ILLNESS AND DEATH OF BOBBIN, 1797
Illness of Bobbin—Letters of Bobbin and her father’s replies—Dress
minutes at the opera—Hoping against hope—Bobbin’s death—Seeking
for consolation—Retrospection—Beginning of diary—Correspondence.
This year, so fatal to every worldly hope, which overturned every
prospect I had in life, and changed me almost as much as a new
creation, opened in the common manner by my going to London to
attend the meeting of the Board [of Agriculture]. I brought my dear
angelic child[167] with me, who went to school in January, in good
health but never in good spirits, for she abhorred school. Oh! what
infatuation ever to send her to one. In the country she had health,
spirits, and strength, as if there were not enough with what she
might have learned at home, instead of going to that region of
constraint and death, Camden House.
The rules for health are detestable, no air but in a measured,
formal walk, and all running and quick motion prohibited.
Preposterous! She slept with a girl who could hear only with one
ear, and so ever laid on one side; and my dear child could do no
otherwise afterwards without pain; because the vile beds are so
small that they must both lie the same way. The school discipline of
all sorts, the food, &c. &c., all contributed. She never had a
bellyful at breakfast. Detestable this at the expense of 80_l._ a
year. Oh! how I regret ever putting her there, or to any other, for
they are all theatres of knavery, illiberality, and infamy.[168]
Upon her being ill in March I took her to my lodgings in Jermyn
Street, where Dr. Turton attended her till April 12, when I carried
her to Bradfield. He certainly mistook her case entirely, not
believing in a consumption, and by physic brought her so low that
she declined hourly; he stuffed her with medicine at a time when
sending her at once to Bristol or even to Bradfield she went little
more than skin and bone, with prescriptions for more physicking
under a stupid fellow at Bury, who purged her till she was a
spectre. On June 13 she went to Smiths’ (Bradfield neighbours), and
there complained ‘that such a young girl as I who came for air and
exercise should be _thus crammed with physic_.’ Poor thing! her
instinct told her it was wrong, but she submitted.
[Illustration:
BOBBIN’ (MARTHA YOUNG).
_From a miniature by Plymer._
]
_From Bobbin to her Father_
‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning. Thank you for
it. My strength is much the same as when I saw you; my appetite is
getting better a good deal. Mr. Smith saw me yesterday, and said
it was a running pulse, but that he thought me better. I think if
anything I am better than when I saw you. Thank you for the wine,
which I have not yet received, but suppose it is at Bury. As for
the bad news, I am tired of it. I want, and should very much like,
a nice writing-box to hold pens, ink, paper, all my letters, &c.,
in short everything exact; this is just the thing for a birthday
present. As for sweet things, I do not wish for them particularly;
any little thing that you think wholesome I should be glad of. The
weather [is] as yet so bad that I cannot stir out. Remember me to
the party, and thank Mr. Kedington for waking me at six o’clock on
the Monday morning.
‘Believe me, dear Papa,
‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.’
_His Reply_
‘My dear Bobbin,—I am much obliged to you for the description you
gave me of your health, but I beg you will repeat it directly, and
do not forget appetite, pulse, sleep, pains, swelled legs, fever,
exercise on change of weather, thirst, &c., for I am extremely
anxious to know how you go on. I have looked at a great many
writing-boxes, but find none yet under 1_l._ 5_s._ and 1_l._
11_s._ 6_d._, but I hear there are good ones to be had at 15_s._
The moment I can find one I will buy and send it packed full of
seals, or something else.
‘Politics are melancholy, for the fleet is satisfied, the army is
not, and the same spirit [there] would be dreadful. To-day, it is
said, the Duke of York has declared the intention of raising the
pay of Infantry, which is wise, but it may not be done to satisfy
them, and in a moment they might be masters of the Tower, Bank,
Parliament, &c.; however, let us hope that measures will be taken
to prepare for the worst. The French will make no peace with us,
but bring all their force to the coast and ruin us, if they can,
by invasion expense.
‘I cannot read half your mother’s letter; but enough to see that
she is very angry, for I know not what. I am not paid, and have
nothing to send.
‘Dear Bobbin,
‘Yours affectionately,
‘A. Y.’
_Bobbin to her Father_
‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning, for which I
thank you. My appetite is a great deal better, pulse rather too
quick, sleep _very well_, no pains, no swelled legs, no fever. We
have had Sunday, Monday, and yesterday fine, and only those since
you went. I walked in the Stone Walk. Pray send my writing-box as
soon as you can, and, as you see by this, I want writing paper to
write to you and Griffiths; I hope you will put some into it. I
think one under a guinea will not be of any use to me. I saw Mr.
and Mrs. O. Oakes[169] in Bury yesterday, they have made but a
short stay in town. I am much obliged to you for the wine and
porter, which I have received safe. Remember me to the party,
write soon, and believe me, dear papa,
‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.
‘_N.B._—By the time Mr. Kedington comes his strawberries will be
ripe; ask him if he would give me a few if I send for them. Pray
remember a patent lock, so it will be a guinea besides that.’
_Reply_
‘I was very glad to receive my dear Bobbin’s letter, for it gives
the best account I have yet received of your health. As you wish a
guinea box you shall have one, though I can very ill afford it at
present. As to your mother’s ideas of my being paid, nothing can
be said to it, if she knows better than I do. Her intelligence
that I have sold the Exchequer annuity is like all the rest; if it
is of longer duration than I supposed, so much the better for
those who have bought it of me, and the worse for me.
‘Lady Hawkesbury, Lady Hervey and Lady Erne[170] have given the
Macklins and me some opera tickets several times—last night for
the benefit of the sailors’ widows and orphans, under Lord Jarvis;
but sailors are not in fashion; the pit was not more than
two-thirds full. They go out of town on Sunday or Monday. The
weather has been very hot. Yesterday I could scarcely get from the
Board home, for coaches and crowds along all the streets near St.
James’s, &c. The King is low-spirited at the thought of parting
from his daughter. The Duchy of Wurtemburg is in the very jaws of
France, and the prospect not favourable. Every person that comes
from France asserts the same, that their whole force will be
brought against this country. I have been sent for, and had an
interview with a cabinet minister on arming the landed interest;
but I fear nothing will be done effectually, though they seemed
determined that _something_ shall. Don’t mention this out of the
family. I will put paper in your box, changing the lock will take
some time, but you shall have it, I hope, on Monday. Continue to
write me. Tell your M. [mother] I have no money; therefore, why
worry me? She might as well ask blood from a post.
‘Dear Bobbin,
‘Yours affectionately,
‘A. Y.’
_From Bobbin to her Father_
‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning and am
extremely obliged to you for your attention about the writing-box,
but if it be not purchased, I have seen one at Rackham’s which
suits me exactly in every respect, therefore, if you will send a
patent lock, I can have it put on. The price of Rackham’s is a
guinea, but if you have bought it I shall like it as well. My
chief complaints are weakness, and a very bad cough, nothing else
that I mind. I dare say you were entertained at the opera.
‘I have just got six of the most beautiful little rabbits you ever
saw, they skip about so prettily, you can’t think, and I shall
have some more in a few weeks. Having had so much physic I am
right down tired of it. I take it still twice a day; my appetite
is better. What can you mind politics so for? I don’t think about
them. Well, good bye, and believe me, dear papa,
‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.
‘Saturday.’
_His Reply_
‘Monday.
‘My dear Bobbin,—I received your letter this morning, and am sorry
it did not come in time to stop my buying this box, which is
twenty-five shillings besides carriage; but I hope you will like
it; the lock is good and not common. I cannot afford a patent one,
which is fifteen shillings alone.
‘I am sorry to hear you have a bad cough and are weak. God send
this fine weather may make you well soon. Continue to let me know
how you do, particularly your cough. You do not say if you are
upon the whole better, nor whether you have got on horseback yet,
which I must have you do, at all events, or you will not get well
at all. Be more particular—what physic do you take?
‘You are right not to trouble yourself about politics. Mr. and
Mrs. M. went out of town this morning.
‘The Directory of France has ordered all my works on Agriculture
to be translated in twenty volumes, and their friends here would
guillotine the author. The “Travels” sell greatly there in French,
the third edition coming.
‘Adieu.
‘Yours affectionately.
‘I have just time to send this [writing-box]. I intended it by
coach, but as I am sure the seals would be ground all to powder, I
think it best by waggon, which will explain the reason of your not
having it so soon as I hoped and promised, and I think you would
be vexed to have your collection spoiled. It goes by Bury waggon.
Your pincushion box won’t come in it.’
_Note from A. Y. to Bonnet_ (_Farm Bailiff_)
‘Miss Patty is to ride out in the chaise or whisky, or on double
horse, whenever Bonnet is not obliged to be absent from the farm.
If he is at market when the days are long and Miss Patty rises
early, she can have a ride before breakfast.
‘Bonnet to pay Miss Patty a shilling a week.’
_To Bobbin from her Father_
‘My dear Bobbin,—I know your understanding, and therefore shall
not write to you, young as you are, as a child. Mrs. Oakes writes
me from Smith that Dr. T. ordered you physic which you have not
taken, at the same time that he does not at all like your case.
Now this is a very serious business for your health, and
consequently it makes me very uneasy. You are extremely weak by
your own account, and steel is to strengthen. I gave it with my
own hand to my father for a year, and with great effect; why you
should doubt the efficacy of anything prescribed by so great a
physician is more than I can understand; as to ill tastes, it is
beneath common sense to listen to anything of the sort.
‘But, my dear Bobbin, you ought to bring some circumstances to
your recollection; the expense I have been at is more than I can
afford, and I am now paying your school the same as if present. It
is surely incumbent on you to consider, that when a father is
doing everything upon earth for your good, yet you ought from
feelings of gratitude and generosity to do all you can for
yourself. I ask nothing but what another would positively insist
on, and would order violent means of securing obedience; I, on the
contrary, rely on your own feelings and your good sense, and so
relying, I do beg that you will take everything ordered without
murmur or hesitation, for I assure you it is with astonishment I
hear that you have omitted this some time. Call your understanding
to your aid, and ask yourself what you can think must be my
surprise at hearing that while all around you are anxious for your
health, that you alone will be careless of it. It is a much worse
thing than ill health, for I had rather hear you were worse in
body than that you had a malady in your heart or head. Think
seriously of such conduct, and I am confident it will cease, for I
know your disposition, and that makes me the more surprised, for
knowing your good temper so well as I do it is perfectly
astonishing. I am sure I shall hear, and it will be with great
pleasure, that you are acting worthy of yourself; and having so
much patience in your illness, you will show it in this, as in so
many other things. (The first cheap lobsters I shall send you
three by mail, the weather being hot.) I think you are not strong
enough to ride a dicky alone. Surely double-horse would be better,
but if you have tried you must be able to judge. Pray continue to
write me constantly, for you must know how anxious I am to hear
exactly your case.
‘God bless you, my dear girl. I talk of your physician and your
physic, but God forbid you trusted to either without asking His
blessing regularly. You tell me that you always say your prayers;
you cannot deceive God, and I hope you have a reliance on His
blessing, which you cannot have if you do not ask it, and gain the
habit of asking it.’
_From Bobbin to her Father_
‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter yesterday. Thank you for
your advice; I had taken the _steel_ and _draughts_ long before I
received it, besides which I take some more stuff[171] ... and ask
him [the doctor] likewise how long the steel, &c., must be taken
before you feel any effect from it, for one might take physic for
ever without receiving any benefit. Let not my giving you my
opinion make you think that I do not take mine regularly; I assure
you I do. My dear papa, how can you imagine that I should ever
neglect my prayers? No! believe me, I know my duty too well for
that. I believe _once_, the last time I was at the cottage, when I
was too weak to say them out of bed, I then said them when Betty
brought the asses’ milk. One morning I fell asleep and forgot
them; I thought of it at night, and told her to remind me of them,
which she did—this she can tell you. I thank you for some fine cod
and lobsters, which came very fresh and good.
‘I am much the same as when I wrote last, my cough very
troublesome still. I called on Mrs. Belgrave, she was gone to
town. Adieu, my dear papa. Believe me
‘Your dutiful and affectionate Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.’
_His Reply_
‘Saturday.
‘My dearest Bobbin,—The moment your letter came I went to Dr.
Turton, but he was, as I feared he would be, out. However, I shall
call on him this evening and send you his answer by to-morrow
night’s mail, if he is not gone to Kent, which I hope he will not
be. If so, I cannot see him till Tuesday, as I shall be Sunday and
Monday at the Duke of Bedford’s.... I am of opinion you should
leave off steel till you have my answer.... It is to give you
strength.... You are a very good girl for having taken it, and
equally for saying your prayers. Always preserve the habit of
doing so. God protect and bless you!
‘Two 64’s and fifteen merchantmen have left the mutineers under a
heavy fine, and it is expected the rest will do the same very
soon, and then Admiral Parker and Co. will swing. Great
expectations of a peace. Tell Mary, St. Paul’s would come to B. as
soon as Dr. T., but her thought was a good one.
‘Write me again soon.
‘Yours very affectionately,
‘A. Y.’
_To Bobbin from her Father_
‘Jermyn Street: Friday.
‘My dear Bobbin,—As I desired you to write to me twice a week I
expected a letter yesterday, but hope when I go by and by to the
[Board] that I shall find one from you, for I am very anxious to
hear how you do, and what Dr. Turton has ordered Smith to do for
you. I had a very disagreeable journey to town, and did not sleep
a minute, but, thank God, did not take cold; went to bed next
night at nine o’clock and recovered the fatigue. The Macklins and
Kedington were in a good deal of rain. They have been at two
plays; I go to none. K. lives with us, and I am to charge him what
he costs. They will go somewhere every night. I order everything
just as usual before I go to the Board, and though I am to pay no
more than my common expenses when alone, yet, as I necessarily
live much better, I think it but fair to be quite economical, and
we have a great deal of pleasant laugh at my pinching them, and
not permitting their being extravagant. I allow no scrap of a
supper which they make a rout about, for they come hungry as
hounds from the play, and drink porter when they can get it; the
wine I lock up, and have been twice in bed when they return. If
you saw them devour at breakfast you would laugh; K., who is to be
with the Oakes’ when they come (we have hired Merlin’s for them),
threatens that he will give us nothing but potatoes.
‘The news you see. It is said that there will be mutinies in the
army as soon as the camps are formed; if so, and no immense army
of property to awe them, the very worst of consequences may be
expected. Ireland is in a dreadful state of alarm and
apprehension—in a word, everything wears a threatening appearance,
and nothing but the greatest wisdom and prudence can save us.
‘I hope you have got rid of your lameness, and use your legs much
more than you did when I was with you. Pray, my dear Bobbin, exert
yourself, and take much air and exercise on the Stone Walk, which
will do in all weathers except rain. I have not seen anybody yet
except Lord Egremont.
‘Tell Arthur to write to the Lewes bookseller that the Board buys
two hundred copies and finds the plates, that is the copper, so
that it must be to him not a hazardous speculation. Adieu, my dear
girl.
‘Yours affectionately,
‘A. Y.’
_Bobbin’s Reply_
‘My dear Papa,—I received your letter this morning. I am sorry you
had not a pleasant journey. Every day since you went we have had
nothing but rain all day (most part of the night) long, so I have
not been able to stir out, only in the chaise. I am much the same
as when I saw you, but hope that when we have fine weather I shall
get better. My leg _is_ a great deal better. Mr. Smith advises
porter, the beer is so new.... If you like to send a quarter cask
my mother will pay the carriage; she has no opinion of Bury
porter. If you send it by the Diss waggon let me know when it
comes; if you don’t like this, order Bonnet to get me some at
Bury. What terrible news you write me in your letter. I really
have nothing more to tell you; write soon, and believe me
‘Your dutiful Daughter,
‘M. YOUNG.
‘N.B.—Papa, you said you would send me some red wine, as there is
none drank here; he speaks very much against my drinking so much
water without red wine in it, because my ankles swell so much.’
The following were memoranda noted at the time:—
The 11th of June I went to the Duke of Bedford’s sheep-shearing, and
got back (to London) on the 16th. The next day I had a letter that
terrified me so much that on the 19th I set off for Suffolk, and
went directly to Troston Hall (the seat of Capel Lofft, Esq.), where
the dear dear child had been carried some days before for change of
air. Good God! what a situation I found her in, worse than I had
conceived possible in so short a time, so helpless and immovable as
to be carried from a chair to her bed, evidently in one of those
cruel consumptive cases which flatter by some favourable symptoms,
yet with fatal ones that almost deprive hope.
Good Heaven! what have I to look forward to if I lose my child? For
her own sake I know not what to hope; the world is so full of
wickedness and misery, and she must be so innocent and free from
crimes, that her lot hereafter, I hope and have confidence in the
mercies of God, will be blessed. Ought I then, but from selfishness,
to wish her here? Yet a fond father’s feelings will be predominant.
Oh, save her, save her, is my prayer to God Almighty!
Dr. Wollaston, the eminent physician at Bury, has been consulted; he
gives little hopes, but advises a milk and vegetable diet, and said
that sea air and a humid mild climate would be good. I next wrote to
Dr. Thornton, who recommended an egg and meat diet; and Mr. Martyn,
in a letter, desired me to try the inhaling of ether; in fact, all
has been done that the urgency of the case required, but, alas! she
is past the assistance of all human power. After remaining a week at
Troston I wrote into Lincolnshire for a house at Boston, with a view
to be near the sea, in case she should be able to support a short
voyage; and the air of that low place is reckoned preferable to the
keen air of Bradfield. We travelled with slow and short journeys on
July 5 to Bradon—still more exhausted; on the 6th to Wisbeach—no
alteration yet from the change of air; on the 7th only to Long
Sutton—worse, greatly fatigued, and a very bad night. Oh! the
lacerated feelings of my wounded heart! To see the child of my
tenderest affection in such a state! growing hourly weaker and more
emaciated, during the last week being even unable to stand. It is
beyond my power to describe what is struggling within me! My sorrow
has softened me and wrings my very heart strings! How hard does it
appear submissively to bow to that text—‘He that loveth son or
daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me.’ I have but one
consolation, which prevents my utter depression and despair. I trust
in the goodness of her Almighty Creator and in the merits of her
blessed Redeemer, that They will, in the mercy of omnipotence,
pardon what slight offences she may have been guilty of, and receive
her into that heavenly mansion which I humbly hope her innocence may
expect. I pray fervently for Their mercy, and only wish that I was
worthy of being heard. May my future life be such as to make an
hereafter the great view, aim, and end of my remaining life! The 8th
we reached Spalding, too much fatigued to go on, thinking that an
air so different from what she had left might have given some ease.
Vain hope! No effort of the kind appears. The 11th we arrived at
Boston, and she bore the journey well. Alas! it was her final stage
in this world!
The next day she was still worse, but even now gave one of those
traits which displayed her delicacy, for upon finding that her
mother was detaining Dr. Wilson with questions, she reminded her of
it by saying, ‘Mamma, you forget there are other ladies wanting the
doctor.’ On the 13th the crisis of her sufferings was approaching;
she whispered to me as I sat by her bedside, ‘I hope you pray for
me.’ At about eleven o’clock she asked her sister Mary to read a
prayer as usual, and attended with apparent fervour, putting her
hands together in the attitude of devotion.
My poor dear child breathed her last at twelve minutes past one
o’clock on Friday morning, the 14th. I was on my knees at her
bedside in great agony of mind. She looked at me and said, ‘_Pray
for me_.’ I assured her that I did. She replied, ‘_Do it now,
papa_,’ on which I poured forth aloud ejaculations to the Almighty,
that He would have compassion and heal the affliction of my child.
She clasped her hands together in the attitude of praying, and when
I had done said, ‘Amen’—her last words.
Thank God of His infinite mercy she expired without a groan, or her
face being the least agitated; her inspirations were gradually
changed from being very distressing, till they became lost in
gentleness, and at the last she went off like a bird.
Thus fled one of the sweetest tempers and, for her years, one of the
best understandings that I ever met with. She was a companion for
mature years, for there was in her none of the childish stuff of
most girls. And there fled the first hope of my life, the child on
whom I wished to rest in the affliction of my age, should I reach
such a period. But the Almighty’s will be done, and may I turn the
event to the benefit of my soul, and in such a manner as to trust
through the mediation of my Redeemer to become worthy to join her in
a better world. Her disposition was most affectionate, gentle, and
humane; to her inferiors, full of humility, and always ready to
perform acts of beneficence, thus attaching the poor by her charity,
whilst she was equally courted by those above her for that
fascination of manners possessing the attraction of the loadstone.
Her countenance in health beamed with animation, and her dimpled
cheeks smiled with the beauty of a Hebe. Dear interesting creature!
Endowed, too, with a sensibility that shrunk from the gaze, her
appearance in society produced [_here the sentence breaks off_].
What a scene have I described for a fond father to witness!
On the 15th the Rev. S. Partridge and his wife came to give us what
comfort they could, and took us in a most kind and friendly manner
to their house. I determined that her remains should be carried to
Bradfield, having a warm hope of being animated to a more fervent
devotion by the idea of her ashes being deposited in our own village
church. To the departed spirit it is less than nothing—to me it may
do good, and I have need of working out my salvation with fear and
trembling. I feel that a wretched and depressed state of mind leads
me to more Christian thoughts and more favourable to religious
impressions than prosperity, or ease, or happiness, as it is called,
and therefore hope I am justified in doing it; and if my family
think the same, they also will derive benefit.
After a day passed in deep sorrow, Mr. Partridge read one of his
sermons on the intermediate state of departed souls, and which I
afterwards found was one of Jortin’s.[172] From many passages of
Scripture it was made clear that they are conscious, and if good in
this life, happy.
On Monday, the 17th, I arrived at Bradfield, where every object is
full of the dear deceased.
On going into the library the window looks into the little garden in
which I have so many times seen her happy. O gracious and merciful
God! pardon me for allowing any earthly object thus to engross my
feelings and overpower my whole soul! But what were they not on
seeing and weeping over the roses, variegated sage, and other plants
she had set there and cultivated with her dear hands. But every
room, every spot is full of her, and it sinks my very heart to see
them. Tuesday evening, the 18th, her remains arrived, and at
midnight her brother read the service over her in a most impressive
manner. I buried her in my pew, fixing the coffin so that when I
kneel it will be between her head and her dear heart. This I did as
a means of preserving the grief I feel, and hope to feel while
breath is in my body. It turns all my views to an hereafter, and
fills my mind with earnest wishes, that when the great Author of my
existence may please to take me I may join my child in a better
world.
O merciful Saviour, that took on Thee our nature and feelings, grant
me Thy Holy Spirit to confirm and strengthen these sentiments; to
repent of all my sins and errors, and enable me for the rest of my
days to look steadily towards that better world where, I trust, the
innocence of my child, united with her piety, have given her a
place. Sure, sure, I shall pray with a more fervent and sincere
devotion over the remains of her whom I so much wish, when it
pleases Heaven, that I may join. This was my motive.
The 19th I went into a little chamber which I had neatly fitted up
about three years ago. My dear child had decorated it with some
drawings and placed her books on the shelves, and left it in that
order and regularity which followed all her actions. I burst into
tears while viewing it, and felt such a depression at my heart that
I thought I should have sunk on the floor. It shall never be
altered, but everything continued as she left it.
_20th._—Again looked at her garden, and a new one she had marked out
and planted under a weeping willow. No day arrives but some new
object is presented to move all the springs of affection and regret;
and what day can pass in which these melancholy feelings will not
predominate? In the meantime I read the Scriptures, and Jortin and
other sermons, with an attention I never paid before; and may God of
His mercy confirm this disposition, and enable me thus to turn this
heavy misfortune to the benefit of my soul. Dispositions which
company, travelling, and other pursuits would have tended to banish,
I wish to cherish; a melancholy has produced in me a more earnest
desire to be reconciled to God than any other event of my life, and
proves that of all the medicines of the soul, sorrow is perhaps the
most powerful.
Business, pleasure, and the world, tend only to stifle this
seriousness of thought, and to prevent the mind from looking into
itself and examining the foundation of all its future hopes. For
these three days I have continued perusing no books but the New
Testament and sermons, of which I have read many.
_21st._—Hoed part of my dear child’s garden under the window, and
carried her bonnet and cap to her chamber. They produced many tears,
for I yet continue weak as a babe. Read the whole Gospel of St.
John, two sermons of Tillotson on the state of the blessed, and two
of Dr. Horne’s on the purification of the mind by troubles and the
government of the thoughts. I had before in this week read all the
Epistles, the Hebrews, and the Acts of the Apostles, and also
Bryant’s ‘Authenticity of the Scriptures.’ Such studies are my only
consolation. I give full attention, and hope for the blessing of
God’s Holy Spirit, that I may not let it be vain, or ever suffer the
world to wipe out this taste for the things that concern another
world. I attempt the regulation of my thoughts, and to contemplate
the goodness and mercy of the Deity; but my misery for the
irreparable loss I have suffered yet weighs me down.
_22nd._—Hoed the rest of her garden. Symonds and Carter spent the
day at the Hall. I wish they had not come together, I wanted
conversation with them separately on the question I had read a good
deal of, the sleep of the soul after death till the resurrection.
Symonds will not admit that we can draw any satisfactory conclusion
for or against it, but Carter allows Dr. Jortin’s reasoning in his
sermon on that subject. In the evening I read what Dr. H. More[173]
says upon the subject, who is strenuously against it. A state of
insensibility is a dreadful idea, and I find consolation in the
conviction that my dear girl is now happy.
_23rd._—Sunday; passed it, I hope, like a Christian. At church
sitting over the remains of my child! Oh! what a train of feelings
absorbed my soul. In the evening read St. Luke’s Gospel and took a
most heart-sinking melancholy walk. I cannot yet bring my mind to
sufficient tranquillity to throw into one little memoir these and
other particulars.
Examined the willows she planted on the island. Oh! that they were
thriving oaks that promised a longer duration, but they may last as
long as anybody that will care for the planter. Continue to read
Scripture, and some of Secker’s[174] and Ogden’s[175] sermons, and
again began ‘Bryant on Christianity.’ I pray to God with all the
fervency I feel to give me the grace of His Holy Spirit, that I may
turn this loss to the benefit of my soul. Dr. Jortin, in his
seventeenth sermon, most truly says, ‘It is adversity which seizes
upon the future as prosperity dwells upon the present.’ On the 25th
I read Littleton’s[176] ‘Conversion and Apostleship of St. Paul.’ I
had brought down from London a new political pamphlet of Howlett’s
on a subject that was once interesting, but I can attend to nothing
except inquiries which in some degree connect with that habit of
mind which flows from my recent loss.
Mrs. —— called to persuade me into company for regaining
cheerfulness. Alas! it will come, I fear, much too soon, and what is
it good for? Sorrow is the best physician to heal a soul that has
been too careless in its duty to God.
Will the world, and pleasure, and society contribute like grief to
secure me a probability of joining in another world the spirit of
her I mourn?
_26th._—I read part of Dr. Clarke’s[177] ‘Demonstration of the Being
and Attributes of God,’ as much as I could understand without too
intense an application, and then part of ‘Butler’s Analogy.’ Prayed
to the Almighty in the middle of the day. The morning is the proper
time, but when we are tired and sleepy, the evening I think an
improper period to offer either thanksgiving or petitions to the
Divine goodness.
Why, oh! why must we have misfortune and sorrow to make us sensible
of our duty to our heavenly Father and our Saviour and Redeemer? How
difficult to instil a right attention into young people.
I am, however, thankful that my dear child was naturally serious
and, I believe, well disposed in this respect; with what joy I now
read the following passage in a letter I received from her while she
was ill at Bradfield before I came down: ‘My dear papa, how can you
imagine that I should ever neglect my prayers? No! believe me, I
know my duty too well for that.’
What now would be the idea of any improvement or accomplishment
compared with the least trait like this?
_27th._—Called for a few minutes on some neighbours. They all want
me to dine with them, but such society to a mind diseased yields no
food for reflection, and is, therefore, not fit for me. I could
associate with nobody with comfort, but those whose religious
acquirements could tend to strengthen my present habits.
I continue to read Butler, also two sermons by Conybeare[178] on
angels; looked at the miniature which my wife has of the dear girl,
a most striking likeness by Plymer;[179] wept over it with feelings
easier imagined than described. I will have a copy of it; ’twill
serve, at least, as a melancholy remembrance, and, I hope, recall my
mind should it ever wander from the lamented original.
_28th._—Finished Butler’s ‘Analogy.’ It does not quite answer the
idea I had formed of him, though a powerful work; but he demands a
second perusal, but does not even then promise to be perfectly
clear. Read also Mr. Locke’s ‘Reasonableness of Christianity,’ which
is a luminous convincing work, and must have done great good.
Watered dear Bobbin’s garden and read over her letters. She had, for
her early years, a most uncommon understanding and a penetration
into character wonderful for the age of fourteen. On reviewing her
last illness I am filled with nothing but the most poignant regret
and self-condemnation for putting so much reliance in the medical
tribe, for she had the personal attendance or correspondence of five
physicians and none agreed. I did for the best and spared nothing,
but had she been a pauper in a village she would, I verily think,
have been alive and hearty. Such are the blessings of money; it has
cost me 100_l._ to destroy my child, for I do not think one shilling
was bestowed which did not in one way or other do mischief.
Whilst I was in much anxiety about my child’s health I bought Mr.
Wilberforce on Christianity.[180] I read it coldly at first, but
advanced with more attention. It brought me to a better sense of my
dangerous state; but I was much involved in hesitation and doubt,
and was very far from understanding the doctrinal part of the book.
This was well, for it induced me to read it again and again, and it
made so much impression upon me that I scarcely knew how to lay it
aside. It excited a very insufficient degree of repentance, and a
still more insufficient view of my interest in the Great Physician
of souls.
It is rather singular that a trifling circumstance at this time
first brought me acquainted with Mr. Wilberforce, whose book I had
been again perusing for the fourth time with increased pleasure, and
to whom I had more than once thought of writing for his opinion on
the intermediate state and original sin. On arriving at Boston, what
was my surprise on receiving a letter from him relative to
Parkinson’s subscription to some book on agriculture, and
apologising for the application to a stranger. I seized the pen with
eagerness to reply, writing largely about his own book, praising it
greatly, and telling him of my wish to apply to him. Should this (I
thought) be productive of a connection that might confirm my pious
resolution, I might, perhaps, be justified in attributing it to the
interposition of God.
I hope that the thought is not presumptuous. Is it the spirit of my
sweet girl that is thus friendly to me? How pleasing an idea!
_July 29._—Having excused myself from dining out with the Balgraves,
a note from her this morning. But it will not do. Company and the
world will only draw off my mind from those religious contemplations
and that course of reading which is favourable to prayer,
repentance, and reformation. I wish not to lessen my grief or banish
my feelings of that sorrow which turns my heart at present to seek
God. I dread it will come but too soon; and were it not for this
apprehension I should go on my journey to Lincolnshire for the Board
directly, but I wish to confirm these feelings and earnestly pray
for the Divine grace to preserve them to the extirpation from my
heart of love for the world or any of its follies.
[_Note added by A. Y. in 1817._]
Throughout many of the succeeding notes, several expressions occur
not all consistent with true evangelical religion; but I would not
afterwards alter them, because I wished to ascertain, on the
re-perusal of these papers, what was at the moment of my affliction
the state of my mind and of my faith; and when I consider what were
the books which I read and admired, I cannot be surprised at any
such remarks falling from my pen.
I have often reflected on the great mercy and goodness of God in not
permitting my religious opinions to be permanently injured by some
of the works which it will be found I so eagerly perused at a period
when I could not have one moment’s conversation with any truly pious
character. Two circumstances probably contributed to this effect:
first, the incessant attention which I gave to reading the New
Testament; and secondly, my ardent study of Mr. Wilberforce’s
‘Practical Christianity,’ though without thoroughly understanding
it.
The solitary life I condemned myself to, or, to speak with more
propriety, which alone I relished, while reading sixteen or
seventeen hours a day, and in which I consequently rather devoured
books than read them, was, I think, very advantageous, and possibly
more so in the final result than if my authors had been more truly
sound.
I have since perused many works which, had they fallen into my hands
at that time, would probably have made me quit my retirement and
rush into the society of men who would have conducted me, in my then
state of mind, to the utmost lengths of enthusiasm.
The writers I consulted were well calculated to lay a certain
solidity of foundation in the great leading truths of Christianity,
which formed a basis whereon it was easy afterwards to raise a more
evangelical edifice.
In all this business I cannot but admire the goodness of the
Almighty in protecting me from many evils to which I might easily
have been led by my troubled feelings.
[_Diary continued._]
Read Dr. Isaac Barrow’s sermon on submission to the Divine will. He
seems a powerful writer, but his language is debased by expressions
void of all dignity. Read a good deal in Barrow on the pre-existence
of human souls. Very singular; the texts on which he builds support
him very faintly, yet there is a degree of probability in the system
consonant to reason.
_30th._—Prayed to God over the remains of my dear child, and the
circumstance fills my mind with that melancholy that is not
unsuitable to religious feelings. I do not wonder at the custom of
the primitive Christians praying at the tombs of the departed, it is
an obvious and natural prejudice.
Finished Barrow, and wrote to my friend Mr. Cole to desire he would
apply to his neighbour, the learned Bryant, to know his opinion of
that question. Began Dr. More on the ‘Immortality of the Soul.’
Capel Lofft spent the day with us; his conversation is ready on any
subject, and mine led to serious ones, which he seems to like. We
had much that was metaphysical on the soul (pre-existence), a future
state, &c. He is of opinion that heaven is not so very different
from our ideas of what this world might be, as are commonly
entertained; and rightly observes, that if death, evil, anxiety, and
disease, with corporeal passions, were banished, this earth would be
a heaven; and that the knowledge of one another hereafter is not at
all inconsistent with our Saviour’s expression, ‘_in My Father’s
house are many mansions_.’
_31st._—Read Littleton’s sermon on the necessity of well husbanding
our time. It is excellent, he has thoughts and modes of expanding
his observations that are beyond the common run. Laid aside Dr. More
on the ‘Immortality of the Soul;’ he gets so high in the region of
fancy, and is so full of jargon and supposition, under the formula
of demonstrations, that I am disgusted with his farrago; and [there
is] so much on witches, apparitions, &c., as to be mere rubbish.
Read Sherlock’s sixth sermon on the ‘Immortality of the Soul,’ which
is an admirable one. I see plainly from what I feel upon occasion of
the severe, dreadfully severe misfortune that I have met with, that
under great afflictions there can be no real consolation but in
religion. I have mused and meditated much on what philosophy, as it
is called, could afford in such an exigency, but the amount would be
no more than the employment of the mind, and preventing its dwelling
without interruption on the loss sustained, the comfort to be drawn
from it would be weak and vain; but the Gospel offers considerations
which bear immediately on the source of the evil; affords matter of
consolation in the certainty of another life, and in those promises
which meet the yearnings of the distempered soul; diffuses a calm
and quiet resignation to the Divine will, under the pleasing hope of
seeing those again in the next world whom we have loved tenderly in
this. To me it seems that when this wish is founded on a virtuous
object here as that of a parent and a child, the very hope is an
argument in its favour, because it is perfectly consistent with
infinite benevolence to grant it—and the desire must be universal in
every human mind.
_August 1._—Read about half of Sherlock on ‘Immortality,’ but my
patience was then quite exhausted; the verbiage is such that it
sickens one, though I approve the doctrine entirely and agree
with him in everything. What a loss! that excellent books for
matter should be so written, or rather spun into such endless
circumlocutions that time is wasted for want of compression.
Read three or four sermons of Littleton—clear, lucid, and
impressive.
At night a Dane came, recommended by Sir J. Sinclair. Unfortunate to
all my feelings. I refuse dining with all my friends, and to be
tormented with a trifler who can speak neither French nor English.
My mind is in a state that cannot bear interruption. I love to mope
alone, and reflect on my misery.
_August 2._—Began Scott’s[181] ‘Christian Life,’ but Smythies having
sent me the sixth volume of Bishop Newton’s[182] works, containing a
dissertation on the ‘Intermediate State,’ I read it with equal
eagerness and satisfaction. It exceeds on that subject all I have
yet met with. He is of opinion, in which all agree, that good
spirits will know each other; and probably, from the parable of
Lazarus, have some knowledge of what passes on earth. But that is of
little consequence in comparison with the most consoling and
comfortable idea contained in the first opinion. And what a call is
it to strive with earnestness and ardour to arrive at a situation
that will recompense us in so great a degree for every evil and
sorrow we can meet with in this world. Can I then hope, by
dedicating the rest of my life here to God, to join my dear child
hereafter, my mother, my other daughter, and my sister; and should
it so please the Almighty in His mercy, my father and brother? Of
the females I can have little doubt, or rather none. I know too
little of the lives of the others to venture to pronounce. Read also
Bishop Newton’s dissertation on the Resurrection, general judgment,
and final state of man. They are all excellent, and I rather
devoured than read them. These books I must buy to read again with
more attention.
_3rd._—The Dane is gone, and therefore I am left to my favourite
contemplations. Newton’s dissertations are consoling, for they leave
me no doubts about that hideous doctrine, the sleep of the soul,
which, however it might have been suited for the dead, is dreadful
to those they leave behind. For the rest of my life to know that my
dear child is in a state of conscious existence, and consequently
happy, is the first of comforts; but to feel the enlivening warmth
and light of the sun, thinking that she felt nothing, but slept in
the cold grave, would have almost sunk me into it. No! she lives,
and as there is reason to believe, the departed spirits have some
knowledge of what passes here. What a call is it to conduct myself
so as to give no pain to her! Let me imagine myself for ever seen by
the spirits of my mother and my child. Let me have a keen feeling of
the pain any unworthy action or impure thought would give to them,
and of the pleasure they would reap from seeing the reverse; that I
was so living as gave them a hope of my joining them hereafter. Let
me, if possible, entertain this persuasion till I am convinced of
it. I cannot have the thought without being the better man. Oh!
guard me against relapsing into evil negligence, the two certain
fruits of pleasure and prosperity.
What are the friendships of the world! What consolation, what
comfort!
When most wanted it is sure to fail. One has business, another
pleasure; one, a family, another a husband, all have something to
render them broken reeds to such as are in want; and whether the
boon be comfort or money, they prove the same to the touchstone. Who
have been my friends? Symonds and Carter are good men, but I have
seen them [of late] only once. Who must I name but Ogden, Sherlock,
Jortin, Bishop Newton, Butler, Locke, and Clarke? These have told me
how to make a friend not like to fail in the time of need, my God
and my Saviour. May I strengthen and confirm that friendship and
turn it to be a habit of my life! And thou, most gentle spirit of my
departed child, if it is allowed thee to look down on earth, be my
guardian angel and lead me to everlasting life, to join thee to part
no more!
_4th._—Read three of Bishop Sherlock’s sermons and one of Dr.
Clarke’s, also some passages in his ‘Demonstration of the Truth of
Revealed Religion.’
_5th._—Read a very good sermon of Bishop Sherlock on Redemption, the
third in fourth volume. Bishop Butler on human ignorance, excellent.
This subject, in the books I have yet read, has not been
sufficiently treated, it might be made to refute all the infidels,
and draw mankind to a more religious life.
My dear girl’s books are come, her unfinished work, her letters, &c.
Melancholy employment to unpack and arrange them in her room. If any
difference I think of her with more, rather than with less regret;
yet I hope and trust, not without resignation to the Almighty will
of the great and good Being whose providence has deprived me of her.
I think I feel that this deep regret, this calm sorrow will last my
life, and that no events can happen that will ever banish her from
my mind. Ranby called and I conversed with him about her till tears
would, had I continued it, stopped my speaking. I hate and pity
those who avoid talking to the afflicted upon the subject which
causes their affliction, it argues a little trifling mind in one
party or the other.
Read Bishop Sherlock’s ‘Dissertation respecting the Sense of the
Ancients on the Fall of Man,’ which seems to me (who am, however, no
judge) a very clear and satisfactory work. He appears to have a
singular talent in reconciling seeming difficulties in knotty texts
of Scripture, and opens every subject with great clearness and an
acute spirit of discrimination.
I suppose there must be some commonplace book of divinity, but I
know not whose; a collection of luminous passages from such an
immensity of writings as there are on this most important of all
subjects would be very useful; yet every man should make his own,
selecting such topics and observations as come home to his own case
and bosom.
Were I not going now a most uninteresting journey, I would do this
for myself. This tour hangs on my mind; nothing would suit my
feelings so well as to stay here in my present melancholy gloom,
reading divinity, and endeavouring so steadily to fix my mind on
eternity and the hope of joining my dear child, as to work a change
in my habits, my life, my conversation, and pursuits; and to do all
that human frailty will permit to reconcile myself to the Almighty.
These thoughts, however, I shall try to preserve in spite of a
journey. I will take the New Testament and Wilberforce with me, and
read a portion every day, and spend the Sundays in a manner I have
never done yet in travelling.
_August 7._—To Ely. Called for a moment on Carter, who thinks so
highly of Bishop Newton that he intends to buy his works.
At Ely quite alone, and no resource but in my own melancholy ideas.
My first thought was to send to a Mr. Hall, who has hired
Tattersall’s farm, or Mr. Metcalfe, a minor canon, who has written
in the ‘Annals of Agriculture’—but I rejected the scheme and kept to
solitude. As soon as I finished dinner I began Mr. Wilberforce for
the fourth time, reading with renewed attention. I hear many
objections to him, of his being a Presbyterian engrafted on a
Methodist, but it is arrant nonsense. My mind goes with him in every
word. View the Minster and Trinity chapel, and venerate the piety of
former ages that raised such noble edifices in honour of God the
Almighty giver and governor of all things. I once thought such
buildings the efforts of superstition, perhaps folly! How different
are my present sentiments! for what can be more rational than to
raise temples of a character that shall impress some idea, however
weak, of the sublimity of that infinite Being who made and pervades
all that exists, except His own great creative self!
_8th._—Rise at five, write to my friends Dr. Valpy and C. Cole. To
Peterborough. Much time for reflection, and it is singular that even
while I am depressed with deep melancholy at the loss I have
sustained, yet unholy ideas and imaginations will intrude. Is this
the devil and his powers of darkness which buffet and beset us? Is
not depravity and sin so inherent in our natures that we are ever
liable to these wanderings which so disgrace our nature at better
moments? But the conclusion, whatever it be owing to, is clear, that
the government of the thoughts is an essential part of our duty, as
Johnson has well explained in an admirable ‘Rambler.’ Such thoughts,
unresisted, seize and take possession of the mind, and they cannot
do that without leading to action and all the guilt that may follow.
Repel the first germinating principle of the idea, and the
difficulty is not great; but indulge the pleasing dream and the
heart is vitiated, for the imagination is impure.
[_The remainder of the diary, in the same strain, is much too long
for insertion. Here are a few closing sentences._]
_September 2_ [in Yorkshire].—To what is it that I shall return? My
child no more! To what at London? Solitary in my lodgings, where am
I to send for her whose cheerfulness gilded every scene, and little
pleasing ways lent such a charm to render her presence such a
comfort to me? All gone—gone for ever! Of that description of
feelings what remains? A blank!—a desert!... Cried over the hair of
my sweet departed Bobbin! Never more in this world to see thee
again!
_October 15._—I have torn my heart to pieces with looking at my dear
child’s hair! Melancholy remains, but how precious when their owner
is no more! I am to see her no more in this world. Gone for ever!
_London, November 13._—This day se’nnight I came to town with Mrs.
Y. and Mary. I knew it would be a very uncomfortable plan; but to do
as I would be done by made it proper.
_November 26._—I have been a week at Petworth, an interesting,
splendid, gay and cheerful week, and, as too often the case, a vain,
frivolous, and impious one. Sir John Sinclair would have me on the
Sunday go to Goodwood. Never a serious word, never a soul to church
from that house to thank God for the numerous blessings showered
down upon it, and the means of good which 60,000_l._ a year confers.
Yet Lord Egremont does all that could be wished as far as humanity,
charity, and doing moral benefits can—but no religion. In the
chapel, no worship, no hats off but my own—dreadful example to a
great family and to his children and to 2,500 people in the town. I
talked to Arthur, and strongly recommended to him to attend
constantly and to keep himself clear from such a want of piety. He
disapproves of it much; and I pray to God that yet he may not be
corrupted by such evil examples, but imbibe a dislike to such want
of gratitude. I watched for opportunities of serious remark, but
none of effect offered except one observation on Lady Webster’s
infidelity in religion, when I threw in a word or two. The very
virtues of such people do mischief by recommending their irreligious
example.
The following letters are selected from those received this year:—
_From Dr. Burney_
‘Chelsea College: March 16, 1797.
‘My dear Sir,—You have applied to a very incompetent person for
political consolation in addressing me, an old notorious alarmist
who has long seen evils approaching even worse than those which
have already arrived. I wish anything had happened to convince me
that my mental eyes had been as short-sighted as those in my head.
But, alas! things are going on everywhere from bad to worse. My
foolish countrymen, nay, worse, the wicked and incurable democrats
who inhabit the same island, so far from being cured by the savage
cruelties and universal misery brought about in France by the
Revolution and the treatment of other countries which she has
conquered and even fraternised with, still long for a revolution
here, without even wishing to avert any of the evils which have
happened elsewhere, from the diabolical character and principles
of her inhabitants! I have seen that a wish to break the Bank has
long been formed, and I even have been advised to get all the cash
I could for my notes if I had any; and the person who advised this
measure, who had never been at the Bank before in his life, and
was forced to inquire his way thither, had been bullying the
harassed clerks to give him cash for a forty-pound note, for no
other purpose than to lock it up. Seven millions of guineas were
issued for notes in one week! Of this sum 300,000_l._, it is said,
were for notes presented by the English Santerre. A banker from
Norwich had collected notes to the amount of 400,000_l._, with
which he came post to London in the same seraphic hope of breaking
the Bank; but unluckily for his benevolent plan, the further
issuing of cash had been stopped the night before his arrival. The
favourite Jacobin plan at present is to make this nation and all
Europe believe that we are really in a state of bankruptcy, and
that the notes now in circulation will be soon of as little value
as French assignats, reporting every day that they are at a very
considerable discount, which God forbid should ever happen. For my
own part, I would starve myself to death sooner than buy, even
food, by the parting with a bank note for a farthing less value
than it has hitherto had. But the poor Duke of Bedford, Mr. Cooke,
the dissenting manufacturers, &c., are so distressed for want of
cash to pay their workmen, that they are _obliged_ to dismiss
them. And this, to be sure, is not done with an intention of
throwing all the blame upon Government and making furious rebels
of all the persons discharged. Everything is seen and represented
in the blackest colours—the French always right and the
Administration wrong. For if opposition should ever be obliged to
allow the present ministry to be right, why change it? And down
they must pull every person and thing above them, even if, like
Samson, they are crushed in the ruins, which I have not the least
doubt will be the case if ever the revolution they seem so
determined to bring about should happen.
‘The ballot has fallen upon me to furnish a man and a horse to the
Provisional Cavalry,[183] which has occasioned me much trouble and
vexation. The expense, had it been double, I would have paid with
alacrity, for the defence of everything dear to honest men, during
such a war and with such enemies; but the business of recruiting,
clothing, accoutring, &c., is so new to men of peace, that they
know not how to go to work. Three substitutes that I had engaged
have disappointed me, and the horse I have purchased I am not sure
will pass muster. Had Government levied a tax of five or ten
guineas upon each horse that was kept for pleasure, either in or
out of harness, and done the business of raising a certain number
of cavalry themselves, it would have been better done, and ladies
and superannuated gentlemen (like my worship) would have escaped
infinite plague and vexation.
‘I am exceedingly sorry that your dear and charming little
daughter is not well.
‘I am, with sincere regard,
‘My dear Sir,
‘Your affectionate Friend,
‘CHARLES BURNEY.’
From Edmund Burke, Esq., alluding to the projects in Parliament
before named for regulating the price of labour.
‘Bath: May 23, 1797.
‘Dear Sir,—I am on the point of leaving Bath, having no further
hope of benefit from these waters; and as soon as I get home (if I
should live to get home) should I find the papers transmitted me
by your Board I shall send them faithfully to you; though, to say
the truth, I do not think them of very great importance.
‘My constant opinion was, and is, that all matters relative to
labour ought to be left to the conversations of the parties. That
the great danger is in Government intermeddling too much. What I
should have taken the liberty of addressing to you, had I
possessed strength to go through it, would be to illustrate or
enforce that principle.
‘I am extremely sorry that any one in the House of Commons should
be found so ignorant and unadvised as to wish to revive the
senseless, barbarous, and, in fact, wicked regulations made
against free trade in matters of provision which the good sense of
late Parliaments had removed. I am the more concerned at the
measure, as I was myself the person who moved the repeal of the
absurd code of statutes against the most useful of all trades,
under the invidious names of forestalling and regrating. But,
however, I console myself on this point by considering that it is
not the only breach by which barbarism is entering upon us. It is,
indeed, but a poor consolation, and one taken merely from the
balance of misfortunes.
‘You have titles enough of your own to pass your name to
posterity, and I am pleased that you have got spirit enough to
hope that there will be such a thing as a civilised posterity to
attend to things of this kind.
‘I have the honour to be,
‘With very high respect and esteem,
‘Your most obedient, humble servant,
‘EDMUND BURKE.’
Mr. Burke died July 7 [_note by A. Y._].
From John Symonds, Esq., on public affairs, very gloomy, with much
condemnation of Mr. Pitt.
‘St. Edmund’s Hill: June 8, 1797.
‘At the time, my dear sir, that I received your letter I was
travelling over Italy, in order to figure in your “Annals of
Agriculture;” but the state of that country has been so much
_bouleversé_, that my head has been turned in reflecting upon it,
as is most probably the case with the greater part of its
inhabitants.
‘You ask me what plan I could propose to save the country. Arm,
undoubtedly, as you say; but how to do it most effectually I
pretend not to determine. You justly reprobate volunteering
infantry.
‘Charles Cole tells me you have something in the press upon this
subject. To fill the army or navy with defenders or volunteers, is
the way to pave the way to our ruin. But I should begin with
proposing a scheme which would probably be heard with disdain, and
which has been rejected by the King: recall Lord Camden; appoint
Lord Moira, Lord Lieutenant, with full powers to emancipate the
Roman Catholics. He is much respected in Ireland as well as in
England, for the opinion formed of him from his civil and military
knowledge and moral character. I have heard Lord Bishop Douglas,
who is no mean estimator of mankind, often say, that he wished he
could see Lord Moira one of the Secretaries of State.
‘Were the Catholics satisfied, Ireland might bid defiance to the
French, and, perhaps, some regular infantry might thence be sent
to England, which, the Duke of Grafton said lately in the House of
Lords, was much wanted here. But it is in vain to speak or write
about Ireland.
We govern there by a faction—the Beresfords, Fitzgibbons, and
Fosters—whose emoluments, including their relations and
dependents, fall not short of 100,000_l._ per annum; some think
much more. Now the Polignacs under the old government had not more
than 50,000_l._ per annum, including a bishopric. This the Duchess
of Liancourt one day made out to me upon paper, yet she was
willing enough to exaggerate the profits of that family;
especially as the old duchess just before had been cast in a
lawsuit with one of them.
‘Your idea of applying to Bonaparte pleases me much. He would
probably do more towards effecting a peace than a hundred
Malmesburys and St. Helens. It will be curious to see what terms
Pitt will propose. There seems to be no doubt but that the French
will insist on having all the places taken from them; and probably
a restitution of twelve or fourteen ships of the line, and perhaps
a sum of money by way of _indemnification_, for this word was
always in the mouth of our Premier. After this, an ample
recompense to the Dutch and Spaniards, whose interests the French
will consider as their own. A fine peace indeed, after so many
absurd and haughty declarations of our ministry! A peace there
must be or an insurrection, if considerable taxes be proposed to
continue the war. Not that these would be of any avail; for were
the French merely to line their coasts from Ostend to Calais with
troops, and do nothing else, their point would be carried. At the
very time that a separate peace was made by the Emperor with the
French, Mr. Pitt, in the House of Commons, called him “our great
and good ally.” It was but two days after that the news came of
his defection, which every thinking man naturally expected.
‘Mr. P. seems determined to do dirty jobs to the last; whilst our
enemies are almost at our gates, the subscribers to the loyalty
loan must forsooth be rewarded because many of them are his
Parliamentary friends. Should you hear your knight open himself on
this subject, remind him that a million or a million and a half
are wanted to pay the arrears of the Civil List; that professors,
whose stipends are fixed by Acts of Parliament, are in danger of
losing the profits of a couple of years from an abominable clause
in Burke’s Bill. Remind him of a remarkable circumstance in
Sully’s memoirs. When Henry IV. was in great distress for money it
was proposed to him to decline paying any stipends to the
professors in the University of Paris. “No,” said he, with an
honest indignation, “I will never consent to that; retrench the
expense of my table instead of touching their emoluments.” Such an
answer, and such conduct in conformity to it, reflected peculiar
honour on a prince who had never been trained up in the study of
polite letters
‘Carnot[184] cannot be too much commended for ordering your
agricultural works to be translated and published. It was giving
his countrymen a mass of knowledge, founded on experiment not to
be procured in their own writers. He showed very good sense in
sacrificing party prejudices. Would Pitt have acted thus in his
situation?
‘I have not read Wilberforce’s “Practical View of Christianity,”
nor am I indeed much solicitous about it, for my faith is not
built upon establishments but on the New Testament, which I have
considered with as much attention as most of our divines. W. is a
strict Calvinist, and is therefore orthodox, for he is supported
by our Articles of Religion. I who think that the Articles on this
head are not founded on Scripture, am a heretic, as I take you to
be also. It is very observable that the young theologians of
Geneva are at this day instructed much more in Ostervald’s[185]
Catechism than in Calvin’s books. The death of that worthy man and
excellent master of Italian, Isola, is an exceedingly great loss
to me, for he has managed all my little concerns at Cambridge for
twenty years. He can have left nothing for his family but his good
example. So respected was he by every one, that when a long
illness and his wife’s death prevented him from making his usual
earnings, and he was unavoidably loaded with heavy debts, they not
only raised for him 180_l._ by private subscriptions in the
Colleges, but in the following year the University gave him
100_l._ out of the public chest. I shall be very careful in
recommending his successor, for Isola always told me that most of
the Italians in England were rascals, and he therefore had no
communication with them when they came to Cambridge. I allowed him
twenty guineas a year, as few learn Italian. The profits from
teaching it are hardly sufficient to maintain one who has a
family; for parents in general are so foolish as not to require of
their sons the learning of that language, though their intention
is to send them into Italy.
‘Adieu! You will repent provoking me to write.
‘J. SYMONDS.’
From Jeremy Bentham, Esq., on the poor, &c.
‘Queen Square, Westminster: Sept. 8, 1797.
‘Dear Sir,—It was but the other day that I became master of a
complete series of your “Annals of Agriculture;” accept my
confession and record my penitence. Having on my return from my
long peregrination on the Continent lent to a friend—who had lent
to another friend, whom we neither of us could recollect—the
twenty-five or thirty numbers which I had taken in before that
period, I postponed from time to time the completion of the series
in hopes of recovering the commencement of it. When at last shame
and necessity got the better of procrastination, what a treasure
of information burst upon me. No—so long as power without ——— and
without ——— shall have left an annual guinea in my pocket (blanks
are better here than words) not a number of the “Annals” shall
ever be wanting to my shelves. Hold—don’t take me for a Jacobin
now, nor even for a croaker. What I allude to is not any _common_
burden, such as you land-owners and land-holders grunt under, but
my own ten thousand pound tax—my privilegium—a thing as new to
English language as it is to English practice—sole and peculiar
fruit of the very particular notice with which I have been
honoured by ———.
‘This waits upon you with a proof of a blank pauper population
table, framed for the purpose of collecting an account of them in
as many parishes as I can. Knowing so well your zeal for all
zeal-worthy objects, and mindful of your often experienced
kindness, I cannot on this occasion harbour a doubt of your
assistance. Is it worth while to give the table the indiscriminate
circulation of your "Annals"? At any rate your editorial Majesty
will, I hope, be pleased graciously to grant unto me your royal
letters, _patent_ or _close_, or both, addressed to _all_, and
if need be, _singular_, your loving subjects my fellow
correspondents; charging and exhorting them, each in his
parish—and as many other parishes as may be—to fill my tables and
send in their contributions.
‘Along with the table you will find a MS. paper, exhibiting the
importance of the information I am thus labouring to collect; you
will print it or suppress it as you think best. I also send in MS.
a table of cases calling for relief; a general map of _pauper
land_ with all the _roads_ to it. Few, if any, of the projects I
have seen but what have appeared (the arch-project not excepted)
to bear an exclusive—at least a predilective—reference to some of
these cases, overlooking or slighting the rest. I send it in the
state in which I propose printing it for my own book; but, in the
meantime, if it be worthy the honour of a place in the “Annals,”
it is altogether at your service. This preparatory insertion will
turn to the advantage of the work itself, if any of your
correspondents (not forgetting their editor) would have the
goodness to contribute their remarks to the emendation of it. You
will not easily conceive—few heads, at least, but yours are
qualified to conceive—the labour it has cost me to bring the two
tables to this state. As to the work at large, it will occupy two
independent, though connected volumes. Pauper systems compared;
pauper management improved—the last the romance, the Utopia, to
which I had once occasion to allude. Romance? How could it be
anything _less_? I mean to an author’s partial eye. In proportion
as a thing is excellent, when established, is it anything but
_romance_, and theory, and speculation, till the touch of the
_seal_ or the _sceptre_ has converted it into practice. Distress,
at least, distress, the very life and soul of romance, cannot be
denied to mine; for in this short and close-packed specimen
already you behold it in all its shapes. Magnanimous president!
accomplished secretary! ye, too, have your romance. Heaven send
you a happy catastrophe and a _fettered land_ “a happy
deliverance.” Patience! patience! ye too, before you are
comforted, must bear to be tormented.
‘Apropos of presidents. The high priest of Ceres, having divined
or not divined my recent occupations, has been pleased to send me
a mandate in form, summoning me to devote myself to this branch of
his goddess’s service, that the fruit of my labours may be
consecrated in her temple at Whitehall; so that whatever other
requisites may fail me, I shall be in no want of auspices.
‘I fear you will say to yourself that the Observations[186] I have
sent you are a sad farrago, but your miscellany, how superior
soever to others in subject-matter and contents, has this in
common with them, that half-formed ideas, so they have but matter
in them, are not prohibited from presenting themselves. It is part
of the character of your correspondents to have more of
_substance_ about them than of _form_; and of the many
recommendations which join in drawing so much good company to your
_conversazione_, one, nor that the least, is the convenience of
being admitted to it in boots. Mine (you will say) have hobnails
in them; for, somehow or other, the very idea of the person to
whom I am addressing myself has insensibly betrayed me into that
sort of playful confidence—that _épanchement_, as I think the
French call it—which I have always felt in his company.
‘Believe me, with the most serious respect,
‘Ever yours,
‘JEREMY BENTHAM.’
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Footnote 167:
Now fourteen years old.
Footnote 168:
This passage has been crossed out with a pencil, but is given as
showing the _régime_ of young ladies’ schools a hundred years ago.
In another note occurs the sentence, ‘Brought my dear little girl
from Camden House to London.’ Presumably Camden Town is meant, at
that time being less than suburban.
Footnote 169:
The county belle, Betsey Plampin, married some years before to Mr.
Orbell Oakes.
Footnote 170:
Lady Mary Hervey, the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Bristol,
Bishop of Derry. Her portrait, by Gainsborough, was on show at
Agnew’s in 1896.
Footnote 171:
Some medical questions the child wishes put to her London doctor
are here omitted.
Footnote 172:
John Jortin, D.D., born 1696, died 1770. His numerous theological
and historical works have been frequently reprinted.
Footnote 173:
Henry More, D.D., born 1614, died 1687. In 1640 published
_Psycho-Zoia; or, the Life of the Soul_. His philosophical and
theological works have been reprinted.
Footnote 174:
Th. Secker, Archbishop of Canterbury, born 1693, died 1768.
Footnote 175:
Samuel Ogden, D.D., born 1716, died 1778.
Footnote 176:
Adam Littleton, D.D., born 1627, died 1674.
Footnote 177:
Samuel Clarke, D.D., born 1675, died 1729. The piece alluded to
was the first Boyle Lecture. Of his works Dr. Johnson remarked, ‘I
should recommend Dr. Clarke’s works were he orthodox.’
Footnote 178:
John Conybeare, D.D., born 1691, died 1755. ‘A great champion of
revelation.’
Footnote 179:
Plymer; in Redgrave’s _Dictionary of Artists_ written ‘Plimer.’
Two brothers therein mentioned, Andrew and Nathaniel, both
miniature painters and exhibitors at the R.A.; born 1763, died
1837; born 1767, died 1822.
Footnote 180:
_Practical View of the Prevailing System of Professed Christians
in the Higher and Middle Ranks in this Country, Contrasted with
Real Christianity._ Published 1797, and frequently reprinted.
Footnote 181:
Th. Scott—the friend of Cowper—born 1747, died 1821, chaplain to
the Lock Hospital.
Footnote 182:
Th. Newton, born 1704, died 1782; edited _Paradise Lost_.
Footnote 183:
Alluding to the movement suggested by A. Y., and ultimately
carried out, of forming regiments of volunteer cavalry, in view
of the menacing attitude of France.
Footnote 184:
Carnot, the ‘organiser of victory,’ grandfather of the late
lamented President of the French Republic. Almost alone of the
Senate, Carnot refused to sanction the _coup d’état_ of Napoleon,
1799.
Footnote 185:
J. F. Ostervald, Swiss Protestant divine, born 1683, died 1747.
All his works have been translated into English.
Footnote 186:
These ‘Observations,’ above referred to, are inserted in vol. xxix
_Annals of Agriculture_.
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