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connecting these letters and other papers, I must either have withdrawn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.