1813-1816.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 7, 1813.
I am very happy to find you once more exerting your powers for our
instruction and amusement. The second part of the _Cottage Dialogues_
appears to me worthy of its predecessor; less humorous, perhaps, and less
marked by a certain undescribable _naïveté_, but often pathetic, and
always inculcating the purest morality. I could have wished the dialogue
on Seduction, and the subsequent death of Thady’s victim, omitted, as
it makes the volume less fit for children, to whom it might in so many
respects be useful. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it appears to me that
it is safest to keep all such events, with whatever purity they may be
described, out of the view and the thoughts of children and very young
people: and on this principle perhaps _Pamela_ and _Clarissa_ may be
considered as highly dangerous works. How the former could ever have
been mistaken for a novel of a _moral_ tendency (though I fully believe
the author intended it as such), is very surprising. As to _Clarissa_, a
judicious selection from it, with slight alterations, would be a valuable
present to the rising generation; one that should wholly conceal the
blackest part of Lovelace’s conduct, and make her death proceed from
remorse for her elopement, and grief for the implacability of her
father, the sorrows of her mother, and the hastiness of her choice,—as
she might be supposed to have discovered Lovelace to be unworthy of her
in a variety of ways. In this _Clarissa for Young Women_, as it might
be called, all the objectionable details should be omitted; and those
parts of her character preserved, which are so well calculated to excite
an enthusiastic sense of duty to parents, of charity, of religion, and
_particularly_ of the value of time. But all this is idle prate; and
perhaps it is best the ‘Young Women’ should never open the book.
I could not but smile at the graceful _naïveté_ and enthusiasm of
friendship which sent one of my letters to Mr. Wilkinson, in order to
be placed amongst those of ‘eminent persons.’ I feel obliged to make
poor Mr. Wilkinson some amends for your thus imposing on him, however
unintentionally on your part. I therefore asked Mrs. Barnard, who
happened to be present when your letter arrived, to procure me one of
_the_ Mr. Windham’s; and I send you for him an Italian sonnet, in the
fairy penmanship of Miss Ponsonby, of Llangollen. I believe the sonnet is
unpublished.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
Bath, March 12, 1813.
I have not passed four evenings from home since we parted. The false
animation of acquaintances pretending to be friends, the slight gaiety of
an assembly, and the satisfaction of hearing I look wonderfully well _for
my time_, have done their duty, and divert me no more. My sweet children
are my only real pleasures. —— has a depth of feeling very extraordinary.
He began to question me upon _one_ whom you and I speak of no more; and
was very anxious to know why no other since that time had made me _quite_
so happy. At last he said, as if he was satisfied at having found out
the cause, and conceived it not to disparage my present love for him—‘I
believe it is because he _did_ die,’ with a certain solemnity of accent
which I cannot describe. How much he must have felt and observed to
arrive at this conclusion.
—— thought Miss K. handsome on the report of _two_ or _three_ people, but
_four_ or _five_ have found her coarse, slouchy, red-armed, and somewhat
like a housemaid; you know how much ‘love’s arrows go by hearsay.’
Moreover, she _splashed_ through a _bolero_ at an assembly where no one
else danced but her and her partner; and with her large figure and strong
countenance looked as if she was going _to box_. _That_ is an improvement
on the general expression of the dance, which always seems to say, ‘My
name is Temptation; Touch me not.’ This ingenious dance is, you know,
contrived to show how great a degree of assurance and _airs de dragon_
can be united to pretty music and measured steps. Its gaiety and boldness
will always recommend it to the majority; but there cannot be worse taste
than making _young ladies_ the performers.
M—— has written a kind letter to inform me of his intended marriage. I
am delighted that people who love should marry; but when I know not the
other party, and that it is _my friend_ that has the worst of the worldly
part of the contract, it is mere affectation and deceit to pretend to be
quite satisfied, until one arrives at being a saint.
* * * * *
_June 14, 1813._—The variations of the English climate may assist to
increase the sensibility of the English character. Yesterday the sun
shone resplendent on a country covered with the softest, deepest verdure,
blushing with roses, and perfumed with honeysuckle; while a few fleecy
clouds added pomp and richness and variety to the bright blue sky. The
mind, enlivened by the scenery, expatiated on scenes of love and life and
joy. To-day the whole horizon is enveloped in a thick fog; a chilling air
distracts our thoughts by a slight sense of suffering from the objects
around us, which, shrouded in mist, have lost half their beauty. The
heart which but yesterday was filled with ideas of pleasure, is turned
to-day to thoughts of privation, of fading glory, of decaying nature. In
what variety of lights do these sudden changes present the same object,
and what food do they furnish for meditation!
* * * * *
_June 24._—The collection of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ pictures now offered
to the public eye, is perhaps _unique_ in its kind, as composed of more
fine works by a single artist than have ever yet been seen together.
They derive peculiar interest from this circumstance. The collection
seems to be animated by one soul—the emanation of one powerful mind.
Ugolino is probably the most pathetic picture extant, as exhibiting the
highest degree of moral and physical suffering inflicted on those whose
countenances bespeak exquisite sensibility, and accompanied with the
utter extinction of hope—each individual agonizing at once by his own
pains, and by the sufferings of those who are dearest to him. It is like
a tragedy of Shakespeare on canvas.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
London, June 27, 1813.
I got a Director’s ticket for Sir Joshua Reynolds’ on Friday evening.
They were in great request, being no more in number than the three rooms
would conveniently hold, and were bespoke for weeks before. The evening
exhibitions, which were only once a week, closed that evening, and only
the Directors had tickets. It is the order of the day to call these
meetings ‘the best assembly in town.’ They began at nine, and ended
nominally at eleven, but the Duchess of York did not come in till past
eleven. What a ridiculous freak of fashion to be anxious to see pictures
by candlelight, merely because money will not admit one, when people can
admire them so much better by daylight on any morning they please to go;
or was it set on foot by the superannuated beauties, who do themselves
justice, and know they are not fit to be seen by daylight?
Ugolino is the most pathetic picture I ever saw (N.B. I went in the
morning also)—unutterable, hopeless anguish, moral and physical, suffered
in one’s own person, and in the persons of the dearest objects of one’s
love—a suffering to which all human beings are exposed, and which none
can ridicule as romantic, or despise as ignoble. If it was as old as the
Laocoon, it would be as much, perhaps more, admired. It is delightful to
see at once, transferred into so many works, the whole soul and genius of
an artist so elevated as Sir Joshua.
Tell me about the babes; I long for their sweet musical clamour, and to
see them circling me like the spheres, all in harmonious, beautiful, and
perpetual motion.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
London, July 31, 1813.
The great object of curiosity now in London, is Mad. de Staël. The envy
she excites in her own sex is painfully disclosed by their continual
remarks on her total want of grace and beauty, in short, on her being
a large, coarse, and homely woman. One is tempted to say—‘_Who_ ever
inquires what is the plumage of the nightingale?’ Mrs. Jones, a lively
friend of mine, put an end to a discussion of the kind in three words,
‘In short, she is most _consolingly_ ugly,’ thus by one happy phrase
criticizing the critics with a light yet sharp touch. These critics would
inveigh with more justice against the tiresome uses she often makes of
her powers. One hates to see a drawing-room turned into a fencing school.
I always wish somebody would say with Richard III.,
‘but, gentle lady,
_To leave_ this keen encounter of our wits.’
She has been received with all the honours due to her genius, sought
for in every society; and the Prince Regent, with more appearance of
taste than he _now_ often displays, went to Lady Heathcote’s one evening
purposely that she might be presented to him previously to her appearance
at his _fête_, where she could not have gone without being introduced
before it.
I suppose you know that Tommy Moore has lost all his prospects of
advancement by publishing _The Twopenny Post Bag_;—Lord Moira refusing
on this account to take him to India, where he had intended to provide
for him. He has gained in fame what he has lost in profit; as, although
his former works had many admirers, some disliked, and some despised
them, how justly I will not pretend to say; but all acknowledge the
wit and humour of this last production. It is not free from blemishes,
but perhaps as much so as any work we know, entirely and professedly
satirical.
* * * * *
_Aug. 4, 1813._—Met Lord Lauderdale at dinner at Lady Lansdowne’s.—“I
once saw Sheridan and Mad. de Staël together. She praised his morality,
while he extolled her beauty. I sold a book at the highest price ever
paid in England, Fox’s work.[49] Two booksellers offered me £4000; I told
them it was impossible to decide between them. One refused to add to his
first offer, the other offered £500 more. He lost by it. Robertson’s
_Charles the Fifth_ sold for £5000. The size of the book considered, it
was not so much. No other has ever sold at so great a price. Mad. de
Staël has received here £1500 for her work on Germany, suppressed at
Paris. She publishes it with notes, marking the passages she supposes to
have been obnoxious to the French Government.” He should have said to
‘Buonaparte,’ for despotism is an unit, and ‘Government’ to English ears
implies plurality.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.
August 14, 1813.
Mr. Marsh dined here yesterday, supposed to be the author of the
admired letters that appeared this year in the _Times_ under the name
of _Vetus_.[50] He did not talk so much or so well as usual, for we
had a _petrifying_ coxcomb of the party. He mentioned that Mad. de
Staël, who was always clumsy, and had a peculiarly large foot, once
exhibiting herself on a pedestal as an antique figure, one of the
spectators whispered, ‘_Voilà un vilain pied de Staël_,’ a _bon mot_,
though an ill-natured one. We had music in the evening. Miss M—— is
a fine thundering player of the new Beethoven school; and Lady A——’s
sweet little robin red-breast finger made a pretty contrast, pleasing to
me who can admire merit in various styles. Indeed, I believe the less
exclusive is one’s taste, and the more one can extend its limits, so as
to like what is good in every direction, the more one will naturally
enjoy, and perhaps animate, social life. Adieu. Honour me not with
needless envelopes. ‘_Ce petit garçon oublie que je suis dévote_,’ said
a _ci-devant_ mistress of Louis XIV., when a servant offered her a glass
of liqueur; so you sometimes forget that I have arrived at thinking all
waste is blameable.
* * * * *
_Oct., 1813._—_The Giaour_ is a trial of skill how far picturesque,
animated, and eloquent description will please, without dignity or
delicacy of character, novelty of scene or manners, interesting
narrative, or elevated sentiments. Events similar to those recorded
in this tale have not only been thrice told, but three hundred times;
and, in point of manners, every one who has read a book of _Travels in
Turkey_, knows too well all of which he is here reminded, not to feel a
certain disappointment at being carried so far and shown nothing new.
When St. Pierre in _Paul and Virginia_ leads us to the Isle of France,
another world is opened to our view; a refreshing, invigorating clime
enchants our senses, where we see the pure and simple sources of human
happiness, the sparkling, living fountains of innocence, and love, and
joy. It is an earthly paradise, worthy to succeed that where Milton has
placed our first parents; and assimilated to our tenderest feelings by
ties more numerous, if singly less powerful. The East also may have its
‘fresh fields and pasture new,’ but Lord Byron has not introduced us to
them.
The story of _The Giaour_ could hardly be comprehended by human
ingenuity, if it did not turn on circumstances the most commonplace, as
we are only presented with unconnected fragments from the lips of two
nameless narrators, who ask a variety of questions, and whom we should be
glad to question a little in our turn. Fragments of this uninteresting
story are tricked out in gaudy colouring, and amidst a greater proportion
of indifferent lines than are fairly admissible in so short a production,
we meet occasional proofs of originality and genius. Still _The Giaour_
ranks far below any former production of the same author. It contributes,
as far as its mite goes, to injure the taste of the age, by reducing
poetry merely to an amusement for a vacant hour, instead of employing
it to elevate our minds, soften our hearts, and refine our pleasures.
Whether these effects are produced by sentiments, by characters, by
imagery, is immaterial. When they are not produced, when poetry addresses
herself chiefly through the ear to the eye, she must be on the decline;
and this decline works like _The Giaour_ at once accelerate and proclaim.
* * * * *
_Nov. 22._—How rapid is the fall of this ‘Lucifer, son of the morning,’
whose portentous splendour so long dazzled and misguided the nations
of the earth. England, that citadel of the world, that guardian of
civilization, the asylum of fallen royalty, of persecuted genius, and of
proscribed virtue, now begins to reap the harvest of her generous toils.
* * * * *
_Nov. 23._—Overcome to-day with joy at the intoxicating rapidity of
our successes. I felt a throb of exultation and gratitude only to be
tranquillized by raising one’s heart and one’s tearful eyes to Heaven. I
am glad I left my retirement and am amongst a multitude on this occasion.
The joy that is shared with numbers seems purified and exalted. I found
Bath to-day in an effervescence of joy;—the waggoners and chimney-sweeps
decorated with laurel in honour of Lord Wellington’s victories, and the
hope that Holland will break her chains. It is pleasing to see the pulse
of public feeling beat in the very extremities. I met Mrs. Bonnefée,
the Dowager Lady Ely’s mother, also wearing her sprig of laurel—at
eighty-four.
* * * * *
_Nov. 24._—Je lis Mad. de Staël sur l’Allemagne. Il me paroit qu’un
peintre d’un génie supérieur me montre les desseins qu’il a faits sur
des lieux qui m’interessoient vivement, et que je ne reverrai plus.
Elle donne une idée précise de cette philosophie de Kant que mon amie,
la Comtesse Münster m’a tant pressée d’étudier.[51] C’est la morale du
Christianisme dépourvue de l’amour, et de l’espoir, et mélée d’une espèce
de stoicisme moins imposante que celui des anciens. Il est beau de voir
que les recherches métaphysiques les plus sévères nous conduisent au
même but moral que le Christianisme, quoique c’est par un chemin aride,
loin des sources d’eau vivante—ou, dans les paroles de David, ‘dans un
désert sec et stérile où l’eau ne coule pas.’
* * * * *
_Dec. 3._—Saw the Indian Jugglers. They act on a small slightly elevated
stage, surrounded by a blaze of lamps. Two are men between twenty and
thirty, the other a youth of sixteen. Dressed in white, with turbans,
the ease of their attitudes, and serenity of their countenances, where
light and evanescent shades of melancholy and gaiety alone break the
predominant expression of repose, strike a European eye as novel and
pleasing. Deep thought has never contracted those brows; strong feeling
has never quivered on those lips; that face is a waveless lake, sometimes
gently swelling, sometimes sparkling in the sun, but never agitated with
tempests, or chafing against its bounds.
In the tricks of jugglers I have small delight. I see without interest
the ball under the cup, though I may have had reason to suppose it in the
juggler’s hand; or the beads strung with his tongue, or the entire thread
so adroitly substituted for that which has been reduced to fragments that
my senses are completely deceived. I view with pain those exhibitions
where skill is ever on the verge of danger; and I have a sensation of
mingled disgust and horror when I see a man actually sheath in his throat
a bar of steel twenty-two inches long, a quarter of an inch thick, and
one broad. The prettiest part of the exhibition was a sportive manner
of throwing about in all directions, with ease, grace, and skill, four
bright brazen balls. It seemed like the coruscations of a firework, or as
if a fallen spirit amused himself by flinging stars and meteors in the
air.
All was accompanied by songs from the youngest performer, somewhat
monotonous, but not unpleasing, and expressive of a sort of melancholy
gaiety, if the expression may be tolerated.
TO WILLIAM LEFANU, ESQ.[52]
Dec. 15, 1813.
I have many apologies to offer for my long silence, having been occupied
by arrangements relative to my son’s departure for the Hague. You know
the dreary vacuity which succeeds the departure of one we love. It is
rendered still more striking by the preceding bustle of preparation, and
is a faint shadow of
‘That first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,’
which most of us have already experienced.
I have received no reply from the Duchess of Dorset. Retirement sadly
clips one’s wings as to any power of being useful. For that purpose
they certainly grow best ‘in the various bustle of resort.’ I had more
influence when I less knew how to make a reasonable use of it.
Your idea that a considerable portion of eternal happiness may arise
from seeing the full blow and ripe fruits of any good seed sown in this
life, is extremely natural. The converse has presented itself to my
imagination more than once as a just representation of ‘the worm that
never dies.’
You did me the honour to ask what I thought of Kean. I saw him but once,
and imperfectly, being shut up, like a mouse in a telescope, in one of
the wretched private boxes, which savour more of self-denial, penance,
and privation, than any views of pride or pleasure. The diminutive oval
aperture at the end of our long and doleful den gave me no opportunity
of seeing him well, as we were a large party, and I was too distant to
judge of his countenance. Yet he delighted me in _Richard the Third_. He
carries one’s views forwards and backwards as to the character, instead
of confining them, like other actors, within the limits of the present
hour; and he gives a breadth of colouring to his part that strongly
excites the imagination. He showed me that Richard possessed a mine of
humour and pleasantry, with all the grace of high breeding grafted on
strong and brilliant intellect. He gave probability to the drama by
throwing this favourable light on the character, particularly in the
scene with Lady Anne; and he made it more consistent with the varied lot
of ‘poor humanity.’ He reminded me constantly of Buonaparte—that restless
quickness, that Catiline inquietude, that fearful somewhat resembling the
impatience of a lion in his cage. Though I am not a lover of the drama
(will you despise me for the avowal?), I could willingly have heard him
repeat his part that same evening.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 15, 1813.
Both your letters reached me this evening on our return from a journey
to Bath and London, which absorbed about a fortnight. I feel for the
mother’s grief in losing her little blossom. ’Tis a more serious
calamity than any one, except a mother, can imagine—I should have said,
a _parent_, for I do believe with you, that a father often suffers quite
as much. Do you remember Mrs. Grant’s stanza on the loss of her husband?
What you say recalled it to my memory:—
‘I have sighed o’er the bud, I have wept o’er the blossom,
And beauty full grown ’twas my lot to deplore;
But the voice which was wont to speak peace to my bosom
Shall whisper compassion’s soft accents no more.’
There is something to me inexpressibly affecting in these lines. Pray
tell me soon that your daughter continues to recover. Unless under very
peculiar circumstances, the loss of an infant is much less injurious
to a youthful mother than the sight of its sufferings. I cannot bear,
however, to hear any one too decisive on what _may_ or _may not_ deeply
wound the bosom of another. Mad. de Staël justly says, ‘_Nul a le droit
de contester à un autre sa douleur_.’ There is much implied in this short
sentence.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 20, 1813.
What meanness of mind it shows to fasten upon the plain person of a woman
of genius, the imprudence of a wit, or the dulness of a beauty. I am very
much displeased with the constant remarks on Mad. de Staël’s exterior.
However, it consoles many for the thought that she will be admired when
we are all forgotten. As to Canning’s conversation giving her more
emotion than pleasure, it is easiest to be understood by supposing her
to like him in some _nuance_ of loverly feeling. In this light there
is great honesty in the confession. All eloquence creates emotion, but
that emotion is pleasure; while the emotion created by the conversation
of a lover may be of every shade from Stygian darkness to the most
dazzling brilliancy. I am surprised that Mad. de Staël, herself the wife
of a diplomat, and having lived in good company at Paris, should have
_questioned_ the Regent. As you say, it is a breach of royal prerogative.
But I think royalty itself readily forgives failures in etiquette, though
its satellites are most indignant on the occasion. When poor Mel walked
out before all the princesses of the German Empire, it almost threw some
of the _vieux routiers_ into convulsions; but the persons concerned
looked on it as it was, a pardonable forgetfulness, and distinguished her
just as kindly after as before.
I passed a pleasant day at Mrs. ——’s. We were nearly a female party;
and the only blot on the conversation was the little, mean, detracting
gossip against Lady —— (who has taken Mr. Baring’s for the honeymoon)
and Mrs. ——, a _ci-devant_ London _belle_ come to settle for a time at
Southampton. They do not forgive the former for having a ducal coronet
in prospect, nor the latter her fading advantages of person and manner,
and her grown-up daughters, fine girls whom she has brought to the
overstocked balls at Southampton. Lady R—— is ‘_very sorry for Miss_
B——,’ and says so as if she could Roast her. She cannot yet bring herself
to call her Lady ——. It appears they were intimates at Bath.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 23, 1813.
I am a little angry with the lady who might have introduced me to your
friends at Bath; but do you know I am _the less surprised_ in proportion
to the years I have passed in the world; for generally speaking, people
have a strange dislike to introducing their friends to each other. This
is very common, and, according to Hannah More, ‘much too common to be
right.’ I suspect it proceeds from the consciousness of endeavouring
to be, not in the best sense of the words, ‘all things to all men,’ of
acting somewhat a part, and of appearing to different friends rather
what the actor thinks will please, than what he really is.... All this
is pitiful: how different is my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, who is uneasy till
all her friends know and like each other. What a gem is simplicity
of character, and how careful in educating ought we to be to weed out
all _finesse_ and management. I know children _so_ educated will often
fail in politeness, till their knowledge of what gives pain or pleasure
becomes extensive; but their sincerity is often amusing, even when at the
expense of civility. ‘——, my dear, pray read _to yourself_.’ ‘Yes, mamma,
and I wish you would _sing to yourself_.’ There are many whom I hear,
to whom I should make use of this phrase, if I were not restrained by
feelings _he_ cannot understand.
* * * * *
The following poems certainly do not belong to the later period
of the writer’s life, and I therefore insert them here.
How quickly life forgets the dead!
To soothe the fleeting shade
A few fond tears at first are shed,
A few slight honours paid:
The fading leaf in dim decay
Awhile we thus deplore;
But whirled by autumn’s breath away,
We think of it no more.
The parting bark thus leaves a line,
Where friends are sailing on,
A moment sees it rippling shine,
A moment sees it gone.
That heartless lesson—to forget—
Then all around us preach;
Whate’er the tie—whate’er the debt—
Oblivion they would teach.
Ye who this chilling draught infuse,
From me the cup remove;
Nor let me be condemned to lose
The memory of Love.
* * * * *
Not one who bears the name he graced,
Not one endeared by early ties,
A brother soldier here has placed
A stone to mark where Frederick lies.
Oh light of heart, of spirit free,
Consummate courage, mild, resigned,
A form and face were given to thee,
Well suited to so bright a mind.
Obedient to thy country’s call,
’Twas thine for her to yield thy breath,
Though not in battle didst thou fall,
But thine a soldier’s lingering death.
* * * * *
There is a grief that knows no end,
A sorrow time can never quell,
Barbed arrow which remorse can send
For ever in the heart to dwell:
And each offence to those we love,
How slight soe’er in others’ eye,
The never-dying worm will prove
When in the silent tomb they lie.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.
Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 3, 1814.
I am now reading Mad. de Staël’s _Allemagne_: I find it amusing to skim,
but not to read attentively. The eternal comparison between France and
Germany becomes tiresome, when pursued through three large octavos; and
she is often unintelligible to me. Her being so, the Edinburgh Reviewers
state to proceed from her superiority to her readers, alone. Dangerous
doctrine for the guardians of literature to promulgate! I retain a strong
prejudice in favour of those who write to be understood, as well as to
be admired; and all who have stood the test of time unite clearness with
eloquence. Fine writing may possess deep and refined beauties, only to be
felt by superior minds, but in the same passages there is ever a plain
meaning obvious to all who are fully acquainted with the language. In
this it somewhat resembles true religion and the style of the sacred
Volume.
Mad. de Staël’s well-bred determination never to see any but the
beauties of the German authors whose works she describes, who are mostly
cotemporaries, is graceful, conciliatory, and prudent; but lessens the
value and interest of her discussions. The merits of an author are best
understood and felt when contrasted with his defects. When his beauties
alone are displayed, we have a Chinese picture, painted without shade,
gaudy and obtrusive, without the softness of nature, or the mellowness of
the best style of art.
TO THE SAME.
Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 16, 1814.
_Zadig_ entertained me when I read it; but I know not any author who less
improves or animates than Voltaire. And I have never known any man rise
above mediocrity who habitually sought amusement from that voluminous
but monotonous writer; for monotonous he is, except in his tragedies.
He presents only the same trite and discouraging ideas in a variety of
dress. The sauce is _piquante_, but the meat detestable. ‘_Il a plus que
tout le monde l’esprit que tout le monde a_,’ describes his style very
exactly; nothing original, but the general pleasantry and wit of Parisian
society and _Belles Lettres_ and _Esprits Forts_, concentrated and made
up into packets of all sizes—compact little doses of poison in vendible
and attractive forms.
I am reading Miss Seward’s _Letters_. Walter Scott, in reducing to six
octavos the _twelve folio volumes_ of her own _Letters_, which she
left for publication,[53] has cruelly lopped her eloquent panegyric of
your mother, who is dismissed with the laconic phrase of ‘lovely and
accomplished.’ So there are no further hopes of immortality from that
quarter.
TO THE SAME.
Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 29, 1814.
We are still snow-bound; and if we had been a quarrelsome pair, we have
had a fine opportunity, as the bad weather found us _tête-à-tête_, and
after its commencement all hopes of relief were at an end. We have
nothing to do but wait patiently for its close, which, after near a
month, seems rapidly approaching. _Feb. 2._—The above was written a few
days since. The snow is now nearly thawed, and I was delighted to see
this beautiful country throw off its glaring white mask, and give us once
more its own charming, varied, and expressive features.
As all the external changes of my life consist now in the books I read,
I must talk to you of them. We have been amused by Colton’s _Hypocrisy_.
It is a witty, entertaining production—a country cousin to _The Pursuits
of Literature_—less courtly, less eloquent, less conversant with capitals
and fine people, but still showing a strong family likeness.
Je relis actuellement Mad. de Sévigné, et La Fontaine. Je veux dire ses
_Fables_; car on dit que ses _Contes_ ne sont pas faits pour les yeux
d’une femme. Pour Mad. de Sévigné, le reproche qu’on lui fait de montrer
plus d’amour pour sa fille qu’elle n’en ressentait, ou que le cœur humain
n’en pouvait ressentir, me paroit très ridicule, quand j’examine mes
sentiments pour vous. Ecrivez-moi promptement, je vous prie; parlez-moi,
premièrement, de _vous_, en second, et en troisième lieu, de _vous_, et
de _vous_. Ainsi vous êtes sûr de me faire plaisir. Avez-vous dansé,
chanté, dessiné? Enfin, comment vont les beaux arts? Avez-vous fait des
vers? Patinez-vous? Avez-vous fait une course en traineau? et comment
trouvez-vous cet amusement? Je n’ai été en traineau qu’une fois, à
Brunswick. Il m’a paru fort agréable; mais dans tout ce qui se lie avec
mes souvenirs de l’Allemagne, je me soupçonne d’un peu de prévention.
Il est sûr que la langue n’est pas douce, et, malgré cela, quand je
l’entends par hazard et subitement, elle me fait toujours l’effet d’une
musique touchante et inattendue. Je suis fâchée de vous dire, malgré
cela, que, faute d’étude, je l’ai presque oubliée. J’en ai eu la preuve
l’autre jour, en cherchant à retrouver dans _Werther_ une idée exprimée
par Mad. de Staël.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
London, June 13, 1814.
Business has brought us to London; and the difficulty of procuring good
apartments while the Great People were there, detained us till after
their departure. My curiosity is not lively, and I made no effort to see
them, except going one morning to Portsmouth to witness the _entrée_ of
Alexander; which enabled me to say I had seen the _outside_ of a shabby
coach containing an Emperor within. This is the ‘head and front’ of my
knowledge of this last truly brilliant and heroic _spectacle_. I should
have been pleased to see the King of Prussia, from my gratitude for the
peculiar kindness with which I was distinguished by his charming Queen.
She was the means of my taking a near view of so much Court parade as has
entirely satiated my curiosity or interest on that subject.
* * * * *
_June, 1814._—Lord Nelson’s _Letters to Lady Hamilton_, though
disgraceful to his principles of morality on one subject, do not appear
to me, as they do to most others, degrading to his understanding.
They are pretty much what every man, deeply entangled, will express,
when he supposes but one pair of fine eyes will read his letters: and
his sentiments on subjects unconnected with his fatal attachment are
elevated—looking to his hearth and his home for future happiness;
liberal, charitable, candid, affectionate, indifferent to the common
objects of pursuit, and clearsighted in his general view of politics and
life.
* * * * *
_July 3._—Saw the Duke of Wellington received at the opera with rapturous
applause. Every eye beamed on him with delight, and cold must have been
the heart which did not throb with an accelerated movement. The unanimous
expression of that noble sentiment, admiration of great actions, is
extremely affecting; and those indefinite sounds of exultation and
applause used by men to express feelings for which words are inadequate,
form part of that universal language more impressive than the speech of
any individual nation.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.
Bursledon Lodge, July 12, 1814.
I have just passed a pleasant fortnight in London, and went to say my
prayers at St. Paul’s on the day of the Thanksgiving, where certainly
the assemblage of nearly all that was dignified by rank or station in
England, collected for a solemn purpose in a magnificent building, formed
a fine and imposing spectacle. I met an old friend, Sir J—— D——, on the
steps of the cathedral, and was surprised to see him grown old, with grey
hair, red face, and a large stomach. He must have seen greater changes in
me; but I always think I am to find people where I left them. However,
for what _he_ has lost in the gifts of nature, there was some little
compensation in those of fortune, for he was splendidly decorated with
stars, ribbons, &c., and attended by smiling aide-de-camps and fierce
grenadiers. He was really very glad to see me. I also met on the same
spot Lady Frances Beresford, whom I had not seen since she was nearly
as young as the daughter who then hung on her arm; and her I did not
recollect, nor she me, till I spoke; and then we began to stare and
wonder at each other. How few have honesty to say that such meetings are
at first unpleasant.
Had you received my former letters, you would have known that your adding
German to the list of your acquirements gives me great pleasure. En
apprenant les langues on exerce et on fortifie son esprit. On élargit
le cercle de ses idées, et on les rend plus nettes et plus précises.
Rien n’est plus faux que l’opinion banale qu’en étudiant les langues on
ne s’occupe que des mots. C’est une des phrases, inventée par l’envie,
et mise en crédit par la paresse. D’ailleurs il y a des trésors dans la
littérature allemande; et le peu que nous en connaissons en Angleterre,
n’est précisément que ce qu’il faut pour nous en donner une idée très
injuste.
Enfin vous avez vu l’Empereur. Rien dans les personnages impériaux et
royaux qui nous ont visités, n’était si extraordinaire, que la curiosité
qu’a témoignée toute l’Angleterre de les voir, de leur parler, de
les _toucher_. Comme Shakespeare dans _The Tempest_ a bien remarqué
ce trait national! Cherchez le passage. L’Empereur a été, ou a paru,
charmé de tout le monde, et tout le monde charmé de lui. Il s’est plu
particulièrement dans la société de quelques membres de l’Opposition, et
il a dit, ‘Ils sont les meilleurs hommes du monde, et _je veux avoir une
Opposition_ aussi, quand je serai de retour en Russie.’ J’aime bien cette
phrase d’un Autocrat. C’est vraiment comique. Au reste, il s’est bien
laissé voir, entendre, et toucher. Il a embrassé une trentaine de dames à
Portsmouth, qui se promenaient la nuit pour voir les illuminations; j’ai
vu le mari d’une de ces personnes favorisées, qui était aussi le frère
de deux autres également distinguées, et il a dit:—‘Indeed, it was very
condescending of the Emperor and the Regent. I am sure it was a thing
we never could have expected.’ Au reste, le Régent est charmé de leur
départ.
TO THE SAME.
Bursledon Lodge, July 28, 1814.
Votre dernière lettre m’a fait rire et pleurer. Il y a peu de personnes
dans le monde qui possèdent le don d’exciter _ou_ les ris _ou_ les
pleurs; encore moins qui ont le double talent que vous avez montré. Votre
dessein d’étudier le Français dans toutes ses nuances me fait plaisir,
et comme nous oublions rarement les fautes que nous avons commises
nous-mêmes contre le génie d’une langue, si quelqu’un les relève, je vais
chercher votre dernière lettre (qui est déjà serrée parmi les _bijoux_
les plus précieux de Cornélie) pour voir si je puis en découvrir.
... To perfect yourself in French, I would advise you to read Bruyère and
Mad. de Sévigné with great attention; because their style has something
of life and vivacity; which fastens itself on the mind, and forces one
in some measure to become intimate with the idioms of the language. It
does more good to meditate a page of a good close writer than to run
over a volume of an indifferent one. The common opinion is against me.
Many think the more _words_ they read in a given time, the more they
will advance in a language; but I believe in this as in every other
study, it is not the quantity, but the quality of what we read, and that
meditation by which we make it our own, that improves. I am now skimming
Mason’s _Life of Gray_; for you know late rising, the children, natural
indolence, and the inclination for family chat, leave me no leisure
for aught but skimming. I was pleased with Gray’s opinion of Rousseau’s
_Emile_. It confirms my own, and gives me in one condensed paragraph the
result of the opinions I had long formed on the subject of this singular
book.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Aug. 3, 1814.
We are again alone, living like those ‘in the world before the
flood’—gardening, admiring the flowers and the clouds, conversing,
singing, playing with our children, hiding from the visits of our
neighbours, and devising excuses to avoid their hot, ceremonious,
long, and fine dinners, surrounded by people dressed out as for an
assembly;—‘for, my dear ma’am, this is _a delightful_ neighbourhood; we
never dine at home except with company;’—something equivalent to this
eulogium I have often heard pronounced here.
I am very far from despising either the fine arts or their effects
in awakening the dormant seeds of genius; and I believe _The Society
of Friends_ profit in their manners and enjoyments by the insensible
and general atmosphere of those arts they contemn. But I am sure, as
individuals, your self-denial in this matter causes your expenses to flow
in streams more conducive to the comfort and advantage of yourselves and
others than ours do. In comparison with the greater number, _we_ are
peculiarly reasonable on this subject (am I not like the Pharisee?),
yet I am often surprised to see how much we sacrifice at the shrine of
frivolity, fancied pleasures, and _beaux arts_.
I saw not Mad. de Staël, who has left an unpleasing impression in
London,—except on a few, worth all the rest. People expected her to be
well dressed, well-looking, soft-mannered, refined; making no allowance
for the effects of study, composition, energy, anxiety, and all the
disturbances which must affect a woman whose life has been employed in
the pursuit of literary fame.
TO CHARLES M. ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.
Bursledon Lodge, Aug., 1814.
I believe my Baron Breteuil’s maxim is just for common minds, ‘_il faut
savoir s’ennuyer_.’ This is necessary to them, because if they do not
_ennuyer_ themselves, they will often do worse. But it is, like most of
his maxims, quite unfit for the uses of a superior character. Such ought
not to _ennuyer_ themselves. If they really find their resources fail,
they should be satisfied something is wrong in them or the life they
have adopted, and should struggle to release themselves from a state so
foreign to their well-being. You possess a love of study, and the four
golden keys which will introduce you to the most brilliant assembly of
the dead—_Greek_, _Latin_, _English_, _French_. The first introduces you
to those who have instructed, the next, to those who have conquered,
mankind; the third, to her who has been the depository of true religion,
pure morality, refined taste; and the fourth, to one who, among many
striking advantages, may consider it as her proudest boast, that she is
entitled in some things to be the rival of England herself.
I knew Lord Wellington in my youth; that is to say, he has often dined
with me in Henrietta-street and at the Park, but I was so reserved at
that time that we never exchanged six words, as he was also reserved,
except to those who made the first advances. However, as he has passed
some time as my guest in the country besides these casual meetings, I
should not feel the least reluctance at any time in writing a letter of
introduction for you to him.
I go on Tuesday next to Cheltenham. How much I shall miss you, and I
shall often think of our lost friend, Mrs. ——, whom I could not but like,
spite of the pains many people took to prove to me my liking was not
built on a good foundation. How foolish, by the bye, are all such pains!
There are two ways of considering everything and everybody (if we lay
aside the grand questions of religion and morality). Even your friend,
whom you have lately described as _faisant les délices de la société_
by his musical talents and other accomplishments, I have just heard
described as a most ridiculous, frivolous, tiresome coxcomb; _ainsi va
le monde_. The mania for going to France is spreading rapidly. You know
you have infected me by a touch of the pen. Has the last novel of Lady
Morgan (_née_ Miss Owenson) reached the Hague? Mr. Lefanu saw a letter
from Miss Edgeworth to her ladyship, in which she says it is _glorious_
for Ireland to have produced such a work. Strong language when applied
to a novel. I should have thought it too forcible if addressed even to
Fielding or Richardson.
I am very grateful to the Duchess of Brunswick for her recollection, and
can never forget the kindness with which she honoured me at Brunswick.
Tell her so, if a proper opportunity should offer. Her character and
abilities rendered her kindness a real distinction. The more you see of
her, the more you will value her _esprit_, and her natural, easy, and
pleasing manners.
We are reading Miss Edgeworth’s diffuse and wire-drawn novel, called
_Patronage_, which is much below her ability and literary place, but has
been hurried off from a good family motive—that of assisting to provide
for the fatherless infants of her late brother—such, at least, is the
report.
* * * * *
The letter which follows is the first in date of a very few
copies which I possess of letters, or parts of letters,
addressed by my Mother to Miss Agar, sister of the late Lord
Clifden, one of her oldest, and, beyond the circle of her own
family, by far her dearest friend. Their correspondence, which
was constant, had begun some twenty years earlier. The half of
the correspondence which is of no service to me I possess; but
the other half, I fear, has long since perished.
TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.
Cheltenham, Sept. 1, 1814.
We are packed into Pine Cottage. It abuses the cottage privilege of being
small and simple. One says at first, ‘Dear, what a charming little spot,’
and enjoys one’s own good sense in being easily pleased. One remarks with
how little space the real wants of man are contented, and one is tempted
to criticize palaces. But in a few hours the philosophical fit subsides,
and one wants more space and more convenience.
I think with you it was a cruel _persiflage_ in Lord Byron to produce
_Jacky_ as an attendant foot-page on his lofty and vigorous production.
The reviewers once placed him and Rogers on a level. This must have
been his motive. ‘It was the smile that withered to a sneer.’ You have
probably observed that one of the leading features in this tale seems
suggested by Falkland’s revenge on one who had insulted him, and whom
he suffered not to live to tell the tale. Lara’s merciless desire to
wreak his _cruelty_ (for he has not even the poor excuse of _revenge_)
on a fallen enemy, ranks him in the worst class of bad men. It is
extraordinary that Lord Byron should so often waste his admirable powers
in celebrating the unnatural, and, thank Heaven, the unfrequent, union
of guilt and genius; and should forget that the province of poetry is to
elevate, soothe, or amend the heart.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Cheltenham, Sept. 8, 1814.
Your account of the resigned and ancient pair, who have borne affliction
with so good a grace, is one of those tonics which strengthen the mind,
and assist in repelling the contagious air of general society, where one
of the great objects aimed at is the exclusion of all that can remind us
of ‘the changes and chances of this mortal life.’
You are kind in wishing us in Ireland. A superior education for our
children, the power of enjoying all the innocent pleasures of life
without injuring _their_ future prospects by expense, and my own health,
all conspire to detain us here. We leave no gap, and interrupt no
course of duty. No deserted mansion claims us within its ruined walls;
no ancient followers look in vain for our protection. Had my husband
been an elder brother, our case would have been different. As it is,
we have acted from serious, and I hope conscientious, motives. Setting
our own case aside, nothing has been more mistaken by the friends of
Ireland than the effects of the occasional residence of some of her
children in the sister country. Who are most anxious for her prosperity?
With some brilliant exceptions, we must say, Those who have mixed with
English society, who have visited England, witnessed the humanity of
her landlords, the prosperity of her peasantry, the smiling neatness
of her cottages. To improve a country by forbidding her inhabitants
to know by experience what is done in those foremost in the race of
virtue and civilization, is a solecism. Already has much been done by
the infusion of English society. All seem aware of the benefits arising
from the interchange of the militia. Is it amongst the lower ranks alone
that acquaintance with a superior tone of morals, manners, and knowledge
is to prove beneficial? Allowing that absentees are truants, will
_lecturing_ bring them home? All prudent wives know the inefficacy of the
prescription. This does not apply to your kind wishes. You never lectured
any one, yet I believe you have made many converts.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.
Cheltenham, Sept. 8, 1814.
This place is as full as possible—crowds of independent men, who
seem to keep aloof from the women—of old ladies who, after a life of
gallantry, come here to lose themselves in a crowd; and of young ones,
many of whom seem eager in the pursuit of matrimony. You do not tell
me whether you sing, draw, or write verses. I am idleness itself, in
spite of my early rising, as to everything but books; and though I do
not _study_, I contrive to _read_ some hours every day. I have just read
_A World without Souls_. The idea is well conceived, but the work is
but indifferently executed; and contains an attack on the principles of
the useful and venerable Paley, which I could wish spared. I have also
read Montgomery’s _World before the Flood_, in which are some beautiful
passages; but the dead weight of a dull and heavy story will, I fear,
sink the whole into oblivion, in spite of the charms of the poetry. Lord
Byron’s _Lara_, an interesting _vaurien_, and Mr. Rogers’s _Jaqueline_,
an insipid shepherdess, who is bound up and introduced to the public with
this discordant mate, have also formed part of my studies, relieved by
the agreeable flippancy of Lady Morgan’s _O’Donnell_. Byron certainly
persuaded Rogers to allow their poems to see the light together, in order
to prove the immense distance between a pair whom the reviewers had
lately bracketed together.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 29, 1814.
Your kind letter found me reposing at home after a pleasant visit of
three weeks to Cheltenham—that delightful spot which unites all an
invalid can desire, in pure air, beautiful scenery, fine climate,
easy habits; and is ornamented by the most pleasing style of villa
architecture, cheerful, light, and airy, something between the cottage
and the _maisonnette_, sprinkled in all directions through one continued
garden.
In our way home we passed a day at Gloucester, and heard a morning
concert of sacred music, given for a charitable purpose, in the beautiful
cathedral. These music meetings are the most thoroughly national
amusement we have. Polished, pure, and dignified, they owe nothing to
the glare of tapers, the false spirits of the evening hour, the splendour
of ornaments, or any theatric illusion. Handel’s _Dead March in Saul_
was singularly affecting. The soft sounds of wind instruments floating
through the lofty roof with the most plaintive sweetness, interrupted
at intervals by the double-drum, echoing, reverberating, and dying away
along the aisles, like cannon among distant hills, were at once awful
and pathetic. Braham’s performance of _Jephtha’s Lamentation_ is one
of the finest pieces of tragic singing in our time, and combines every
excellency music can possess.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., BRUSSELS.
Bursledon Lodge, Oct., 1814.
If I did not speedily reply to a letter so full of anxiety for my
good spirits, I should be a most _undutiful_ mother. Some may contest
the propriety of the epithet, but I maintain it. There is nothing for
which I feel more obliged than a desire that I should enjoy that prime
blessing, cheerfulness, so interwoven with my original character, that,
when deprived of it, I appear in the eyes of those who love me to be not
myself. Many friends are desirous we should enjoy the physical goods
of life. It is only real affection and superior intelligence that look
to one’s feelings; or, indeed, are fully aware of the _spirit_ of Mrs.
Sullen’s reply, when her husband reproaches her for being discontented
amidst all the goods of fortune—‘What, sir, do you take me for a charity
child, to sit down contented with meat, drink, and clothes? There are
certain pretty things called pleasures.’ Mrs. Sullen not being a very
correct person, we must reject her idea of pleasure, and adopt one more
refined.
Do not you underrate _The Corsair_ in not admiring the description it
gives of strong and tender feelings? Except in _Paradise Lost_ and
_Gertrude of Wyoming_, I know not where conjugal affection is more
beautifully described than in the character of the Corsair; and his
sufferings in the dungeon are a most spirited Salvator Rosa sketch.
Pray have you ever read _Nugæ Antiquæ_, some preserved, others written,
by Sir John Harrington, a godson and favourite of Queen Elizabeth’s?
Much amusement may be culled from the second and third volumes. With
your views and intentions you should read original papers, as well
relative to the private characters as the remarkable actions of those
who make a prominent appearance in history. The details respecting Queen
Elizabeth are particularly amusing; and Harrington’s wit and humour
throw considerable _agrément_ on every subject. When you meet Mrs.
More’s _Hints for the Education of a Princess_, read the _Historical
Reflections_. Those respecting princes who have obtained the title of
Great, are admirable. Voltaire throws so much glare on the character
of Louis the Fourteenth, that it refreshes one’s sight to look at him
through the spectacles of sober morality.
Jekyll is amusing as ever in point of wit and humour, though not of
imagination. He has turned his mind so much to playing on words that
he attends little to thoughts—a common error in professed wits, and
one which accounts for their giving less pleasure in society than those
who only hear their _bon mots_ quoted are led to expect. We read in the
papers of a brewer drowned in his own beer. ‘Yes,’ says Jekyll, ‘Unwept
he floats upon his watery _beer_.’ Conversation at Paulton’s hardly
consists in reciprocal communication. Jekyll talks; others applaud,
excite, and listen.
TO THE SAME.
Bursledon Lodge, Oct. 14, 1814.
I send _Lara_. Here are all Lord Byron’s accustomed powers of language
and description, his energetic seizure of our attention, his forceful
manner of stamping images, so that we cannot erase them if we would,
of identifying them with our thoughts, so that they pursue when we
attempt to fly them; his verses have fangs. Here is also his accustomed
celebration of the unnatural and unfrequent union between genius and
crime. That it is an union not unfrequent, knaves endeavour to teach, and
fools willingly believe. But experience denies the fact, and it suits not
the higher walk of poetry, which, without giving direct lessons, should
always elevate, soothe, or mend the heart.
... The sooner you tell us the day we may hope for you, the more on every
account you will oblige your best friend, and perhaps the _only_ one who
considers _you_ solely in all the opinions she gives. Vanity, prejudice,
envy, self-interest, enter into almost all advice except from a parent.
Therefore, consider what has been said as coming from a second self, but
one who views your situation from the eminence of years and experience.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1814.
I do indeed congratulate you on your having regained a title so dreaded
by the vain and frivolous, so desired by the affectionate. You must
know in the circle which calls itself the world, the _word_ is nearly
exploded, and grandchildren are taught to distinguish their parents in
the first and second line as _Mamma_ This and _Mamma_ That, without using
the terrific _trisyllable_.
My daughter, whose name has excited so much interest in your valuable
circle, is Elizabeth Melesina. Her father affectionately wished she
should bear my name, but I seduced him to suffer Elizabeth to be joined,
which unites my mother’s name, that of the excellent Lady Hutchinson,
and of her kind godmother. I had some objection to my own name, combined
in _my_ mind with many faults and many sorrows; and I also know by
experience that an appellation which is more suited to the pages of
fiction than to real life ministers to vanity and romance; besides its
tempting coxcombs to ‘soften stanzas with her tuneful name,’ as is well
expressed in some stanzas addressed to poor me; who can now and then be
wise for others, not having expended much wisdom at home. So my daughter
is now Bessy, under which domestic and social name I hope to see her good
and contented, and to present her in time to my dear Mrs. Leadbeater.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
Dec. 23, 1814.
Yesterday we dined at Miss Short’s. Mr. —— talked to me when he was a
_little_ drunk, just as Mr. —— did twenty years ago, and resembled him
exactly. I barricaded myself in a seat on the sofa, putting M. on one
side, Miss M. on the other, and a desk screen before me. But he talked
away through all impediments; and you know my good nature never allows me
to use the defensive armour Providence has given me against forwardness,
unless I am more provoked than I can be by a mere determination to
converse with and try to please me. He talked to me of his _capital_
house in Portland-place, his having dined with Lord Spencer, his wife
being cousin to Lady —— ——, of his being a book-fancier, and having
offered £200 for _Boccaccio_; in short, he collected into one focus all
that was to dazzle me, and offered to lend me the most curious French
romance extant, &c. &c., which you may be sure I refused.
Miss O’Neill is said to be more natural than Mrs. Siddons was, but to
gain no more by it than wax-work does by being a closer representation of
nature than the Apollo Belvedere. Very few discriminate sufficiently in
the arts between the merit of an _exact_ representation and an _ennobled_
one; and people are not fair enough in general to allow that something
must be sacrificed of fidelity in order to reach that elevated imitation
which alone gives strong and repeated pleasure.
TO THE COUNT DE LA GARDIE.
Bursledon Lodge, 1814.
J’ai appris avec plaisir, Monsieur le Comte, que le choix de votre
Excellence pour être ambassadeur de sa M. le Roi de Suède auprès de la
Cour de Naples vous a conduit dans ce pays. Le souvenir des heures, à
la fois, animées, douces, et tranquilles, que j’ai passées dans votre
hôtel à Vienne, et qui m’ont rendu cette ville si agréable, ne s’effacera
jamais. J’ai vivement regretté que mon séjour forçé en France après mon
mariage, mon mari ayant été fait prisonnier de guerre, quoiqu’il n’avoit
jamais embrassé l’état militaire, a interrompu la correspondance dont
j’ai joui pendant quelque temps. J’ai tâché de la renouer par l’entremise
du Chevalier l’Amiral Bertie. Je ne vous exprimerai pas ce que j’ai senti
quand il m’a rapporté, sans être décachetée, ma lettre, destinée pour la
plus douce, la plus cherie des mortelles, mais écrite à un ange du ciel.
Je ne me permets de suivre les idées que cet evenement m’inspire. Agréez,
M. le Comte, l’expression du désir que je ressens de vous remercier
——[54]
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.
Bath, April, 1815.
Have you seen the late Maréchal Lacy’s country house? I thought the
grounds extremely beautiful. He was one of the many who were kind to
me, that have been removed to another existence since I left Vienna.
Fifteen years’ absence from any place gives one a terrible lesson on the
instability of life, when one seeks for the friends or even acquaintances
one has left. Those I have lost there exceed in number those I have
preserved, and were among my chief intimates, for I now know none there
so well as I knew Mad. de Thun, Lady Guilford, Maréchal Lacy, and Mad.
Colloredo. Are the great dinners still at two o’clock? We were very much
interested by Lord Clancarty’s last despatch, describing the reception
of Buonaparte’s propositions, which is certainly an admirable State
paper, and written with a strength and terseness too often neglected in
diplomatic composition. Its openness and manly directness are also to be
admired; there is a stamp of truth and firmness about it, and no opening
appears to be left for wavering or indecision.
Adieu. It is a rare thing for me not to fill a sheet, but I am not full
of ideas, and am so conversant with trees and shrubs that, like one of
Ovid’s heroines, I think my feet will soon take root, and my fingers
germinate, only, however, with leaves and buds. Have you heard that both
Mad. de Staël and her daughter have married since they left England?
I suppose this country gave them a taste for domestic life, as it is
certainly the spot on the globe where it is best understood.
The ——s are in London. He is exerting all his energies—to get into _The
Alfred_. Pitiable that with so good abilities he should be reduced at
sixty to anxiety for an object so frivolous. How wise are they who take
advantage of the opening given by English laws and customs to rise above
the every-day detail of mere society, and take their share in politics,
literature, or great works of benevolence, which, if we add to them the
learned professions, take in all the objects really worth attention.
Have you happened to see Alison’s _Sermons_? If not, bulky as they are,
I must try to send them. One upon the fiftieth anniversary of our King’s
reign is exquisite in feeling, taste, and style.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
Bath, April 16, 1815.
You have no notion how much I enjoy my escape from the jaws of the
hill—opening, just as if they designed to close on us again. I must never
put myself _dans la gorge des montagnes_. With a thousand reasons for
being in worse, I am in better spirits, and enjoy my loftiness and my
airiness. In short, I hate to _look up_, except to people, and that is a
pleasure I am used to, and have been _particularly_ so during the last
twelve years.
I was at Mr. Lemon’s last night, and was mistaken and talked to for
Mrs. J. Hayes, which, as she is but four-and-twenty, I accepted for a
great compliment. I personated her as long as I could, not to distress
the speaker; but when, after inquiring for all Mrs. Hayes’ near friends
and relations, she came to solicitude for _our friend Mrs. Wiggins_,
I could not hold out or do the honours of four-and-twenty any longer.
I returned Mrs. ——’s visit at her cottage on Saturday. It is one of
those cottages described in a novel, where one finds a pair of runaway
lovers or a fair unknown. The flame of friendship on her part burned
and crackled immediately. It would have done so equally on mine (for I
am not ungrateful, and her manners are charming), if my friendship did
not flow with my love in so broad and deep a channel that I do not find
it easy to divert it into any smaller streams. Formerly my heart could
sincerely feed innumerable little streamlets of female friendships,
platonic friendships, literary partnerships, serviceable warm good
wills, and cheerful self-sacrificing intimacies; and though I have been
sometimes blamed for this apparent diffusion, I had affection enough
in my composition to answer all these demands; but ‘the seven heads of
the Nile’ have now each their appropriate destination; even the little
pleasure I had last year in the variety of mixed society is now quite
absorbed in my superior happiness at home.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
May 4, 1815.
So I said in February last that I had not leisure for many works of
fiction. Alas, poor human nature! since that time I have read _Waverley_,
_The Queen’s Wake_, _The Curse of Kehama_, _The Lord of the Isles_, and
skimmed over _Guy Mannering_, _Discipline_, and _Charlemagne_. _The Lord
of the Isles_ is a charming poem, as a full-length portrait of Bruce,
whose dignity and sweetness are admirably portrayed; but the misses and
masters of this work are _too_ uninteresting. _The Curse of Kehama_ is
full of exquisite beauties, and I know nothing in the whole range of
imaginative descriptive poetry that impresses me so much as the City
under water. I was also charmed to meet my dear nursery friends, the
Glumms and Gawries, who had so delighted me in _Peter Wilkins_.
_May 11._—I wish I could tell you anything of the Queen of Prussia; but
there are characters which defy description, and, if one attempts to
give them _colour_, one falls into invention. She was beautiful; and
well conducted in those points peculiarly exacted from women; in nothing
distinguished. Dress and dancing she was fonder of than even the majority
of her sex, and devoted to them to a later period. She was so uncommonly
obliging to me that I feel as if I was ungrateful in mentioning these
trifles; but I cannot resist your inquiry. Her beauty was not of a
distinguished kind as to face, but her figure was fine and commanding.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.
May, 1815.
I am not surprised you admire the Prater. It is, I believe, the most
beautiful public place in the world; and its first burst of spring, so
prompt, so rapid, so rich, though not so delightful to a resident as a
more gradual approach, is more splendid and striking. One would not wish
it so always; but for once it is a beautiful _coup de théâtre_. And the
great enjoyments of the labourer and artizan in their holiday summer
evenings on this spot give a spectacle probably unique. The populace at
Vienna seem the best and happiest I have seen. They are incomparably the
best fed; and this forms no small praise of their superiors. Have you
been presented to the Emperor? You ought; and there is no place where
it is so little troublesome. It is a _duperie_ not to be introduced to
the most remarkable people, and particularly to those whose actions
influence the destiny of thousands both existing and unborn. Never ‘lay
the flattering unction to your soul’ of being _presented_, &c. &c., when
you come back; for one hardly ever retraces one’s own path. Friends often
say, ‘It is not worth the trouble—I am sure you would not like it;’ but
one must cut this short, or may lose half what one travels for.
_June 14, 1815._—One should be very cautious to prevent habitual
politeness from degenerating into involuntary, or at least unintentional,
dissimulation. The daughter of the landlady of the inn where I slept last
night at Bagshot, at two years old, gave her sister of seven, without
any provocation, so vigorous and well applied a slap, so perfectly
_aplomb_, as proved the exercise habitual. The mother seemed delighted at
this display of spirit before me; and instead of a timely word or hint
of disapprobation, the vile habit of involuntary politeness led me to
sanction it rather by a civil and approving smile.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
London, June 23, 1815.
We are in all the triumph and tears of a dear-bought victory. The Prince
was at dinner at Mrs. Boehm’s when the news was brought to him. Ministers
and all wept in triumph among the bottles and glasses. The Regent fell
into a sort of womanish hysteric. Water was flung in his face. No, that
would never do. Wine was tried with better success, and he drowned
his feelings in an ocean of claret. They seem to have been a little
disturbed in their natural course, for he called Jekyll, and said, ‘Lady
Gertrude Sloane’s brother is killed. Take my carriage and tell her so.’
Jekyll expostulated that Lady Gertrude was gone to bed—just ready to be
confined, and the surprise might be fatal, if the news was announced in
that way at that hour. The Regent persisted, and at last said, ‘Well, go
to Lord Carlisle’s; for some of them _must_ know it,’ which Jekyll also
resisted.
He is made one of the Masters (in Chancery, I suppose), and gets between
two and three thousand a-year. I wish his dear wife was living;—but I
hope I wrong her much by so mean a wish.
Do not quote Jekyll in this account of the Regent. One of my Hanoverian
friends is killed, a worthy man as ever fought—Omptéda his name; and one
of my acquaintances in that quarter, Büssche, the fine-looking son of my
beautiful friend, has lost an arm.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., VIENNA.
Cheltenham, July 3, 1815.
Mrs. —— was at Cheltenham six weeks, and went to an hotel, where she
lived at the _table-d’hôte_. This was not the choice of very good taste;
_mais n’importe_; it amused her, and no one ever thought of criticizing
but those who had not kindliness of heart to take pleasure in her being
amused. Among these critics were the Ladies B——, who told Mrs. —— their
_propriety_ would not allow them to visit her at a place where they
_might_, _would_ or _could_ meet _so many men_ on the stairs, &c. Did any
one ever hear such _trash_? What strange points people choose for their
propriety; and how few are there who may not go up and down stairs with
perfect security.
There is a great influx of Petticoats, and Irish petticoats, in the
place; but man is a rare bird, and, when he does come, _very shy_, to use
a sportsman’s phrase.
TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.
Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 2, 1815.
You ask me how I like _The Pilgrims of the Sun_. It abuses the privilege
assumed by modern poets of setting aside all respect for _le vrai_
or _le vraisemblable_. It is a reverie, a rhapsody, a long tour in
an air-balloon—what you will; yet it has pretty lines, and shows
some imagination; but these one finds everywhere. It is one of the
distinctions of this age, that so many attempt to write verses, and so
few fail of producing something which may be read, _once_ at least,
with pleasure. But I have read _Roderick the Goth_ with reverence and
admiration—a stately Gothic temple, in ornament rich and elaborate, yet
losing nothing of its general effect from the beauty and high finish of
its details; exciting in the mind a religious awe which composes and
invigorates, at the same time awakening the tenderest affections. The
application of the words of our Liturgy and Scripture is often very
beautiful; and I am not so scrupulous on this head as the Edinburgh
Reviewer, who (pious man) is shocked at the introduction of Catholic
ceremonies, as indecorous and irreverent. They are highly picturesque,
and suited to poetry; and I do not think Mr. Southey’s description of
auricular confession will either make one convert to Popery, or excite
the smallest sentiment of irreverence for Christianity. But these
Reviewers seem to praise him with great regret, and, I believe, are a
little angry that any one on this side the Tweed should have written so
fine a poem. However, I grant that it is too universally sombre; the
mixture of justified and avowed revenge with Christian feelings on other
matters is incongruous; while the hinge on which the story turns is a
crime which by no skill whatever can be divested of meanness and ferocity.
How could Lord Carysfort think I had _forgot_ his reading? On the
contrary, his reading not merely fixed in my memory what was good, but
has also left an indelible impression of some of Lewis’s _diableries_,
and Wordsworth’s inanity, which I wish to forget, and cannot, though I
have in general a happy facility in that way; and I sometimes find myself
involuntarily repeating—
‘What’s the matter, what’s the matter,
What is it ails young Harry Gill?’
and so on for three or four stanzas. The whole is in an _Annual Register_
which was sent to Berlin, and I heard it but once read in the corner
where Lady Carysfort’s sofa was placed, and where she sat with feminine
work in her hands, and more than feminine eloquence on her lips; now
discussing with prophetic spirit (as events have proved) the fate of
Europe, and now consulting on the form of some simple ornament for her
daughters. How much has been erased from memory of what has happened
before and since; yet how well do I recollect those _sweet_ evenings.
Forgive me the Irish epithet; I cannot always do without it.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., DRESDEN.
Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 11, 1815.
I address this to Dresden in great hope of its missing you; as it is a
pity the Gallery there, which every day will improve, should detain you
from the treasures of art, _now_ collected in Paris—but which will soon
be crumbled away. Every hour some star is blotted from the constellation,
some borrowed plume plucked from the daw. There, too, the materials of
future history are forming. The great game of power is playing on a large
scale. Paris is now the _focus_ of the mind of the civilized world, and
one may exist more there in a week than elsewhere in years. But all this
is evanescent; while petty princes, warm baths, and waltzing misses, are
always to be had.
The Polish women, whom you mention as nationally agreeable, have all
the ease and adroitness acquired by living constantly in a crowd, and
having no pursuit but dissipation, and very little restraint from
principle. There is, however, much tinsel and frippery in their manners.
The colours are gay, but roughly laid on; and in a short time those
persons of good taste who have been accustomed to that beautiful union of
refinement and simplicity (the perfection of female grace) which is found
amongst English women, are annoyed by a certain mixture of coarseness
and _finesse_. They please at first; for their gold is hammered into
the most airy thinness, and all spread on the surface; and though they
rarely excel in anything, they are _tolerably_ advanced in a variety
of languages, and other accomplishments, which they are ever anxious to
display—their morning all rehearsal, their evening all performance.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 30, 1815.
Your amusing packets always diffuse cheerfulness over my horizon, or
rather increase that which, I thank Heaven, does not often forsake
me. Indeed, I do consider that moment as fortunate to me which made
us acquainted; you know not of how much use you have been to my mind,
nor what moral benefit is derived from intercourse with you and yours,
including your excellent friend Mr. ——. I am sorry I mentioned those
‘eccentricities,’ to borrow your word, which I thought I perceived in
his character. I am sure, however, I was right, since you have not
contradicted me. Believe me, I do not esteem him less for knowing on what
side lie those shades which are the inevitable lot of humanity. On the
contrary, he is more interesting to me, as I am better acquainted with
his individuality; and, knowing that every virtue verges on some defect,
I am not the least surprised that a mind so active and energetic, should
be in some degree positive and self-opinionated. We must not expect from
eagles the gentleness of doves.
The next few entries contain the record of a short visit to
Paris made at the conclusion of this year.
_Nov. 3-5, 1815._—From London to Dover you are received at all the inns
with a jerking _empressement_, that shows travellers to France are
considered as the spoiled children of the travelling world, who are
trying to get rid of themselves, and must be flattered and humoured.
Elsewhere one meets an easy, quiet civility, as if one’s object might
be one’s own business, and it was not necessary to incite and indulge
one’s whims to keep up the spirit of change. But on this road the whole
family pour out on all occasions, not excepting the young ladies _en
papillotes_; there is a double portion of alacrity, and one is treated as
if carrying despatches on which hung the fate of Europe.
* * * * *
_Nov. 14, Hôtel Mont Blanc, Paris._—After an absence of eight years, I
find that while the French have veered to every point of the compass as
to morals, religion, and government, they have been constant to their
milliners, opera-dancers, and _restaurateurs_, who are all the same I
left. Madame Gardel still bears the palm for grace; _Madame_, or rather
_Monsieur_, Le Roy, for millinery; and Véry and Beauvilliers are still
the princes of _restaurateurs_. The gentleness, the smoothness of manners
of the English, the harmony of their voices, and the repose and educated
expression of their countenances, form a striking contrast to the harsh,
sudden, angular, impatient appearance of the French. Sometimes these
assume a veil of softness, but it is transparent, and suddenly thrown off
when anything touches or even threatens their interest or their vanity
in the most distant point.
I inhabit an apartment that affects to be luxurious. The suite of rooms
are seven, and the walls ornamented with large looking-glasses; but my
bedroom is without a carpet, and the curtains both of bed and window are
of embroidered muslin, unlined, so I shiver in state. My bedroom also is
without a bell, so that whenever I want my maid I must _run_ or _roar_,
which disagrees extremely with the dignified of _coup-d’œil_ of my
apartment.
* * * * *
_Nov. 18._—My dear little —— has begun to take lessons in dancing from
Mons. Reichard, who modestly says—‘_Je suis le premier démonstrateur du
monde_;’ and who tells me that _if_ —— attends to his dancing he will be
a very handsome man—a whimsical connexion of cause and effect, recalling
Molière’s _Vous êtes orfèvre_.
I had the pleasure of seeing in one evening, Corneille’s _Menteur_, and
_Les Plaideurs_, by Racine. To see on the same night the first good
French comedy (which, however, is an acknowledged translation from the
Spanish), and the two best comic productions of the greatest tragic
writers of this nation, was fortunate. But _Les Plaideurs_ being founded
on an alienation of mind, gives pain, in spite of all its humour and
brilliancy. No superstructure can universally please on this foundation,
which appears to me radically faulty, and equally an offence against good
taste and good feeling.
When I saw the Comtesse de Pimbeche she immediately reminded me of my
dear friend Mad. de Sévigné, who says, ‘_Je suis une vraie Comtesse de
Pimbeche_;’ and I was glad to laugh at what had diverted her.
* * * * *
_Nov. 20._—The poor dismantled Gallery! Here are the empty frames of
the fine pictures, which have been restored to their rightful owners; a
mournful memento, however just the act of restoration. Still, much is
left. Albano’s Cupids still whet their arrows, and Cuyp’s soft light
still beams from the walls.
The _Hôtel des Invalides_ is one of the most glorious monuments of the
reign of Louis XIV. The veterans are well fed and clothed. They lodge in
a palace, and command a view spacious and magnificent, as far as regular
plantations and wide alleys can make it so. Sixty years of age, or wounds
that disable from service, are the titles of admission. They receive
forty sous a month pocket-money.
The general idea of such a retreat for the veterans of war, flatters
the imagination at a distance; but when we approach, it is in detail
a melancholy sight. There is something so disproportioned between the
grandeur of the building and the maimed, old, and debilitated figures who
creep and shiver through its magnificent arcades; and also between the
remuneration of a mere provision for the necessities of life, and those
acts, always of self-devotion, sometimes of eminent heroism, connected
with a military career, that one gladly escapes from so painful a
contrast; and when one has said, This is _the best_ that unlimited power
can do for valour in the aggregate, one turns shuddering to _the worst_,
and sees in their true light the calamities of war. A few priests and
_Sœurs de la Charité_ glide along among these feeble veterans, these
remnants of themselves, adding to the solemnity of the picture. The
day was bitterly cold; possibly the summer sun might have given it a
different colouring.
* * * * *
_Nov. 21._—Saw _Les Ménechmes_, and _Crispin Rival de son Maître_.
_In Les Ménechmes_ the hero turns off as a jest a written promise of
marriage, for which it appears he had received a valuable consideration.
This dishonourable action would not be tolerated in England. In _Crispin_
the dishonesty of a servant who gives proof of ingenious and hardened
roguery, is not only forgiven, but his master promises to try him again
in the same situation.
* * * * *
_Nov. 22._—_Les Horaces_ is perhaps the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Cimarosa. The
music is worthy of the subject. Catalani, whose want of feminine softness
always leaves something to be desired in a woman’s part, was a charming
young Roman, uniting the soldier and the lover with admirable grace. In
the first part of the piece, where spirit, love, and happiness were to be
exprest, she was delightful; it was all sunshine trembling and glittering
through roses, or fountains sparkling and playing in the beams of the
moon. Curiatius advances like the spirit of happiness to receive the vows
of his bride. The sacred flames are kindled, the priests pronounce the
nuptial benediction, the bride has permitted her veil to be withdrawn,
their hands advance to join, when the three Horatii, similar in dress,
appearance, and expression, enter, like the Fates, and interrupt the
rites, never to be renewed. Their number, their resemblance to one
another, gives to their appearance somewhat supernatural and imposing.
One trembles at the expression of one will in these three human forms,
whom one cannot distinguish from each other. One loses all hope of
softening by prayer those who seem divested of individuality. From this
fatal moment all is tragic; and, finally, we see these victims to their
patriotism go out to a combat which leaves no hope for the victors or
the vanquished. The piece closes at this awful period. The sacrifice is
consummated; Rome or Alba may be saved, but the happiness of those for
whom our interest has been strongly excited, is for ever gone. I know no
piece more animated, interesting, noble, and energetic. _Touching_ it
would surely be, in the hands of those who know how to strike the chords
of the pathetic; but here Catalani’s genius forsakes her; she commands
admiration and smiles, but never excites a tear. She is, therefore, much
finer in the first part of this opera than in the second.
* * * * *
_Nov. 30._—When an Englishwoman enters a milliner’s shop, every
individual flies at her, like birds of prey on a tame dove. In the
highest of these _magazins_ a _beau garçon_ is always to be found, who
gives the cap its last arrangement when tried on, and decides on its
being extremely becoming. He is an amphibious being, dressed in an
effeminate and highly ornamented manner, who ‘now trips a lady, and now
struts a lord.’ One of these creatures took the liberty of asking an
English lady to let him see the English corset she wore that day, as they
were always so becomingly made about _la gorge_. The presence of these
supernumeraries prodigiously inflames a bill, on which Lady C. said she
never went to shops where they are to be found, as ‘she had no idea of
paying for the sight of a man.’
Talleyrand says of the Duke of Richelieu, his successor as prime
minister, ‘He is well bred, well conducted, and no man in France knows so
much—of the Crimea.’
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.
Paris, Dec. 2, 1815.
Your letter from Chalons was kind and _seasonable_, for it arrived on
a day when I was very ill and very low. If I had not seen you well and
happy, I should very much regret my visit to Paris, for, being unprovided
with proper letters of introduction, and confined by my cold, I have
had no pleasures of society, and we are so much embarrassed at this
moment by failure of rents, that even the trifling sum which it will
cost is a matter of some inconvenience. I shall regret nothing but the
dancing-master, by far the best that I ever saw, and I have observed
the art with some attention. When I announced to him that —— could take
no more lessons from him, as we were on the point of leaving Paris, he
looked at him with commiseration, lifted up his hands and eyes, and
exclaiming, _C’est un enfant perdu!_ hurried away.
I see the Diet at Frankfort is thickening. Pray present my compliments to
Prince Hardenberg, whom I had the pleasure of knowing at Berlin in 1801;
and if you ascertain that his wife is living, inquire for her in my
name. Three of the persons whom I most esteemed and loved amongst those
whose acquaintance I made in that well-remembered tour, are no more, Mad.
de Büssche, Mad. de Walmöden, and Mad. de la Gardie. If you ever see any
of their near relations, recall me to their remembrance. Sometimes I
regret being forgotten and out of remembrance, and almost extinct as to
all the purposes of social life, except within my own family circle; and
at other times I say to myself, that sphere _ought_ to content a woman.
So it ought, but you, I know, will rejoice in seeing I have momentary
aspirations after the living world, and am not always imbarked and rooted
in my geraniums and myrtles.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Dec. 25, 1815.
You ask me of Mrs. Piozzi. She is a lively, animated woman, far advanced
in years, and peculiarly agreeable in countenance, conversation, and
manners. So she appeared to me, who have only met her in mixed company,
and so I have heard her described by others. She is a woman of very high
spirits, and only two years ago went to a masquerade in Bath disguised as
a constable, Lady Belmore (the dowager) and Miss Caldwell attending her
as watchmen; and they amused themselves throwing the whole assembly into
consternation by pretending they had a warrant to disperse and imprison
them as engaged in an illegal amusement.
Alas, and have I seen in the _Farmers Journal_ Mr. Lefanu’s eulogium on
boxing, and has he condescended to use the old hackneyed argument that
boxing is better than the stiletto! In my youth I used also to hear that
‘cards were better than scandal,’ as if there were no _third_ manner of
passing the evening.
* * * * *
1815.—The following are some of the thoughts and observations
which I have found scattered up and down in my Mother’s
note-books and journals, often without a date. More of them
seem to belong to this year and the preceding than to any
other, and I have therefore grouped them together at this place.
Our friends may commend us above our deserts without corrupting
our hearts, because we know their opinions _must_ be attributed to
partiality, and cannot be shared by any indifferent persons.
* * * * *
A witty man is a public benefactor. Every time one of his brilliant
sayings is repeated a portion of pleasure is imparted, keen according
to the susceptibility of the hearer; a smile is called into tearful
eyes; severity relaxes her brow, and anxiety forgets her cares. Social
enjoyments are increased, the hearers like each other the better for the
pleasure they have shared together. What an amount of enjoyment Jekyll
has given to the world, raised for how many the leaden mantle of _ennui_,
and eased them for a moment of its weight.
* * * * *
To write daily in absence is an excellent habit in marriage. As daily
prayer nourishes our soul, so does daily correspondence feed the religion
of the heart.
* * * * *
Man seems to bear a strange resemblance to the planet he inhabits. His
mind appears composed of layers, like the earth. There is the layer of
education, and that of habit; the ideas he avows to the world; those
within, which he avows to his friends; under those, what he acknowledges
to himself; and yet deeper, what he really feels without daring even a
self-avowal.
* * * * *
In the Macobar Islands everything a man possesses is buried with him, and
the dead are spoken of no more. In highly polished and dissipated society
this practice seems gaining ground.
* * * * *
A jesting account of women by a woman.—Women are kind to men, unkind to
one another. The best point in their character is that they are good
nurse-tenders; the worst, that they seldom speak a word of absolute
truth. They are envious of beauty, singing, dancing, dress, wealth, and
rank, in their own sex, but not the least so of goodness, sense, or
domestic happiness.
* * * * *
To have too clear an insight into one’s own mind is sometimes a
misfortune, for one magnifies one’s own meditations and chimeras, till
they assume ‘a local habitation and a name,’ and then one acts upon them
as if they were realities.
* * * * *
There are few more effectual ways of displeasing, than dwelling on our
own happiness, except to those who consider themselves as the authors
of it. Artful and designing women are so aware of the converse of this
principle, that an interesting and melancholy story of which self is the
heroine, is one of their most common and yet most successful means of
seduction.
* * * * *
An enthusiastic manner generally denotes either mediocrity, or
affectation, or both. Those who possess a deep knowledge of the fine
arts, never converse on the subject but most reluctantly, and by a sort
of force. Such, I recollect, was the case with Sir William Hamilton.
Smatterers cannot see a parish church without a comparison between Gothic
and Grecian architecture, nor a Turk’s head on a sign-post without
referring to ‘classical contours’ and ‘the Apollo Belvedere.’
* * * * *
A charity sermon is a satire on man. That he should require to be adjured
by every motive spiritual and temporal, and courted by every form of
eloquence, to grant a small portion of his superfluity for the relief of
human misery, is most wonderful.
* * * * *
The affectation of sensibility seldom imposes on those who possess the
reality. The performer may have learned the tune, but will be out of
time. The _poco piu_ or the _poco meno_ will expose him.
* * * * *
In the Alps you sometimes find yourself under a clear blue sky on a
bright sunny throne above the clouds—the top of the mountain being
divided from the lower world by this magnificent boundary, which,
occasionally unfolding, presents partial views of the earth beneath. A
just emblem of the state of those who truly love.[55]
* * * * *
The sense of shame is so fine a weapon, it is a pity to risk its edge, or
even its polish.
* * * * *
Happiness! a fearful word, seldom uttered but as the forerunner of
calamity. It seems as if happiness, like the lamps in the ancient
sepulchres, is of a nature to burn only while unnoticed and unknown.
* * * * *
There is no subject on which people betray more of their character than
in their unprepared opinions on the marriages of others. How much sordid
littleness and pitiful calculation breaks out on these occasions.
* * * * *
The fine taste in music prevalent in some Roman Catholic countries,
is accounted for by the excellence of their Church Music. Perhaps the
universal good style of writing in England may be owing in part to the
beauty of the language of our liturgy. Any person who will take the
trouble of comparing the epistolary style of the middle classes in other
countries of modern Europe may perceive our superiority.
* * * * *
There is no virtue which is not caricatured by some defect. Christian
charity is caricatured by that worldly-minded prudence which receives
contumely and neglect, at least from equals or superiors, with a sort
of awe approaching to admiration; and which more willingly renders its
tribute of praise or favours to fear than love, alive to apprehension and
dead to gratitude.
* * * * *
One may cut down one’s own ambition, but the shoots will spring up for
one’s children.
* * * * *
To be in a passion with one’s superior is dangerous; with an equal,
imprudent; with an inferior, cowardly.
* * * * *
Travelling gives weak minds an exaggerated idea of the value of those
personal advantages which, in a country where the character and
connexions of strangers and the gradations of English rank are unknown,
obtain distinctions, attention, and flattery, far beyond what they would
obtain at home.
* * * * *
Travelling is the most selfish of all pleasures, whether we consider the
number of painful scenes we avoid, or of duties we elude, by absence from
the natural sphere of our duties.
* * * * *
Shakespeare should never be mentioned with an epithet.
* * * * *
Perhaps few have ever written thoroughly good and musical prose, who
did not at one time or other exercise their pens in verse. Experience
seems to corroborate this, and it is a strong motive for encouraging all
poetical attempts.
* * * * *
Things to be avoided in society:—
Excessive laughter on any subject.
All jests on poverty, infirmity, plainness of person, sickness, debility,
or whatever else may be _felt_ as a misfortune.
Story-telling, or mimicry, repeated in the same circle.
Discussion of ages or incomes.
Superlatives and enthusiasm.
Any quotations exceeding a line, or generally known.
Any discussion on the fine arts, unless we can produce new observations
of our own.
Any account of our travels, except the subject is introduced by others.
* * * * *
It is singular how ill, in general, _men_ bear _little_ talents and
accomplishments, and how much more overweening they are made by them
than by great ones. This seems to justify what one considers at first
an English prejudice—the sort of contempt that excelling in ornamental
branches of education is so apt to bring on a man, unless managed with
great address and apparent indifference to them; and, indeed, even then
I believe they rather take from his dignity.
* * * * *
The moral uses of pain and sickness. Humility, patience, courage,
sympathy, and compassion. A just appreciation of beauty, strength,
rank, talents, and riches. A willingness to think no assistance to
our fellow-creatures too considerable to be given, or too small to
be received. An extraordinary increase and development of the social
affections. Besides these general uses, sickness has often the particular
advantage of breaking vicious or dangerous connexions, and arresting us
in the career of guilt and folly.
* * * * *
Why should a ready laugh, a general shake of the hand, and that
difficulty of living alone or in a family circle which makes all new
comers equally welcome, constitute a good-natured man? Good nature is no
great laugher. Nine laughs out of ten spring from a contemptuous feeling
toward their object, or a triumphant consciousness of superiority. Good
nature is too affectionate to shake hands with every new comer in the
same cordial manner; and above all, good nature can cheerfully pass her
time alone; for her hours, always sweetened by the kindliness of her
feelings, cannot be tinctured with _ennui_, while she can either serve or
gratify another.
* * * * *
The liberty of the press acts like a perpetual alterative, curing, or
lessening by imperceptible degrees, the ailments of the body politic.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.
Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 18, 1816.
I am distressed at finding you do not receive my letters. This I
am assured of, you will take it for granted I have written, as I
never claimed from your duty those kind attentions you have always
shown me from friendship and affection; and therefore could not be
guilty of enjoying your entertaining letters without offering my
thanks. Lady Rumbold gives a ball to-night. Mrs. Dott and Mrs. ——
have already done so. The latter gave hers on the christening of her
little boy. The tenants dined with them next day, and Mr. —— made a
speech of extraordinary length, in which he talked of his _tenantry_
and his _ancestry_ in as pompous a style as if he were of the line of
Plantagenet, and possessed of half a province. It is curious to observe
how much more flattered people seem to be by standing on the lower steps
of the pyramid than by perching near the pinnacle. A little height above
our fellows seems to give more pleasure than a great elevation.
As you rise in the scale of language I descend, for I do not recollect
enough of German even to decypher the short story you have sent to me.
It is as completely locked up from me as if it were written in modern
Greek—of which, by the bye, I am quite tired. Every one is prating and
writing and publishing about Greece and modern Greek. Have you read
Leake’s _Researches_? He is, you know, a brother diplomat. The _Edinburgh
Review_ for February, 1815, has minced him up in a very amusing way.
The dish is pungent, and excites appetite, but not for Mr. Leake’s book.
Lord —— is going to marry Mrs. ——, a fat, fair, and fifty card-playing
resident of the Crescent. They each received anonymous letters abusive of
the other, compared them, and became better friends than ever.
TO THE SAME.
Bursledon Lodge, March 5, 1816.
The objection you make to _Roderick_ struck me forcibly, though _late_.
Perhaps in description of country scenery it excels every poem except
_The Seasons_; and some of the finer feelings of the heart are admirably
portrayed, both in their sources, progress, and consequences. I think
_the hinge_ on which the poem turns is radically ignoble, and forms its
principal defect. It is in parts highly pathetic. From the time Florinda
and Roderick join Count Julian till _her_ death, I know nothing more
affecting. In short, it is a fine epic; and I believe I prefer it to any
poetical work by any living author. I am not surprised it is not much
admired as yet; and I found a few lines to-day in Dryden which seem so
applicable to the subject that I will copy them here:—
‘A well-weighed, judicious poem, which at its first appearance gains no
more upon the world than to be just received, and rather not blamed than
much applauded, insinuates itself by insensible degrees into the liking
of the reader; and whereas poems which are produced by the vigour of
imagination only have a gloss upon them at first which time wears off,
the works of judgment are like the diamond, the more they are polished
the more lustre they receive.’
I cannot think why I have copied this, as I am very angry when I receive
a word in _your_ letters not your own.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, April 1, 1816.
I have just bought Edgeworth’s _Readings on Poetry_. Professing to
explain _the popular poetry in daily use_, the author devotes thirty-six
pages to Parnell’s _Pandora_[56]—a poem little read, though admirably
written. Any person who has frequented society could have told him that
half the lovers of poetry know not that this piece exists. In another
point of view it was an injudicious choice. It is a bitter satire upon
women, full of _finesse_ and talent, but the spirit of it is wholly
unintelligible to the young. A _boy_ would not understand it, and on a
_girl_ the vulgar exclamation, ‘What _a beautiful figure_ would Pandora
_make_ at a masquerade,’ will rather produce the effect of causing her
to long for the garland, the veil, and the crown, and perhaps for the
masquerade, which had better have been left out, than inspire her with
any disgust of the character. I am surprised how to reconcile the choice
of this poem, and the remarks on it, with the practical good sense of
Edgeworth Town. There is also a bitterness of sarcasm on the females
of the present day expressed in some of these remarks (see p. 85),
quite unworthy of that mint. I do believe the girls of the present day
have _not lost_ the power of blushing; and though I have no grown-up
daughters, I enjoy the friendship of some who might be my daughters;
in whom the greatest delicacy and modesty are united with perfect
ease of manner and habitual intercourse with the great world. Pray do
not communicate these remarks _in any shape_ to Edgeworth Town. Your
peculiarly gentle and even diffident feelings do not permit you to know
how much unsought-for criticism offends.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.
Bursledon Lodge, April, 1816.
I received about the same time your delightful volume and magnificent
present. I am absolutely Queen of Pekin and Canton. You have obliged me
very much by this affectionate proof of your recollection and of your
desire to please. Besides, these beautiful specimens of art will often,
often furnish me with an occasion of conversing about my son; and as love
is the same in all ages, I shall be able to say, ‘’Tis a present from
_him_,’ with as much pride as Mad. de Sévigné felt when she was dressed
in her brocade petticoat, and said, ‘_C’est un présent de ma fille_.’
I hope the light of your own eyes may soon be turned on your vases and
jars, which are placed in great order in the drawing-room, at least as
many as the drawing-room can possibly contain. Mr. T., who was as anxious
_de faire valoir_ your gift, as if I had not admired it sufficiently
myself, assisted me in all the nervous task of unpacking—that is, he
assisted me as the coachman in La Fontaine _assisted_ the fly on the
wheel. _Enfin, voilà nos gens dans la plaine_; and very little damage had
occurred, none from want of care on your side in the packing. Mr. T. did
the honours, and was affronted if there was any light and shade in my
admiration, if I did not think every cup, saucer, jar, vase, and grinning
_magot_, equally beautiful.
I know nothing of the Byron separation, but from report, reflected,
refracted, and far remote from the fountain-head. We know how _he_ was
spoiled by flattery, or rather by just praise, and self-indulgence; and
we know _she_ was, unluckily, young, lovely, of great mental endowments
and acquirements, an heiress, highly allied, an only child, educated
by doting parents, and had as yet received no lessons from the great
instructors, time and sorrow. Strike out any of these circumstances,
and she might have been more suited to yield to the caprices of temper,
and the irritability of genius. I suspect they were a pair of spoiled
children, and that each might have been happier with a thousand others.
My Mother often contemplated an English translation of a
selection of Mad. de Sévigné’s _Letters_, her favourite book; I
do not, however, find among her papers any letters translated,
but only the following.
Preface to an English translation of Mad. de Sévigné’s _Letters_:—
Madame de Sévigné has not yet appeared in any English dress but one which
has obscured her charms; and those who have not an intimate acquaintance
with her own language are as yet entire strangers to a writer the most
interesting and amusing. A moderate knowledge of French, such as will
enable us to read with pleasure Bossuet, Fénélon, Racine, and La Bruyère,
is insufficient for the perfect comprehension of her letters, filled as
they are with French idioms, allusions to proverbial expressions, to
well-known passages in favourite authors, and to the historical events
of the time. It is hoped that the following translation and explanatory
notes will be acceptable to those who are yet unacquainted with this
charming writer.
The little that can be known of her history has been so often repeated,
it seems superfluous to insert it here; yet as a few of my readers may
desire some information here, I will briefly mention that she was an
heiress, and of a noble family; that she was born in the year 1627, and
in the reign of Louis XIII.; that she married at eighteen the Marquis de
Sévigné, a dissipated and profligate young man, who was killed in a duel
in 1651, leaving her a widow at the age of twenty-four, with one son and
one daughter; that she was adorned with beauty of the most attractive
kind, and with first-rate abilities, highly improved by education; that,
in spite of these dangerous gifts, she passed through the ordeal of a
licentious Court with an unblemished reputation, educated her children
with affection and judgment, regulated their pecuniary concerns with
discretion, established them both in marriages which seem to have been
honourable and happy to a degree very uncommon in her time. Anything more
that is known of Mad. de Sévigné may be collected from the following
letters, for her history is all domestic. It might abate the present
ardour of our females in quest of notoriety, did they remark that one of
those women who have obtained the highest celebrity, never sought for
it, but, pursuing the quiet path of maternal affection, has, like the
glowworm, involuntarily attracted admiration by her native brightness.
May I be permitted to hint to mothers, that the letters of Mad. de
Sévigné are not a collection suited to extreme youth, though hitherto
made a medium for learning the French language? They are _unintelligible_
to a beginner; and if they had not this radical fault, we must still
inquire whether the confidential letters of a lively communicative
Parisian mother, that mother being in the centre of a corrupt court,
and writing as news all the gallantries of the day, ought to enter into
the studies of very young girls, however moral the writer might be in
her own conduct? In short, let not Mad. de Sévigné be introduced to any
one who is not of an age to appreciate her merits, and to understand
from her general conduct both where she speaks ironically, and where
she disapproves, though she does not happen to censure. In the present
selection the passages we allude to are not introduced.
* * * * *
_May 16, 1816, Pulteney Hotel, London._—We breathe imperial air, as we
occupy a part of the hotel inhabited last year by the Russian Emperor;
and the waiter assured me, _with a complacent attention to my feelings_,
that he always wrote in the same spot that I had selected for the
purpose. He does not seem to have inspired much respect; though in answer
to my inquiry whether he had left the house in as dirty a state as I had
heard, the waiter justified him, and said, ‘We have had others full as
dirty.’
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, June 14, 1816.
Deeply do I sympathize with your anxiety, and eagerly do I wish for
another letter to say your dear daughter is better. Do not, I pray, delay
it. There is everything in favour of her recovery, but, alas! I know how
precarious the heart feels all these _everythings_ to be when a beloved
object is in question. Our fears are magnified in that case, as well as
our hopes, and it is most fortunate that they bear divided sway.
I have been much gratified by Mr. White’s acquaintance, short as was
our interview. His open, intelligent countenance, and an ease of manner
which princes might envy, make a strong impression at first sight. Why
is it that some among the Society of Friends possess an ease of manner,
hardly ever met in the first approaches of those in the great world
who are most anxious to acquire it? I believe it may partly arise from
your never being trammelled by all those forms with which our children
are embarrassed, and which may have an effect on the manners like
back-boards, collars, and braces on the body. I wish we may see Mr. White
here, for it is like seeing a person in a dream, to receive a short visit
in the bustle and hurry of a London hotel.
You do me too much honour in supposing me well dressed. I am rather
negligently than carefully; I mean negligent, as opposed to fashionable
and studied, but not to neat or fresh; and as I think there cannot be too
little seen of my present changed appearance, I always wear a veil and
shawl when I can, partly, perhaps, from pride, but partly from modesty,
having observed how much pains are thrown away by my cotemporaries to
make their _exposures tolerable, ‘et pour réparer des années les outrages
irréparables.’_ I am, besides, of an indolent disposition on many
subjects, and dress is one. I hate shopping, dislike conferences with
milliners and dressmakers, fidget while anything is trying on, and give
no credit to the pert Miss who always assures me the most expensive of
her caps is exactly the one which becomes me the best.
TO THE SAME.
Aug. 29, 1816.
In whatever disposition of mind I may be when I receive your letters,
their effect on me is the same:—
‘Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing;’
and none tend more to elevate and ameliorate my heart than those in which
you describe the passage of any of your beloved circle from this world
to a better. You and yours live in a peaceable atmosphere of family
affections, of well-directed energies, and of pure religious sentiments,
which seems so fit a preparation for a superior existence, that the loss
of one of your friends seems more like a sad and tender separation than
that total and frightful disruption which in other cases fills the mind
with awe and terror. The loss of your admirable niece must be deeply felt
by those who knew her; and the frequent instances in which we see parents
survive their children, turns the balance of happiness greatly in favour
of the childless. But perhaps I ought not to say this. It is ungrateful
to that Providence which has blessed you and me with deserving and
hopeful families, and, upon a second thought, I even believe it is untrue.
I do not feel there is any merit in my avoiding egotism. It is rather an
effect of education than disposition, for I am naturally communicative;
but I was brought forward almost a child as a puppet upon the theatre
of the world—where no one is permitted to speak of self,—and wisely too,
since nine times in ten the _truth_ would not be spoken.
I admired the verses on the death of Sheridan. I believe _the other
person_ you mention, to have been applauded in early life far beyond his
merits. When I first saw, and occasionally conversed with him, he had
long past ‘the liquid dew and morn of youth,’ and had suffered much from
‘contagious blastments;’ ‘all was false and hollow.’ At an earlier period
higher hopes were entertained.
We are just reading _Rimini_, and are crammed with description till we
are crop-full. Pity that one who now and then reminds us of Dryden, and
who really sees and feels, should thus bury himself in the exuberance
of detail; and instead of allowing you to look quietly at the object he
describes, turn it round and round, and force you, like a showman, to
examine it on all sides, ‘about, above, and underneath.’ There are some
admirable lines in Boileau’s _Art Poétique_, ending ‘_Et je me sauve
enfin à travers le jardin_,’ which I refer you to, as exactly apposite to
Hunt’s account of a palace garden; yet when he touches on the feelings
of the heart, and describes the dignified yet natural penitence of the
guilty lovers, he is admirable, and the beauty of his thoughts overcomes
all the peculiarities of his style. He has written a silly dedication to
Lord Byron, with an affectation of familiarity unsuitable to a public
address, and in colloquial phrase, which I must agree with Johnson in
thinking ‘unfit for a _printed_ letter.’
* * * * *
_Sept. 18, 1816._—Read Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s _Letters_. I pity
Mr. Wortley in the beginning of their acquaintance. There are marks
of sincerity and love in his letters, whereas I suspect her of only
following up a design to marry him from motives of prudence; and she
certainly does show great address in both piquing and soothing him,
without ever committing herself.
* * * * *
_Sept. 20._—Of the numerous class who have affected ‘to wear a window
in the breast,’ we feel little confidence in any but Montaigne and
Rousseau. Mad. Roland tries to persuade herself and us that she follows
their steps; but the head and heart alike refuse to believe her. She
seems never to forget the effect to be produced by what she writes. She
may speak truth, but it is truth presented with selection and address;
while Montaigne and Rousseau abandon themselves to the current of their
thoughts, apparently indifferent to the impression they will make on
their readers.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
Bath, Oct. 1, 1816.
No letter from you, but the weather is so fine I cannot participate
in ——’s fears of your having been drowned. I dined yesterday with the
——s; only the ——s and the ——s. Mr. —— was sensible enough in his talk,
but I wish he had not told me in his wife’s hearing something about
having _thrown himself away_,—which sounded very odd,—and being very
low-spirited in consequence in his youthful years, but having reconciled
himself to it by degrees. Lady M. has a great desire to please the
present and criticize the absent. At the same time, I think her a
pleasing as well as valuable woman; but the spirit of petty criticism is
so strong in us Irish, that scarcely any degree of goodness lulls it to
sleep. I am becoming in too great request as a _chaperone_, which I must
stifle, as I have no taste for duennaship. Miss E—— is growing stouter
and stouter in her manners, and she and the N——s stump about the room
with a deportment which appears to me a mixture of a ploughboy going
over rough ground and a grenadier marching to the charge. A lady asked
me yesterday in a half-audible whisper, ‘Who is that strange-looking
ghost?’ ‘_Lady_ Prudentia ——.’ It was curious to see the effect of the
first of these three words. She was spell-bound. Regret at having lost
a good acquaintance, and remorse at having called an Earl’s daughter a
strange-looking person, with surprise at the simplicity and _external_
humility which reigns in that school, were all visibly depicted on her
countenance.
Adieu. I have mused much on you since we parted, ‘chewing the cud of
sweet and bitter fancies,’—bitter only in the thought that _time_ and
_chance_ happen to those who love, as to others.
TO THE SAME.
Bath, Oct., 1816.
As to Mrs. M., she only thinks aloud, and shows what other women, equally
devoid of sense with herself, keep to themselves. _I_ can bear her
very well; but those who envy others _perfect self-satisfaction_, and
groundless but _happy-making vanity_, must dislike her. Indeed, it can
only be _groundless_ vanity that makes any one happy. Any other kind is
_enlightened even by its own successes_ to see their futility. ‘_A coup
sûr si la vanité a rendu quelqu’un heureux, celui là était un sot._’ So
says Rousseau, and Mrs. M. is a practical commentary.
I am reading Mrs. Marcet’s _Political Economy_. It is all _Say_, thrown
into dialogue, with the objections which might be made. This is a good
plan for chemistry, where a well-educated and thinking person _may_
begin the book entirely ignorant of the subject. But it is a bad plan
for political economy, on which every one has some information, more
or less. One has not patience to be stopped every minute by a foolish
objection, to which one knows the answer. It may do as an elementary
book; but though I could read her _Chemistry_, I cannot read this; and
I should suppose the effect would be similar on all _grown people_. It
shows a laudable spirit of industry, but I think it unfair to Say, of
whom it is a sort of unavowed translation; for though she professes
it to give the quintessence of other authors, all of it which I have
read, except what is avowedly quoted, is cribbed from him without even
changing his phrases. She is very nonsensical about the Poor Laws, saying
that the diffusion of education will give the poor a ‘spirit of dignity
and independence’ that will prevent them from taking advantage of them.
Now, the answer to this position is, that the willingness and eagerness
of the poor to become paupers—to receive from the taxes levied on their
fellow-subjects money or support, for which no equivalent is given by
them—has kept pace with, instead of being checked by, the diffusion of
education; and that education never yet made any man refuse a sinecure,
which is relief from the kingdom instead of the parish.
I have found a person here who almost openly forms herself on my model,
and quotes my old sayings, long forgotten by _me_, as authority; but I
have gone over so much ground since, that she is like a Catholic, who
obeys the early Councils, without knowing that two or three others since
that time have promulgated different decrees; and, as I am not the Pope,
I am sometimes puzzled to reconcile them.
—— is going to receive his wanderer again. I cannot laugh at him, as
others do. In a man, not otherwise deficient in sense and firmness,
so much confiding love for a wife—against experience,—against
probability,—against hope,—against advice,—against all but affection,—is
in my eyes interesting, and partakes of the feelings a superior being
might have for erring mortals.
* * * * *
_Friday, Nov. 1, 1816._—My beloved child, my docile, gentle, joyous,
affectionate Bessy, resumed by Heaven at seven o’clock this morning.
TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.
Bursledon Lodge, Nov. 1, 1816.
The lovely one is gone. I am more deeply wounded than religion permits.
Pity and pray for me. My visit to you is not to be thought of; I would
not sadden any society by my presence. God bless you, and long preserve
to you the objects of your dearest affections. My beautiful blossom,
whose loveliness I had diminished in order to surprise you—foolish,
wicked vanity—died as she had lived, loving every one better than
herself. The last phrase she uttered, except those expressive of her
latest wants and pains, was a desire the window-curtain might be
withdrawn, that she might look at the stars. A little before, she had
asked her afflicted maid if _she_ thought she would go to heaven. Keep
this note. I like to think she will not be forgotten.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Nov. 4, 1816.
You are so kind to me, my dearest friend, that I should feel wanting in
due respect for friendship so tender if I suffered you to hear from
common report that my lovely blossom is now in her little coffin, where I
have just kissed her beautiful marble brow; for she was and is beautiful,
though I restrained myself from talking of her personal perfections. What
is more important, she was heavenly-minded as far as four years and three
months would admit. I am well in health, and I hope I am resigned; but
you know how the loss of an only daughter, who to the weakness of mortal
eyes appeared faultless, and who had all the attractions which endear
a child to strangers as well as friends—you know how it must darken
the remaining years of a mother, past the age of hoping for any new
blessings, but clinging too eagerly to those she already possessed. God
bless you, and preserve you from such affliction.
* * * * *
_Nov. 10, 1816._
She smiled and sparkled in my sight
Four happy months, four placid years;
No fairer babe to fond delight
E’er changed a mother’s secret tears.
Sweet miniature of womanhood—
Such as in Paradise might rove,
E’er Eve desired a fancied good,
And lost her heaven of peace and love.
To me she brought returning youth—
Fair promise of a second spring—
Fond fancy’s dream, surpassed by truth;
Image of love, without his wing.
To five protecting brothers dear,
Last precious care of long-tried love,
Gay, gentle, blooming, not a fear
Could this exulting bosom move.
Mine Eden of domestic joy
I saw so richly fenced around,
So strongly sheltered from annoy,
I wandered o’er enchanted ground.
And if a tear could find a place,
To think the wasting hand of time
That prospect must at last deface,
And mar, at last, that happy clime,
How could I deem the freshest flower
To death’s cold grasp the first was doomed;
No blossom left to mark the bower
Where all its vernal sweetness bloomed?
Emblem of purity and peace,
How beautiful in death she lay!
Affliction won a short release
In gazing on that lovely clay.
Her shining locks of richest glow
Still wore of life the brilliant hue,
And parted o’er her brow of snow
A gleam of sunny radiance threw.
She lay as in a peaceful trance,
Her snowy garb adorned with flowers,
So grouped as for the sportive dance,
On Pleasure’s robe, in festal hours.
Oh loved! oh lost! and yet I know
How just, my child, is Heaven’s decree,
Which bids me bear this weight of woe,
And bliss eternal gives to thee.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.
Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1816.
It will be a relief to you to hear that my health is unimpaired by an
affliction, of which you cannot know the extent without having witnessed
the delightful qualities and endearing habits of the lovely little being
it has pleased Heaven to resume.
You have too much feeling to be ignorant of the irreparable loss a mother
incurs by being deprived of an only daughter, such a joy-inspiring
creature, gifted with every endowment of mind and body desired either
by the wise or the unwise—gentle, gay, blooming, beautiful, and
affectionate. I looked to her for consolation under the total privation
of your society I am likely to suffer, and in all the other calamities
which may occur in the destiny of an affectionate woman. A son _may_ be
alienated by an unfeeling wife, a husband _may_ be seduced by a mistress;
but a daughter is a benignant star, shining through the clouds of
adversity, and embellishing every scene of joy, her mother’s companion in
sorrow, her attendant in sickness; it is on her a mother relies to close
her eyes, and cherish her remembrance, which the scenes of busy life may
soon efface from the breast of man. I spoke of her but little, partly
from a natural tendency in the heart to silence on what interests it
very deeply, and partly that I feared to show my triumph and exultation.
She was my secret hoard of promised pleasure and gratification; and I
had a sort of dread of letting in too much light on the fairy picture of
happiness.
* * * * *
I have not thought it right to omit the following letter,
though in one sentence it is a repetition of that immediately
preceding.
TO MRS. TUITE.
Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 20, 1816.
I thank you for the sympathy you express in my deep affliction, and
am aware (for I am practised in sorrow), of the effects of time and
religion. Truly does Wallenstein say, under deplorable calamity,
‘I know I shall wear down this sorrow;
What sorrow does not man wear down?’[57]
But how much must one suffer before the weapon loses its edge. A daughter
is a benignant star, shining through the clouds of adversity, and the
chief embellishment of every scene of joy; a mother’s companion in
sorrow, her ministering angel in sickness. It is on her a mother relies
to close her eyes, and to cherish that remembrance of her, the scenes of
busy life may soon efface from the breasts of others. Uninterested as I
always am, except by what touches my affections, I seem to be more so now
than ever; and have lost almost the only link which connected me strongly
with my own sex, in their common pursuits and amusements. The flowers in
my path are gone, and although when I look at my sons I must say, ‘my
banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,’ yet I cannot cease to lament
my fallen blossom:—
‘Die Blume ist hinweg aus meinem Leben.’
* * * * *
_Dec. 25, 1816._—We arrived last night in London, the populous, the
powerful. It was grievous, as I sat with my children, to see the little
circle had closed in, and lost its loveliest flower, its brightest gem,
since last Christmas-day, when I looked round on it with perhaps too much
pride.