years to have lasted; for
I found myself so happy, I should have been rejoiced to rest there for
ever, without any change but of seasons, of music, and of books. And when
I gained my extra health, as I mentioned to you from Cheltenham, I was
_too well_ satisfied for this life, and had _momentary_ presentiments
that it could not long endure. While I bore a child every year, this
great stumbling-block lay in the way of my comfort. Though delighted to
have them when they arrived, my ‘absolute contentment’ was disturbed by
looking to an annual day of torment and terror; but when I considered
this as over, I had all the pleasures of an escape added to the rest.
Here is too much of myself, but I like to open my heart, and I avoid the
subject in conversation. You can throw down my letter; but you would be
saddened by _listening_ to me; and I wish to increase, not to diminish,
your enjoyments.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 13, 1817, Bath._—Saw Mrs. C., after an interval of two years. When
I left her then, she was in full possession of all her faculties at
eighty-five; conversed, read, worked, attended church most regularly,
received her friends with ease and grace, and sometimes amused herself
with cards. _Now_, she is quite helpless, never leaves one seat except to
go to rest, and suffers a partial failure of sight and memory. Still her
features are lovely, and her manners mild. The innocence of her mind is
peculiarly evinced by her malady; for although perfectly thrown open, and
her thoughts presented without veil or selection, no sign ever appears
of any feeling for which poor humanity need blush. Neither resentment,
envy, nor avarice has the smallest place in her breast. A slight desire
of elevation in rank, and pleasure in the remembrance of her beauty, are
her only weaknesses. To me she is an object peculiarly touching; for
she always loved me much; and, if I might dare to use the expression,
she shows a greater degree of respectful and admiring affection at this
moment than she ever expressed before.

       *       *       *       *       *

    In unconnected phrases, on that tongue
    Where once the finished period smoothly rung,
    The inmost foldings of thy heart are seen;
    Nor throbs a heart that less demands a screen.
    Thy powers, declining, feel the approach of night;
    Fast fall the shadows on thy mental sight;
    Obscured thy quick perception, once so clear,
    Thy judgment, only to thyself severe;
    Thy thoughts without selection find their way;
    Far from thy purposed meaning words will stray;
    Yet in full vigour many a gifted mind,
    By learning nurtured, and by taste refined,
    For innocence like thine might gladly change
    Wit’s keenest edge and fancy’s widest range.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                         Bath, Feb., 1817.

C—— is gone to the ball, and I have remained to chat with you
undisturbed. ’Tis a melancholy way of _chatting_, whatever may be said of
the pleasure _we_ find in having all the talk to ourselves. I went last
night to a melancholy concert, to which I brought no spirits, and where,
of course, I found none. A little wonderful girl of ten or twelve, first
pleased, then astonished, and then fatigued me, on the pianoforte. I was
curious to hear her begin, and longed to hear her end. I went chiefly
to please the _flock_, who wanted a _shepherdess_, in which capacity I
attended. They persuaded, and _applanied_ all difficulties, came for me,
and brought me home.

To-day I dined, or rather _fed_, at Mrs. C——’s, for I went at five and
came home at seven. She shows distressing symptoms of change, decay of
memory, and alteration of countenance. She has been so long the same,
so happy, and so made for the sphere she filled, that I, who have not
much power of calling up the future, felt as if she was one of the
unchangeable parts of nature, and it is with pain I awake to the truth.
The poor dear woman, when she heard Miss Acheson admire the _curl_ in
my children’s hair, said very gravely, ‘They did not take that from
their grandmother, my dear ma’am, for _my hair_ never had the least
curl in it,’ literally thinking they were her own grandchildren. No one
undeceived her, nor even _looked_ surprised. I have always observed
that any _trait_ of real affection or heart strikes people with a sort
of awe—perhaps because it is so uncommon—as, on the other hand, evident
selfishness diminishes respect, and sets people at their ease. This gives
the key to a degree of influence possessed by some minds, not to be
accounted for on any other principle.

Lady B. and Miss C. stayed at Lady ——’s ball till five in the morning on
Tuesday, and were playing loo in the evening, _fresh_ and _gay_, at least
_dressed_ and _noisy_, as if nothing had disturbed their rest the night
before.

I continue to like Mrs. ——. She seems a real mother, which is no small
praise. At the same time we should not like each other as intimates. The
matronly character, the habit of _commanding_ one’s children, unfits
us mothers for other than family society in any intimate way. It gives
us insensibly a certain dictatorial manner, which, however veiled by
politeness or gentleness, takes away from that pliable ease that may be
possessed by other women.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                Roehampton, Feb. 21, 1817.

You ask whether I know the Duke of Wellington. I do not, but was
acquainted with him in my early youth, or rather I often received him
as a guest, but was then so diffident and reserved, I do not believe I
ever addressed five words to him. He was extremely good humoured, and
the object of much attention from the female part of what was called ‘a
very gay society,’ though it did not appear such to me. You ask me if I
ever lived at Dangan? I passed there a portion of three successive years.
It _was_ a fine specimen of feudal magnificence, in space, strength, and
grandeur. There were fine gardens, a fine library, a beautiful chapel,
all that wealth collects or luxury devises; and Colonel St. George and
I, during our residence there, did not derogate from the feudal mode of
living; but I was almost a child, and perfectly passive on this and all
other subjects.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                Roehampton, March 3, 1817.

I arrived here yesterday about five, and am settled in my old room,
previously sweetened with white violets by Miss Agar’s kind hands. I was
not _much_ frightened at night, considering there was a closet locked,
of which I had not the key, and I knew not what or who might bounce out
of it. True, I barricaded it with much furniture, particularly of the
brittle kind, that the difficulties of opening and the smash of crockery
might wake me, and I got up at daybreak to remove my fortifications, lest
anybody should guess the depth of my cowardice.

I have no news but that the Princess Elizabeth weighs fifteen stone, so
I am not come up to the royal standard yet; and that _growing down_ is
not confined to me, for that she is becoming, as it is said, ‘a mushroom’
from having been a fine young woman; and the Regent has lost several
inches.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                                   London, March 23, 1817.

This week has been barren of letters from you, but your last was more
than ‘the perfume and the suppliance of a minute.’ It is still fresh and
green, and has made me smile as often as I read it over; for one of your
letters is always a permanent part of my amusement till relieved by a
successor.

Many are the inquiries that have been made for you, and amongst thousands
of others, they have been made by Marsh,[58] who rests on his oars, and
speaks no more in the House; but, _en revanche_, talks long and well at
dinner, takes the lead, gives good jokes pretty often, and bad ones when
the good are not forthcoming, having now established such a character
that men take them in the lump, one with another. He plays into the
hands of Smith, one of the writers of _Rejected Addresses_, but the
least efficient; who sings his comic songs after dinner, and returns
Marsh’s ball at other times. S—— also acknowledged your civilities to
him and his companions. He was near not surviving this acknowledgment,
for very soon after, between talking, drinking, and eating all at once,
with equal assiduity, he was almost choked, and forced to leave the room.
Dott followed him professionally, saw him black in the face, administered
somewhat, and brought him back ‘_triomphant, adoré_,’ to eat a second
dinner.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                   London, March 27, 1817.

Your expressions of sympathy and consolation are most soothing. I do
not become less sensible of my loss, but I am more accustomed to it.
Sometimes a quick perception of former pleasure in that delightful gift
of heaven _will_ return. I then remember _how_ I felt in looking at her
opening beauty, hearing her gay, gentle voice, and watching her dawn
of little joys and virtues; and I recollect the hope that accompanied
all this, and wonder that I am not more afflicted; for I know that but
a small share of my present comparative composure springs from pious
resignation. Mad. de Sévigné says truly, ‘_On est si faible, qu’on se
console_;’ and we attribute to our strength what we owe to our weakness,
to our willingness to be occupied by the weeds, when the flowers are
gone. There may be those whose consolations spring solely from religion.
I speak but of myself and the majority.

I wish I had some prose subject attractive enough to tempt me to write.
Most people are more vain of their dance than their walk, their song than
their speech, their verse than their prose. I prefer my own prose to my
rhymes; because the want of that precision, command of language, and
harmony, gained by a classical education and the study of the poetry of
Greece and Rome, is more apparent in verse than prose.

Shall I petition you not to call yourself OLD when you write to me? I
cannot bear my friends should resign themselves too soon. Lady Williams
Wynne, with whom I passed some days at her sister’s, is sixty-eight, eats
green apples, kneels down through our long church service, walks out in
October without hat or cloak in a muslin gown, and takes long walks alone
many miles through roads, and villages, and fields, wears artificial
flowers and three flounces, never speaks of time with reference to his
effects on herself; yet never appears to make herself the least young,
and is a model of propriety, and of the English matron. The _flowers_ and
_flounces_ I know you despise at any season, but I only throw them in to
swell the heap.

Now I must have you make this sort of running fight against time, and not
talk of yourself as OLD. Mind and heart like yours are never so. Excuse
this ebullition of affectionate regard.


SONNET WRITTEN AT NIGHT AFTER RETURNING FROM A DANCE AT MRS. BATHURST’S.

_March, 1817._

    I am not envious; yet the sudden glance
    Of transport beaming from a mother’s eye,
    When light her daughter’s airy footsteps fly,
    Supremely graceful in the wavy dance,
    Wakes with a start such thoughts as slept perchance,
    Hushed to repose by the long lullaby
    Of many a fond complaint and heartfelt sigh:
    Again the host of keen regrets advance;
    Again I paint what Bessy _might_ have been,
    Since what she _was_ I never can pourtray;
    So soft, so splendid shone my Fairy Queen,
    A star that glittered o’er my closing day,
    A light from heaven, whose pure ethereal beam
    Threw its long glories over life’s dark stream.


TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

                                                      London, April, 1817.

You are indeed qualified to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ both from
the tenderness of your feelings, and the quickness of your faculties.
Many with kind hearts fail in the office of comforter, from want of that
intuitive perception and delicacy you eminently possess. I am inclined
to believe that ‘_telle bonté qu’on a, on n’a que celle de son esprit_;’
and we may think this without supposing any partiality shown to the more
highly gifted, when we qualify it with the knowledge that ‘where much is
given,’ there ‘much will be required.’

I took my boys to see _Macbeth_ last night, but found that though they
read Shakespeare, they did not readily catch the language of the scene.
They understood Kean well, his tones are so natural; but the raised voice
and declamatory style in which most others pronounce tragedy, renders
it, I see, nearly unintelligible to children. I was astonished by Kean’s
talents in all that followed the murder, highly as I before thought of
them. I suppose remorse never was more finely expressed; and I quitted
the house with more admiration of him, and even of Shakespeare, than ever
I had felt before.

The sight of the poor in London is even more melancholy than that of the
dark, foggy, and snowy sky. I speak not of those who ask, but of the
silent and drooping figures in the prime and middle of life, seated,
shivering and dying, on the steps of houses, without stockings, without
linen, in ragged clothing above that of the lower class, with famine
sunken in every line of their faces. ‘This is,’ indeed, ‘a sorry sight’
in this once happy country.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 2, 1817, London._—I return next Monday to the country, my spirits, I
think, _not_ amended by my visit to town. All earthly sufferings return
in paroxysms; mine are nearly as frequent, yet I have done all that my
friends desired, have seen a variety of things and persons, mingled in
crowds, &c. &c. Employment more _solid_ would be better for a mind like
mine; but having this depends not on one’s self, when one is married, and
a mother.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                                            June 24, 1817.

I received your dear letter this morning, and it has thrown a bright
sunshine on _my day_; though to others, who had not such a pleasant
volume from an affectionate and _amusing_ son, the day was as black, wet,
and dirty, as ever disgraced the month of June. As to May, she may have
been very lovely when she was young; but she is now grown old, and a more
chilly, forbidding, decayed beauty I have never met with.

We are now in town for a few days. My recent misfortune _will_ recur so
strongly when I am tranquil, that I am forced to seek variety in whatever
shapes, fair or foul, it can be met with. Even as I am now, it will
require an effort to unroot myself from the tenacious soil of London,
that great mantrap, which catches and retains all descriptions of people,
however dissimilar in their tastes, pursuits, and inclinations. I once
passed in the eyes of a literal sober-minded circle for being the most
dissipated woman possible, because I declared it was pleasant to date a
letter from London.

I wish Moore had published _The Fire Worshippers_ alone. It has more
merit than the other poems, which are uncommonly gaudy and sugary, and
glitter, and dazzle, and cloy, and surfeit us at last. But I sincerely
believe he has written _Lalla Rookh_ for the sake of his wife and
children. It is evident that his inclinations, perhaps his talents, are
not suitable for a work of any considerable length. He is a sweet bird,
fitted for short excursions; vigorous while on the wing, but not formed
for long flights; and he should not have promised us an epic, and then
put us off with four tales, tacked together by a coarse thread.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, June 30, 1817.

I hope your dear daughter will soon entirely recover her health, and
look back on her illness, as I can do on all mine, with a deep sense of
its advantages—as a touchstone of the affections of those we love—a bond
of union twined by protecting cares on one hand, and gratitude on the
other—a remembrancer of the precarious tenure of earthly blessings—a new
source of sympathy with those that suffer—and a dark shade which throws
into gayer and purer lights the common, and therefore often unobserved,
blessings of existence.

You particularly delighted me with your description of Lismore, because
some of the days of my infancy were passed there. Perhaps no picture
is painted on my memory more vividly than that of Lismore Castle—the
church—the bridge—the valley—and the unnumbered beauties of that
exquisite spot. How often have I gazed with delight from the windows of
the Castle; and being ignorant I was short-sighted, of which my eyes gave
no outward indication, I imagined no greater enjoyment—when a person put
a short-sighted glass as a plaything into my hand, while yet a child. The
improvement of the picture was so great that I exclaimed, ‘Oh, this is
the way I shall see in heaven.’

I have no news. Poverty goes on increasing, and like the spider in an
empty house, spreads her thin grey pall over the kingdom, widening
swiftly, though imperceptibly. Our population, though of necessity hungry
and idle, are surprisingly quiet. The loans and gratuities proposed by
Government, are but drops in a sandy desert; and as Government must
take _two_ drops for every _one_ they give (to pay for the machinery of
taxation and finance), I, like Mrs. Primrose, ‘never find out we grow
richer for all their contrivances.’ In short, we are all becoming poorer,
and though philosophers tell us that to sink all together is to keep the
same place, they have not quite persuaded us this is practically true.
The Bishop of London made this consolatory remark to a poor curate, who
replied, ‘Yes, my Lord, we may sink all together, and your Lordship may
sink a story, and be still in a good place; but I am on the ground floor,
and if I go any lower, I shall be underground.’ If our time of decline as
a nation is marked, I hope that it may not be sudden, but so gradual as
to cause as little individual misery as possible. Adieu, my dear friend;
may every storm blow over your innocent and happy dwelling, unfelt.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July, 1817._—We are now reading Miss Edgeworth’s _Ormond_ and
_Harrington_. The Edinburgh Reviewers have done her much mischief; first,
by persuading her to stick fast to the bogs, after she has exhausted
all that was comic, pathetic, or striking in the peculiar distinctions
between England and Ireland; next, by objecting to her morality being
so apparent. Now she never writes half so well as when she evidently
endeavours to illustrate a moral or prudential axiom; and in this case,
as ships sail best with ballast, she always walks more firmly and
gracefully, instead of being impeded in her course.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 7, 1817._—When one has not seen an affected person for some years,
it is amusing to observe how much their manner has changed. One’s natural
manner lasts for life; an assumed one can never be kept in exact repair,
and must vary in process of time. Lady C., from being once decisive
and lively, now speaks in the toneless whisper of some of the English
grandees, with deliberate utterance and unvarying languor.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                          Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 20, 1817.

I am anxious to know whether C——’s statement of promotion coming is a
forerunner of reality, or a phantom raised to gratify his inclination
for writing a letter with ‘private’ at the top, and a recommendation of
prudence at the bottom. This, I know, is in itself tempting to some, and,
I have heard, is peculiarly so to him.

When you next incline to make me a present, send a few bottles of _Eau
de Cologne_. I bought some lately on the faith of the seller, and had
recourse to it on one of our extraordinary hot nights at the Brunswick
Hotel, when I thought the pillows seemed unsweet. I dashed it about
magnificently, but it proved to be _whisky_, so for that night at least,
you see, I slept in my _native sweets_.

I admire the critique on _Wat Tyler_ less than you do, because the writer
speaks with a contempt of Southey’s abilities quite disingenuous. No man
of literary acquirements can really despise Southey as a poet—except,
perhaps, one like Lord Byron in the first effervescence of youthful
pride, fastidious ideas of perfection, and astonishment at his own
splendid, and, in this our day, unrivalled powers. Read _Don Roderick_,
and then judge whether Southey is not a poet, and of a very high order.

I am in high admiration of this long line of shore. Last night the sun
set opposite to the sea, illuminating its smooth surface, and gilding
the boats which skim along it with all the splendid colouring of Paul
Veronese, and in an hour after the moon rose behind the waves in quiet
and contrasted beauty.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 5, 1817._—November in nothing but name. The cannon firing, I hope
for the Princess Charlotte’s becoming a happy mother.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 6._—The melancholy fate of our lovely Princess strikes with a
heaviness of heart like a domestic calamity. So sweet, so spotless,
so full of endearing qualities, so firm and ardent in her affections,
so nobly bold in asserting them when it seemed her duty, so raised
above the faults and follies of her age, sex, and station. It is tragic
that she should have expired without a single friend or relative save
him who must have been overwhelmed with the unfathomable depth of his
affliction. That the heiress of the British Empire should not in her
first confinement have had a single female but a mercenary, to watch over
her the first night after a dangerous and afflicting labour—that the
barbarity of changing her household in her youth so frequently as not to
permit her forming an attachment for some valuable married woman, should
have deprived her of the cares of a friend—the coldness of the Queen
prevented her from wishing for those of an experienced grandmother,—and
the faults, perhaps, of both parents cut her off from the assistance of a
mother, is indeed a melancholy thought. I did not think anything but the
loss of a dear friend could have given me so much pain.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Nov. 25, 1817.

After a fortnight of that stillness and depression into which our lovely
Princess’s untimely fate had thrown the whole country, some of those
whose interest in her was founded on everything but _personal knowledge_,
begin to recover their usual tone of spirits—that tone which, while it
does not prevent us from regretting a loss, follows our being in some
degree accustomed to the privation. Nothing but having been an actor in
the scene, could convey an idea of the state of the kingdom. It seemed
as if every family had lost an individual from its own circle, who was
more or less dear. All was sorrow, lamentation, regret, varied only
in kind and degree. The charge of want of religion and loyalty in the
lower classes is totally disproved by the manner in which the day of her
funeral was kept throughout the whole country. There was an universal
pause from labour as on a Sabbath day—or rather as it ought to be on a
Sabbath day—and a general laying aside of every thought of business and
pleasure. It was a day of prayer and humiliation. The churches and all
places of religious worship were overflowing. All sectarian barriers
were broken down by the strong feelings of compassion for the living,
reverence and regret for the dead. Indeed, when I say pleasure was laid
aside, I express myself improperly, for it seemed never to have been
thought of in any shape from the time of this deep disappointment to
a generous, a devoted, and an enlightened nation. Had a fast day been
appointed by public authority, this affecting expression of general
sorrow would not have been so clear a proof of the impression made by
one whose name is enshrined in our hearts, and who will be remembered
for ever as a model of all that is touching and noble, spirited and
affectionate, dignified and condescending. The Sunday after her death,
all our servants, down to the very kitchen-maid, appeared at prayers
in deep mourning. She has been wept in every cottage, and her loss has
scarcely _yet_ been thought of as a political calamity, it has come so
near every heart as a private sorrow.


TO THE SAME.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 18, 1817.

Accept a little kaleidoscope, the emblem of a poetic imagination;
varying, shifting, reflecting, combining, refining, illuminating; and
from the simplest elements producing endless beauty and variety; educing
order from confusion, and diversity from repetition. May your imagination
thus multiply your pleasures.

All is sombre in the general state of England; the poor dying of hunger;
and the death of our Princess and her infant, though no longer the
subject of conversation to the exclusion of every other, has left a cloud
that will not pass away. It seems like blotting spring from the year.
Godwin’s new work, _Mandeville_, is in unison with the season and the
times. It is ‘darkness visible,’ a tremendous picture of envy, hatred,
and revenge. There is a strong instance of the impressive power of genius
in Mandeville’s description of his disfigured countenance. One cannot
forget a word of it; one knows his face better than that of half one’s
commonplace acquaintance.


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Dec., 1817.

I refresh myself in writing to you with ideas of kindness and affection,
after looking over Godwin’s _Mandeville_, which, beginning in massacre,
goes on through varied shades of hatred and revenge, and ends by a
ghastly wound, the sole and suitable catastrophe of this dismal farrago,
occasionally relieved by gleams of powerful and original genius. Perhaps
when I read, instead of skimming, I may like it better. It is too late
now to dignify hatred. It succeeded for a moment, when the public taste
was vitiated by those works of second-rate German authors, which not only
corrupted our literature, but led us to form a false judgment of our
admirable northern neighbours; for we naturally supposed that the best
of their writings made their way here; while of these we saw very few.
Besides, Lord Byron’s _haters_ have put all others out of fashion. They
alone can be angry, revengeful, or misanthropic with grace. The mob of
haters, if we except Marmion, appear a set of vulgar ruffians, since we
knew the Corsair, Manfred, &c.

As to Chalmers, he is very eloquent and very good; but many others on the
same subject more readily touch my heart, and please my taste. Besides, I
do not so much want books to confirm my faith, as to incite me to act up
to it. I should be very fortunate if my practice was as firm as my belief.

Lady —— did not come here for nothing. She has persuaded Lady —— that
her country-house—just purchased, after three years’ trial, _chiefly_
to please her, and expensively furnished _entirely_ to please her—is in
an air injurious to her health. Really with malicious people distance
is one’s only safeguard. There is no _muzzling_ them. This is provoking
to an affectionate man. When I see how good sort of women tease their
husbands, I am not surprised that so many wise men ‘abstain from that
employment.’


TO MRS. TUITE.

                                                       London, Feb., 1818.

We have taken a house in Gloucester Place. It has in my eyes but one
fault, being too well furnished, filled too much with that knick-knackery
I should banish were it mine, and dislike guarding for another. Then I
unfortunately saw the lady who possesses it, or rather is possessed by
it; and she gave me so many directions about covering it, dusting some
chairs under the covers, and scarcely sitting upon others, and watching
over the extremities of the unrobed ladies who held the lights, and not
suffering the housemaid to touch their projections, and not using leather
to the gilding, nor aught save the breezes from the feather-brush, that
I was really quite sick of _internal decoration_, which, like many other
species of wealth, is often a plague to the possessor.

I saw your friend, Lady H., to-day. She is just going to bring her
daughter into the world. This second birth is sometimes as painful as the
first; and when circumstances are not favourable to the wishes of the
mother, it is quite a protracted labour.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                               Roehampton, March 24, 1818.

Jekyll and Rogers came yesterday, but what has been to me a much more
acceptable arrival, so did your letter, a golden branch laden with its
quadruple fruits. I never was less entertained with the _par nobile
fratrum_. ‘’Tis the brain of the victim that tempers the dart’ of wit
as well as of love; and I am beginning to think the constant endeavour
to make _something_ of _nothing_ may be tiresome. I am convinced they
would have been better apart; and Rogers stifled a pun of Jekyll’s
yesterday in a cruel manner. I guessed at it, but did not laugh out, as
it was in Latin; and no one but Rogers and me attended to it; the former
quickly threw out a squib in an opposite direction. Next morning, Jekyll
introduced the subject of the _ducks_ again, in order to pave the way
for his pun about _dux_. Again it perished. I thought this was hard. I
am very low, which I regret, as the kind friends in the house expected I
should have been gay and communicative with _the wits_; and seeing this
makes me lower still.


TO THE SAME.

                                                       Bath, May 18, 1818.

I got into a sort of scrape by introducing myself last night by Lady C.
Burke to Mrs. C——, who had, I thought, mentioned to you a wish for my
acquaintance. I supposed I was doing a very civil thing to her, as she
had made the _first_ step, in making the _second_; but she gave me that
_vacant ill-bred stare_ which the lady whose _protégée_ she was reserved
for her _female_ friends, and seemed to think I was doing myself too
great an honour. Perhaps she was out of humour at the moment; for a few
minutes before a gentleman approached her with winning civility, saying,
‘Don’t you dance?’ ‘Sometimes,’ she replied, with that encouraging
_smile_ which forms the direct contrast to the _stare_ bestowed on me.
‘Much too hot for it to-night,’ says he, turning on his heel. This was so
like a caricature put into action, that it amused me.

——’s fair one is two-and-thirty, and has been hacked about London and
Dublin for many years, and sent here to be young and _naïve_. What might
be _liking_, if she had known him long enough, or if she had been young
enough not to know the meaning of the various things she has done and
said, or if she was a great _parti_, and thought she must make some
advances, lest he should not imagine he would be accepted, changes its
character when one knows it is so convenient for spinsters of that age to
be established.

I like Lady A., though I do not well know why; for mere good looks make
no impression on a woman; and I know nothing more of her than that
her easy graces and her _laisser aller_, and the mystery of her face,
expressive at once of pain and pleasure, make up a prettier outside, in
my opinion, than that of any other person I meet at Bath.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                     London, May 25, 1818.

I send you the last canto of _Childe Harold_. _La fin couronne les
œuvres_, and magnificently too. What in descriptive poetry is finer
than his Italian sunset, or the sketch of the Coliseum—except, indeed,
his own more exquisitely touched and highly finished picture of it in
the last act of Manfred? What shows more intimate acquaintance with the
human heart than his stanza on the scorpion-sting of past, and apparently
forgotten, griefs? What is more sublime and pathetic than his address
to Time, melting so beautifully and unexpectedly into forgiveness? Then
his description of the dying Gladiator, that wonderfully tragic and
Shakespearian statue, which seems to blend the subdued sensibility of our
later days with the stoical patience of ancient heroism; while all fitly
closes with a description of the Apollo, that statue which seems like his
own poetry personified. In short, you will be charmed, as all here have
been.

The Princess of Hesse Homburg will redeem the character of good behaviour
in the conjugal bonds, lost or mislaid by her family. She is delighted
with her _hero_, as she calls him. In his way from the scene of the
marriage ceremony to the Regent’s Cottage, where, to his great annoyance,
they were destined to pass the first quarter of the honeymoon, he was
sick, from being unused to a close carriage, and forced to leave her for
the dicky, and put Baron O’Naghten in his place. He said he was not so
much _ennuyé_ at the Cottage as he expected, having passed all his time
in his dressing-gown and slippers, smoking in the conservatory.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 10, 1818._—I have seen enough to hope no nearer friend of mine
will ever engage in a contested election. It shows our fellow-men in
a contemptible light; and yet freedom of election is one of the best
features in the best Constitution possessed by any of the _old_ States of
the world—for I presume not to compare with our daughter. She is ‘fresh
as a nursing mother, the current in whose veins is nectar,’ diffusing
hope and plenty, cheerfulness and vigour. To expect that England should
resemble America in these points, is as absurd as to expect the daughter
should be intellectual and refined, polished and accomplished as her
mother. Let each endeavour to improve as her years will permit.

Those who bought their mourning for the Queen may lock it up. It is the
only dress we have a certainty of wanting, unless prevented by its being
worn for ourselves.


TO A FRIEND.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, July 21, 1818.

You have not been surprised at my late silence; you are aware of the
slowness and apathy, mental and bodily, which sometimes creep over
me. They are now so great that even writing to you is an effort at
the moment; and I do it rather in the hope of hastening a letter from
you, and giving you some satisfaction, than from my usual pleasure in
pouring out my heart before you. I am glad you have left town for many
reasons—first, your wishing it; next, the heat; thirdly, your health
of body; and lastly, your health of mind; to which the conversation
of your foreign friend was by no means favourable. To those of dull
feelings, the picture of an impassioned mind like hers is an _interest_,
an _amusement_, a _spectacle_, a _sensation_. But to those of vivid
feelings—like you and me—it is painful. It is a strong gale blowing
upon our minds, and not only disturbing their present smoothness, but
disclosing wrecks long concealed below—at least, I found it so, even
in the descriptions you gave me. I have just read Mˡˡᵉ de Lespinasse’s
_Letters_ in French, which remind me of your friend in almost every line.
I hope she may never read them. They have done me no good. They are
traced with a pen of fire; and you will own she knew how to love;—finely
written, without the slightest attempt at fine writing.

I hope you found Mrs. —— quite well. I have an affectionate regard for
her far beyond that inspired by her being most agreeable and valuable,
from your friendship for her and her lover-like return. The metal is
gold; but your love for her adds to it in my eyes a fine and interesting
impression.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, July 23, 1818.

Mˡˡᵉ de Lespinasse’s _Letters_ to Guibert, the great military genius whom
Buonaparte acknowledges for his master in the art of war, are my present
study. They are a literary curiosity, being exquisitely written, without
any view to publicity; but oh! what total darkness as to religion and
morality. She does not _defy_, _despise_, or _renounce_ these: she never
seems to have heard of them. Educated in a convent, and transplanted to
the society of _les esprits forts_ in Paris, appertaining to no family,
being the fruit of her mother’s breach of the marriage vow, without
father, brother, husband, I _pity_ more, far more, than I _blame_ her.
You will read, but I know you will not let them be _seen_ by the young,
however guarded. They are so impassioned, and so full of the highest
intellect, they must be dangerous.

As to Mad. d’Epinay, she is a clever, amusing Frenchwoman, with so little
idea of candour and truth, that she cannot even assume them, so as to
deceive us in telling her own story. Poor Rousseau! I never pitied him
more, or blamed him less, than since I have read this work, where there
is such an evident design to blacken his character.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Aug. 21, 1818.

Sweet Mrs. —— was very low yesterday. I think there is a Platonic
affection between her and ——, which I am not at all surprised at. I see
it exists at least on her side, and I think on both. You know I can
conceive this to exist with perfect innocency, where there is no _love_,
properly so called, for any other person. I mean that a woman, who has
nothing more than _bienveillance_ for her husband, may with perfect
purity have a very strong wish for the conversation of a more sensible
man; and where religion _is_, and youth _is not_, I do not think it
_very_ dangerous; in fact, I should not think it dangerous at all, but
for the extraordinary lessons of experience.

We read Molière in the evening, and being obliged to dwell on the _Avare_
in translating, it increases my admiration. It is the most finished,
perfect, witty, humorous, pleasant, moral picture of avarice, in every
point of view, admissible in comedy. F—— feels the wit and _finesse_ of
it in a manner very surprising at his age.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                          Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 15, 1818.

I sympathize in your affliction; but I revere your calmness and
resignation, and, as far as is permitted to be proud of the qualities
of our friends, I am proud of it. I feel myself raised by contemplating
the union of the warmest family affection, of inexpressible tenderness
in all the relations of life, with a sublime firmness which unites
Christian hope and stoical fortitude. Oh, do not say you are vain of _my_
friendship. Believe me, the exultation ought all to be on my side, and
I often thank Heaven for the kindness which prompted you to seek me at
Ballitore, and has followed me with partial affection from that hour,
veiling my many faults, and placing the less exceptionable features in
the fairest points of view.

The manner in which you and yours support your present sorrow, reminds me
forcibly of what was said to me by another mourner not very long since.
She and her husband had attended her brother to the island of Madeira
in his last illness, and shared with his young wife in the anxious
task of nursing him. One of them was always by his side night and day,
and frequently all. He lingered many weeks in a decline; he was her
favourite brother; he was her husband’s bosom friend, previous to the
connexion by marriage.

I dreaded meeting his sister on her return; and looked with a kind of
sensitive apprehension to the day she immediately offered to pass with
me. But she entered with a seraphic smile, was composed and sweet as
usual, and in the evening when we were alone, she owned that she must
always look back to the period of his loss as one of the most soothing
recollections of her life;—‘he was so completely resigned, and so
perfectly prepared.’ She is an admirable woman. At eight-and-twenty she
has a consummate judgment, is perfectly pure from vanity or selfishness,
has looked through the decorations and trappings of grandeur (she is
daughter of Lord A——) with that quiet perception which has enabled her
to rate them at their real value, is serene like the first mornings of
spring, pious, affectionate, and somewhat between the violet and the lily
of the valley, in an exterior feminine and pleasing in the highest degree.

Her husband, a clergyman, was obliged to perform the last duties to his
friend _before_ and _after_ the termination of existence. He filled all
the duties of his office for the inhabitants of Madeira, where there
was no resident clergyman. They wrote him a most grateful farewell,
accompanied with a present of two hundred pounds, which he accepted, and
gave to assist in building a church in the island. These are pleasing
passages in the lives of our friends.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 10, 1818, Bognor._—This is still a wild, and, in my opinion,
unpleasant watering-place. I should rather say _cheerless_ than wild, for
it is tame as to scenery; all the buildings are irregular—not that rural
irregularity which is consistent with beauty, but that of negligence and
indifference to appearance. I am engaged to visit Mr. Hayley to-morrow at
half-past twelve.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 11._—Mr. Hayley received me with the most cordial politeness,
showed me beautiful miniatures and pictures of all kinds; fine portraits
of Gibbon, Cowper, Charlotte Smith, Romney, and an enamelled miniature
from his own Serena. He was politely pleased with my songs, and made
me give him _seven_, at two intervals of my visit. He showed a strong
desire to amuse, and succeeded—and would have equally succeeded with less
exertion.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 12._—When Peter asked concerning John, ‘Lord, and what shall this
man do?’ our Saviour answered, ‘What is that to thee? follow thou me.’
When bewildered in speculations as to the future lot of others, this
answer has sounded from the depths of my heart, as addressed to me. It
strikes at the root of the pride which erects itself into a judge of
the acts and intentions of Supreme Wisdom, not only towards ourselves,
but others. We are not satisfied with the assurance that to us who have
received the revelation of our hopes and duties, happiness, eternal in
its duration, and inexpressible in its intensity, is offered to all
who sincerely seek it; but we almost reproach God for not making the
gift general, unconditional. We seem to accuse the Supreme Being of
partiality towards ourselves; we ask, What hath this man done? and the
pride of human nature advances like a boundless ocean, in successive
waves foaming and thundering against that rock, the existence of evil,
but ever leaving that rock in all its strength for future ages and
generations to beat against in vain.

Who utter the deepest complaints against the evils of life? They who are
most distinguished by its blessings. Youth and genius are amongst the
most clamorous of the complainants. I hope and believe that misery is not
so miserable as it appears. I have suffered, and I know the alleviations
which attend each species of suffering I have endured; alleviations I
could not have imagined in the case of another.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 11, London._—Just returned from St. James’s Chapel. I hope no
foreign _clinquant_ or frippery magnificence will ever alter the simple
and noble worship of that chapel, a monument, among many others, of our
good old King’s admirable taste—nothing done for show, and the whole
distinction arising from the highest excellence in that art of which the
use has been sanctified by revelation to the use of religion. ‘Oh Lord,
whither shall I go then from thy presence?’ was exquisitely sung. The
aërial purity of Knyvett’s voice, differing in the quality of its tone
from any mortal music or sound the earth owns, was delightfully suited
to a being who speaks of taking the wings of the morning and dwelling in
the uttermost parts of the sea. While I deprecate adding to this simple
worship, I am equally averse to taking aught away. I should be sorry to
find the scientific and affecting music of Handel, Purcell, and Croft,
resigned for the unison singing of our Dissenters, pathetic on its first
hearing, but soon cloying and insipid for want of variety; and I should
deplore changing our majestic, expressive, pathetic liturgy, for the
extempore prayers of any individual, however highly gifted. Yet even the
last of these changes is within the limits of possibility, and the former
is more than probable.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1818.

I should be ‘dull as the fat weed that rots itself in ease on Lethe’s
wharf,’ had I not been delighted with your last. In fact, your letters
give me so much pleasure, they give me some pain; for I always regret I
have not an audience to whom I could read them, stealing a modest eye
round the applauding circle.

I have been much indisposed, but am to-day pretty well, saving a cough,
which proceeds from the _malaria_ of Bursledon church, which is _damp_
by nature, and was yesterday _close_ from people, and people of a class
who are unconscious of hair-brushes, honey-water, and _Eau de Cologne_.
You know the sort of air, composed of the living and the dead, in a close
country church with a large burying-place. I am always a little the worse
for it.

You have given me _carte blanche_ as to your charities; but I never
recollect we are two distinct personages, except when I am to spend your
money; and on this subject I feel myself so miserably _chiche_ (excuse a
vulgar gallicism from the vocabulary of nurses and abigails), that I am
ashamed to see how little I give for you in proportion to what I ought.
Be so good, therefore, as to specify a sum for the purpose, which I will
then feel it my duty to bestow.

The Queen’s death has been so long expected as to make no impression on
the little circle around me. I feel for those who _must_ regret her; but
no woman who reigned so long has ever taken so little root in the hearts
of her people. Her own supposed heartlessness chilled all the warmer
feelings.

We have a miraculous young poet in our neighbourhood—son to Sir George
Dallas. He has excited the wonder and admiration of Dr. Parr, Scott,
Southey, Rogers, and about ten others, who all declare, in reply to
a circular letter of Sir George’s, that no one at his age—now past
eighteen—ever wrote Greek, Latin, and English verse so well. I think his
ear is admirable, his verses always musical, and showing a wide range of
thought. There are who do not think, maugre all this, that he will ever
be a great poet. None of his verses ever _stick_—to the heart or the
memory. His manners are simple, pleasing, and well-bred. He is not vain;
but I suspect that praise is become to him less a pleasure received than
a want supplied.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1818.

I have had a conversation with our new friend, which, considering his
_relative_ situation, gives me serious concern. I find that he is an
unbeliever; that he has filled his memory with every trite, pert, and
often confuted argument against the character of the Bible, beginning
with the Creation, and ending with the most solemn and sublime of our
doctrines. This is a melancholy case, and in my mind destroys that
species of confidence which you give or withhold, not from reasoning,
but from feeling. He started from Genesis with a remark how _absurd_ it
was—(Moses, wise in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, what people are they
who assume a superiority over thee!)—well, how absurd it was to say that
the _light_ was created _first_, and _then_ the sun and moon. Would not
common modesty make any one suppose that one did not perfectly understand
the passage, rather than accuse a narrative of absurdity, which has
been read with reverence by the wisest of the uninspired, and written,
perhaps, by the wisest of the inspired? Happily, I found a complete reply
to this in King’s _Morsels of Criticism_.... These very circumstances
are among those which prove the truth of the Bible—this simplicity of
narrative, which, going straight to the point, stops not to clear up
those trifling difficulties, which a willing mind will not cavil at, and
a diligent mind will endeavour to comprehend. I have given him the book,
and hope to find answers for all his petty objections. It is safe to
look for them in good writers, and unsafe and unseemly, perhaps, in a
woman to enter the lists of controversy herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 31, 1818._—Perhaps I may not live to want this book;[59] if not, I
request my dear F—— will use it during the year 1819. It will remind him
of one who loved him well.

I am now in good health and spirits, and therefore what I say to him
here cannot be attributed to _gloom_. I beg of him to remember that I
have never found any pleasure wholly unmixed with some little disquiet,
_except that_ of _trying_ to do good, _to increase the happiness_,
or _lessen_ the _misery of others_; nor any _pain_ so severe as the
recollection of having in any instance done _wrong_.


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                            Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 1, 1818.

It grieves me that any waters should be thought necessary for Mr. Ellis;
and I am particularly sorry that he intends making his visit to Harrogate
a time for study. Do explain to him the danger of this. Many persons
cannot with impunity even write a letter. I wish he would do as our
Continental friends, who are often wiser in their generation, especially
in what relates to care of themselves. They lay aside not only their
wisdom, but their dignity, at those places, and take the goods the gods
provide, though these may come in the shape of people who, like the
witches of _Macbeth_, ‘are not inhabitants of earth’ (that is, of the
_beau monde_), ‘though they are on it.’ My fears for Mr. Ellis are that
he will lead a sedentary, refined, grand, and melancholy _old_ life,
instead of the desultory, rambling, thought-dispelling existence which
gives to these waters half their value.

I wish I could show you a bouncing, talking, conceited, squat, broad,
rather plain, much adorned and little clothed Mrs. ——, who is _so_ like
Punch in Petticoats, from the loud shrillness and continuance of her
talk, the showiness of her dress, and the vehemence of her gestures.
She whirls like a tee-totum, and rattles like the machine placed to
scare birds from a cherry-tree. But I am like Mˡˡᵉ de Fontanges (_vide_
Sévigné), who said, on being offered liqueurs, ‘_Madame, ce petit garçon
oublie que je suis dévote_’—only I am _myself_ forgetting my resolutions,
which is worse.

       *       *       *       *       *

    1818.—The following little sketch was never, so far as I know,
    even written out. I find it complete, but in the rough, with
    the erasures and interlineations of a first draft. It was
    intended to be one of a series, as is plain from a few lines
    written on the same sheet of paper, in which the writer says,
    ‘When we abound with writers who describe every object on every
    side, why should not one painter, taking up a lighter pencil
    and using a fainter colour, indicate rather than detail, and
    thus invite attention to real life by slight sketches, rather
    than by the fulness and perfection of a finished Dutch picture?’


HOLLAND HOUSE.

BY THE GHOST OF LA BRUYÈRE.

Aurelio has no desire more powerful than that of rivalling, perhaps
excelling, Holland House. Alas! poor Aurelio! In our time at least
Holland House will never know a competitor. It has all that London
requires—an honourable name, entwined and illustrated with recollections
of Charles Fox—delightful amenity, fine understanding, and a most
benevolent and upright heart in the noble host—in our hostess, who
always keeps her state, talents, caprice, some beauty, and infinite
imperiousness, forming a spirited contrast with one or two points in her
position—in short, the zest of many contrarieties, as piquant as the
infinite variety of her cook, a man, ‘take him for all in all, we ne’er
shall look upon his like again.’ To have him in our mind’s eye alone,
would be the torment of Tantalus; therefore, when he departs, we can only
hope to forget him; for alas! the cook, like the actor, lives but in
the present; unless, indeed, he succeed in giving his name to some dish
which may carry it down to the remotest posterity with that of Robert,
Maintenon, Véry. While such a cook covers the table, and the flower of
our wits and poets surround it, while more good things are eaten and said
there than in any other circle of the same magnitude in the civilized
world, Holland House must ever remain unrivalled.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 1, 1819._—I opened the _Anti-Jacobin_ lately, and was shocked at
Canning’s lines on Mad. de Staël. At the same time, I was pleased to see
how twenty years have increased our refinement, and added to the rank and
prerogative of woman. All parties blame Croker for his coarse and savage
_critique_ on Lady Morgan, under cover of reviewing her _France_; yet
it is milk and water, both in mildness and purity, when compared with
the lines on Mad. de Staël, which then lay on every young lady’s table;
though now every man would reprobate, and every woman wish to disown
having seen it. I see Canning always laughed at many subjects which were
unfit subjects for a jest.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                            Feb. 22, 1819.

I can well appreciate the kindness which leads you to communicate your
sorrows to me; and I think myself highly honoured by the power of
infusing any portion of that balm you so well deserve to receive from the
hands of friendship. I am very much impressed in reading the annals of
those whom you regard, by seeing how much the stroke of final separation
is lightened both to the sufferer and survivors (who are often indeed
the severest sufferers), by the blameless lives, close ties of family
affection, and temperate habits, which are more frequently found among
those of your persuasion than any other. I do not mean to draw any
inference tending to flattery: you can understand an opinion in all its
bearings; and to you explanation is unnecessary.

The stings of death arising from those errors and those crimes, from
which the sobriety and staid simplicity of the Friends happily keep
them at a distance; the indifference of relatives, who in their career
of ambition have hardly time, if their aspiring pursuits left them
inclination, to watch the couch of departing life; the complicated
ailments produced by the madness of luxurious tables and studied
refinements of indolence and ease,—from such your Society seem in general
happily exempt, and fall, like the nipped blossom or the ripened fruit,
by an end, ‘without sin, without shame, and as free from pain as may be.’
Such was the end prayed for by the good Bishop Wilson, and may such be
ours.

I read Buxton _On Prisons_ last Christmas. It interested me greatly;
and I was happy to see another ray of light thrown on those abodes of
wretchedness. The force and closeness of his reasoning are admirable. His
introduction is a masterpiece: never, perhaps, was so much explained,
and so many errors unanswerably confuted, in a few words. He gives a new
idea of the duty of society towards prisoners. To me he was peculiarly
gratifying; because I had always entertained the opinions he maintains,
and had _suffered_ myself to be persuaded that in _me_ they arose from
the weakness of my heart.

Our Queen was estimable in essentials; but she was not beloved even by
her family, if we except her good, kind husband. We cannot be surprised
if she was little regretted by her people. Her age and sufferings had
prepared the good, and the unfeeling do not see that any affectation of
sorrow is called for.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                   London, March 10, 1819.

I wish to send you Rogers’ new poem. It is rather too largely entitled
_Human Life_: it is the _beau ideal_ of the life of an English country
gentleman, from his cradle to his tomb, and is exquisitely touched; but
to relish it one must love the country, and love one’s children, and
be alive to all the minutiæ of domestic life; for though our country
gentleman is a _soldier_ and a _senator_, yet his retirement forms by far
the longest, as well as the most beautiful, part of the poem. It is not
much relished in my little London—is called flat, prosaic, and dull; but
_the public_ have bought it with avidity.


TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

                                                   London, March 18, 1819.

I should feel ungrateful if I deferred thanking you for the pleasure your
last poem has given me. You deserve the peculiar gratitude of every fond
mother, for you have divined, embodied, and immortalized the tenderest
and the purest feelings of her existence. In looking back, the only days
I earnestly desire to recall, are those which glided away while I was
‘girt with growing infancy,’ and read in the eyes and the smiles of my
children, who were affectionate and beautiful, a promise of happiness,
such as this world can never fulfil.

You have given us the _beau ideal_ of the life of an English gentleman,
and conquered the very difficult task of rendering highly poetical that
of which the original, divested of the beautiful colouring you have
thrown upon it, is daily before our eyes. Without availing yourself of
distance of time, or of place, of excitement, or of an appeal to any but
our best feelings, you, like our own Apelles, have given to portraits of
simple, unsophisticated, virtuous English nature, the dignity of historic
painting, and the graces of fiction.

They who can read your thirty-eighth page without tears, I should suppose
are few.[60] To me it was peculiarly affecting from the circumstances
of my past life; but I must not allow myself to select gems from the
casket, and now with much difficulty I shall restrain myself from saying
more.

It is so pleasant both to feel and to express admiration, that I know you
will forgive me for having thus obtruded mine.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 24, 1819, London._—The Automaton chess-player faces the
spectators, seated at what appears to be a table, upon which his
chess-board is placed. He wears a rich Turkish habit, sleeves and vest of
gold stuff, a dark green mantle like a lady’s triangular shawl, trimmed
with fur, a white turban and heron’s feather. His right hand is extended
gracefully on the table, his attitude is dignified, his aspect grave, and
his countenance of that class we of the present day often designate as a
Kemble face. One is surprised on first viewing him, at feeling a strong
impression of sadness, and somewhat of awe, from his complete immobility,
as connected with so close an imitation of life. After a few minutes, one
of the spectators, who has engaged him many nights before, ventures to
attack this representation of destiny, and concedes to him the right of
opening the game.

A slight noise is heard of winding up, and the fateful figure raises
its left hand—‘that hand whose motion is not life,’ for Lord Byron’s
expressions must cross us everywhere we go. This inauspicious hand, which
bears some resemblance to the talon of a bird of prey, although covered
with a white glove, now lifts its pawn, and drops it in another place
with a slight, but hard and bony noise. The humble-looking opponent
plays his best, but his schemes are thwarted, and his pieces inexorably
taken, the Automaton always putting them aside before he places his own,
differing in this alone from the living player, in whom these movements
are usually simultaneous. The game goes on, the spectators take part with
their fellow-mortal—whisper—advise. He is puzzled with their hints, and
somewhat appalled by engaging an unknown and mysterious power. The very
buzz and delay of winding up increases his embarrassment. Once when he
was slower than usual, the handsome right hand tapped on the table as if
to reprove his tardiness; and the poor player seemed fearful of having
made his opponent wait too long. At last the talon-like hand, after
pouncing like a bird of prey upon several of his adversary’s best pieces
with an alarming air of unwavering volition, checks his king and castle.
The Automaton, secure of a speedy victory, nods his head with an air of
conscious superiority, like the statue in _Don Juan_. A few moves finish
the game, which has lasted about half an hour, and a fresh adversary
advances to a fresh defeat.

This invincible champion is engaged for above a hundred nights. He has
never yet been conquered in England. This is the triumph of mechanism;
no one has yet discovered, or made any plausible guess how the impulse
of the real player is communicated to the figure. Many persons seem to
think it owes its power of playing chess better than all its opponents to
its original formation; and that its capability of motion and skill in
the game are inseparably united. Some only admire how neatly he takes up
his pieces. After he has played, he and his table—for they are one and
indivisible—are rolled away, and succeeded by an Automaton Trumpeter, who
is complete from top to toe, and represents a large portion of mankind,
for he holds up his head, is a fine military figure, dresses well, _se
présente bien_, beats time correctly, and plays two marches in good tune.
Many come in, aye, and go out too, of the world, in this their vocation,
who do little more.

There is no visible communication between the Automaton chess-player and
any human being. The lower part of the table, which is shaped like a
chest on the side where it meets the eye of the spectators, is not large
enough to admit a man, nor could any one so placed view the chess-board.
He and it are rolled about without mystery or hesitation. His possessor
walks or stands near him, with apparent carelessness, and lays down the
pieces he has taken from his adversary in the course of the game, but has
no other communication. He plays by day, and the room in an evening is
fully lighted. There is some little trick, however, in the Automaton’s
appearing invincible, as he allows but an hour in the evening, and half
that time in the morning, for any game; and it is easy to conceive that
a skilful player, who might not be capable of always winning, might in
every instance have the power of protracting a game so as not to lose it
within an hour.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                   Salthill, May 17, 1819.

I seize a quiet hour at Salthill, where we came yesterday for the purpose
of breathing a little fresh air, and sitting under the shade of the
lime-trees, to converse with you in peace, to ask of the health and
welfare of your friends and family, and to complain a little of my own—I
mean of my health, which has never been passable for four-and-twenty
hours together since I left the country. You, I am sure, wonder why I
came to town, and why I stay there; but you must know London operates
as a magnet when one is absent from it, and is full of the _glue_ Mad.
de Sévigné speaks of as abounding in the society of _les dévots du
Faubourg_—I forget which,—when one is in it. Be dissipated or domestic,
sick or well, good or bad, wise or foolish, London, once tasted, will
be required again and again. This is a mystery, and I leave it to wiser
heads to explain. It is a good hint to country gentlemen not to be too
anxious to give their wives a sip of this enchanted Cup.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                     London, July 2, 1819.

_Mazeppa_, like some portraits of the Regent by Cosway, is rather a
description of the Horse and his Rider than _vice versâ_. The horse is
certainly the hero. Where he and Mazeppa are united, all the pictures of
this new Centaur are hold, impressive, and energetic. We are breathless
with suspense and terror during Mazeppa’s perilous course, which recals,
and perhaps excels in force and beauty, that of Leonora’s unknown
horseman. It seems as if the author had tried his strength, in awaking so
deep an interest without displaying any other feeling of the mind than
the mere instinct of self-preservation, as in ancient Greek tragedies our
sympathy is excited by an excess of physical suffering alone. Mazeppa’s
indifference to the fate of his mistress is something worse than I could
have expected even from the proverbial ingratitude of man.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                 Cheltenham, Aug. 8, 1819.

My recollections of Anna Seward are as favourable as gratitude for the
most sedulous desire on her part to receive with marked kindness the
visitor introduced by her Llangollen friends can make them. You shall
have them copied _verbatim_ from my journal when I return.[61] Her
genius seemed of an order calculated to take much higher flights than
she ever accomplished. The growth of her wing was impeded by ‘too much
cherishing.’ She lived in the relaxing atmosphere of a country town,
where she was indubitably superior to all the women and most of the men
in mental gifts and attainments, and though not absolutely beautiful,
her personal attractions were considerable—two circumstances adverse
to the expansion of talent. ‘_Trop d’encouragement lasse le génie_,’
says Mad. de Staël, an accurate observer of external life and internal
feelings; and the more personal advantages a woman possesses, the farther
she is removed by man from that tone of equality which would tend to her
improvement. While young he too often looks at her as his prize or his
prey, his friend, his enemy, or his victim, to render her even-handed
justice. And when old, he considers it as something inherently ridiculous
that she should wither away, according to the universal law of nature,
and deems her change ‘from fair to foul’ (as Lord Byron uncivilly calls
it, when speaking of his mistress) a fit subject for all his powers of
ridicule. A country town also is a nursery of much vanity in those who
are superior to their companions. Each remarkable person is usually
unrivalled in his own department; and the dissipation is more constant,
more from morning till night, and more _dozy_ and stupefying than in
a capital. Her _Letters_, I own, I had not patience to read through.
Her account of living characters seemed to me prolix and dull, though
I had no right to complain, being dismissed with the laconic phrase of
‘amiable, lovely, and accomplished.’ It would have required much higher
sauce to bribe me to go through the book.


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                                 Cheltenham, Aug. 8, 1819.

If I were in danger, I could not be removed in a better time, _provided
it is suitable to my eternal interests_; for I should leave all the
people I most love prosperous and happy, and all, except your dear
self, in good health. I have a sufficiency for all my boys, and the
most complete union and affection in my family; and I should escape
the steep part of the down hill, for as yet many circumstances have
combined to hide from me that I was going down. My husband being much
younger than the husbands of my cotemporaries, my children being young,
the cheerfulness of my temper when well, and my freedom from the common
cares of advancing years, have all combined to keep me in a comfortable
atmosphere of youthfulness, which could not have lasted many years
longer. Besides, from the multifarious accidents of life, a few added
years might give me the pain of losing some of the dear objects of my
affection. So, to return, _provided it were suitable to my eternal
interests_, I could not go in a better time; yet, I assure you, I would
much prefer staying with those I love.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct., 1819._—A letter full of the most awful details relative to the
Duke of Richmond’s death. They shall not darken this paper. On so
awful an infliction, from which no care can insure us, and which may
at any moment occur to us or ours, it is best not to fix our eyes too
steadily. One circumstance only it may not be wholly unprofitable to
keep in mind. The bite was inflicted by an _irritated_ animal—a fox,
which had been confined, escaped to the woods, was retaken, and became
enraged at being again subject to confinement. I remember the Duke of
Richmond in Ireland, when, as Col. Lennox, he was an object of universal
admiration to the young of both sexes. His duel with the Duke of York
seemed to have something in it chivalrous, displaying a recklessness of
all selfish considerations. We knew little of the particulars, but this
mystery increased our respect. He was supposed to excel in all manly
exercises, and that was a higher praise in those days than it is in these
more intellectual times. He was said to be the finest formed man in
England, and his playing at cricket was praised as an exquisite display
of grace, strength, and skill. When Lord Buckingham was Secretary in Lord
Westmoreland’s Administration, he gave parties in the Phœnix Park, where
the _élite_ of the young men played cricket, while Lady Westmoreland and
a few young women, either of the highest station or selected from the
beauties of that time (and in those days beauty was itself a dignity),
sat in a tent as spectators. The writer is ashamed to say, that such is
her propensity to _ennui_ under the smallest constraint or continuity of
enforced pleasure, she has suffered greatly under the delights of these
parties, and was too well prepared to answer the question, ‘_Est-ce que
je m’amuse?_’ Yet by those who never were invited how much were they
desired; how much were the initiated envied by those who were hopeless
of admission. Cricket was succeeded by a dinner; cards and dancing
filled up the interval till the appearance of a supper, twin brother to
the dinner; and then by the light of the waning moon or rising dawn, we
parted to drive through the beautiful scenery of the Park.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 10._—Yesterday evening I tried to read Boccaccio, in order to
find a tale to amuse my children. The language may be very fine and
very pure, but the stories in general are so cumbrously told, so loaded
with unnecessary circumstance, so coarsely indecent, and so brutally
cruel, that I cannot but wonder at the reputation of this work. Impurity
without wit, and _dénouements_ of assault and battery, are to be found
in almost every page of the tales that mean to be gay. Yet a few of them
are charming, and I love to see the mine where Shakespeare found so much
valuable ore.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 19._—An amendment in health disposes us to look on all around us
with a favourable eye. I am not surprised that the gradual recovery of
spirits incident to humanity, when it begins to ‘wear down’ a great
sorrow, has sometimes induced men hastily to marry, without much apparent
temptation, when the first affliction for a beloved wife was fading into
calm regret. This action has been a theme for obloquy to all professors
of sentiment, somewhat more than it deserves. It is rather a symptom of
that easiness of being pleased which attends recovery of mind or body,
than one of fickleness. Last winter I found this house disagreeable,
dark, confined, small. I was going down the hill, as to health. This
year, in the gloomy month of November, I think it comfortable, compact,
convenient; I am ascending in the scale, and see a better prospect around
me.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                       London, Dec., 1819.

I fear Lord Carysfort will not long be one of this world. When I saw him
yesterday his Bible was before him. He seemed like a traveller consulting
the map of his approaching journey. There is no end to the feelings and
reflections awakened by the sight of a friend in a precarious state
of health, reading his Bible. I love the emphatic cottage expression,
_his_ Bible, _her_ Bible—that claim of property in this Book, which is
peculiar, I believe, to the English language in common life.

We are all reading Lord John Russell’s _Life of the Lord Russell_—an
interesting work, written in a tone of temper, candour, and moderation
worthy of the subject. Burnet’s _History_, and Lady Russell’s _Letters_,
have furnished the gems, but they are well set, and the book is
honourable to its author. Miss Bury, Lord Orford’s niece, has edited a
few of Lady Russell’s letters, omitted in the first collection of hers,
published half a century before our time. These letters have all a
certain degree of interest from the lustre of _her_ name, and of _his_
to whom they were addressed; for most of them are to her husband, and
they are preceded by a pleasing and well written _Life of Lady Russell_,
by the editor. The whole is scarcely worth offering to the public as a
volume, though the memoir and a few of the letters might have graced a
miscellaneous collection.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 24, 1819._—Dear Mrs. C—— closed her long and virtuous life on the
15th, with a calmness and resignation often granted to the evening of
such a day. She suffered no pain or uneasiness, and was favoured with a
renovation of those mental faculties which so long lay dormant. She was
an only child, and educated with the most unbounded indulgence; married
very young to one whom she immediately accompanied to the bosom of his
family, in another kingdom. Transplanted, when little more than a child
and eminently beautiful, to a distance from all her friends and advisers,
her conduct was irreproachable as a young wife, a young mother, and a
young widow. In her second marriage to one who in years might have been
her father, she showed the same discretion and affectionate propriety of
conduct that distinguished the earlier part of her life. Her character
was of that tranquil, unassuming order which dazzles not at first,
but shines more brightly the longer it is examined. She was esteemed,
respected, and beloved. Her beauty was not the majestic, nor the
brilliant; it neither awed nor dazzled; but it was feminine loveliness
of the most attractive, winning description. Her delicate and finely
formed features, of delightful expression, were set off by a thousand
graces of voice, language, manners, and deportment. She was anxious to be
loved, and pleased at being admired. She was religious, kind-hearted,
hospitable, social, gentle, prudent; and neither severity nor envy
ever approached her heart. In my connexion with her I never remember
aught but kindness, partial kindness, approving, applauding, nay, even
admiring, from the first hour in which she adopted me to the last of our
intercourse.


TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Dec., 1819.

Your good wishes have been fulfilled as to the health and spirits of
your friend. I have had but one day of painful headache since my return
to the little green nest, which is now almost entirely overgrown by the
luxuriance of this summer’s extraordinary spirit of vegetation. We are
beginning to cut our way out, as they do in the forests of America;
but, as far as good will goes, with more difficulty; for though we both
acknowledge in theory the necessity of admitting the breeze and the
sunbeam, yet each patronizes every particular tree, shrub, or plant,
which the other proposes to remove. I hope you can give me a favourable
account of Lady —— and her _latest treasure_, and that you now enjoy the
pleasure of seeing her free from the anxiety and apprehension that, even
in her serene well-regulated mind, must occur on the eve of an event of
so mixed a nature. It is really the ‘web of mingled yarn,’ where fear
and hope, pain and pleasure, are more closely and abruptly mingled and
entwined than in any other incident of common recurrence.

Have you read the new _Tales of my Landlord_? The catastrophe of the
_Bride of Lammermoor_ is unnatural, and so shocking, that its truth
should rather have been a reason for consigning it to oblivion, than for
embodying it in a work of imagination. In _Montrose_ we meet an _oglio_
of all the strange and horrid events contained in Walter Scott’s notes to
a former work, yet it has to me, as far as I have gone, a sort of wild
interest.

I have just received verses as wonderful, with reference to the age of
the writer, as any can be; an _Ode to the Duke of Wellington_, and other
poems, Greek, Latin, and English, written between the age of eleven and
fourteen, by the youngest son of Sir George Dallas. They are, I believe,
allowed to be the best ever written by a boy so young; yet they do not
inspire with the idea that young Dallas will be a great poet. They are
more to be admired for finished neatness and exact knowledge of the
technical part of poetry than for strong impressions of nature and of
life. Their merits are more the effects of a fine ear, and a memory
filled by what has been said by other poets, than of deep feeling and
close observation of realities.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 13, 1819._—I saw Lord —— yesterday. He is said to have been much
afflicted by the loss of his valuable wife. Oh how I envied one who,
after such an affliction, in looks, in voice, in calmness, in propriety
of manner, is exactly as before, in less than three months. I know that
time wears down the appearance of every sorrow in us all, but happy are
they in whom this effect is so soon produced. This is not, as some
might think, a criticism in masquerade, or an assumption of superior
sensibility. No, it is a real expression of a simple feeling. If we
examine the cause of our criticizing a too rapid forgetfulness of the
departed, we may find it proceeds from selfishness; we do not like to be
reminded how soon we may be forgotten ourselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dec. 31._—It is not wholly our refinement, as we are apt to think, which
has banished social and sprightly amusements from our drawing-rooms.
Commerce, contracts, loans, and war prices have poured an influx of
wealth into hands not hitherto in contact with the Corinthian pillars
of society. Many persons were suddenly raised, as well by wealth as by
alliances, places, and Court favours, to mingle with those, of whom some
boast a long line of distinguished ancestors, others all the advantages
of the best education, and not a few unite both. The patricians were not
delighted with the intimacy with such persons which playing at cards
for a low stake, private acting, domestic dancing without the formality
of previous preparation, or small plays, naturally produced; nor in
general could the merely wealthy shine, where ease, sprightliness, and
accomplishment were required. Accordingly they invited their noble
friends to splendid dinners in apartments of Eastern magnificence; and
from the moment these invitations were accepted, our English nobility
declined from those habits of simple enjoyment by which they were
formerly distinguished. They were disinclined to be much inferior in
_recherche_ and expense to these new acquaintances, and invited them to
entertainments more luxurious and more formal than they had themselves
habitually given—more luxurious from contagion, more formal, in part
to preserve their own dignity—thus adding insensibly to the far-sought
delicacies of the table, and the ornament of their houses; till at last
all society, saving Almack’s, which is a ‘bright particular star,’
and that dignified delightful scene of dozing, the Ancient Music, has
taken one uniform colour. The duke, the commoner, the contractor, all
_entertain_, as it is called, in gay apartments, full of pomp and gold;

    ‘And one eternal dinner swallows all.’


TO A SON (aged 14).

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Feb., 1820.

Our good King’s death made an impression of melancholy on my mind, though
I had only seen him in the usual way at the Queen’s Drawing-rooms. But I
can never forget the paternal benevolence of his manner—banishing awe,
without diminishing reverence. When presented to him, I partook of the
usual feeling experienced by all who have lived to womanhood in a country
where they never could see a king, and I was intimidated at the idea of
being under the eye of a monarch; but the kindliness of his manner soon
removed all my little feminine bashfulness; and from that day, whenever I
went to the Drawing-room, I used to watch for his approach with pleasure.

His character, I think, will take a high place in history. He was
sometimes, I believe, mistaken in the line of his duty; but he always
pursued the road his conscience pointed out; and if we weigh his conduct
with his temptations, and consider his justice, temperance, piety,
purity, domestic affections, humility, and patience, I know not whether
we could safely say, his dominions contained a better man.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Feb., 1820.

Our fears are now gradually subsiding. They were artfully excited by
both extremes—by the Radicals, and by the friends of arbitrary power.
_Both_ have gained their point. Strong and unpopular laws have passed;
and discontent has increased. I pity the Moderates, the constitutional
Whigs, the temperate zone, in short. Between the _frottement_ of opposite
tendencies to anarchy and despotism, they have a chance of being _un peu
froissé_. As I rank my best friends and myself in this class, I look on
it with double interest.

I do not like to talk or write of our good King’s death. Some noble mind
will, I hope, do justice to his admirable qualities. They were so equally
tempered, and his line of conduct so undeviating, that it requires
meditation to see the full beauty of a character which was not set off by
contrast, nor affected us with any surprise. It is too much the custom
to blame him individually for the wars we have _endured_—for war is but
another name for suffering, to the victors as well as the vanquished. If
he erred on this point, he erred with a great proportion of his people,
and some of the strongest minds in his dominions.

Lord A. has left us after a short visit. He was more alive to general
subjects than he has been for some time, not being so much smothered
in petticoats as he was lately. There passed a moment when his society
was all composed of us ‘fair defects,’ and certainly his mind requires
stronger food than the pap we can offer him. I never knew a man live
entirely with women who did not suffer from it more or less.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                              Bursledon Lodge, Feb., 1820.

I do not believe Hayley is a man of bad character; he is loved and
admired by some of the most respectable. I paid him a visit last
autumn; a friend of his brought me to his little villa, near Bognor, by
appointment. He lives in the prettiest nutshell possible, a miniature
paradise; no _luxe_ about it, except that of extreme neatness; and fine
pictures; Romney, painted by the artist himself, Cowper, Charlotte Smith,
Gibbon, and others of celebrity, graced his walls; and he pleased himself
and me by showing me beautiful portraits of his wife, his mother, and
other relations. We then walked round his small garden, strolled on
his velvet lawn, and returned to drink coffee, which he always does at
two, the coffee being accompanied with various other matters for his
guests. Afterwards we returned to his drawing-room and pianoforte, where
he showed me several songs, chiefly _sacred_, of which the words were
either by Cowper or himself, and he seemed pleased that I could play and
sing them at sight; for I still retain my voice, and, though I have no
time to practise, it does not seem inclined to leave me, which I wonder
at. I think he said he was seventy-five. He _did_ lately marry a young
wife, but _that_ ‘crime,’ according to Sheridan, ‘carries the punishment
along with it;’ they soon quarrelled, and parted, for the bard who sang
so sweetly the ‘Triumphs of Temper,’ is said to be somewhat irritable and
irascible; the lady was so too, and expected he would have done nothing
for the rest of his life but sing her praises. His look and manner denote
impatience, curbed by good breeding; and his nieces seem much afraid
of him; so, I perceived, did his visitors and old friends. I think his
manner and the expression of his face create awe rather than put one at
one’s ease. At least such was the impression upon me.


TO A FRIEND.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 10, 1820.

I cannot defer a moment in writing to you on an event so interesting as
our dear ——’s marriage. I have been informed that, as to the externals
of life, her choice is not that which her parents would naturally
have made. In this there is one bright side, that it is her unbiassed
choice—unbiassed not only by the wishes of others, but by any of those
mixed motives, calculations of ambition or interest, which so often lead
to disappointment, and sometimes induce the young to part with their
liberty, where they do not _love_ so much as they ought, either for
their own happiness or that of their husbands. Those women who choose
for themselves undoubtedly become the best wives, and I am sure, from
the warmth and tenderness of ——’s disposition, that her affection as a
daughter will receive a strong accession from her grateful sense of your
kindness and that of Mr. —— in yielding to her on this important point.
Of that she will feel the merit still more, if she herself becomes a
mother.

I am anxious to hear from you, for I know by experience, that for one’s
children one hopes to attain opposite advantages, both from the right
hand and from the left; and that any event respecting them which does not
almost unite irreconcileable blessings, displeases one at first; but a
little time passes away, imagination ceases to operate, every feature in
the prospect bears its due proportion, and one is somewhat surprised on
recollecting one’s first uneasiness and displeasure.


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                           Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 17, 1820.

I hope the circumstances of ——’s intended marriage are more favourable
than Mrs. —— represents them. In one’s first vexation one sees only the
dark side, and one overlooks every little sunny spot. I wrote, as you
advised, but I thought it kindest to write immediately, because your
dear self, and many others, have found comfort from being presented at
the first moment of intense feeling with a different view of things from
their own. Besides, she might have felt embarrassment in announcing a
circumstance of some mortification (some one says, women always feel as
if a misfortune were a disgrace), and I thought a peace-making letter
might spare her this slight pain, and be of some little use. As to ——
and her lover having behaved so ill, though I am now a mother, not a
daughter, I still think, and even more than I did then, that we owe great
indulgence in these cases to the young, when the feeling is love, the
purpose marriage, and the parties unmarried. This is an opinion every one
acts upon, though few have the sincerity to own it. Therefore parents
would save themselves much trouble by being mild and gentle at first.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 15, 1820._—I see that last Sunday deprived me of an old and tried
friend, E—— C——. His love for Colonel St. George, his friendly and
almost fatherly regard for the young girl who, as St. George’s wife,
was at once brought from retirement and quiet to the turmoil of a most
dissipated capital, the vivid affection in which he _seemed_ enwrapt for
a short period on the commencement of my widowhood, which he allowed
me to repress without painful explanations, the original foundation of
friendship which all this left behind, and his late efficient kindness
to my dear Charles, will often revive in my recollection. There was an
individuality about him which is rare, and is becoming more so every
day. His manly frankness, his good nature, doubly valuable because one
saw it sprang from a vigorous root, his spirit of enjoyment, simplicity,
classical taste, and quick intelligence, made him a most pleasant
companion. He was self-poised; his manner was alike to all, the same
in all society, because he valued not more than they deserved those
adventitious circumstances which are dependent on the breath of a circle.
Though his life was devoted to his profession, and perhaps shortened by
his attention to its duties, he was without ambition, sought neither
honours nor emoluments, and he closed it retired in the bosom of his
family, towards whom a long absence had not impaired his affection.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                   London, March 22, 1820.

The Ancient Music was delightful to-day—the singing middling. I, who
have heard Mrs. Billington’s ‘They have triumphed gloriously,’ like
a brilliant and magnificent rainbow, can only be _astonished_ by the
clearness and sweetness of Mrs. Salmon’s or Miss Stephens’ exertions.
I was delighted with Jomelli’s Berenice, from _Lucio Vero_. The
recitative is sublimely pathetic, and the _moans_ of the accompaniment
make it absolutely a fine duet. I allow that in the song the voice
accompanies the instrument; but this is no more a defect, when it suits
the situation, than Satan being Milton’s hero. I met Rogers and Henry
Sanford; both of whom were amusing. The poet was unfeignedly glad to see
me, gave me a seat, and sat by me. I went late, and but for his exertions
in bringing me to a place I had not seen, should not have found one for
some time, as it was quite full. He recommended to me Grétry _On Music_.
I tried to make him say a word in honour of H——; dumb as the dead! his
countenance even did not show that he heard me.

Do not order anything unpleasant, or say anything in the way of reproof
to the tenants, while you are in Ireland. Let your arrows fly like the
Parthians’.


TO MRS. —— (a god-daughter).

                                                   London, March 29, 1820.

You are aware I am acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. —— having given but a
reluctant consent to your marriage. This occurs so often in the course
of events, without any cause to blame either side, that there is no
indelicacy in my mentioning it. All I wish to graft on it is this—_You_
have carried your point; if I may so express myself, _you_ have gained
the victory; _they_ are in the novel and irksome situation of having
given up their wishes, and given them up to _one_ whom they have been
accustomed to expect should yield to _them_. Let me, then, entreat you
not to take the smallest offence at anything that may occur on their
part, particularly during this moment of unavoidable irritation; and on
your side, recollect that every concession, every small quiet attention,
every degree of _filial humility_, is honourable and becoming to an
affectionate daughter and a young wife. Mr. —— will have sufficient
complaisance for you cheerfully to concur in this pleasing task. When
I think of your dear father’s advanced age, how I grieve there should
be a shadow of coldness between him and the beloved of his heart. _You_
may put an end to it when you please. Believe a mother on this head. Our
children would be omnipotent in their influence over us, if they knew the
effect of the most trifling proof of their affection.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                   London, March 29, 1820.

I made my _débût_ as a diner-out at ——’s yesterday. He sacrifices his
good sense at the shrine of party, loudly boasting of ultra-Toryism,
and crying, ‘My Tory principles go farther than yours; I am really a
Tory; _I_ think the Manchester meeting _was_ illegal’ (by the bye, that
discussion is quite gone by). This was chiefly addressed to a quiet
guest, who avowed different principles, but seemed determined not to
argue with his Amphitryon. F——, H——, and his ministerial friends appear
to shrink from his assistance, and to deprecate his entering into
discussion. Lady R. seemed displeased that Lord —— should be a peer, and
Sir John nothing—but a baronet; asked me spitefully where Lady —— was
_now_, as if she was not most probably with her husband. I repaid her
by telling her how much the King loved _his Lordship_, and what fine
things _his Majesty_ had said of him to me. She returned this blow by
talking of women who died suddenly of water on the chest, and bringing
it home to such invalids as I am—and so do ladies carry on the war. Mrs.
F. has discovered that our relations came to London too late in life,
and had much better fix somewhere else, politely inferring that it will
not be in their power to pierce the dense column of good society. She
intended to please me, on common family principles.... You may see I have
been associating too much with women, having descended from general and
elevating subjects to those which are particular and lowering, from _la
vie intérieure_ to its opposite.

I sang pretty well, as some tell me with polite surprise; but as I know
I _must_ grow old, and am anxious to preserve the amusement of singing a
few years longer, I enjoy the sweet, and am insensible to the bitter, of
the compliment. The truth is, my timidity, or _mauvaise honte_, or what
you will, is weaker, and less depresses my voice, which therefore seems
stronger.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April, 1820._—Attended Dr. Crotch’s lecture on music at the Royal
Institution.

‘The student should distrust his own taste, and also that of any master
who advises a scholar to copy _him_ exclusively. He must distrust the
oracles of fashion. Fashion can operate neither as a guide, nor yet as a
beacon, being sometimes right, and sometimes wrong. He must carefully
distinguish applause from fame. The first may be given from various
causes, independent of merit, and may be only temporary; while fame is
the consolidated opinion of the best judges, increasing from year to
year, till in the lapse of time it bears down, as it rolls along, the
opposition which interest, prejudice, or fashion may have raised. The
works of the best ancient masters stand on this firm foundation, and
therefore ought to be the student’s chief study. If he does not admire
them at first, let him dwell upon them till he does.

‘But some will say, The best music is that which naturally pleases those
who have not studied the science. This is not the case. Among a number of
hearers, the majority will be best pleased by music of an inferior kind;
and something analogous to this takes place in all the arts. The finest
efforts of art will only appear such to the finest judges, who are always
rare. A good ear and good general taste is not sufficient to qualify a
man for being a judge of music. We often hear such an one desire to be
lulled to sleep by what pleases him most. If he was really a judge, the
best music would much more probably keep him awake. Vocal performers are
bad judges of instrumental, and instrumental of vocal music.

‘Music may be divided into the sublime, the beautiful, the ornamental.
From “To Thee, Cherubim,” to “the majesty of Thy glory,” in Handel’s
_Te Deum_ on the battle of Dettingen, is sublime. Pergolesi’s “Dove
sei,” in _Eurydice_, is beautiful. Handel’s Fifth Harpsichord Lesson is
ornamental. The sources of the sublime are awe, magnitude or extent,
simplicity, and intricacy. A chorus of heavenly beings uniting in
praise of their Creator, is an awful and sublime idea, awakened by many
of Handel’s compositions. The full effect of an orchestra reaching to
the heights and depths of musical sound, gives an idea of vastness and
extent. Simplicity from the powerful effect it conveys of a single
feeling, creates conceptions of intensity and force. Thus the unadorned
columns of a Grecian temple are sublime in their simplicity and
reiteration; while in a Gothic cathedral, the intricacy of infinitude
gives the same result of sublimity.’[62]

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 9._—A conversation passed at Lord Clifden’s on the delusive
opinion that authors were best known by their works, and on the
possibility of a Revolution in England. The combination of these
two ideas produced the following extract from a Review, supposed
to be carried on a century hence by the descendants of some of our
noble families, then obliged to write for subsistence, and edited in
Birmingham, then become one of the chief seats of literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

From an article in _The Birmingham Review_ of 1920, on Howard’s _Lives of
the Poets_:—

It is lamentable that the late civil wars have destroyed nearly all the
private memoirs of those writers who flourished in the 19th century. The
number of libraries burnt by the insurgents, or made into ball-cartridges
by both parties, or bought up by charitable associations and boiled
down into jelly, to make nourishing soups for the poor during the years
of famine, have left us no materials from whence to collect any account
of that pleasing versifier, Rogers, who forms a sort of link between
the minor poets of the time and such powerful writers as Scott and
Byron. Yet, in fact, an author is best known by his works; and we do not
hesitate to pronounce Samuel Rogers one of the mildest of men, wholly
without gall, and partaking largely of the quality our friends the French
call _bonhomie_. There are no strokes of wit, vivacity, or powerful
imagination in his writings; but so much mildness, and such exquisite
feeling for all the tendernesses of domestic life, as speak him one
whom to know was to love, who never suffered a sharp word to pass his
lips, and in whom his friends could have had no fault to lament but an
excess of meekness. Indeed, this is strongly proved in his permitting his
_Jaqueline_ to be bound up in most unequal alliance with Byron’s _Lara_
and an offensive preface, in which the latter jocosely, but rudely,
establishes a comparison between them.

Some have suggested that it is probable he may have been Byron’s domestic
chaplain. We know this _noble_ author (to speak in the jargon of those
days), after being suspected of philosophical principles, became
extremely superstitious, having even proceeded so far as to publish a
volume of hymns, a change that may have been caused by his grief for the
elopement of his wife, which seems, from his pathetic ‘_Farewell_,’ to
have affected him deeply. We cannot, however, adopt this opinion, as _The
Revᵈ._ was always prefixed to the names of the national clergy, till
that order was dissolved by the seventeenth General Assembly in 1870.
Rogers may, however, have been one of the numerous Dissenters of his
time. We think we see him, with an affectionate wife, and half a dozen
rosy children like himself, free from envy or solicitude, his honest face
beaming with health and cheerfulness, retired and contented—‘the world
forgetting, by the world forgot.’


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                   London, April 19, 1820.

I met Rogers and Jekyll at Roehampton; a pleasant _duo_, who keep time
and tune together, and, in the language of musicians, mark their points.
Take a fragment of Rogers:—

So, Mr. Wilmot, you are going to the Duchess of ——’s?

_Mr. Wilmot._—Yes, immediately.

_R._—How _fat_ you’ll grow.

_Mr. W._—_Fat_, how so?

_R._—You will sleep so much. They go to bed so early.

_Mr. W._—No, I never go to bed early.

_R._—You will, indeed.

_Mr. W._—No. I always read in my own room.

_R._—You will not. _Measure your candle._

(_Exit Mr. Wilmot._) _Rogers_ (_to the remaining circle_).—That Mr.
Wilmot is a sensible man. I don’t say so from my own knowledge; not
the least. He wrote a book, too. That, you’ll say, was _nothing_. And
printed it. I don’t say that from my own knowledge either, for I never
read it, never met anybody that had.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April, 1820._—Reflections for my sons.—May I learn to be humbly thankful
for the blessings showered upon me; for an active and healthful body,
a mind capable of receiving instruction, a liberal education, wise
teachers, affectionate relations, and more than a sufficiency of all
the goods of this life; for birth in a free country, far from the seat
of war; for having been hitherto preserved from the commission of great
crimes; and, above all, for the knowledge of the will of God as revealed
in the Holy Scriptures. When I may be disposed not to have a due sense of
these blessings, let me turn my thoughts to the sufferers in occupations
of severe labour, in painful disorders, in extreme penury, in sorrows
by the side of a dying friend, in sorrows from the wickedness and
ingratitude of those whom they love; in the agonies of starvation, in
the horrors of remorse, in hopeless and helpless anguish on the field of
battle; in infamy, in dungeons, in chains, in slavery, in torture.

Let these reflections check in me that spirit of discontent prosperity
may produce, and impress on me thy commands, O God, that all those who
are fortunate in this world should watch over and relieve their afflicted
brethren; thy declaration that Thou wilt punish those who neglect this
duty so repeatedly enjoined in thy Holy Word. Let me, therefore, avoid
all those acts which would incapacitate me from assisting the poor and
helpless; and let me not give this assistance from compassion alone,
but because Thou hast commanded it, and because Our Blessed Lord has
vouchsafed to accept it as an evidence of our faith and our love.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                        London, May, 1820.

The _Gazette_ of to-day is to contain the fate of the first Drawing-room.
I have heard it is to be without hoops and without men—a face without
nose and without eyes—but the changes of mind at the Great House are so
rapid that impatient gossip toils after them in vain. Lady C. says that
ladies shall walk at the Coronation, ministers say they shall not; and
these two resolves are changed night and morning. We are amazingly like
the Court of France in the later days of Louis the Fourteenth. There
is the same extensive influence of favour in all directions; the same
universal and avowed cupidity, the same delight in luxury, the same
dangers and the same blindness, and the same public display of devotion.

I went yesterday to Newgate, to see Mrs. Fry’s performance. I by no
means wish to underrate her merits by the phrase. The same lips which
said, ‘Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,’ have also
said, ‘Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on
a candlestick;’ leaving the heart at liberty to follow either precept,
as it conscientiously judges one or other most useful at the time; thus
proving in this instance, as in so many others, that the Gospel is ‘the
law of liberty.’

Miss Hewitt, Lady Jane Peel, and I, set out at ten for Newgate; where a
stonework of fetter over the door told us we had arrived after a twenty
minutes’ drive. Two fat and jolly men received us in a sort of office,
and civilly consigned us to a maid-servant, who led us up two narrow and
steep flights of stairs to a small homely room, in the middle of which,
her back to the door, Mrs. Fry sat at a table, with books and papers
before her. The female convicts, I suppose about sixty in number, faced
her on rows of benches, raised as in the gallery of a theatre. Opposite
to these were two or three rows for the visitors, and a single row on
each side, all as full as possible. As we entered, we were slightly
named to her, and slightly acknowledged. The smell was oppressive, and
the heat unpleasant, but this was instantly forgotten in the interest
of the scene. The convicts first drew my attention. They were of decent
appearance and deportment, habited like the lowest class of servants.
They were singularly plain, but most of them in the prime or vigour of
life, not one very old woman; and two had children, whom they nursed.
Among the visitors I saw a few of my acquaintance, and some persons of
note.

After a short silence Mrs. Fry read, in a soft, low, silvery tone the
fourth chapter of the Ephesians, with perfect intelligence and expressive
sweetness. She then paused, and explained what she thought wanted
elucidation in a few simple well-chosen words. Two men of the Society of
Friends spoke a few words of exhortation. She then read a Psalm, and,
I think, did not say anything in explanation; but she knelt down and
commenced a prayer for comfort to the unhappy convicts, and spiritual
blessings for them, for us, and for all. This prayer was chanted in a
way, I am told, peculiar to the Society of Friends. I did not like it,
with all the advantages of Mrs. Fry’s sweet voice and musical skill. It
is not a regular tune; the words rise a few notes in the scale in regular
progression, and fall again to the same place, but never descend lower
or change their order. Many words, of course, sometimes are given to one
note, and the long-drawn emphasis sometimes laid on ‘and,’ and other
equally insignificant words, was disagreeable to my ear. On the whole,
it affected my nerves unpleasantly, and wanted the solemn unction of
the human speaking voice. Music ought to be very fine when we address
the Deity; even then it seems more suitable for repeating, or dwelling
on, our petitions, or for praise and gratitude, than for humble, deep,
deprecatory prayer.

The convicts now left the room. A subscription followed; and Mrs. Fry
offered to show us the jail. I went part of the way; but as we seemed
to walk through narrow, dark, and winding passages cut out of the cold
rock, my courage failed. Thought dwelt intensely on those that went in
that way, never to return but to death or banishment, and I felt that I
was exposing myself perhaps to illness, when uncalled on by any duty. I
prevailed on a good, kind Quaker friend to be my Orpheus, and was very
glad to see the light of day once more.

It was a fine lesson of humility and gratitude. The doubt whether in
similar circumstances one might not have been more guilty than the worst
of these women, the reflection how deeply they might have been assailed
by the temptations of want, added to every other infirmity of our nature,
and how bitterly they might expiate in this world the offences of which
they had repented, all pressed on the mind at once.

_June 13._ Mrs. Fry and all the remarkables have faded like stars at
sunrise. The Queen, the Queen alone fills up the London show-box, and
frights our Court from its propriety. _Figurez-vous_, a woman still
handsome, fresh and vigorous as at fifteen, attended but by an alderman,
a female friend, a page, and half a dozen servants, causing the stoutest
hearts to quail; making necessary nightly patrols of cavalry, and an
increased military force in the capital; terrifying the Cabinet Ministers
from their business in the House of Commons; occupying all tongues, all
pens, all eyes, if they could but obtain a sight; keeping the King in
check, and finally being the innocent cause of your mother’s windows
being broken by the mob, as a little epilogue to their more serious
performance at Lady Hertford’s.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 26, 1820._—Mr. Grattan has taken leave of all his friends, and
resigned himself to that departure from his life and his fame which he is
aware must shortly take place, in the due course of a painful complaint.
He is perfectly simple, affectionate, and sublime. On the confines of
another world, he still enjoys the best this can give—in the company
and cares of his wife and his four children, all warm-hearted, loving,
and intellectual. But he has not lain down on a sofa to close his eyes
in apathy, and indolently attend the stroke of fate. He feels a desire
of dying in his vocation, and employing his last breath in pleading the
cause of his Roman Catholic countrymen. His great mind still connects
itself with earth by the link of patriotism, though all other ties are
dissolving or dissolved.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 23._—Heard the tumultuous shouting of a well-dressed and exulting
crowd on a glimpse of the Queen, who appeared once on her balcony on her
return from an airing. There was pleasure and triumph in the sound; but
it was not unmingled with a stern consciousness of power. It filled me
with mournful anticipations. The King, his ministers, his courtiers, and
the whole phalanx of the supporters of Administration are on one side,
and the Queen and people on the other. In these shouts I heard the voice
of a lion; pleased, but still a lion—the murmurs of the sea; gentle, but
so are the precursors of a storm. Some say dislike to the King creates
the greatest part of the interest in favour of the Queen. I do not think
so ill of the English character. I believe it proceeds from the immutable
sense of justice.


TO MRS. WILLIAM TRENCH.

                                                               July, 1820.

I send you, as you desire, a few of the _Monodies_,[63] and am delighted
that you do not think me so weak as to look on the criticism of a friend
as a _mishap_. What you say is perfectly true. It _is_ very inferior to
the four beautiful lines quoted in _The Morning Chronicle_, of course
very inferior to the subject; and it is even inferior to the author; as I
have never written anything on so good a theme with so little originality
or effect. However, had it been much worse, I should have wished to
strew on the grave of our patriot a weed from the desert, if I could not
procure a flower; a pebble, if I could not bring a gem; and I was foolish
enough to limit myself in time, being desirous to finish it immediately,
after the thought occurred that it might be printed for the day of the
funeral.

I should write much better if I had ever been criticized. The heaths,
and many other flowers, require wind (not merely air, but blasts of
wind) as well as sunshine; and it would have been both a stimulus and
an improvement, if I had ever heard the voice of truth. But alas!
that was impossible; and my little attempts _can_ have no merit but
that of showing to those who love me, what I might have done, had I
not been deprived of the advantages of classical learning; had I not
been flattered in my youth, as one to whom mental acquirements were
unnecessary; had I not been the fond mother of nine children, and the
troublesome wife of one whom I do not much like to have out of my
sight;—four very unfavourable circumstances to the cultivation of any art
or science whatever. I have said more on this subject than it is worth;
but when I write to those I love or esteem, I am naturally diffuse;
beware, therefore, of beginning a correspondence with

                                                 Your affectionate sister.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I do not know whether the two following stanzas were intended
    to form part of a larger whole, or are complete in themselves.
    They are, to my mind, the highest which the writer accomplished
    in verse; at all events, the highest which has come under my
    eye.

        Their eyes have met. The irrevocable glance
        Stamped on the fantasy of each a face,
        That neither weal nor woe, nor meddling chance,
        Shall ever pluck from its warm resting-place:
        There it shall live, and keep its youthful grace;
        Time shall not soil a single glossy tress,
        Nor lightest wrinkle on that surface trace;
        In life, in death, remains the deep impress,
        Through all eternity endures to curse or bless—

        Eternity! sweet word to lover’s ear,
        For love alone unfolds a sudden view
        Of thy long vista and immortal year;
        All other passions do some end pursue,
        And in fruition die—to live anew,
        And seek the food that kills. Love’s finer frame
        Turns all to aliment and honey-dew;
        Of past, of future, hardly knows the name,
        Exists self-poised, and wishes all its days the same.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 31, 1820, Tunbridge Wells._—Safe at the Sussex Hotel, after going
down such hills! The road most beautiful from luxuriance of vegetation
and display of the finest trees, chiefly elms, with all their varieties
of wreathed roots, mossy or shining stems, and picturesque forms. All
around shines with neatness, high finish, and an air of prosperity.
Orchard gardens and hop-grounds meet us at every step, yet not so as to
detract from the general air of freedom and nature in the landscape.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 5._—This pretty spot is just as I left it, except that formerly
all strove to meet, and now all seek to avoid each other. Refinement, an
increasing taste for domestic life, purer morals, poverty, may all have
some share in this change. It is no matter of regret to me, whose highest
pleasures are within my own dear family circle. Yes, I forget another
novelty, a clean, square, creditable brick-built Methodist chapel, where
I heard a sermon last night that in point of matter was not unworthy of
any pulpit in Great Britain. The manner was less pleasing, yet there
was an air of sincerity which secured sympathy and attention. The
extemporaneous prayers and singing were also good. On the whole, there
was not a peg whereon to hang a fault; and I hope I do not derogate from
Church of Englandism by saying I thought it a very suitable, rational,
and pleasant way of passing an hour, and one calculated to awaken and
confirm religious feelings.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                          Tunbridge Wells, Sept. 10, 1820.

On the day of our eclipse I was pleased at thinking that you were
certainly looking on the same object, engaged in the same contemplations,
as your mother. The weather was so fine here that we saw it to
perfection. The diminution of light was apparent, and its quality seemed
altered, every object assuming an appearance comparatively wan and
sickly, the sky becoming of a colder blue, tending to a dull purple, and
the leaves of the trees of a more yellowish green. I also thought they
seemed to droop, though in a degree scarcely observable, except to a very
close attention. The thermometer sunk from 78 to 73. Pray what were the
peculiar appearances you observed? I should like the opinion of one who
is so good a judge of colours, and of the _savans_ of Sweden.

What papers do you take at present? The Queen’s trial was a wonderful
harvest for the newspapers. I despair of giving you any idea how much
England is occupied and agitated by this trial. The feeling it excites
beats like a pulse through the whole kingdom. I cannot help thinking
it is possible the Lords may throw out the Bill. This supposition is
contrary to all common calculations, founded on the usual march of
self-interest. But these are no common times; and the extraordinarily
strong expression of feeling out of doors, the character of the
witnesses, so exceedingly low, the improbable nature of their evidence,
some touch of the immutable principles of justice, the divisions in the
Cabinet, and many other working causes, may possibly effect this.

_Sept. 14, Brentford._ This letter was begun four days ago, and I am
so far on my way to town. I have been amused, while I sat alone in
the small, dull, square drawing-room of this inn, how many bookish
associations this town excites. First, enter the Two Kings of Brentford,
smelling to one nosegay; and Prince Prettyman, dressed in one boot,
attended by their whole party, ushered in by Bayes and his friends. Next
comes Pope with his imitation of Shenstone; and, lastly, the venerable
Mrs. Trimmer, with all her numerous productions, domestic and literary,
followed by a troop of children whom she has saved from tears and
punishment by her elementary books, and bearing in her hand that sacred
Volume, she so well explained, and so diligently observed. With all this
good company I could well bear to wait for dinner, even if I had not the
great pleasure of writing to you with that freedom from interruption one
can never enjoy so fully as at an inn.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                      Chessel, Oct., 1820.

I am happy here, but I have to reproach myself with talking too much,
and also with taking possession too much of the Reverend John Owen,
and sometimes even _differing from him_—supposed to be the author of
_The World without Souls_, attributed to Cunningham, and Secretary
from the commencement of the Bible Society—orator, poet, musician,
singer—father-in-law of young Wilberforce, friend of Porteus and old
Wilberforce—and the very best talker of religion I have yet heard. I do
not mean that he is not a doer also, but he has the happiest power of
introducing religious topics without gloom and without affectation. I
mean to endeavour to renew his acquaintance, and extend it to his wife
and daughter.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 7, 1820._—I have just finished Southey’s _Life of Wesley_, a book
one cannot read without some religious improvement; but what a trimmer
poor Southey is, bowing to right and left! I have looked into Croker’s
translation of Fontaine’s _Fables_. I grieve to see my dear old French
friend in a masquerade Court dress, a Windsor uniform. It is a coarse and
bad translation. He leaves out the sweetness, _finesse_, and simplicity
of his author, and substitutes a vulgar jollity of phrase, quite
intolerable on comparison with the original.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                 Elm Lodge, Dec. 20, 1820.

Having just sent an excuse to Mrs. F., who annually collects her
neighbours on the shortest day of the year, I am inclined to criticize
the habit of keeping in villas and small country houses all festivities
for Christmas, _because_ the very wealthy, who have immense houses, and
whose large parties remain under the same roof during that foggy period,
fix on it for their amusements. It is a misfortune when they who are
neither wealthy nor great ape the habits of our Crœsuses and grandees.
There is then no proportion nor keeping, and little friendly society, in
their proceedings.

Lord —— is in the same state; but enjoys his existence more than one
would think possible. Yet he loves not reading, and is debarred most of
the pleasures of a good dinner, being forbidden meat and wine. His wife,
his children, his garden, his wheelchair, his newspaper—and his loyalty,
evinced in hating the Queen, the Radicals, the press, the parish paupers,
and the Whigs, fill up his day; as snip-snap-snorum does his evening.

You have heard of the burning of Wootton, the _paterno nido_ of Lady
Carysfort, just fitted up for Lord and Lady Temple; nothing saved but
her jewels. Lady —— tells me that the poor people of the neighbourhood,
after making the most extraordinary efforts to save the house, which was
completely burned in three hours, actually sat down and cried over the
ruins. Her sweet mind is fully convinced of this, and, indeed, so was I,
till I began to write it. But putting a thing on paper is a sort of test
of its probability; and now I begin to doubt a little so feudal a proof
of attachment on this side of the water. Pass but the Channel or the
Tweed, and it would be more probable.


TO JOHN BULLAR, ESQ., SOUTHAMPTON.

                                                    Elm Lodge, Jan., 1821.

Accept my best thanks for your valuable little volume. I read the
greatest part of it to my family circle last night. My four boys were
interested, and my nephew took the book the moment I laid it down, in
order to become better acquainted with the whole of its contents. It
gives a most pleasing view of the power of religion, and is the more
valuable from the incidental lights it throws on various points of our
faith.

If I might, unblamed, be permitted to use the phrase on so serious a
subject, I should confess I was very much gratified by its being written
in such _exquisite good taste_ that neither the scoffer, nor the sceptic,
nor the most fastidious man of the world, could find aught to ridicule.
This may seem absurd, but I know too well the power of ridicule in
obstructing the path of truth, not to rejoice when I see every door shut
against so dangerous an intruder; and we must acknowledge this is not
always the case in narratives drawn up with the best intentions.

... I am pleased at finding that so admirable a person as Isaac Watts was
born in this neighbourhood, which I consider as my adopted home; and I
wish you would, on a second edition, interweave a few more anecdotes of
his private life. No one scarcely in these tempestuous and exciting times
will read the biography of Isaac Watts as a single work; but a little
more knowledge of him would be acceptable to all, since his hymns are
equally prized by all gradations of intellect, and are repeated equally
in the palace and the cottage.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                 Elm Lodge, Jan. 20, 1821.

Did you not think very differently on the subject which still occupies
all England, when you first mentioned it to me, from what you now
conceive? You perceive the reports on which you and many other sensible
and impartial people founded their opinion, were _raised_ by those
who afterwards affected to inquire into them. Some of them were so
exquisitely and ridiculously improbable, that it shows how ill those who
speak untruth most intrepidly know how to manage their falsehoods; and
one begins to believe Mad. de Genlis, who says a person very little used
to deception will carry it on with ten times the skill of a hackneyed
deceiver. The former is more cautious, and weaves both a finer and a
stronger web. When I was told _she_ had danced, entirely disrobed, on the
top of a house in Italy, I _did_ say, to the astonishment of a circle of
women, that I could not have believed it had I seen it. I should more
easily have supposed some one had been hired to personate _her_; for
there would have been temptation for an odious and disagreeable and vile
act; while in her case all the temptation was on the other side.

You will be pleased to hear good accounts of my health. Meanwhile, the
trapdoor is opening on all sides.... If we did not sometimes see it
open thus suddenly, we should quite forget it was ever to unclose for
ourselves. But these are private losses. The good, the benevolent, the
expansive-hearted William Parnell is gone—the friend of Ireland, the
friend of the poor. I have seldom regretted so much any one of whom I
knew so little; but that little was always interesting. I first saw him
in attendance on a sick sister at Shrewsbury, resisting all the efforts
made to induce him to relax in his care of her, though eagerly sought
for by all whose acquaintance was thought desirable. I then met him, the
friend of Mrs. Fry, the advocate of education, the earnest endeavourer to
ameliorate the fate of Ireland; and I trust he will have his reward. In
general, I avoid making my letter an obituary. Am I right? am I wrong?


TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

                                                 Elm Lodge, Feb. 26, 1821.

My —— is come to the second mother-loving age. About eight or nine, when
they wish to go everywhere, and when dogs and ponies, &c. &c., engage a
part of their affections, their tenderness diminishes for a mother, whose
fears lead her frequently to oppose their pleasure. But about fifteen,
when the mind makes a rapid expansion, and independence of her alarms
is pretty nearly established, they become as fond of her as ever, until
about twenty, when _other creatures_ disturb them, and again lessen the
force of early attachments.

_The Abbot_ tired me. Why did Walter Scott try to pourtray female
pertness and violence in the four seasons of life? The young lady is a
flippant miss; Mary Queen of Scots—in defiance of history—Mary, whose
courtesy and sweetness won all hearts, and induced many who would have
resisted her beauty to overlook her faults, is caustic, satirical,
and full of repartee; the _ci-devant_ lady who is her guardian is as
ill-tempered as any ill-received and faded toast of our own time; and
the old nurse is full of vulgar violence. Perhaps I am not sufficiently
indulgent; for I have ceased to be much amused by novels.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                   Elm Lodge, March, 1821.

Your last letter was so cheering I am living on it still. It left a glow
in spite of its description of nights two-and-twenty hours in length,
and of the pleasures of sliding on ice, and the necessity of being
furred up to the tip of the nose; and this warmth will last, I hope,
till the arrival of your next. I cannot help wishing that in your next
interval of leisure you would give us a little volume. A tale, of which
the scene was laid in Sweden, would have novelty for us—a courtship in a
_traîneau_—ministers tumbling in the hay—and then the delights of your
polar day—

    ‘The snow-clad offspring of the sun,
    A polar day that knows no night,
    Nor sunset, till its summer’s gone,
    Its sleepless summer of long light.’

Do you receive the novels of the day? _Il faut que ceux qui veulent
écrire des romans se dépêchent._ Only Walter Scott’s, and those written
by persons distinguished some other way, are read; and these are read
more in the spirit of criticism and cavil than admiration. While Belzoni
is descending into the catacombs, and Parry is penetrating to the pole,
while history wears all the attributes of romance, and chemistry all the
brilliancy of fiction, few people have patience to follow the adventures
of beauties, robbers, and outlaws.

My black seal is for Lady D——. Her cards were out for an assembly, when
she died, with very little suffering of mind or body. I am sure the
Bath ladies who lost her party, think themselves most to be pitied,
and somewhat ill-used.... Ladies are seldom kind to their _dames de
compagnie_. Why is it that, except in motherly and sisterly connexion,
women appear so much to dislike each other? As Lady D. seemed disposed
to live for ever, being eighty-four, without infirmity, and enjoying all
the amusements of youth, in Bath, that Paradise of female longevity, I
am sure I wish for my sake she had. I shall miss her kind and laudatory
manner to me and mine, her approving peep through her spy-glass, and all
her cheerful, good-humoured, civil ways.


TO MRS. —— (a god-daughter).

                                                              April, 1821.

Excuse me for not having sooner expressed the pleasure I felt in hearing
of your being well, and mother of a fine little boy. This is the most
delightful period of our existence; and when one forgets the little
anxieties about a baby’s health, and the transient sufferings attendant
on their birth, often does one look back on those hours when infants were
blossoming around one, with regret at their having so swiftly glided
away. I believe it is the happiest time of every woman’s life, who has
affectionate feelings, and is blessed with healthy and well-disposed
children. I know, at least, that neither the gaieties and boundless
hopes of early life, nor the more grave pursuits and deeper affections
of later years, are by any means comparable in my recollections with
the serene yet lively pleasure of seeing my children—my beautiful,
affectionate, and sprightly children—playing on the grass, enjoying their
little temperate supper, or repeating ‘with holy look’ their simple
prayers, and undressing for bed, growing prettier for every part of their
dress they took off, and at last lying down, all freshness and love, in
complete happiness, and an amicable contest for mamma’s last kiss.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 16, 1821._—Saw the Exhibition.

_Guess my name_ (Wilkie)—interior of a cottage—a woman in a cloak, with a
charming sweetness and cordial hilarity of countenance, such as reminded
one of Mrs. Jordan, has placed her hands over the eyes of a peasant
seated at a table, and is _seen_ to utter these words; an old man at the
door, who seems to have followed her, enjoys the incident, as do three
or four other spectators. It is a sweet picture, and awakens kindly
unsophisticated affections.

A charming _Eastern Landscape_, by Daniel, with beautiful figures—water
still and transparent—a house on a hill, catching every hope of a
breeze—scattered palm-trees and sufficient vegetation to refresh the
imagination under the evident heat of the atmosphere—some lovely young
women of the labouring class, undepressed by its effects, engaged in
light occupation on the brink of the river.

A lovely miniature in enamel of the late Dowager Duchess of Leinster,
reading.

A head of Walter Scott, with a smile of the most playful humour. Another
of Wordsworth, a fine pensive face, but nothing of the lackadaisical
manner report has attributed to the lake poet—both by Chantrey.

_Belshazzar’s Feast_ (Martin). It speaks strongly to the imagination, and
is a powerful creation of light, and a new language in painting. The idea
is fine, and I augur much from Martin, who seems to have a powerful fancy
and a noble daring.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                     London, June 2, 1821.

I have always avoided making my letters bulletins, as I wish neither
to give pain nor to excite _ennui_; but I cannot conceal from you
the opinion of Sir Henry Halford, justified by the success of his
prescriptions, that I shall completely recover my health. My size is
undiminished; it makes me very uncourtly in appearance, and is the
despair of some of my refined friends; but is the less alarming, as
it is not the fulness of relaxation, but such as would do honour to
a dairy-maid or farmer’s wife; and is convenient in one respect, for
it serves, without the odium of singularity, as an apology for my
being far behind my cotemporaries in variety of dress and quantity of
trimmings. When gently reproved on that subject, I always say, ‘Oh,
you know my size;’ and the decorated lecturer gives a pitying glance
at _me_, an approving one at _herself_, and becomes silently absorbed
in the contemplation of her flounces. The necessity of pleasing _him_
is sometimes hinted at on these occasions. Poor souls! they know not
how secure I am. You must know that in this town _time_ brings no
relaxation to the vigour of dress. On the contrary, while some of the
young have good taste enough to trust to their charms for a few years,
and are distinguished by their simplicity, scarcely any of their mothers
resign, or cease accumulating, ornaments, till they exchange them for
the winding-sheet. An awful instance of this passion occurred in my
neighbourhood. A person whose beauty had raised her from the rank of
milliner to that of wealthy widow, in her last will ordered that she
should be dressed for the grave in all her laces and diamonds, which
should be buried with her. This is ‘the ruling passion strong in death’
beyond what fiction would have ventured to describe.


TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

                                                       London, July, 1821.

All silly persons talk of nothing now but the Coronation, so you
may guess how much one hears of it. Such numbers have put on their
fool’s-caps about it, and are jangling them in one’s ears, that it is
quite deafening.

_HE_ says, that no dowager may walk at it. ‘I will have no dowagers;’
L’INGRAT!!

Lord —— is in alternate paroxysms of delight that he and his wife may
walk at it, and of terror at the expense. She jingles her bells more
quietly. He was shocked at my repeating, though I said I did not believe
it, that each dress would cost £800. The love of money and show are
usually united.

I have just skimmed _The Monastery_, and am angry with the author for
appropriating our Irish Banshee, and making so little of her, for she was
originally a poetical creature. He degrades her to something between a
ghost and a fairy, who comes popping up in all places on the most trivial
occasions, and then melts away like a lump of sugar, till she is called
again. Fleury’s account of Buonaparte’s last short reign,[64] is by far
the cleverest of the new books I have read, and, to all but military men,
more amusing than Napoleon’s own _Memoirs_.

If I were not ashamed of the length of this letter, I should ask if
you had seen Mrs. Delany’s _Letters_.[65] They are too much alike, and,
short as is the volume, it might be shortened with advantage; but some of
them give a most pleasing and minute picture of the interior of Windsor
Castle in the happiest days of our late Sovereigns. They are valuable
historically, as a faithful, though slight sketch of that branch of
history, detailing the private life of the great, of which the French
have too much, and we too little. We are now reading Cottu, _On the
Administration of Criminal Justice in England_. He takes, also, a rapid
and entertaining view of our social life, our elections, &c. &c., and is
a very pleasant writer, particularly as he finds us all perfection. It is
gratifying to see oneself in so becoming a glass.


TO THE SAME.

                                                       London, Aug., 1821.

I know you will be pleased to hear that the tickets, for which we were
so much obliged, did all that tickets could do. The place was excellent,
particularly for me, who lived half the time in the air, which enabled
me to bear fifteen hours’ attendance, and some carriage and other
difficulties, without injury. I opened my eyes on a hair-dresser at a
quarter before four, was _en route_ in a white satin dress-gown and
court plume at five; at six, was seated in the Hall, after various
difficulties occasioned by the dulness of doorkeepers, and some danger
from the circumstance of my being within a few yards of the gate at the
very instant the guards were called out to oppose the Queen. Tired to
death at having been sent backwards and forwards by doorkeepers, I was
at last near the right entrance, when I heard loud shouts, a few faint
hisses, and a cry of ‘Close the doors.’ The Guards are called out; the
Battle-axes rushed in, and absolutely carried me in amongst them, and
with wonderful alarm was the door closed against a woman—and a Queen.

The show was all that Oriental pomp, feudal ceremonial, and British
wealth could unite. The processions in _The Curse of Kehama_, and in
_Rimini_, with the painting of _Belshazzar’s Feast_, were continually
recalled to my memory. The conflict of the _two lights_ from the blaze
of artificial day mixing with a splendid sunshine, the position of the
King’s table, the pomp of the banquet, with its vessels of gold and
silver, the richness of the dresses, and a thousand other particulars,
rendered the resemblance so perfect, it seemed as if the Feast had been
in some degree copied from the picture. Thus does art seem to contain the
germ of all that is developed in life.

Our loyalty was noisy, and I think our roarings might have been dispensed
with; for we roared not once, nor thrice, but at least a dozen times. We
had great desire to roar for the horses also; but an energetic _hush_
from those who conducted the ceremonial silenced us with difficulty, as
we attempted it repeatedly.

The Archbishop of York, in his coronation sermon, assured us that,
‘judging of the future by the past, we had reason to expect a reign
of extraordinary virtue.’ The Abbey, when looked down upon from one of
the upper pews, appeared like a Turkey carpet continually changing its
pattern.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 8, 1821._—The Queen died yesterday evening at half-past ten. Deep
compassion and unaccountable regret filled my mind on hearing this news,
mixed with something like shame that a foreign Princess should have been
made so unhappy by her connexion with this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 11._—Lady Fanny Proby having offered me places in Lord Buckingham’s
private box, I saw that splendid pageant, the Coronation, at Drury Lane.
A crowded audience, packed as close as art could place them, except in
the private boxes, sat with ineffable complacency to witness the mimic
coronation of one whom they applauded each time he was named, and whom
this time last year an audience of similar materials would scarcely
hear mentioned without hissing and contumely; while they bestowed not a
thought on one who lies yet unburied, on one of whom this ceremony was
calculated to remind them, on one who is said to have died of grief in
consequence of the wrongs she received from him they now applaud, on one
whom this time last year they idolized; to whom the most distant allusion
set the theatre in a roar—not of laughter, but of wild and tumultuous and
enthusiastic applause.

Popular applause! popular attachment! intoxicating draught, misleading
_ignis fatuus_;—how often will they lead us to the edge of a
precipice—and leave us there.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 23, Roehampton._—On arriving here on the 16th, found my dear Miss
Agar in her bed, and after an anxious and miserable week of trembling
anxiety, received her last sigh at nine o’clock this morning. One of my
earliest, and for many years my dearest, friend—the kind, the generous,
the steady, the pious, the cheerful, the pleasant, the wise. Farewell, my
Emily!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 1._—Left Lord Clifden’s—oh! how much poorer than when I arrived;
one of the treasures of my heart, after my husband and children by far
the dearest, taken out of the small but precious circle.


TO THE COUNTESS OF CARYSFORT.

                                                     London, Oct. 4, 1821.

My health, of which you are so good as to inquire, continues unimpaired,
though I feel much of that listlessness of sorrow which succeeds to the
first energies of grief. My loss is irreparable. The friend of early
youth, whom I always found equally partial, tender, efficient, and
sincere—who never lost an opportunity of giving pleasure, and whose
affection transformed my very faults into so many perfections, must, by
her departure, leave a chasm never to be filled; and I know not whether
it does not increase my regret, that the very unpretending simplicity,
which was a charm in her character, in some measure concealed the powers
of her understanding, and the virtues of her heart, from all but her
closest intimates. I know no one who gave so much in proportion to their
means, and not only to the very poor, but to those of a higher class,
who are more rarely recollected or assisted. She refused no one, till
she tried whether it was possible, by her purse or her influence, to
serve them. Every year of her life ripened her piety, her charity, her
faith. At the head of a large establishment, to which she contributed
a movement of the most beautiful tranquillity and order, she made all
around her happy; and, not content with feeding and clothing the poor,
used to send her maid to discover whether want existed in the cottages;
and to reproach herself, in spite of a state of health and routine of
avocations and duties that rendered it impracticable, for not going
in person. She was an early riser, and free from all effeminacy and
personal indulgence. She set her mind for the day by reading at least two
chapters in the Bible and a portion of the Psalms, before she appeared
at breakfast, and she was regular in her studies of a few of the best
books on religious subjects. It was some effort to go last Sunday to the
church, where I had never been but with her. But her own composure seems
to have spread itself around her, and to have remained among her friends
without the smallest diminution of the depth, and with a great addition
to the tenderness, of their regrets. On the 25th, I again saw her dear
remains, wrapped in white satin, and reposing on a white satin mattrass
and pillows, in her last quiet bed; for though all was conducted with the
privacy she desired, it was mingled with the respectful state suitable
to her condition. On the evening of the 27th, I prayed by her _closed_
coffin—a solemn, not a gloomy, object. It lay in the midst of one of the
largest rooms, which was fully lighted, and in its sombre magnificence
this her last dwelling left a serious impression, but inflicted no
additional pang. She reposes by the side of the mother she so much loved.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I gaze upon thy vacant chair,
    And almost see thine image there;
    I view the slowly-opening door,
    And scarce believe that never more
    Thy step of lightness there shall tend
    With cordial smile to greet thy friend,
                                  My Emily.

    Thy gentle care was ever nigh,
    When sorrow heaved the secret sigh;
    Thy bounty fell like evening dew,
    Refreshing those who never knew
    Whose tender hand their pillow smoothed,
    And hours of anguish sweetly soothed,
                                  My Emily.

    Ennobled was thy closing strife;
    Thou didst not fondly cling to life,
    But the pale monarch’s call obeyed
    Without surprise and undismayed,
    In wedding garments, purely bright,
    With well-trimmed lamp of steady light,
                                  My Emily.

    I saw thee in thine hour of prime,
    I saw thee gently touched by time,
    I saw thee as thy spirit fled,
    I’ve seen thee since, beside my bed,
    A placid dream, pure, soft, and fair,
    A soul of love, a form of air,
                                  My Emily.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                               Roehampton, Sept. 29, 1821.

I reproach myself for having permitted you to learn by the public papers
the misfortune I have suffered in losing my invaluable friend Miss Agar,
as I know your kind heart will form a thousand apprehensions as to the
effect of such a disruption on my health and spirits. Believe me, my dear
friend, that her composure, fortitude, and Christian resignation, have
left with her friends the priceless legacy of an example which forbids
every undue murmur, every selfish indulgence of grief. ‘Our little life
_is rounded_ with a sleep;’ and till that last sleep our character cannot
be perfectly understood or completely finished. Hers has stood this test,
and her departure reflects back a light on all her preceding days.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 8._—Lord Clifden feels, and bears, his loss as he ought—a second
self, affectionate as a wife, clearsighted to his interests, temporal and
eternal, as a sister, observant as a daughter, the tenderest nurse to him
in sickness, the most admirable regulator of a family, which moved with
the silence, order, and harmony of the spheres—a pleasing, cheerful, and
entertaining companion, and as grateful to him for his liberality to her
of this world’s goods, as if she had not been deserving of all he could
bestow.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                    London, Oct. 15, 1821.

Besides ‘that which cometh upon me daily,’ I have been visiting a lovely
little being, a soul on the wing, one of —— ——’s nieces, who adorns a
death-bed of poverty and privation with the sweetest and most endearing
Christian graces. Oh! how his bosom ought to be wrung in comparing her
present situation with that she might have been in, had he behaved with
common honesty; but wickedness brings its own balm.

Lord Waldegrave’s _Memoirs_[66] are worth reading, and show an
accomplished mind, so habituated to courtly restraint in expressing its
thoughts, that attention is needful to find the full meaning of the
writer, in the low and gentle tones by which it is communicated.

—— has a delightful voice—not a single defect to be removed; whatever he
has to do will be merely progress, which is given to about one person in
five hundred. He even opens his mouth smilingly and horizontally, like
an Italian, instead of dolorously and perpendicularly, like a native of
England.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 7, 1821._—I left Mr. Sloane’s to-day with regret, and the happy,
orderly, and dignified tranquillity of his hospitable habitation. Such
kindliness in the master, such affectionate respect in the servants, but
with that perfect love which casteth out fear—such a good library, so
frankly communicated—such perfect comfort, which would slide into state,
if it did not make an effort against it—such magnificent oaks, and the
whole park scenery thrown into the house by large plate-glass windows!


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                            Nov. 20, 1821.

I am grateful for your daughter’s kindness, and for the depth of feeling
with which she has entered into my deprivation. Although this misfortune
was at the time softened by every favourable circumstance, and that
I constantly reflect with satisfaction on my dear companion’s having
escaped the various ills which might have pressed upon her latter days,
and which seem to lie in wait for the most prosperous, yet her loss is
in some degree a growing sorrow, as circumstances permitted us to be
very much together, and we were on terms so confidential that I want her
advice or assistance, or miss her company or her letters, every day of
my life. Sometimes I hear a humorous anecdote, which my first impulse,
before ‘I waken with a start’ to the reality, is to treasure up for her.
Sometimes I have some little charitable scheme, which she would have
moulded into form, or some little family dilemma, in which her reason,
religion, knowledge of the world, and of _me_, would have enabled her
to guide me. When I was in retirement, her amusing letters brought a
thousand interesting public topics under my eyes, giving me the opinions
of many sensible and some eminent men, condensed into small compass. When
my husband went to Ireland, she did all in her power to make amends for
his absence, and never thought it possible to see me half enough. In her
heart I read as clearly as in my own.




CHAPTER VII.

1822-1827.


    A comparatively brief chapter will contain all which I desire
    further to offer of my Mother’s ‘Remains.’ Her health had for
    some years been giving way, but the four or five last years of
    her life were years of much suffering; nor did the physicians
    seem perfectly to understand her case. She now seldom woke
    without what in one place she calls her ‘penal visitation of
    headache;’ and I trace evidences of failing health, and of the
    painfulness of all mental exertion, in the rarer entries in her
    journal, and, so far as I can gather, the fewer letters which
    she wrote during these years.


TO THE REV. —— ——.

                                                 Elm Lodge, Feb. 27, 1822.

I thank you for your partial opinion of ——. I hope he has already
judged for himself in the spirit of the text, ‘What shall a man give in
exchange for his soul?’ but I should very much deprecate religion being
pointed out to him chiefly by that feature you have mentioned—‘having
principles and motives for action different from the world in general.’
I sincerely hope that he will have such principles and motives, and I
see that he has; but I do not wish him too soon to be aware of it, _nor
ever to dwell on it_. The former is dangerous as terrifying the young by
apprehensions of singularity, and adding weights where we would wish to
give wings; the latter is doubly hazardous, and is so at all ages. ‘Lord,
I thank Thee I am not as other men,’ was, and ever will be, a pharisaical
distinction.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 6, 1822._—I have just begun to read _The Spectator_ again, after a
lapse of fifteen years; and am a little surprised at finding Sir Roger de
Coverley only fifty-six, as when I first read them I did not understand
how any one could feel any interest but that of compassion for so very
old a man, except he was one’s grandfather, or among one’s own particular
friends. I remember at nine years old somewhat of the same feeling for
the delightful Sévigné, when her first letter mentioned her having a
married daughter. I wished to shut the book; all became colourless and
insipid as connected with a woman so far advanced in years.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                Elm Lodge, March 21, 1822.

I sincerely regret the breach which has been made in your domestic
circle, and perfectly recollect the amiable simplicity of the worthy
sisters, as well as your account of the strength of their understandings,
and unbroken chain of their virtues. I can enter into the added regret
felt by a tender mother, when she sees those venerable trees decay that
would have sheltered her young plants with that affectionate mixture
of esteem and _instinctive_ fondness, only to be felt by those who
have witnessed their growing infancy. But, above all, I recollect your
sincere piety, and see in it the balm for all the ills of life. With only
the difference of being a little sooner or a little later, it equally
heals all your sorrows, and turns them into themes of sweet and hopeful
resignation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 6._—Your little work is most pleasing, and highly useful; for none,
I think, can read it without an amelioration of the heart. Gratitude for
one’s own temporal blessings, content with one’s situation, if raised
above the pressure of want or necessity of labour, a certain dislike of
frivolous expense, and views of human nature sane and practical, must
be more or less excited by a close inspection of ‘the short and simple
annals of the poor.’


TO MRS. HAYGARTH.

                                                Elm Lodge, March 21, 1822.

We could not let Mr. Brigstock have this lovely spot. If you saw the
Hamble, as I do every morning from my bedroom, sometimes at low tide, ‘in
windings bright and mazy as the snake,’ and at high tide in one broad
sheet of dazzling splendour, which, when I suddenly open my window,
reminds me of a ray of the Divine presence, you would see the immense
difficulty to my weak mind of parting with anything so beautiful. Mr.
T. is firmer, but I think he _feels_ as much reluctance. The spring
has advanced with unspeakable sweetness and brilliancy. I am covering
this place—perhaps for Mr. Brigstock of the untunable name—with roses,
honeysuckles, violets, and early flowers. There are already a great
abundance, all my own planting, but I am spreading them in every
direction.


SONNET TO THE RIVER HAMBLE.

_March 22._

    The sun forsakes thee, yet thou still art fair;
    In thy own graceful curvings fond to twine
    Like the young tendrils of the gadding vine,
    Beneath this azure sky and fragrant air.
    Let others to more southern shores repair,
    And boast their glowing summers; be it mine,
    Pleased on thy verdant margin to recline,
    Heedless what aspect alien climes may wear;
    And mark the white-winged barks that swiftly glide,
    Like sportive birds, along thy glassy tide;
    Now by a circling wood’s theatric pride,
    Now by yon Castle, firmly knit, though grey,
    Which there shall stand, untouched by dim decay,
    While like thy waters we shall lapse away.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The following letter is a reply to one of Lord Howden’s, giving
    an account of a cenotaph, with its inscription, which he had
    erected to the memory of Colonel St. George, his half brother,
    in a church which had just been built by him on his property in
    Yorkshire.


TO LORD HOWDEN.

                                                            April 5, 1822.

I sincerely thank you for the sadly pleasing satisfaction I derive from
seeing you so deeply imbued with those recollections which will fade
among the last of mine. It is pleasing to see springing up in acts of
solemn tenderness, those seeds of friendship sown so many years since.
Affection so constant it is honourable both to feel and inspire. Your
inscription, in its dignified and unaffecting brevity, is perfectly
consistent with truth, and says much in few words.

Honours to the dead seem particularly consonant to the spirit of the
Christian religion. When the great Author and Finisher of our faith
implied an approbation of costly ointment as anointing Him for His
burial, and vouchsafed to lie in the tomb of the wealthy, He seemed
plainly to permit us to gratify our feelings by reverence to the
departed. These attentions contain, also, a tacit proof of our sense
of the immortality of the soul. If the beloved who have gone before us
were nothing, we should not have the same pleasure in cherishing these
remembrances. We are not half so apt to think too much of the departed,
as to forget them too soon; for, if we examine our own minds, we shall
find we are never so innocent, so little selfish, so pious, or so
charitable, as when under some affliction for the loss of a friend; and
these recollections, far from unfitting us for our duty to the living,
strengthen us in every good resolution.

I have been led to enlarge on this, partly from the pleasure of finding
you think as I do, and have not adopted a cold and heartless philosophy,
now so prevalent, and partly from having suffered a severe privation
in the departure of my dear Miss Agar. Her deep affection for me, her
excellent understanding, and her admirable heart, ever active in works of
piety and charity, concur to make this an irreparable loss. I was at her
bed-side during her whole illness, till the last, and after the last. It
was a fine lesson of resignation and unassuming firmness.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                               Roehampton, April 24, 1822.

I write from Roehampton, which I could not summon up courage to revisit
until now. It was a melancholy moment when that bell rung at the gate,
announcing a visitor, which used to give _her_ so much pleasure, when
I was expected; and when I went into the house and missed her cheerful
welcome; and in my room found not the flowers she used to leave; and
when at night I retired without being followed by her for a short half
hour, sometimes to laugh at the little shadows or flittings of vanity or
peculiarity we had witnessed, but oftener to arrange some little plan of
charity or kindliness, in which she took the lead.

Lord Clifden is extremely pleased with Mr. Ellis’ choice. I presume her
to be one of those dignified and refined young persons, in whom the rays
are so equally blended as to produce pure white; for I have always heard
her described as extremely amiable, without any definite addition; and
this is exactly what Lord Clifden would desire in the wife of his son, in
which he is sincerely joined by your affectionate mother.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The following earnest _jeu d’esprit_ was written at the
    commencement of the Irish famine of this year, and printed for
    private circulation.


A DINNER IN 1822.

I was yesterday one of sixteen, at a dinner of that neutral tint in
externals, which never excites a remark, being on the general plan
adopted by ninety-nine in a hundred, from the country gentleman, or the
_aspirant_ to office, of two thousand a year, to the peer of twenty or
thirty, or even the more wealthy Leviathans of the East. In the small
remainder we may find all those who either _entertain_, as some call it
(and oh! how often is the word misapplied), with singular and princely
magnificence, or who have courage to refrain from any part of the general
usage, unsuitable to them.

Any difference that may exist in this universal scheme of dinner, is
found in the execution, never in the plan. Some are dignified by sauces
more elaborate—purer bread—hotter soup—colder water—a better regulated
atmosphere—silent celerity rather than bustling officiousness in the
attendants—and an air of ease and unconcern in the host and hostess,
as to the _matériel_ of the performance, evincing perfect confidence in
their cook, and proving their present situation to be one of facile and
frequent occurrence.

Most of the guests had rather played with the first course; the habit of
eating a solid dinner alone, or _en famille_, under the specious name of
luncheon, having taken away all natural inclination for food at seven
in the evening. Many of them had refused every dish but one or two at
the second, and the _soufflé_ and _fondu_ had replaced their numerous
predecessors, when Mr. Redgill, a persevering diner, one of the few
better employed hitherto than in mere words, remarked how much distress
there had been in Ireland, adding, ‘they will be very well off now—ships
are preparing, freighted with oatmeal; but, I suppose, they’ll not like
anything but potatoes.’

‘Why,’ replied Colonel O’Trigger, ‘the potato’s the finest food in the
world—(some Parmesan, if you please)—where do you see such fine fellows?’
(expanding his own Hibernian chest to most sergeant-like dimensions.)
‘When they get a little milk with their potatoes—(some port, if you
please; I always take it after cheese)—when they get a little milk with
them, they are the happiest people in the world!’

A prudent old gentleman then said, the present subscriptions would pay
all the Irish rents. Another observed that a little starvation would be
very good for them, and might bring them to a due sense of gratitude to
the present government. A fourth, that it would finally be a benefit as
absorbing the population, which appeared to him most desirable; for,
he was anxious to prove, that a plenteous harvest, whether animal or
vegetable, was fraught with misery and danger, now we were no longer
blest with war to carry off our superabundance: while a fifth reasoned
elaborately to show that, as it was impossible wholly to relieve the
starving peasantry, nothing was so merciful as to leave them to the
working of events, instead of prolonging their misery by charity, which
must finally be ineffectual.

This discussion was interrupted by one of more general interest—on the
proper hour of the day in which fruit ought to be plucked: and on the
tube of tin, lined with velvet, which insidiously solicits its fall,
with soft prevailing art, at the moment of perfection, without sullying
its bloom by one ungentle pressure. Sir Philip Cayenne, a short, coarse,
and sultry personage, to whom a pine-apple or a bunch of grapes seemed
as unsuitable as a fan, assured us he never could touch them, unless
culled before sunrise, and kept in a northern aspect. From this topic, he
naturally digressed to his wines—his _Greek_ wines! _his_ Tenedos! _his_
Cyprus! High and musical names! with all your delightful and shadowy
associations! ye were ‘familiar in his mouth as household words,’ and, in
his general spirit of appropriation, ye became his own—till his devotion
to a plate of early strawberries, similar to those he told us he had
bought that day for half-a-crown a dozen, suspended every other idea.

Such are the studies and pursuits of hundreds, while thousands of their
fellow-subjects are expiring in the agonies of hunger—dropping down from
inanition in the roads—in the ditches—in the fields—in the lime-kilns,
where they sought a little temporary warmth, or the means of prolonging
a miserable existence, by heating their last small pittance of coarsest
food.

As to luxury, I know that the words, too much, and, too little, are high
treason against property. But, though no tangible line can be drawn,
though Lear is right when he says,

    ‘Oh, reason not the need: our basest beggars
    Are in the poorest thing superfluous;
    Allow not nature more than nature needs,
    Man’s life is cheap as beast’s;’

yet, surely, less general profusion, with more charity and some
self-denial, which the luxurious might well practise as the parent
of fresh enjoyment, would become our Christian profession, and our
present state. All are embarked on a stormy sea: the winds whistle in
our shrouds, the sky wears an ominous aspect, and whether we can or
cannot avoid the rocks that surround us, let us at least treat our
fellow-passengers with kindness, and mitigate the sufferings we are not
yet called on to endure.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June, 1822._—Among the many consolations, most of which fail to
console, a few, I think, have been overlooked, which may, at least for
a few moments, lighten the chain of years, that chain to which every
revolution of the sun adds a new link, some painful and heavy, others
brilliant and elastic. The treasures of recollection—that best cabinet
of curiosities, better than diamonds, or gems, or Alduses, or Caxtons,
or visiting-tickets, or even franks, all of which have been sought
by indefatigable collectors—the treasures of recollection can only be
obtained from the hand of time.

To have been presented at a Drawing room to the late King and Queen, is
a recollection worth having. To have encountered in the benignant eye
of majesty that of the best husband and best father in his dominions—to
have received, perhaps, his cordial approbation—to have seen the monarch
softened to the mind’s eye by viewing him as a sharer in the same
affectionate ties which tame the pride of greatness, not alone by the
tenderness they infuse, but by making it vulnerable at so many points.
A Drawing room in the last reign seemed an epitome of the country. All
was quietly cheerful; and an air of freedom, a something which reminded
one of a land of liberty, was blended with the whole arrangement. The
King and Queen were as parents surrounded by their children. They kept no
state. They circulated about the room, as anxious to speak to all as each
individual was to be addressed by them. Their state was in the minds of
their subjects, and their guards in their hearts’ affections.

Is it not worth something to have seen Mrs. Siddons in her days of
magnificence—Mrs. Siddons, who has lent to the very syllables of her
name an elevation and a charm so strong that no effort of mind could now
effect their separation—so strong that none who saw her in the splendour
of her meridian ever pronounced that name without a tone and a manner
more softened and raised than their habitual discourse.

She sometimes gave vitality to a line which stamped it for ever, while
all surrounding recollections have faded away. I remember her saying to a
servant who had betrayed her, in some play no longer acted—

    ‘There’s gold for thee; but see my face no more.’

I am sorry that this is the moment in which she comes most strongly on my
recollection. I wish it had been in one of Shakespeare’s plays; but so it
is. There is no giving an adequate impression of the might, the majesty
of grace she possessed, nor of the effect on a young heart of the deep
and mysterious tones of her voice. Kemble as Coriolanus, when she was
Volumnia, equalled the highest hopes of acting.

And is it not also much to recollect Kemble, when he, too, was after
the high Roman fashion, and the last of the Romans? Some persons begin
now to praise him for his classical and erudite performance of certain
characters, as though he had been denied the power of touching the
tenderer sympathies of our nature; but who has seen him in _The Stranger_
or Penruddock, and not shed tears from the deepest sources? His tenderly
putting away the son of his treacherous friend and inconstant, but
unhappy, mistress, examining his countenance, and then exclaiming, with a
voice which developed a thousand mysterious feelings, ‘You are very like
your mother,’ was sufficient to stamp his excellence in the pathetic line
of acting. But in this respect Mrs. Siddons was a disadvantage to him.
I enter into no comparison between their merits; but it would have been
fair to remember that the sorrows of a woman formed to be admired and
revered, are in general more touching, more softening, than those of a
warrior, a philosopher, or a statesman; and because Kemble did not make
us weep and wail, like his incomparable sister, we did not do justice to
his powers of moving the passions. I always saw him with pain descend to
the Stranger. It was like the Genius in the Arabian tale going into the
vase. First, it seemed so unlikely _he_ should meet with such an affront,
and this injured the probability of the piece; and next, the Stranger
is never really dignified, and one is always in pain for him, poor
gentleman! And though the character is at times highly pathetic, in the
next five minutes there is something so glaringly introduced for stage
effect as to produce an unpleasant interruption of the current of feeling.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

(With a box of sauces and spices, and _The Cook’s Oracle_).

                                                    London, June 26, 1822.

Various means of increasing your powers of pleasing accompany this
letter. Accept a didactic volume, showing you how to make the best use
of them. Neither Walter Scott nor Lord Byron have had so quick and
profitable a sale. It is thought the best book of cookery extant; but, as
it unveils the secrets of the trade, professional cooks would willingly
burn, stew, bake, boil, mince, hash, broil, pound, fry, baste, hang,
quarter, cut up, or otherwise execute it and its author. If the _Oracle_
is the first that speaks on the subject in Sweden, I shall think myself a
national benefactor.

I hope you have read every word of Sir James Mackintosh’s speeches
on the Criminal Code and the Alien Bill—both admirable; the first a
_chef-d’œuvre_, and touching on many points of interest—Napoleon, and
the Code which would immortalize him, were his victories forgot—Charles
Fox, and his inextinguishable philanthropy—our native _sœurs de la
charité_, with that meek and energetic woman at their head, who has
raised the character of her sex. All these are panegyrized with taste
and selection—the whole speech vivified by arguments, illustrations,
facts, and quotations, apt but not commonplace; while good temper, and a
simplicity which refrains from any appeal to the passions, shows his calm
sincerity in the cause of humanity, and his willingness to sacrifice all
the brilliancy that satire and pathos might give, rather than lose the
strong hold a plain statement always best retains on an English audience.

Foscolo’s Lectures are concluded, which I regret, though I learned little
from them. But it was something to hear a language one wished to improve
in, although one brought scarce any recollections away. The atmosphere
was of the deepest cerulean tint—authors, blue ladies, chemists,
politicians, poets, with a slight infusion of _couleur de rose_.
Foscolo’s merits induced many to subscribe who, from other avocations,
could only look in once or twice; and for him it has been successful,
both as to fame and profit. He made these lectures subservient to his
great object of awakening a horror of despotism with infinite ingenuity;
and to one who had once remarked this primary view, there was a double
source of amusement in listening to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

_July, 1822._— ... Who can talk of public speaking and not mention
Mr. Irving, the chief subject of conversation, for whom people brave
pressure, fatigue, and the most intolerable heat? Young men, in their
eagerness to hear him, make parties ‘to board the pews;’ that is, to
jump in over the sides, in defiance of locks, sextonesses, and private
property. Lady Jersey says he is perfect; and Mrs. Canning, whose opinion
begins to be quoted (‘what a kind of being is circumstance’), and who is
said to be a dissenter, declares herself ‘entirely satisfied with his
doctrine;’ while Colonel Abercrombie professes he could bring twenty
preachers from Scotland of superior powers.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                 Elm Lodge, July 19, 1822.

Like you, I have been reading _The Fortunes of Nigel_. It is a clever
book, more so than most of the last Walter Scotts; but it does seem
written, like Hodge’s razors, solely to sell; for the author is not
affectionately attached to any of his characters, as if he had interested
himself in the composition. The fine Rembrandt painting of the miser
and his daughter, and the adventures connected with them, dignify the
whole book. Martha’s character beautifully marks the force of plain sense
and strict principle in exciting intense interest under a variety of
disadvantages of person and situation. The miser stealing in at night,
and putting forth his withered finger for the piece of money on the table
of one peculiarly under his protection, would be a fine subject for
Wilkie. The danger Nigel and Martha incur of being themselves suspected
and seized as authors or accomplices of the murder, is well indicated,
and we are fully impressed with it, though it is never once mentioned.

What can we say of the misery of Ireland? At first it created watchful
nights, cheerless days, and a sort of reluctant shame at sitting down to
a table amply spread. But the awful continuance of famine, which ought to
make it more appalling, has blunted the edge of these feelings.


TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

                                                   Elm Lodge, Sept., 1822.

Were you not electrified by the frightful news of Lord Londonderry having
_so_ concluded his eventful life? It was more painful to me than I could
have supposed possible. The intervening years, during which I only
_heard_ of him, seemed to vanish, and I saw him the calm, engaging, mild,
dignified person I once knew, and could hardly believe what had occurred.
‘O _Time_, thou beautifier of the dead!’ may be true, but I think, ‘O
_Death_, thou beautifier of the departed!’ is far more just; for time
sometimes wears away the sudden beauty with which those are invested in
our minds, who have just passed away from this state of existence.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                 Roehampton, Oct. 7, 1822.

Your kind letter feelingly pourtrays the lights and shades of human life.
It describes two most affecting strokes of final separation as to this
world—softened, however, by the piety and resignation of the departed,
and the consciousness of past kindness in the survivors, the only real
sources of consolation, except those living waters from whence flows
comfort, unexpected, inexhaustible, and indescribable.

Of these calamities I hope the severity is passing away, though I know
from experience how deep must have been the wound which divided you from
your early friend; while, on the contrary, the happy marriage of your
daughter seems the foundation and commencement of future felicity. May
you enjoy as much of it as is consistent with the conditions of human
life.

I am now in the very spot where I felt so many pangs at this season last
year; and I am pleased to see in her whom Providence has sent to take my
dear friend’s place, one whom she would, I think, have chosen out of a
thousand. She is grand-daughter, on one side, of Lord Carlisle, a man of
taste and letters; on the other, of the admired Duchess of Devonshire,
whose pictures she resembles. Her gentleness, good sense, amiable
simplicity of manners, her unaffected grace, and watchful acquiescence in
all the orderly, quiet, retired, and literary habits of the house, are
delightful.

Pray let me soon have a line about your young lovers; I love to hear of
happiness. I smiled at reading in your letter, ‘I am no manœuvrer.’ It is
as if the sun should say, ‘I do not shed darkness.’ At the same time, I
am pleased to find thus incidentally that your new relation unites, with
more essential points, those which the world thinks worth seeking after.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The following letter is a reply to one from a friend of her
    youth, giving an account of a painful and perilous operation
    just undergone.


TO MRS. ——.

                                                 Roehampton, Oct. 9, 1822.

There are certain unexpected feelings in which admiration, pity, sorrow,
and surprise, are so intimately blended as to make it impossible for us
to describe them. Such your letter, which is now before me, and of which
I shall never forget even the shape and character, is well calculated
to excite. For a moment it stunned me, and when tears brought back the
more precise consciousness of all you have so nobly endured, the crowd
of ideas and images that pressed upon me, gave to minutes the fulness of
years.

Why did you not write for me? Perhaps you know not that as a nurse I have
perfect self-command, and that the care of those I love never injured
my health; nay, that the privation of sleep, and the watchfulness it
induces, seems to do me good. Your being capable of passing so much time
alone on this awful occasion, proves to me that you have indeed a Friend,
who is a very present help in trouble. Philosophy seeks witnesses,
Christianity endures, nay, chooses, solitude.

The whole night were those images before my eyes, and thankfulness
for your escape in my heart. Your letter reached me in the evening of
yesterday; till to-day I could not bring my thoughts to the discipline
they required before they could be offered to the person whose trial
had so deeply engaged them. Even now I can scarcely refrain from making
inquiries, describing feelings, and entering into details which I know
would at present be unfit for my dearest friend. I do sincerely thank
the all-wise Disposer of events for the calmness, courage, and serenity,
with which you were endowed. ‘Every good gift and every perfect gift is
from above.’ No human reason could bestow on a tender and delicate woman,
accustomed to every indulgence, and with nerves shaken by former events,
such unshrinking firmness.

In a day or two I shall be capable of addressing you on common topics. At
present I feel overcome with a sense of reverence for your patience and
courage, and a kind of reluctance to mix them in my thoughts with baser
matter. Adieu, my dear ——, and believe me, with that glow of affection
which is excited by the sufferings of those we love, ever, ever yours.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oct. 26, 1822, Elton Hall._—Went to Burleigh, an extensive Gothic
building, stored with a rather poor, but very large, collection of
pictures, china, curiosities, and relics of every description, including
Queen Elizabeth’s watch, needle-book, and the busk of her stays, King
William’s pocket-handkerchief, &c. &c. &c. We saw the picture of the
Cottage Marchioness, and we all agreed it was she who appeared to
have made the _mésalliance_, and not her lord, when we contrasted her
spirited, yet gentle, countenance and elegance of air with his heavy form
and dull face.


BURLEIGH.

    In reverent guise this ancient pile survey,
    Girded with oaks, whose tinted foliage gleams
    With autumn’s golden hue, while length’ning streams
    Between their hoary trunks the western ray;
    As lingering smiles the cloudless star of day,
    Full on these halls are flung his parting beams,
    Where Time’s ennobling touch has furnished themes
    That rouse the soul through centuries to stray.
    I see our maiden Queen beside me sweep,
    And shrinking feel the lightning of her glance,
    Or view her lofty form relaxed in sleep,
    The mind’s vast power subdued as in a trance;
    Till all these splendid scenes in dimness fade,
    Lost in the glory circling round her shade.


TO MRS. TUITE.

                                                Elton Hall, Oct. 29, 1822.

I write from Lord Carysfort’s, where I am paying a long-promised visit,
in which my love of home, and my various ties, have prevented me from
indulging myself, during many years of hopes and intentions. Like some
other hopes, its fulfilment has been deferred too late to be attended
with the enjoyment which would formerly have accompanied its fruition,
as I found Lord Carysfort in a wretched state of health, and recollect
with surprise that the advanced and enfeebled person I behold, is one
with whom I have danced in all the contagious gaiety of the ball-room,
and whom I have seen dancing with the lovely, and then youthful, Queen
of Prussia. He is, however, as agreeable as ever, when he does converse.
His finely furnished mind, expanding in so many directions, and full of
taste and feeling, is a continual feast. His very prejudices, which are
numerous, and the mistaken opinions he forms in consequence of extreme
sensibility, give a zest and novelty to his conversation. You are always
doubtful what he will think or say—never absolutely on _terra firma_; you
are sailing on a rapid river, always feel the motion of the boat, and
are aware that the next reach may give you a prospect quite unexpected.
Lady Carysfort loses nothing of the impression of sense and dignity in
her first _abord_ by a closer inspection. Her uniform kindness to me, is
as a sister’s and mother’s mixed might be. It is pleasant to find an
acquaintance merely incidental, thus ripen into a friendship of more than
twenty years.

       *       *       *       *       *

    1822.—I am disposed to think the following is the recasting
    of a ballad in the Irish language. There are several Scotch
    variations of the same.

        Who will shoe my little foot? who will glove my little hand?
        All shivering and chill at your castle gate I stand.
        The rain rains on my yellow locks, the dew has wet my skin;
        My babe lies cold within my arms; Lord Gregory, let me in.

        Oh, the night is far too murky, and the hour is far too late,
        To open for a stranger Lord Gregory’s castle gate.

        Oh, and don’t you remember one night on yonder hill,
        When we changed rings together, sore, sore against my will?
        Mine was of pure gold, and yours was but of tin;
        Mine was true to the heart, yours false and hollow within.
        The rain rains on my yellow locks, the dew has wet my skin;
        My babe lies cold within my arms; Lord Gregory, let me in.

        Oh, the night is far too murky, and the hour is far too late,
        To open for a stranger Lord Gregory’s castle gate.

        Oh, and don’t you remember one night by yonder cross,
        When we changed cloaks together, and still to my loss?
        Yours was the woollen grey, and mine the scarlet fine,
        Yours bore an iron clasp, and mine a silken twine.
        The rain rains on my yellow locks, the dew has wet my skin;
        My babe lies cold within my arms; Lord Gregory, let me in.

        Oh, the night is far too murky, and the hour is far too late,
        To open for a stranger Lord Gregory’s castle gate.

        Your castle gate is closed, but I behold your moat,
        And there your cruel eyes shall see my body float.


TO MADAME DE STIERNELD.[67]

                                                            Jan. 26, 1823.

We have all been a little disappointed in Moore’s _Loves of the Angels_.
The first angel’s story is that of a Bond-street _beau_; the second, an
adaptation of the tale of Jupiter and Semele; the third, an account of
an earthly couple, and a pair not of the very first order. Yet, with all
this poverty of conception, the details are very beautiful, and the whole
poem, like the wings of the angels he describes, sparkling with brilliant
prettinesses.

The severity of the frost continues. The pert sparrow, the twinkling
water-wagtail, the silent lark, are feeding in perfect tameness outside
our windows. Every leaf is covered with a smooth crystal case, which can
be slipped off like a sheath, retains the mark of every fibre, and looks
like a splendid diamond _aigrette_.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                  Elm Lodge, Feb. 9, 1823.

In the depth of my present retirement I can talk to you only of public
events. Are they not highly interesting? Two such names as Greece and
Spain engaged in contests, both for liberty, _one_ for existence; France
on the verge of some change, from merely natural causes—the advanced
age and ill health of her monarch; Russia collecting all her strength
to act the part of the King of Beasts, _Tollo, sum Leo_, whenever any
opportunity offers; Italy holding her breath for a time. In England,
‘motley’s your only wear;’ suicide from distress of mind attendant
on ruined fortunes common among three-fourths of our population, and
an exulting air of prosperity beaming around the remainder, who are
profiting by low prices and increased possessions; Cobbett consorting
with the magnates of the land, consulted and addressed by the patrons
and superiors of those who hissed him to silence four years since. The
singularities of Ireland are more singular, you know, than of any other
country. Four years since, the populace threw stones at their constant
and well-tried friend and protector, Grattan; while now a powerful party
have shown animosity against the dignified Wellesley, whose presence
was expected to heal all dissensions. He is, however, supported by all
_but_ that party, and, upon the whole, I believe the play-house riot was
productive of a great mass of happiness, by giving the writers, talkers,
and partisans of our talkative, expansive, and party-loving countrymen,
a _débouche_ for their effusions. It is certain no single bottle ever
inspired so many words.


TO THE SAME.

                                                 Elm Lodge, Feb. 23, 1823.

Politics are interesting enough now to occupy a large portion of one’s
mind, particularly when one feels that politics are but humanity on a
large scale. Instead of seeing one steady machine of government going
slowly but surely on to its purpose, with occasional attacks from
systematic bodies of foes, whose opposition one might calculate, and who
now slightly retarded its movements, now were crushed by its progress, we
have a complete orrery, and do not in the least know what planet or what
comet will draw attention next. Canning has been eclipsed by Robinson,
whose speech announcing the remission of two millions of taxes has been
admired more than any other of the opening Session. It may owe this in
some degree to the subject of its communication, which found an echo in
every pocket through the kingdom.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 29, 1823._—Temporary separations between parents and children
being designed by Providence for frequent occurrence, bring with
them unexpected sources of consolation, and a new set of pleasures,
not so constant, but perhaps more vivid, than any which attend even
the delightful intercourse between them. An unexpected letter, the
conversation of a stranger who has seen one’s child within a short space
of time, and is like the Bologna diamond of _Werther_, the knowledge of
their progress in virtue, intellect, or even in worldly prosperity, which
seems peculiarly their own when at a distance from us, and the rapture of
reunion, are all pleasures of the highest order.


TO MRS. TUITE.

                                                   London, April 20, 1823.

I am just embarked in Campan’s voluminous memoirs, and regret the time I
must give to her sensible gossip—for such it is—not a _lueur_ of genius;
I know, too, she _must_ be partial, and her volume contains as much as
half Hume’s _History_. But every one is reading her; and as there are now
few amusements, fewer invitations, and no spare money, all the world is
occupied with books; and not to be qualified to talk of Mad. Campan is
to abdicate your place in conversation. I saw a very fine performance of
_Esther_ by her _élèves_ when I first went to Paris. I cannot imagine it
to have been better performed at Saint Cyr.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                           April 29, 1823.

We are all reading Mad. Campan and Las Casas. The embers of the old
French Court, and the short-lived splendour of that which in all respects
was _unique_, shine out in both these works in their different degrees.
The lovers of minute gossip—and they are many—delight in knowing on
which side Louis XVI. got out of bed, and with what _étoffe_ Marie
Antoinette lined her flannel bathing-dress; while others are gratified,
after having read O’Meara’s book, by finding a new and deeper vein
displayed in the mind of that wonderful man who has occupied us since his
death more than all the living great ones he has left.

I have at last received _Ariosto_, and hope you will be pleased with
it. It is a work I never did read through. As far as I can judge from
the brilliant passages which everybody knows, Rose seems a spirited and
faithful translator, except in the opening stanza. That beautiful and
dignified enumeration, which keeps your attention in breathless suspense,
while it goes on like a fine procession, and which falls so harmoniously
on the ear, is sadly vulgarized by the commonplace

    ‘Of loves and ladies, knights and arms, I sing.’


TO THE SAME.

                                                  Elm Lodge, May 29, 1823.

This fine though cold weather finds your mother at Elm Lodge for a week,
among blooms and verdure of the highest beauty, with an intention of
returning next Saturday to Montague Square. This week would be called a
little oasis in the desert of the town season by some who consider London
as a heartless, dissipated, hot rendezvous, where so much pleasure is
to be swallowed—no matter with what distaste—and so many ‘things to be
done,’ only because others do them. You and I, however, look on London
with other eyes, as the centre of wholesome, well-regulated liberty, of
unfettered social intercourse, and of constantly-recurring opportunities
and facilities for improvement at all ages. Would we were there together
to enjoy them as heretofore. Nothing can be purer than the present
predominating pleasures of town, for all those who are not in the dinner
vortex—seeing fine pictures all the morning, and hearing fine music all
the evening.

I know not whether you have seen Mr. Angerstein’s collection. It is now
shown by tickets, given by his heir to a long list of acquaintance on
Tuesdays and Thursdays. Six Claudes, with more than the usual imaginative
elegance and poetic grace of that most delightful painter; were I Dame
Nature, I would never sit for my picture to any other hand; for he not
only represents her as perfectly beautiful, but as adorned with the
highest taste and in the sweetest humour.

There are also the originals of Hogarth’s _Mariage à la Mode_, which
strongly prove how much his pictures lose by being translated into
engravings. As his style admits not exquisite outline, much of the
beauty of his youthful figures arises from their colouring; and in the
diminution of their good looks by hard black and white, we lose some of
the charm and much of the probability of the story. In the engraving, the
lawyer is so plain that it is difficult to consider him as a lover; not
so in the painting, where he is whispering the bride with a dark-eyed
handsome countenance of intense and glowing interest, and where, from
due management of colours, even his flowing dress has some degree of
beauty. Whimsically characteristic is his double occupation; for he is
mending a pen, from long habit mechanically; and this neither interrupts
nor is interrupted by—his making love.

The contrast between the fathers is much more striking, when we see
the complexion of the full-fed gouty peer, and compare it with that
of the penurious citizen; and the death-scene of the lady is far more
impressive. The darned and dirty table-cloth, the squalor of the
furniture and apartment, her ghastly paleness, and the stained complexion
of the withered and weeping nurse, add a force to this picture I never
dreamt of from the engraving.

There is also a Scotch merry-making by Wilkie, full of rustic humour and
glee, with occasional touches of tenderness and a general tone of beauty.
A young girl endeavouring to draw her father from a revel, where he has
already drank too much, is full of sweetness; and while she presses his
arm in the tenderest manner on one side, a more ardent, not more anxious,
pleader on the other, in the shape of a jovial youth, has amicably seized
the old man by the collar, and endeavours to allure him from her gentle
grasp.

Canova, you see, is settling down into his due place; a fine sculptor,
but not quite a Praxiteles, not the finest of all sculptors, ancient or
modern.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 1, 1823._—Left, perhaps for ever, certainly for two years, the
dearest spot to me in the world—a home dearer to my children than any
home I ever saw to any other human beings—beautiful, and every day
becoming more so under the minute touches of affectionate assiduity.
However, in two years there are but 365 + 365 = 730 days, and one of them
is past: 730 - 1 = 729.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 2._—730 - 2 = 728. The only home I have ever known rushed on my
first waking thoughts, as one not to be seen for two years. Shall we
enjoy it then as now? How many things may happen in two years. What a
considerable part they are of the time in which I can hope to enjoy any
pleasure from externals. When we meet _persons_ after a long absence,
they very often do not seem the same from some change in them, in us, in
both. Will it not be the same as to a _place_? Will not my dear boys, for
whose sake I love it, lose their keen relish for its pleasures and its
beauties?

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 7._—The Green Fever has not subsided. On opening my eyes I long for
the song of the birds, the hush of the trees, the smell of the flowers,
the sounds and sights and sense of beauty. I comprehend the calenture,
when the sailor, under the heat of a burning sun, leaps from the stifling
deck to the green fields he fancies undulating beneath him, and finds no
repose but that of death.


SONNETS.


I.

ON THE DEATH OF TWO INFANT SISTERS—TWINS.

_July 28, 1823._

    Sweet buds of being, ye have passed away
    To bloom for ever in a fairer clime,
    Escaped the blasts of earth and grasp of time;
    As cradled in a mother’s arms ye lay,
    In this bright hope ye smiled serenely gay,
    Soft as the tender plumage of the dove—
    Ye seraph-sisters, whose brief life of love
    Shone like the dawn of your celestial day.
    Your bark of joy scarce touched this chilling shore,
    Your vests of clay ye but a moment wore,
    Ye sparkled like twin drops of morning dew,
    Reflecting heaven’s own tints of rainbow hue,
    And then, blest pair, endured no painful strife,
    But, sweetly smiling, languished into life.


II.

UPON A GRECIAN VASE SCULPTURED IN BASALT, SIMILAR IN DESIGN TO THE
PORTLAND VASE, AND SUPPOSED TO REPRESENT THE ELEUSINIAN MYSTERIES OR
ELYSIAN FIELDS, A FEMALE FIGURE IS SEEN, IN A THOUGHTFUL ATTITUDE, TO
WHOM A YOUTH DESCENDS FROM ANOTHER REGION.

    Springs not the gentle sadness of her brow
    From her own sorrow, but man’s general doom.
    This youthful bride, nipped in her dewy bloom,
    Was torn from him, whose passion’s early glow
    Bade every flower that crowns existence blow,
    To scent her path. Lo! in her bridal room,
    While hymeneal garlands breathe perfume,
    The mourners’ choral dirge is heard to flow.
    He, desolate, who could not long endure
    This widowed world, forsook the upper air,
    Seeking for death, pale sorrow’s only cure;
    But found Elysian groves, and found _her_ there,
    With immortality—by love enjoyed,
    To meaner hopes and hearts a cheerless void.


TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

                                                    London, July 31, 1823.

You were not, I hope, out on any of your charitable excursions in the
late dreadful thunder and lightning—a spectacle which I find always
treated with surprising levity. I had an aunt who always locked herself
into some closet or press—I believe, that the lightning might not
find her out. Are we not a little in the opposite extreme, when we
avow feeling no apprehension whatever of what may bring the severest
infliction, and is always expected to accompany that day which must come
at some time, and may come at any time? You will say I am writing _de la
pluie et du beau temps_; but I see so little upon earth that I must go to
the atmosphere for subjects.

I am reading Hayley’s _Life_—flat and pompous, but with green spots.
According to his own statement, he was but an indifferent husband;
and I think I can spy out he was not much better as a son. He, or his
biographer—for it is a sort of partnership—is ever making demands on
your wonder, and introducing the commonest circumstance as a remarkable
incident. All that relates to Cowper is of course interesting.

Town is extremely thin; but the cricket-ground to-day was a gay and
pretty sight, a certain number of the families and friends of the Harrow
and Eton players having attended; just enough to embellish, not crowd,
the scene. Twenty-two of the flower of English youth, dressed in plain
white, in different attitudes of swiftness exertion or repose, on English
verdure, all enjoyment and animation, under the temperate beauty of a
summer sky just veiled by light clouds, had a very Elysian appearance;
and as the words of the players were inaudible to us, though at no great
distance, there was a sweet stillness, almost silence, just broken by
their quiet tread and the gentle applause of the lookers on.


TO MRS. HAYGARTH.

                                                   Elton Hall, Oct., 1823.

Mr. T. has returned to me after a pleasant visit to Ireland. He described
the journey and passage as so improved by fine roads and those prosaic
conveyances, the steam-boats, as to be now quite a party of pleasure.
He saw nothing new in Ireland, but the fearful increase of our hungry
and idle population, appearing to baffle all hope of finding employment
commensurate with their numbers, and proving the truth of that expressive
phrase, that the attempt is like the race of the tortoise with the
hare; but alas! not likely to be so successful. He was glad, however,
to see more just opinions prevalent on the subject, in all ranks, than
heretofore, and to find that all agreed as to the _willingness_ of the
people to work, and the impropriety, except in extreme and rare cases, of
giving them charity in any shape but that of employment.

Mr. Haygarth is not, I hope, satisfied with Rose’s opening of _Ariosto_.
I own I never did nor could read the original work through, nor took any
pains to conquer my reluctance; as by snatching the beautiful passages,
which everyone is ready to point out, one avoids all which is said to
be offensive. But I have always admired the grace and dignity of the
enumeration of the first stanza, the attention so beautifully awakened by
the procession of lofty images in the most musical verse; and vulgarizing
this down, as Rose has done, to

    ‘Of loves and ladies, knights and arms, I sing,’

appears to me in the opening quite disrespectful to the author he
translates, and to his readers.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                    London, Nov. 11, 1823.

Allow me in great haste to express a wish you would reconsider the paper
on bankruptcies. Its whole tendency seems to be that of softening down
the demerit of an action which spreads distress and ruin, to which the
temptations are numerous, and which is so lightly visited by the law,
that it is doubly unsafe to relax the force of opinion that remains
against it. While crimes of violence are every day becoming more rare,
crimes of fraud are so rapidly increasing, that, if we wish to trim the
boat, we should rather try to impress firm principles of honesty than to
spread that softness which is making swift progress, and is almost afraid
to express sentiments of blame with regard to any human action.

The humanity and mild habits of the times make it quite unnecessary to
increase our tenderness for the bankrupt, while the frightful extent
and number of fraudulent failures, prove that any such attempt, if an
indulgence to the few, would be cruelty to the many. I do not think we
can possibly call it ‘hardened’ to disapprove of extravagance and want of
precaution, because some persons have, in consequence of ruined fortunes,
suffered insanity, epileptic fits, &c. &c. Gambling produces the like
effects; but we do not think it ‘hardened’ to blame gamblers.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                    London, Nov. 11, 1823.

I shall send your last production either to _The London Magazine_, or
to Miss Baillie’s _Bouquet by Living Authors_, if she intends to tie up
a second; which it is said she will do, having cleared for the benefit
of a distant friend fifteen hundred guineas by the first. Sir Humphry
Davy’s contribution, called Human Life, is a very fine bird’s-eye view
of existence, chiefly as connected with the Deity—commencing from, and
returning to, the Divine Essence—in the enjoyment of whose favour, and
the possession of knowledge, he makes our heaven to consist; but with so
little reference to the feelings of mere humanity, that one may humbly
conjecture (if allowed to speculate on so awful a subject) minds like
his are destined to rank among the Cherubim who _know_ most; while those
who are less divided from their fellow mortals by victories in science,
will be classed among the Seraphim who _love_ most; this rabbinical
distinction being very striking, and at least probable.

A lady spoke the other day of the impossibility of knowing her own sex
till she saw them in the company of men; and cited one whom she thought
all gentleness, propriety, and delicacy, during some days passed in a
country house, till at last a man came to nail down the carpets. _A man_,
like Ithuriel’s spear, makes some women start up in their own shape, and
so it was here. She immediately displayed forwardness, affectation, and
coquetry in all their varying forms. How often we are reminded of this
story.

I hear the Dowager Lady —— will certainly marry Mr. ——. As we heard from
one to whom her physician announced it, that she bore her lord’s death
‘like a Lion,’ one is the less surprised that she should so soon have
made a second choice.


TO THE SAME.

                                                     London, Jan. 1, 1824.

Alas! I knew the sad news of Mad. de Stierneld’s departure a little
before your letter confirmed it. Her house, all covered with
announcements of its being on sale, first surprised me; but there we
were only directed to another and smaller habitation, where we thought
the Baron had removed on changing his former house, which I knew was
not quite approved. The quivering lip and sorrowing countenance of the
servant, when I inquired if _she_ was at home, spoke the whole truth
at once, and never did I so much regret one whom I had so seldom seen,
_passée comme une fleur que le vent emporte_. Nature is at war with
excellence, and seldom does one so faultless run the usual career of
life. How deeply do I feel for her sorrowing mother. Tell me what other
children she has.

My chief objection to your present situation is, that you can learn
nothing there of your _métier_, and see but little of the illumination
which is centred in the more literary and busy capitals of Europe.
Its rays become very faint at such a distance from the centre. If you
would produce a clever volume, to be printed in London, and perhaps
acknowledged only in case of success, it might remind our Premier of his
hyperborean client. Translations are now in great request; for every man
_must_ know everything, talk of everything, and, if he possesses not a
language, must catch the spirit of its _chef-d’œuvres_ as he best can.
Versions of Swedish poets, with your name at once, would be extremely
popular both here and there.

Adieu, I continue well, and want nothing but you to keep me so.


TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

                                                    London, Jan. 12, 1824.

I very much regret that sorrow should so often find its way to Ballitore;
but where love extends, there extends the domain of joy and grief. Two
of the fairest flowers of the garden have been lately nipped in the very
bloom of life. Lady Caroline Pennant, the sole daughter of the Duchess
of Marlborough, the only perennial spring of comfort she has known in an
eventful and unfortunate life, died ten days after her confinement, last
week; and Mad. de Stierneld, whom I have already mentioned to you as one
who interested me most particularly, faded away in the south of France
this autumn, in a decline. Both were excellent, amiable, and interesting,
living for their virtues and their affections, without one atom of the
pride, vanity, or fondness for display, from which so few of our sex are
exempt.


‘A DREAM WHICH WAS NOT ALL A DREAM.’

_Feb. 2, 1824._

    ‘What dost thou here, white woman, say?
    To bed, to bed—away, away.
    While music flings its charms around,
    And fairy forms obey the sound
    With looks of love and smiles of pleasure,
    Responsive to the minstrels’ measure,
    White woman, say, what dost thou here,
    Wearing that cold unearthly sneer?
    A baleful fire lights up thine eye,
    Which cannot warm, and will not die.
    Thou seem’st a deathlike chill to bring,
    Like the last snow-shower deep in spring,
    When tepid winds and blushing flowers
    Have hailed the rosy-bosomed hours;
    Say, art thou of the Court of Death,
    Congealed by winter’s icy breath?’

    She came, she went,—away, away;
    And still she haunts the cheerful day;
    But where is he, the mild, the bland,
    With welcome in his eye and hand,
    By whom that night an only child,
    A sweetly budding daughter, smiled,
    A radiant girl, while oft he stole
    Glances tow’rd her so full of soul
    As shed on each a nameless grace,
    Love’s light reflected on each face,—
    The child in her sweet hour of prime,
    The father, yet untouched by time?

    Torn from its root, for weal or woe,
    The blossom lives. The tree lies low.
    It fell before a leaf was sere,
    Nor lived to feel the waning year.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                     London, May 11, 1824.

The London turmoil of this year will be short, for the House will not
sit much longer than the 17th or 18th. It is called by ultras on both
sides a very milk-and-water Session. Very little has been done in the
way of economy and repeal of taxes; but that little gracefully, and the
leaf-gold spread over an immense surface. The Drawing room was such a
squeeze, such a squash—without, of horses, carriages, and footmen—within,
of petticoats, mantles, trimmings, ornaments, and fine ladies,—as
has been unknown in the courtly annals of England. Lady Arundel was
ill for several days from the actual pressure she received; and the
quantity of jewellery lost would set up a Bond Street shop. In general,
entertainments have been sumptuous, but balls few, owing partly to the
Rossini fever. People preferred concerts, that they might have the
pleasure of giving him fifty guineas for singing with taste, without
a voice; and his wife twenty-five for singing without either voice or
taste—as I am informed, not having heard either of these foreign wonders;
who, having the advantage in the eyes of John Bull of not being ‘in these
rough shades bred,’ will probably carry away ten thousand pounds as the
fruit of their winter’s exertions.

The Duchess of Northumberland’s magnificence does not seem to give so
much heart-easing delight as did the more luxurious Oriental splendour
of Mrs. H. Baring, who has seceded at a most unlucky time; her fine
entertainments being taken out of the pool when there were fewer of any
other than usual. The marriages have been few, the scandalous anecdotes
on the most limited scale.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 29, 1824._—Sir William Hoste told me that a French naval officer
once said to him in a confidential way, ‘_Si j’ai un défaut, c’est que
je suis trop brave_.’ On my saying, ‘I am sure this was one you took
prisoner,’ he acknowledged it, adding, that the same person, after a very
moderate resistance, said to him, when he first appeared on deck as his
prisoner, ‘_Monsieur, je suis le commandant qui s’est tant distingué dans
cette barque que vous voyez_.’


TO A SON (aged 18).

                                                     Richmond, July, 1824.

We came to Richmond this morning, as it was absolutely necessary to
change the scene for a few hours after my separation from you. ‘Perhaps
the lady will like to see the steam-boat,’ cries a dapper waiter, with
an air of importance at having so charming a spectacle to offer. In
spite of the glare and intense heat, I lifted up my eyes to view what
to me was quite new, and saw nothing but long snaky trails of smoke,
puffing, puffing on towards the right in the direction of the river,
and dishonouring the blue sky and beautiful face of the Thames. Then
appeared a flaring scarlet flag; and lastly, to the tune of Paddy
O’Rafferty, a great green and yellow beetle floating on its back, with
a tall chimney-funnel rising from its middle, breathing out volumes of
smoke. This creature swarmed with people. They were like ants which you
could gather from an anthill in a tea-spoon, all fervid, and gaudy,
and noisy, and bustling, and important, and delighted with their truly
infernal machine, only fit for sailing on the Styx; which has excluded
from the water all beauty and freshness and variety, and hope and fear,
and anxiety for friends, and good wishes for a fair wind. I wrote for an
hour, and asked if the horrible vision was gone. ‘No, ma’am,’ answered
the waiter, triumphantly; ‘it’s filling.’ I looked up; there was scarce
standing room; the chattering increased; the sweet strain of Paddy
O’Rafferty recommenced. Smoke now arose from various places, about,
above, and underneath. ‘All’s well,’ cried a pert sharp voice, not in
the deep tone of an ‘ancient mariner,’ but in that of an ostler on the
high road. The huge dragon of the waters splashed with its horrid fins,
bustled and porpoised about, slowly and with difficulty worked its clumsy
self round, and at last took itself away, passengers and all enveloped in
one mantle of smoke.

    ‘Hence, hence, thou horrid bark, the uncouth child
    Of commerce and of coal!’


TO THE SAME.

                                              Tunbridge Wells, Aug., 1824.

I have heard but once from you since you crossed the Channel. That you
have neglected writing, it is not permitted to me, knowing you as I do,
to think for a moment; and I regret the untoward circumstances, whatever
they may be, that thus aggravate the languor of indisposition, and the
anxiety of affection like mine.

The race-fever subsided the day before yesterday, and these pretty hills
are at last disencumbered of their vile attire of booths, of monsters,
including even the learned pig, who came from London hither to better
his condition, with Italian beggar boys, tortoises, gypsies, singers,
conjurers, pickpockets, foot-racers, boxers, &c. &c. &c.

I try to go out, but am not much attracted, as I am in a _respectable_
house, with drawing-room upstairs, and on the high road; so I seldom
leave home, except at regular and fixed periods, and enjoy none of the
half and half out life, one leads if on a ground floor that opens upon a
garden or pleasure-ground, however small. To-day the _Remains_ of Kirke
White fell in my way, and have pleased me extremely. His gentleness,
elevation of mind, and complete discretion, are deeply interesting. I
shall add the volume to your library when I meet a better edition. It
appears he fell a victim to an over-scrupulous delicacy. After having
had a fit, evidently brought on by too much study, instead of going for
a short time to his home, or suffering his mother to know he was ill,
he remained even in the vacation at Cambridge, because the College were
paying for him a mathematical tutor. Oh! how much does the struggle of
genius and excellence against poverty remind us that we are but stewards
of our worldly wealth, and warn us to turn a portion of it from our
own superfluities to the necessities of others. I never felt this more
strongly than in reading Kirke White’s _Remains_, and seeing one so
highly gifted suffering intense anxiety from the want of a very small
portion of the waste of his companions and fellow-students.

All at home are well, and _one_ is more anxious to see you than she ought.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Aug. 16, 1824._—Saw Penshurst. The road from Tunbridge Wells is a
beautiful preparation for seeing this interesting castle. It winds on the
upper lines of some very high ground; and looks down on wide vales of
the most delightful verdure and richness. Penshurst disappoints at first
sight. The building has little beauty, is entirely seen before you enter
the grounds, and is not a hundred yards from the entrance gate. Can this
be Penshurst? is the first question; but when within its walls, touch
after touch increases its dignity. Its great antiquity, the recollections
and portraits of Sir Philip Sidney, of Algernon Sidney, of Sacharissa,
of Queen Elizabeth, _her_ presents, _her_ needlework, _her_ chair,
the variety of paintings, the beauty of the surrounding park, and the
singular union of dignity and cheerfulness in all the old rooms of the
Castle, give it a heartfelt charm of no common order.


TO MRS. HAYGARTH.

                                                 Sevenoaks, Sept. 4, 1824.

I am not surprised you are pleased with the neighbourhood of Chepstow,
where art has spoiled nature so little, and where sudden and overgrown
opulence has not laid its heavy paw. What beautiful banks, what rich
verdure, what winding ways, unfolding such unexpected thickets, with
their tangled luxuriance of hanging branches and fantastically twisted
roots, into which Faust has taught us to put a sort of life. Then the
houses are so English, with the shade of Queen Elizabeth, hovering about
so many of those old mansions which bear the impress of her time. I
was not well enough to see Knowle, and have profited but little by my
absence from town. I, however, visited Penshurst, a volume in itself, and
Summerhill, one of the pleasantest places I have seen, as fresh as Fairy
Land, with slopes and walks of exquisite beauty.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                   London, Sept. 10, 1824.

When you return, you will find the squares amazingly improved by being
macadamized; you will find baths which you can heat by a handful of
coals, without fire or grate, provided you have a window or chimney
to admit the tube which carries off your smoke; you will find lamps
which light themselves on your touching a spring; you will find fruits
ripened and chickens hatched by steam; you will find all the young
ladies you left grown older, and all the old ones younger; you will see
dandyism so universal, it no longer inspires conceit; you will meet ices,
confectionary, a reading-room, and well-conducted young ladies at a
horse-bazaar; you will find Irish men and Irish poplins out of fashion;
and, above all, you will find a very, very loving mother.


TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

                                                   London, Sept. 14, 1824.

Penshurst and Summerhill were all I saw, my carriage being very heavy,
and myself very cowardly. I had not sense to venture in the little
pony-carts which were the delight of everyone else. However, if health
returns, I hope a common degree of courage will return with it; for I
really despise my own fears, though educated to think them feminine and
amiable, according to the laudable practice of many families in my time,
confirmed by the sage Dr. Gregory,[68] who, I believe, did more mischief
in his day, with good intention, than many who set about doing it for
mischief’s sake. One plain phrase I met lately, pleased me more than all
his fine-spun theories about the propriety of female terrors—‘It is not
permitted to a Christian to be a coward.’

... The fault of Gregory, as of _The Spectator_ and many authors of their
day, is, that they write as if woman’s whole existence was comprised
between fifteen and the fading of her bloom or beauty. If they talk of
her devotion, it must be associated, not with ideas of duty, reverence,
and piety, but with a hint how much it lights up her features. She is
recommended good humour, because it will preserve her complexion; and a
modest dress and demeanour, because!!! they are more attractive than any
other, even in the eyes of the greatest libertines.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.

                                                   Farnham, Dec. 17, 1824.

From my favourite inn at Farnham I write to say how impatient I grow for
a line from you, having past a fortnight without that cheering northern
light.

Our November and December, until this day of eternal rain, have given
us the most beautiful specimens of spring, and all Hampshire is as busy
as a bee-hive in active pursuit of pleasure, chiefly in the tangible
shape of good dinners. Mr. W. Rose, Ariosto’s best translator, his only
good one in the opinion of Ugo Foscolo, is at present with his mother in
the Polygon, but keeps his state, and withdraws himself from worshipful
society. Murray, on observing the merit and reputation of his _Court
and Parliament of Beasts_, offered him £3000 to be the interpreter
of Ariosto; which, although he is rich enough for all his wishes, he
thought it right to accept, according to custom, for the benefit of his
nephews and nieces, &c. &c. Foscolo says, that the beauty of Ariosto’s
style being his chief excellence, those who only know him by his present
translators are wholly ignorant of his merits.

I desire no better advocate than you have been for the lady of ——. I
think you imagine my story, such as it is, relates to your kind friend.
Not so. That gallant vessel is safe in port. It is at the fresh, the
trim, the gaily ornate ship which lately sailed out of harbour, all these
small shots are fired. In London we war not with the dead; dowagers of a
certain age can do no wrong; but the young, and splendid, and prosperous
can do no right—can perform no act without some little flaw, to be
detected only by the vigilance of female observation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 3, 1825._—Sat by the venerable Bishop of Norwich at dinner at Lady
Listowel’s. He was a delightful neighbour. One cannot but admire his
love of liberty, his kindly way of seeing all the actions of others, his
humility in speaking of his own, the simplicity of his tastes and habits,
and the pleasing contrast of peculiar courage in conduct, and almost
feminine mildness of manners.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 5._—A visit from Joseph Humphries, a benevolent Quaker, and his
deaf and dumb pupil—an animated and pleasing specimen of this unfortunate
class, whose vivacity, intelligence, kindliness, and piety, shine with a
vivid lustre in his looks and words; for he writes well, and almost as
rapidly as others speak. He was much interested by my family, probably
he is so by the great family of the human race in a higher degree than
those who have more distractions; and he asked me, by graceful and
expressive signs, for my tallest boy, now above six feet, represented
by waving his hands, progressively higher, over his head; and for ——,
by first appearing to draw, and then to ride, having seen some horses
of his drawing. He asked me on his slate the royal questions, How many
children I had, and then, ‘What business is your husband employed in?’
This puzzled me. Mr. Humphries explained to him that we lived on the
produce of property in land, which, I suppose, gave him an idea of the
pleasures of agriculture, for on going away, he imitated the actions of
digging, sowing, and whetting the scythe, making signs that he liked
those occupations. It occurred in the course of conversation that I
wrote on his slate, ‘Mrs. Leadbeater thinks me better than I am;’ and
he made signs to his friend, expressive of a reply, in which piety was
beautifully blended with kindliness.

His instructor observed, ‘They refer all things to a Supreme Being. Their
piety is remarkable, and their complete renunciation of any opinion, when
the authority of the Bible intervenes. They are industrious, and all
wish to marry active, intelligent, talking women, who will leave to them
the routine of their daily and peculiar employment, and take all other
trouble upon themselves.’ The attitudes of this young man would have
been a fine study for a painter, so simple, expressive, and decided. In
Chantrey’s phrase, one may truly say, ‘he has never been corrupted by the
dancing-master.’ One also sees he has never thought on the effect of his
looks or motions.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 7._—At last, after an interval of twenty-four years, which
succeeded a tolerably intimate acquaintance of seven weeks, I saw Count
Münster of Hanover again. We met like two ghosts that ought to have been
laid long since. I witnessed the whole process of the difficulty of
persuading him that I was I; and I thought him as much changed in his
degree as he could have found me. When we conversed, all the persons we
referred to were dead and gone; and our interview added another link in
my mind to the chain of proofs that, after a very, very long interval,
neither friends nor acquaintance ought to meet in this world. He was
kindly anxious to renew our acquaintance, and visited me next day; but
still it seemed as if seeing me had renewed some painful associations.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                            April 8, 1825.

Mr. Haygarth is still in a very precarious state. I fear we shall not
long retain him. One says that as if one was oneself immortal. Captain
Wells is also threatened with a consumption, and forced to leave the
house he enjoyed and embellished, from the impossibility of preserving
his health, or even life, in the vicinity of the fens. When one is
acquainted with _them_, one learns to respect their relations, the bogs.
Only think of a puddle extending miles around, and reaching up to your
hall door; of picking out your walk or ride over a quaking surface,
where, if you err in your path, it is at the risk of your life; and
being paid your rent in wild-ducks. Give me the turf, which blazes so
cheerfully in your face as to bring its own apology.

       *       *       *       *       *

_April 24, 1825, Brighton._—My dear ——’s health, which is not alarming,
but threatening, has brought us here. None are left among the idlers who
embellish a place of this kind, but those who are too sick or too poor to
move; but this is bearable. Not a tree, not a shrub, not a flower, not a
bud, mark the presence of spring; and the hot sun is reflected from the
water, the chalk, the roads, the walks, the quarries, in most unqualified
and blinding glare.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                      London, May 6, 1825.

Your letter found me still inhaling the sea breezes at Brighton, and
enjoying the coming in of the tide with its delicious plash, and its
endless variety for the eye and for the ear; to please the latter
constantly giving models of the fine choruses by Handel, which seem the
very echo of its waves. Lord Byron loved not the sea more than I do,
except in the degree of his more intimate acquaintance. I, alas! can
neither swim nor be shipwrecked; but as far as my knowledge of the ocean
goes, I will not yield to man or woman in the sum of my love for it; and
I shall love it still more when it has given you a safe passage.

I went yesterday to your nursing-mother, dear Harrow, and heard speeches.
We dined with Mrs. Leith, and were delighted with every flower in her
pretty garden, and every tree in the hedges, after passing three weeks
without knowing whether it was spring or autumn, summer or winter, by any
other indication than the atmosphere and the almanack.


TO THE SAME.

                                                     London, May 26, 1825.

Chantrey is now engaged for eighty thousand pounds’ worth of sculpture;
and if he accepted all the orders which are proposed to him, he would
require the life of Methuselah to finish even the small portion of
each accomplished by the master. He is now paid two thousand pounds
for a single figure. Nothing can be more interesting than his studio.
It is Anglo-Grecian; and thus unites what we love the best and what we
admire the most. Now that Canova is dead, his reputation seems declining
every day; I think the contrary will happen to Chantrey. I hear that
the former was all vanity, and certainly the latter is all simplicity.
I forget whether I told you of Carew, a rising genius in this line,
from Waterford. He has finished a beautiful Arethusa, of considerable
elegance, though I think she has the fault supposed peculiar to his
countrywomen, and that her ankles are not finely turned. Lord Egremont
is to pay six hundred guineas for it, and has offered him more, but from
some private motive he will not accept a larger sum. In my eyes, however,
this Arethusa resembles a colossal Diana I saw in the Louvre, too much to
have claims to perfect originality.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 8, 1825._—Ségur has given me many interesting hours. I know
nothing like it in modern history. He is a poet in his descriptions, and
the tale he has to tell possesses many of the essentials of an epic.
There is one predominant and effective character, by whom the one great
event is brought about; and a variety of subordinate characters shaded
off and graduated, so as to give connexion and life to all parts of the
narrative. The picture of the entrance into Moscow of the conquering
army, who find nothing but the pale and squalid relics of a vanished
population, when they expected the fervid hum of an immense city, and all
the honours paid to strength and victory, is a fine exemplification of
the truth that

    ‘Our wishes give us not our wish.’

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 28._—I am not capable of writing more to-day, having received from
his brother an account of Mr. Haygarth’s hopeless state—a loss to all who
have ever known him, irreparable in its degree, according to the measure
of their intimacy, and their power of estimating his value. I opened a
letter, which I thought was from him, deceived by the similarity of
handwriting and the paper he commonly used. When I read, it was as if he
had himself walked in with a hood, which, on being removed, showed me a
death’s-head.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                            Oct. 13, 1825.

I thank Heaven the cloud attendant on receiving the final account of our
friend’s fate is clearing away, and our loss remains only as a subject
of just regret. Were it not for that reference to another world by which
his actions were, and ours ought to be, regulated, one might think his
removal peculiarly unfortunate, since he possessed all the materials of
present happiness, and many of the means of future fame. He had a noble
nature—a fine mind—a striking and pleasing exterior—a distinguished
figure—a head for sculpture—great attainments—great natural endowments—a
fond father—an affectionate sister—the wife of his choice—lovely
children—sufficient wealth, with the certainty, at no very distant
period, of a great increase; and, though last, not least, an elevated,
intellectual pursuit in the history he was writing of Rome, which was
looked for in full anticipation of its merits, by those learned men who
so much admired those essays on the subject where he seems to have tried
his strength.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Nov. 13, 1825._—Moore’s _Life of Sheridan_ lowers the biographer and
the subject. He is a great motive-monger, and usually selects among
a variety of probable motives, those which are least dignified and
meritorious. He does not appear to love Sheridan; and he alters the
complexion of facts in his domestic life, so as to make him appear
blameable in a point where the plain truth would have been highly to his
honour. That truth could not have been all told, but Moore ought not to
have employed language which leads us to form an opposite conclusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 30, 1826._—Took my lesser pair to the British Gallery, and saw
many new beauties in the Trial of Lord Russell. It grows on one’s
admiration as much as Martin’s Deluge loses. I would rather have that
picture to elevate my mind, the Garden scene from Scripture to animate my
devotion, the Tired Fishermen to make me _feel_ with and for the children
of labour, the Mistletoe to make me laugh, and the little Fisherman’s
Head to give me added liking for the aged and industrious poor, than all
the rest of the Gallery.


TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

                                                    London, April 1, 1826.

I dined, without fatigue, at the Bishop of Norwich’s on Thursday. The
Bishop said on going down to dinner with the _prima donna_, ‘Lord
John Russell, take Mrs. Trench.’ I felt much pleasure at the thought
of sitting by the historian, the political economist, the successful
author; and prepared to treasure up his sayings and doings, with that
due degree of awe for his talents which is always a little unpleasant to
me at first, though it soon subsides into a pleasant feeling of respect.
Well, we sat down, and he talked of Harrow, and wished he had been at a
private clergyman’s, saying that he should have read more there and been
much happier; that at Harrow he had been subdued, and that he always had
wanted encouragement. ‘How amiable!’ thought I; ‘how modest!’ He went
on to say, ‘If I had been at a private clergyman’s, I should have been
quite a different person.’ Still more modesty! ‘How can a person who is
so lauded,’ thought I, ‘have so moderate an opinion of himself.’ Well, he
drank his due proportion of wine with everybody, and watched their wants
with a scrupulous attention; ‘how very attentive to all the little forms
of society,’ thought I; ‘this is so pleasing in an author of eminence.’
In the evening he played cards, and I went into the music-room, and sang
in quite another way from what I do when I am _afraid_ you are _anxious_
I should please. I came home and gave such an account of the author of
_Memoirs of the Affairs of Europe from the Peace of Utrecht_, that all at
home were dying to see him. ‘Not that he said much to mark him out,’ said
I; ‘but you could see the possession of talent under the veil of simple
and quiet manners it pleased him to assume.’

Well, the Bishop had mistaken the _name_, and I had been led down by one
who passes for the greatest proser of his day, Lord John ——, and I had
all my feelings of awe for nothing. So much for a _name_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_May 24, 1826._—Read the criticism in the _Quarterly Review_ on the
translations of Goethe. Its liberality and fair dealing are very
satisfactory. It seems as if some one had awakened the _Quarterly_ from a
long nap, and enabled it to look around and see that Goethe was not quite
an imbecile, elderly gentleman, only known as the author of an improper
novel called _Werther_, now out of date; that Shelley was not quite a
mad rhymester, equally presumptuous and inane; and that there existed
other modern poets in Europe besides the acknowledged _quintetto_, Scott,
Byron, Southey, Rogers, and Campbell.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June 30, 1826._—Returned to town, and there received a letter from Miss
Shackleton, with the sad news of my beloved Mrs. Leadbeater’s death.
Death how unexpected! I never thought of this word as connected with
her. She was so serene, so happy, so active, leading a life so far from
all that exposes to danger; she never had mentioned her illness but so
slightly; she had so many benevolent and literary plans; she was so
loved, and so sweetly loved again. Her instinctive fondness for me was a
boon from Heaven which I valued not half enough while I possessed it. How
little gratitude did I show for her unbounded kindness and partiality,
not half so much as I felt! how many attentions to her were _to be_
performed, how long were they deferred! how often wholly forgotten. Alas!
I thought I should have her always.


TO MRS. SHACKLETON.

                                                 Elm Lodge, Sept. 2, 1826.

I am much obliged by your letter, and hasten to assure you that I
received both parts of my dear friend’s character, and entirely coincide
in your opinion of it. It does _not_ touch upon many points which
deserved a place in her portrait; such as her anxiety to improve herself
and others; her delicate feelings, highly refined, yet never degenerating
into susceptibility, or exacting from others those attentions which
she never failed to bestow herself; her taste for everything that was
admirable in nature and art; her polished mind and manner, that seemed
instinctively to reject all that others are taught by rule to avoid; her
quick sense of wit and humour; her own unaffected pleasantry; her entire
absence of all self-comparison with any human being, which left her
capable of doing complete justice to the merits of all; her rare suavity,
and her uncommon talents. The writer of this character has also placed
her ‘second’ in the delineation of Irish manners and language. She is
_second_ to none in this. Others have taken a wider range; others have
permitted themselves the free indulgence of humour on a greater variety
of topics; but as far as she goes in her pictures, she is _second_ to
none.

Pray do not dwell on the idea that her valuable life might have been
saved. She once wrote thus to me: ‘There never was an event of this
kind where one did not blame oneself, and blame others.’ She was right.
Self-reproach is one of the shapes that sorrow loves to take; and one
ought to protect one’s-self against it. I deeply reproached myself, and
perhaps I was a little (though unjustly) hurt as to others; but this is
certain, I deeply reproached myself for not having known her danger.
I have been so long in a state of suffering that it seemed to me the
most natural thing in the world to be ill; and though I heard your dear
mother was so, the idea of danger never passed through my mind, and the
intelligence was a sad surprise, upon which I shall not allow myself to
dwell.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sept. 22 (Sunday), 1826._

    Oh happy those whose Sabbaths seem to be
    ‘Linked each to each by natural piety,’
    Smooth stepping-stones above the stream of life,
    Which chafes below in all its petty strife;
    Gems that recur upon the varied chain
    Of our existence, or in joy or pain;
    Green olive branches where the soul may rest,
    Like the tired dove that seeks her peaceful nest;
    Shake off the incumbrance of each worldly care,
    And for its last and longest flight prepare.


TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

                                                 Cheltenham, Nov. 9, 1826.

Yesterday I saw your cousin, Mansergh St. George’s second son. Oh what
a rush of past times came with him. Your dear father’s introduction of
me to his father all passed before my eyes. We were pacing up and down
the beautiful little chapel at Dangan, which was illuminated to show it
to me by night for the first time. The twilight was still struggling
through the glass of the magnificent east window, and a hand unseen was
skilfully touching the fine organ which did honour to the deep taste in
music of Lord Wellesley’s father. At that moment Mansergh St. George was
announced. Your dear father left me to meet him, and I saw those fine
models of courtly grace, and of the grace of chivalry, walk together down
a long gallery leading to the chapel. In Mansergh’s countenance, of which
the effect was heightened by the black cap his wound obliged him to wear,
were written those high thoughts, seated in a heart of courtesy, which
so distinguished him among men; and as your father introduced me to my
new relation with that air of proud pleasure which always accompanied his
making me known for the first time, we became friends and for life.

When I saw young St. George, all this passed through my mind. Then the
scene changed, and I saw the moment when I gave him back to his father,
a smiling child, whom he had brought down in his arms to bid me adieu at
the carriage-door at Holyhead; where we parted, never to meet again—he to
pass the remainder of his life in endeavouring to serve those very people
by whom he was murdered like an Iroquois who falls into the hands of his
fellow savages. What a spirit finely touched was there extinguished, what
deep affection, what brilliant talents, what refined powers of pleasing!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Jan. 30, 1827, Elm Lodge._—Worse headaches, and general health worse. No
power of accepting the kind invitations pressed on me, though they are
such as seldom occur to those who withdraw themselves from the world. The
kindliness of this neighbourhood must never be forgotten by me, be the
time long or short during which I may remember it here.

    This last entry is made in a hand very different from the
    preceding. There is one more brief passage in the journal,
    relating to some advice given to a son on the choice of a
    profession. The remainder of the volume is blank. Very shortly
    after these lines were written, my Mother, who daily grew
    worse, removed to Cheltenham, presently exchanged this in the
    restlessness of suffering, and in the hope of some alleviation,
    for Malvern; and there, on the 27th of May, 1827, the end
    arrived. Water on the chest was the form her complaint took
    at the last. She left five sons, of whom one, the youngest,
    followed her in a few months to the grave.

    As I have abstained through all this volume hitherto from any
    comment whatever, so I feel it will best become me to abstain
    to the end.




INDEX.


  _Abbot_, Scott’s, 443

  Absenteeism, Irish, 302

  Adolphus, Prince (Duke of Cambridge), 37

  —— letter from, 127

  Agar, the Honᵇˡᵉ Miss, 300

  —— her death and character, 453

  Albert, Duke, 88

  Alexander I., Emperor of Russia, 295, 343

  _Allemagne, De l’_, Mad. de Staël’s, 280, 289

  _Alphonsine_, Mad. de Genlis’, 156

  ‘Ancient Music,’ 419

  _Andromaque_, Racine’s, 141

  Angerstein Collection of Pictures, 487

  Angeström, Mad., 118, 124

  _Anti-Jacobin, The_, 394

  _Ariosto_, Rose’s translation of, 486, 493, 506

  Arnstein, Mad., 68

  Augustus, Prince (Duke of Sussex), 55, 122

  Automaton Chess-player, 399

  _Avare, L’_, Molière’s, 385


  Baden, 82

  Bathurst, Dr., Bishop of Norwich, 507

  Bellegarde, Field-Marshal, 67

  Berlin, 52, 126

  —— Porcelain Manufactory at, 120

  Berthier, General, interview with, 177

  Betty, Master, 253, 255

  Beurnonville, 115, 117, 119

  Billington, Mrs., 242

  Boccaccio, 407

  Bognor, 387

  Bolero, the Spanish, 272

  Brentford, 437

  Breteuil, Baron, 32

  _Bride of Lammermoor_, Scott’s, 411

  Brighton, 510

  Broadlands, 25

  Brühl, Countess, 92

  Brunswick, Duke of, 49

  —— Duchess of, 44, 47, 300

  —— Dowager Duchess of, 45, 49

  —— Hereditary Prince of, 45

  Buckingham, Lady, 26

  Buonaparte, 146

  Burleigh, 479

  Buxton, _Enquiry into Prison Discipline_, 396

  Byron, Lord, his separation from his Wife, 340


  Cachet, Mad. de, 97

  ‘Calumny, the Birth of,’ an Allegory, 162

  Campan, Mad. de, her _Memoirs_, 485

  Canova, 488

  Carew, his ‘Arethusa,’ 511

  Caroline, Queen, her Trial, 436, 441

  —— her Death, 452

  Carter, Mrs., her _Letters_, 240

  Carysfort, Earl of, 319, 408, 480

  —— Countess of, 113, 319, 480

  Catalani, Mad., 231, 325

  Chantrey, Sir Francis, 511

  Charlotte, Princess, her Death, 373

  —— her Funeral, 375

  Cheltenham, 304

  Chenevix, Dr., Bishop of Waterford, 1, 9, 13

  Chepstow, scenery near, 504

  Chesterfield, Lord, 2

  _Childe Harold_, Lord Byron’s, 380

  Christmas Tree, 41

  _Clarissa Harlowe_, Richardson’s, 270

  Clarkson, Thomas, 214

  Climate of England, effects of, on the English character, 273

  _Cœlebs_, Hannah More’s, 235

  _Corinne_, Mad. de Staël’s, 207

  Coronation, George IV.’s, 449, 450

  Coronation, Napoleon’s, 156

  _Corsair_, Lord Byron’s, 306

  Cottu, _On the Administration of Criminal Justice in England_, 450

  Cox, Benjamin, 130

  Cradock, Col. (Lord Howden), letter from, on the Invasion of France
        by the Duke of Brunswick, 21

  Crotch, Dr., lecture on Music, 422

  _Curse of Kehama_, Southey’s, 314

  _Cymbeline_, Shakspeare’s, criticism on a Song in, 212


  Dallas, George, 390, 411

  Dangan, 13, 363

  David, the French Painter, 143

  Davy, Sir Humphry, his ‘Human Life,’ 494

  Deaf and Dumb Young Man, Visit from a, 507

  Delany, Mrs., her _Letters_, 450

  Delille, the Abbé, 160

  Demidoff, the Princess, robbery of her Jewels, 188

  Détenus, English, in France, 147

  Distress in England in 1817, 368, 371

  Dolgorouki, the Princess, 93, 102

  Dresden, 58

  —— collection of China at, 104

  Dryden, quotation from, 337

  Duchesnois, Mˡˡᵉ, 142, 159, 188


  Eclipse of the sun in 1820, 436

  Elgin, Lord, 194

  Elliot, Right Honᵇˡᵉ Hugh, 57, 97, 99

  ‘Envious Man, The,’ 250

  Epinay, Mad. d’, 384

  _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_, Lord Byron’s, 231


  Famine in Ireland in 1822, 466

  Ferdinand, Prince, of Prussia, 113

  _Fire Worshippers_, Moore’s, 369

  Fitzherbert, Mrs., 264

  Fontaine, La, Croker’s Translation of his _Fables_, 438

  _Fortunes of Nigel_, Scott’s, 474

  Foscolo, his _Lectures_, 473

  Fox, his _Reign of James II._, 277

  France, Invasion of, by the Duke of Brunswick, 21

  —— Effects of the Revolution on the morals of, 145

  —— Sunday in, 136

  Francis I., Emperor of Austria, 69, 72

  French, best method of studying, 296

  Friends, the Society of, 297, 345, 359

  Fry, Mrs., at Newgate, 428

  Füger, the painter, 79


  Gandersheim, Princess Abbess of, 50

  Genlis, Mad. de, 259

  Gentz, the publicist, 121

  George, Mˡˡᵉ, 188

  George III., 413, 414, 470

  George IV., 316

  Gérat, 195

  Germany, travelling in, 33, 36, 57, 64

  —— Court dinners, 48

  —— society in, 65

  _Gertrude of Wyoming_, Campbell’s, 232, 235

  _Giaour_, Lord Byron’s, 278

  _Gil Bias_, Le Sage’s, 260

  Giovine, the Duchess of, 68, 70, 85

  Gobelin Tapestry, 138

  Good nature, 335

  Goodwood, 227

  Graff, the painter, 104

  Grant, Mrs., her _Letters_, 224

  Grattan, last days of, 431

  _Gray, Life of_, Mason’s, 296

  Gregory, Dr., 505

  Gurney, Hudson, 30


  Hamilton, Lady, 105-112

  Hamilton, Sir William, 105, 331

  _Harrington_, Miss Edgeworth’s, 371

  Haygarth, William, 509, 512

  Hayley, William, 387, 415, 491

  Henry, Prince, of Prussia, 114

  _Hesiod; or, the Rise of Woman_, Parnell’s, 338

  Hesse Homburg, Princess of, her marriage, 381

  _Hints for the Education of a Princess_, Hannah More’s, 306

  Hogarth’s ‘Mariage à la Mode,’ 487

  ‘Holland House,’ 394

  Holland, Lady, 98, 100

  _Horaces, Les_, Cimarosa’s, 325

  Hôtel des Invalides, 324

  _Human Life_, Rogers’, 397

  _Hungarian Brothers_, Miss Porter’s, 221

  Hungarian Guard, 73

  Hutchinson, Lady, 217

  Hutchinson, Sir Francis, 210

  _Hypocrisy_, Colton’s, 291


  Indian Jugglers, 281

  Irving, Edward, 474

  Isabey, the French miniature painter, 173, 180


  _Jaqueline_, Rogers’, 301, 304

  Jekyll, Joseph, 306, 317, 378

  Josephine, the Empress, 182


  Kean, Edmund, 283, 368

  Kemble, John, 471

  Kielmansegge, Mad. de, 42

  Kirke White, his _Remains_, 502

  Kirwan, character of his preaching, 209

  Knight, Miss Cornelia, 105


  Lacy, Maréchal, 84

  _Lalla Rookh_, Moore’s, 369

  Lancaster, Joseph, 249

  _Lara_, Lord Byron’s, 301, 304, 307

  Lavalette, 63

  Leadbeater, Mrs., extract from her _Annals of Ballitore_, 132

  —— her Death, 516

  —— her Character, 517

  Lespinasse, Mˡˡᵉ, her _Letters_, 383

  Letters, publication of posthumous, 245

  Lifford, Lady, 6

  Ligne, Prince de, 68

  Lismore, 370

  London, its attractions, 402

  Londonderry, Lord, his death, 475

  Lorraine, Princess of, 79

  _Loves of the Angels_, Moore’s, 482


  Mackintosh, Sir James, his speech on the Criminal Code, 473

  _Madoc_, Southey’s, 234

  _Mandeville_, Godwin’s, 376

  Marchetti, 78

  Marsh, Charles, 277, 364

  Matignon, Mad. de, 32

  Matilda, Queen of Denmark, 35

  _Mazeppa_, Lord Byron’s, 402

  Minto, Lord, 67

  _Monastery_, Scott’s, 449

  Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, her _Letters_, 347

  Montagu, Mrs., her _Letters_, 241

  Montmorenci, Mad. de, 157

  Morgan, Mrs., 257

  Münster, Count, 39, 509

  —— Countess, 103


  Needlework, its use and abuse, 240

  Nelson, Lord, 105-112

  —— his _Letters to Lady Hamilton_, 293

  _Nugæ Antiquæ_, Sir John Harrington’s, 306


  O’Connor, Arthur, 135

  O’Neill, Miss, 309

  Orloff, Alexis, 60

  _Ormond_, Miss Edgeworth’s, 371

  Orrery, Walker’s, 215

  Owen, Rev. John, 437


  _Pamela_, Richardson’s, 270

  Paris, 145

  —— in 1815, 322

  Parnell, William, 442

  _Patronage_, Miss Edgeworth’s, 300

  _Paul et Virginie_, St. Pierre’s, 233, 278

  Paul I., Emperor of Russia, 84, 97

  Penshurst, 503

  Petrarch, his sonnets on the death of Laura, 228

  Picture Galleries visited:
    Count Lambert’s, 74
    Count Truchsess’, 86
    Prince Lichtenstein’s, 86
    Dresden, 100, 102
    Louvre, 140, 141
    Exhibition at Paris, 186
    Exhibition in London, 448

  _Pilgrims of the Sun_, Hogg’s, 318

  Piozzi, Mrs., 329

  _Pizarro_, Sheridan’s, 28

  _Plaideurs, Les_, Racine’s, 323

  Poems by the Author:
   ‘Here wit and humour willing smiles excite,’ 231
   ‘How quickly life forgets the dead,’ 287
   ‘I am not envious; yet the sudden glance,’ 367
   ‘I gaze upon thy vacant chair,’ 455
   ‘I joined the crowd that from Vienna streamed,’ 76
   ‘In reverent guise this ancient pile survey,’ 479
   ‘In unconnected phrases, on that tongue,’ 360
   ‘Not one who bears the name he graced,’ 288
   ‘Oh, happy those whose Sabbaths seem to be,’ 518
   ‘Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train,’ 205
   ‘Quenched is thy light,’ 265
   ‘She smiled and sparkled in my sight,’ 352
   ‘Silent pleader! living flower,’ 267
   ‘Their eyes have met. The irrevocable glance,’ 434
   ‘There is a grief that knows no end,’ 288
   ‘The sun forsakes thee; yet thou still art fair,’ 463
   ‘This watch, uncouth to modern eyes,’ 225
   ‘Thy useful labours, Hutchinson, are o’er,’ 210
   ‘What dost thou here, white woman, say?’ 498
   ‘While friends long loved, long tried, entwine,’ 43
   ‘Who will shoe my little foot? who will glove my little hand?’ 481

  Polish Women, 320

  _Political Economy_, Mrs. Marcet’s, 349

  Prague, 63

  Prater at Vienna, 66, 315

  Prussia, Louisa Queen of, 53, 123, 314


  Queensberry, Duke of, 28, 190, 244


  Raphael, his ‘St Sebastian,’ 59

  —— ‘Transfiguration,’ 100

  Raucourt, Mˡˡᵉ de, 153, 168

  Rebellion, the Irish, 129

  Récamier, Mad., 167

  Reynolds, Sir Joshua, Exhibition of his Pictures, 274

  Richmond, Duke of, 405

  Righini, 118

  _Rimini_, Leigh Hunt’s, 246

  Ritz, Mad. de, 55

  Rivarol, 121, 122

  _Roderick, the Last of the Goths_, Southey’s, 318, 337

  _Rodogune_, Corneille’s, 168

  Roland, Mad., her _Memoirs_, 347

  Rogers, Samuel, 378, 424, 426

  Rubens, his ‘Descent from the Cross,’ 141

  _Russell, Life of Lord_, Lord John Russell’s, 408


  _Saul_, Sotheby’s, 249

  Saxony, Elector and Electress of, 60

  Ségur, Count, his _Histoire de la Grande Armée_, 512

  Sévigné, Mad. de, 170, 260, 291, 341

  Seward, Miss, 403

  —— her _Letters_, 290, 404

  _Sheridan, Life of_, Moore’s, 513

  Sicard, the Abbé, 140, 143

  Sickness, its moral uses, 335

  Siddons, Mrs., 27, 470

  Sloane, Col., 25

  Southey, Robert, 373

  _Spectator, The_, 461, 505

  Steamboat, first sight of a, 500

  St. George, Mansergh, 246, 518

  St. James’ Chapel, service at, 388

  St. Simon, his _Memoirs_, 161

  Staël, Mad. de, 275, 277, 285, 289, 298

  Steibelt, 65

  Stierneld, Mad. de, 482, 496

  Stoneham Park, 25

  Suwarrow, 63


  Talma, 142

  _Télémaque_, Fénélon’s, 259

  Töplitz, 93

  Tour and Taxis, Prince of, 93

  —— Princess of, 99

  Tuileries, 137

  Tunbridge Wells, 435

  _Twopenny Post Bag_, Moore’s, 276


  Vienna, 64, 311

  —— Society at, 68, 71, 89

  —— Procession of the _Fête Dieu_, 82

  Voltaire, 290


  Waldegrave, Earl, his _Memoirs_, 457

  Wallmöden, Field-Marshal, 42

  Watts, Isaac, 441

  Wellington, Duke of, 293, 299, 362

  _Werther_, Goethe’s, 151

  _Wesley, Life of_, Southey’s, 438

  West, criticism of a Picture by, 241

  Whitworth, Lord, anecdote of, 78

  Wilkie, Sir David, 488

  Williams, Mrs., 254, 258

  _World before the Flood_, Montgomery’s, 303

  _World without Souls_, 303

  Wynne, Lady Williams, 366


  York, Duchess of, 248


  Zell, 34

  Zimmerman, Mad., 40


THE END.




ADDENDA ET CORRIGENDA.


Page 11, l. 13. For ‘pines’ read ‘figs.’

Page 16, l. 11. For ‘its’ read ‘their.’

Page 282. The letter to William Lefanu, Esq., should have been _two_
letters; one of the date there given; the other, containing the last
paragraph, should have had the date Nov. 13, 1814. There would scarcely
have been need of calling the reader’s attention to the matter; but, as
it stands, the writer is made to give an account of one whom she could
scarcely at that time have seen.

Page 383, l. 5. There is an interesting account of Mˡˡᵉ de Lespinasse and
her ‘Letters’ in St. Beuve’s _Causéries du Lundi_, vol. ii. p. 99.

Page 323, last line but two. For ‘Pimbeche’ read ‘Pimbesche.’ A note
might fitly have mentioned that she is one of the characters in _Les
Plaideurs_.




FOOTNOTES


[1] These words were in the first edition very needlessly changed
everywhere into ‘your son.’ Lord Stanhope, in the supplementary volume of
Lord Chesterfield’s _Letters_, has made provision for a corrected text
in the future, and also for the restoration of many hitherto omitted
passages, by the aid of the original copies of these letters, which I was
able to place in his hands.—ED.

[2] I know not what may have become of the pictures. The cup I have now
in my possession.—ED.

[3] Lord Chesterfield’s letter, of date April 27, 1745, quite bears out
this account. Dr. Chenevix was supposed, though erroneously, to have
written political pamphlets against the administration, which made the
King personally hostile to his appointment.—ED.

[4] See Lord Chesterfield’s letter of date Dec. 19, 1771.—ED.

[5] At the battle of Blenheim. He had quitted France on the Revocation of
the Edict of Nantes, had entered the English service, and was major of
the 2nd Carabineers at the time when he fell.—ED.

[6] These exertions of the Bishop are several times alluded to in Lord
Chesterfield’s letters to him. Thus, in one of date Nov. 21, 1769:—‘The
Archbishop of Cashel tells me that by your indefatigable endeavours you
have recovered near twenty thousand pounds for the several defrauded
charities.’—ED.

[7] This journal does not exist among the papers which came into my
hands.—ED.

[8] This was a name given among his friends to Edward Tighe, well known
in Ireland for works of active beneficence, when they were not so common
as they are now.—ED.

[9] Baron Breteuil, born in 1733, was employed by Louis XV. in important
diplomatic services, in Russia and elsewhere; and at a later day was
Minister of Home Affairs. He opposed the calling together of the
States-General, and headed for a moment a reactionary ministry after the
brief retirement of Neckar. He left France in 1790, and after residing in
Hamburg for some years, was allowed to return in 1802. He died at Paris,
in 1807.—ED.

[10] This passage, in inverted commas, is evidently an extract from a
letter.—ED.

[11] Count Münster is well known in England, having been for many years,
during the connexion between Hanover and England, the minister for
Hanoverian affairs at the Court of London.—ED.

[12] I extract from some observations by my Mother on the Princess of
Bayreuth’s _Memoirs_, a later portrait, from recollection, of the Dowager
Duchess. ‘The Duchess of Brunswick was one of the most accomplished
and brilliant women of her time. To a late period of life, beyond her
eightieth year, she possessed an incomparable understanding, and the
most amiable cheerfulness. Time had respected not only her faculties,
but her exterior; and while it had worn her form to a sort of etherial
transparency, had left her perfect symmetry, lively eyes, and an
expressive delicate countenance. She appeared like a model of agreeable
old age turned in ivory, and was said to be a softened resemblance of
Frederic the Great, whose _agrémens_ of appearance and manner have been
so well described by Mirabeau.’—ED.

[13] We now know pretty intimately the whole Court of Brunswick, as Lord
Malmesbury found it on occasion of his mission to seek there a wife for
the Prince of Wales, some five years before the above was written.—(See
his _Diaries and Correspondence_, vol. iii.) I have been interested to
observe the almost exact coincidence of his judgment in respect of all
the persons who composed that Court with what is written here. It is true
that, having actually to transact important business with the Duke, he
saw the real weakness and vacillation of his character, as a woman with
no such opportunities was not likely to do. But of the Duchess Dowager
he writes, ‘Nothing can be so open, so frank, and so unreserved as her
manner; nor so perfectly good-natured and unaffected’ (vol. iii. p. 155).
In another place, ‘The Hereditary Prince and Princess vastly friendly;
she a most admirable character, all sense and judgment; he little of
either, but very harmless and good-natured’ (p. 188). The Princess
Augusta, Abbess of Gandersheim, he describes as ‘clever in the Beatrix
way’ (p. 159), ‘clever, artful, and rather _coming_’ (p. 165).—ED.

[14] As Countess Lichtenau. The whole curious story is to be found in
Vehse, _Gesch. des Preuss. Hofs und Adel_, part 5, p. 67 sqq.

[15] The Right Hon. Hugh Elliot, brother to the first Lord Minto. A few
years later he proceeded to India as Governor of Madras, and died in
London in the year 1822.—ED.

[16] He and his two brothers, as is well known, strangled with their own
hands Peter III., the husband of Catherine, and laid thus the foundations
of their fortunes. But his name is branded with a crime of yet deeper
dye, and of an almost incredible baseness. A young daughter of the
Empress Elizabeth was living in extreme poverty and obscurity in Italy,
whom Catherine, jealous of a possible pretender to the throne, desired
to get within her power. Alexis Orloff found her out at Rome, married
her, lured her away from her safe refuge in Italy, and delivered her to
Catherine. She died in a Russian dungeon.—ED.

[17] Born 1756, died 1823. The _Conversations-Lexicon_ says, ‘Sein.
Clavierspiel war glänzend; auch improvisirte er glücklich.’—ED.

[18] This is certainly a mistake. Field-Marshal Bellegarde was a very
distinguished officer, who, whether serving under the Archduke Charles,
as at Aspern, or holding independent military commands, which he often
did, always acquitted himself excellently well; but there are not, I
believe, the slightest grounds for the suggestion in the text.—ED.

[19] The Duchess of Giovine, though married to a Neapolitan nobleman, was
a German by birth. In Goethe’s _Italiänische Reise_ (June 2, 1787), there
is an interesting record of an evening spent at Naples with her. He rates
her quite as highly as she is rated in the text; and, remarkably enough,
he too notes the evident desire which she showed ‘_auf die Töchter der
höehstens Standes zu wirken_.’—ED.

[20] Füger was born in 1751, and died at Vienna in 1818. German critics
in art speak very highly of his genius, especially as manifested in the
design and composition of his pictures. His illustrations of Klopstock’s
_Messiah_, spoken of in the text, are always considered his greatest
work.—ED.

[21] I am entirely perplexed who this Vendean heroine is. I can find
no mention of her in any histories of the time. Nor is this the only
perplexity. Louis the Sixteenth was born in 1754. This lady of about
forty could scarcely have claimed him for her father; not to say that
the purity of his domestic life would of itself have condemned her
boast. Perhaps we should read ‘Fifteenth’ for ‘Sixteenth;’ but even
then I cannot explain the entire silence of history about her. She may
possibly have been an impostress, trading on the royalist sympathies of
Germany.—ED.

[22] Graff, born in 1736, is said to have left behind him at his death,
in 1813, more than eleven hundred portraits. His pictures are still held
in high esteem, but more those of men than of women.—ED.

[23] _Dinarbas, a Continuation of Rasselas_, 1790.—ED.

[24] _Marcus Flaminius; or, Life of the Romans_, 1795.—ED.

[25] See Miss Cornelia Knight’s _Autobiography_, vol. i. p. 152, where
one of these songs, beginning,

    ‘Britannia’s leader gives the dread command,’

is given.—ED.

[26] Miss Cornelia Knight (_Autobiography_, vol. i. p. 148) gives
testimony here to the perfect accuracy with which these little details
are set down. ‘Before landing at Leghorn the Queen presented Lord Nelson
with a medallion, on one side of which was a fine miniature of the King,
and on the other her own cipher, round which ran a wreath of laurel, and
two anchors were represented supporting the crown of the Two Sicilies.
This device was executed in large diamonds.’—ED.

[27] This account of Lady Hamilton has been considered by some readers
to depreciate even her external advantages. It may be worth while to
observe that Goethe’s judgment of her singing some fourteen years earlier
(_Italiänische Reise_, May 27, 1787) quite agrees with that of the text:
‘Darf ich mir eine Bemerkung erlauben, die freilich ein wohlbehandelter
Gast nicht wagen sollte, so muss ich gestehen dass mir unsere schöne
Unterhaltende doch eigentlich als ein geistloses Wesen vorkommt, die wohl
mit ihrer Gestalt bezahlen, aber durch keinen seelenvollen Ausdruck der
Stimme, der Sprache sich geltend machen kann. Schon ihr Gesang ist nicht
von zusagender Fülle.’—ED.

[28] Mr. Elliot must have been a little too easily satisfied with his
information; which under the circumstances is not very much to be
wondered at. When Lord Nelson reached Hamburg there was no frigate
waiting for him there, and he had to wait, I think, several days before
one arrived.—ED.

[29] It is sometimes curious and instructive to contrast the records of
the same events. Here is the stately historical record of the sojourn
at Dresden, as given in Pettigrew’s very serviceable _Memoirs of Lord
Nelson_, vol. i. p. 388:—‘In two days he reached Dresden, where Mr.
Elliot was British Minister. Prince Xavier, the brother of the Elector of
Saxony, here visited Nelson. The celebrated Dresden Gallery was thrown
open for his inspection and his friends’, and they remained eight days
in the city, admiring its worthy beauties and receiving entertainments
at the Court, and when they took their departure, gondolas magnificently
fitted up were in readiness to convey them to Hamburg.’—ED.

[30] There are various scandalous memoirs, both in French and German,
of Prince Henry’s life at Rheinsberg, which I know only by name; one,
printed at Paris, ascribed, but falsely, to Mirabeau. On a visit to
Paris, in 1784, he was present at a sitting of the French Academy, and
was hailed there by Marmontel as ‘_la Vertu couronnée de gloire_.’—ED.

[31] Beurnonville, born in 1752, distinguished himself at Valmy and
Gemappes. Being sent by the Convention to arrest Dumouriez, he, with the
four Commissioners who accompanied him, was by him arrested and delivered
to the Austrians. Recovering his liberty by an exchange, he was, in 1800,
sent as Minister or Ambassador to Berlin. Having taken service with the
Bourbons at the first Restoration, he adhered to them during the Hundred
Days, and for this fidelity was largely rewarded. He died in 1817, a
Marquis and a Marshal of France.

[32] Gentz’s able political writings in the early part of this century,
and his discreditable connexion with Fanny Elssler in his old age, have
made him too well known to need any notice here.—ED.

[33] Antony, Count Rivarol, was born in 1753, and made literature his
profession. His discourse _On the Causes of the Universality of the
French Language_ was crowned by the Berlin Academy in 1784, and still
keeps its place as a valuable contribution to the history of the French
language. He fled from the Revolution, first to Hamburg and then to
Berlin, where he died rather suddenly in 1801, aged 47. A sketch of his
life and character, by M. Berville, prefixed to his _Mémoires_, Paris,
1824, exactly bears out this account of him.—ED.

[34] Mary Leadbeater, a member of the Society of Friends, resided at
Ballitore, a village in the county of Kildare, in great part a colony
of Friends; and like so many other spots in Ireland where they dwelt
in large numbers, a centre of order and civilization to all the county
round. Zealous in all good works, and the mistress of a graceful and
ready pen, she exerted herself to the best interest of the Irish people.
Her _Cottage Dialogues_, the most useful and popular of her works, still
maintain their place. She died in 1826, aged sixty-eight.—ED.

[35] _Annals of Ballitore_, referred to already, p. 132.—ED.

[36] Among a few memoranda made by my father during his detention in
France, I have found one of a somewhat later date, expressing exactly
the same conviction of the effects which the Revolution had exercised on
the moral character of the people. ‘We have observed continually amongst
the middle and lower orders of the French, that those who have been
educated since the Revolution have a degree of illiberality in all their
transactions, accompanied with an insatiable desire of _present_ gain,
even at the expense of permanent advantage, and a want of urbanity in
their manners, which are by no means to be found in those of a generation
before. We have often seen the mother rebuked, at least in looks,
when by a direct and honest answer she has cut short the hesitating,
over-reaching prevarication of the daughter. I might make a similar
observation on the difference between men and women; and I have so
often smarted in addressing myself to youth and the female sex in their
_magasins_, that I now, when I wish to avoid being cheated, apply to the
men in preference to the women, and even to the old in preference to the
young. “_La jeunesse veut gagner_,” or in other words, “_tromper_” seems
to be their motto.’—ED.

[37] Born, 1756; died, 1815. There is a full and carefully-written
account of her in the _Biographie Universelle_.—ED.

[38] This, no doubt, is Captain Wright, whose mysterious death in the
Temple has never been cleared up.—ED.

[39] Delille was born in 1738. He must have been, therefore, nearly
sixty-six at this time.—ED.

[40] I have found the passage in his poem, _L’Imagination_, chant 5. Not
to be compared with Goethe’s portraiture of Ariosto in his _Torquato
Tasso_, it yet possesses a merit of its own, such as is ascribed to it
here.—ED.

[41] At this time only some wretchedly edited fragments of St. Simon’s
great work had seen the light,—three volumes in 1788, and four somewhat
later. It was not till 1829 that these memoirs were published with
anything approaching to completeness.—ED.

[42] Isabey, born in 1770, a pupil of David’s, stands, and I believe
deservedly, in the first rank of miniature painters. He lived in familiar
intercourse with Napoleon; and some of the best portraits of the Emperor
existing are by his hand.—ED.

[43] His _barber_ it should be.—ED.

[44] These must be, no doubt, Mrs. Grant of Laggan’s _Letters from the
Mountains_.—ED.

[45] The only book of this name which I know is _The Microcosm_, by
Gregory Griffin, Windsor, 1788, a collection of slight essays, very pale
imitations of _The Spectator_.—ED.

[46] This letter was returned to the writer, with the seal unbroken. Mad.
de la Gardie died before it reached her.—ED.

[47] John Woolman was a Quaker, who wrote _Serious Considerations on
Various Subjects of Importance_, London, 1773, with other works. He did
good service in his time in helping to awake the sleeping conscience of
England to the iniquity of the slave trade and of slavery.—ED.

[48] Alluding to the sentiments of the wise and venerable Lady Hutchinson.

[49] _History of the Reign of James II._, by the Right Honᵇˡᵉ C. J. Fox.
London. 1808.—ED.

[50] A mistake; these letters were by the late Edward Sterling, Esq.—ED.

[51] See p. 103.

[52] Mr. Lefanu was for many years the editor of _The Farmer’s Journal_,
and in various ways actively engaged in promoting the moral and material
prosperity of Ireland.—ED.

[53] The statement above is not perfectly accurate. Miss Seward
bequeathed her _Poems_ to Sir Walter Scott, who published them, with
only a few of her earlier letters, in 1810. The twelve volumes of her
_Letters_ she left to Constable, and it was _he_ who reduced these to
six, which he published in 1811.—ED.

[54] The two or three concluding words of this letter are lost.

[55] This same image reappears in a poem, too long to quote.

    ‘Yes, in the boundless hopes of dawning love
    A foretaste of eternal bliss we prove;
    Like him whose steps have gained an Alpine height;
    The lower world has faded from his sight.
    In gay confusion a bright veil of clouds
    Her towers, her temples, and her pomp enshrouds.
    He still advances to the illumined skies,
    And feels new hope, a new existence rise;
    Sublimely placed on his aërial throne,
    All earth beneath, above him heaven alone.’

[56] _Hesiod; or, The Rise of Woman_, is properly the name of this
poem.—ED.

[57]

    ‘Verschmerzen werd’ ich diesen Schlag, das weiss ich;
    Denn was verschmerzte nicht der Mensch!’—ED.

[58] I quote concerning Mr. Marsh the following extract from Earl
Stanhope’s _Historical Essays_, 1849, p. 242; and have permission to
state that Sir Robert Peel was ‘the living statesman’ who made the
observation, and who instanced Mr. Marsh in proof.—‘We have heard a most
eminent living statesman observe how very erroneous an idea as to the
comparative estimation of our public characters would be formed by a
foreigner, who was unacquainted with our history, and who judged only
from Hansard’s _Debates_. Who, for instance, now remembers the name of
Mr. Charles Marsh? Yet one of the most pointed and vigorous philippics
which we have read in any language stands in the name of Mr. Marsh, under
the date of the 1st of July, 1813.’—ED.

[59] A pocket-book for 1819, in the title-page of which these words are
written.—ED.

[60] The lines referred to are those beginning—

    ‘But man is born to suffer.’

In proof that not a word is said here more than was absolutely felt, I
may quote a few sentences, apparently unfinished, and not meant I suppose
for any eye, in which, three or four years later, the writer seeks to
account for the somewhat cold reception a poem of such grace and beauty
found. ‘Mr. Rogers’ little bark of _Human Life_, made for blue skies
and light breezes, was launched in the moment most unfavourable for
its prosperous voyage. The world was in a high state of effervescence,
moral, physical, literary, political, and social. We were drinking deep
of that intoxicating cup held out by _Childe Harold_, which at that
time still sparkled to the brim. We had seen stars just rise above the
horizon, awakening all the hope attendant on novelty, which have since
disappeared. We were dazzled by the splendour of the Northern Lights,
and we had not tasted the sedative waters of _St. Ronan’s Well_. The
political world was full of commotion, and fear and hope have since
subsided into certainty, which then perplexed not monarchs alone, but
all who thought and felt. We were all craving for excitement, and the
demand was indeed plentifully supplied. At that moment Mr. Rogers had the
courage to produce a poem founded on the best and kindliest feelings of
human nature—those feelings depicted with a truth and delicacy which can
only be fully appreciated when there exists something corresponding to it
in the mind of the reader.’—ED.

[61] This journal is one of the many which have never reached my
hands.—ED.

[62] Marks indicate that a page had here been pinned into the journal;
this, which no doubt contained the conclusion of this lecture, has dropt
out and been lost.—ED.

[63] The _Monody_ referred to was on the death of Grattan. The lady to
whom this letter is addressed was a relation of his.—ED.

[64] Fleury de Chaboulon, _Mémoires pour servir à l’Histoire de la Vie
privée, du retour, et du règne de Napoléon en 1815_. London. 1819,
1820.—ED.

[65] _Letters of Mrs. Delany to Mrs. Frances Hamilton._ London. 1821.—ED.

[66] _Memoirs from 1754-1758._ London. 1821.—ED.

[67] This lady, wife of the Baron de Stierneld, Swedish Minister at the
Court of London, was the daughter of Mad. Angeström, mentioned more than
once in this volume, see pp. 118, 124. She died before the end of this
year, see pp. 496, 497.—ED.

[68] Dr. Gregory was a physician at Edinburgh. He wrote _A Father’s
Legacy to his Daughters_. Edinburgh, 1788.—ED.





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