I fear Lord Carysfort will not long be one of this world. When I saw him
yesterday his Bible was before him. He seemed like a traveller consulting
the map of his approaching journey. There is no end to the feelings and
reflections awakened by the sight of a friend in a precarious state
of health, reading his Bible. I love the emphatic cottage expression,
_his_ Bible, _her_ Bible—that claim of property in this Book, which is
peculiar, I believe, to the English language in common life.
We are all reading Lord John Russell’s _Life of the Lord Russell_—an
interesting work, written in a tone of temper, candour, and moderation
worthy of the subject. Burnet’s _History_, and Lady Russell’s _Letters_,
have furnished the gems, but they are well set, and the book is
honourable to its author. Miss Bury, Lord Orford’s niece, has edited a
few of Lady Russell’s letters, omitted in the first collection of hers,
published half a century before our time. These letters have all a
certain degree of interest from the lustre of _her_ name, and of _his_
to whom they were addressed; for most of them are to her husband, and
they are preceded by a pleasing and well written _Life of Lady Russell_,
by the editor. The whole is scarcely worth offering to the public as a
volume, though the memoir and a few of the letters might have graced a
miscellaneous collection.
* * * * *
_Dec. 24, 1819._—Dear Mrs. C—— closed her long and virtuous life on the
15th, with a calmness and resignation often granted to the evening of
such a day. She suffered no pain or uneasiness, and was favoured with a
renovation of those mental faculties which so long lay dormant. She was
an only child, and educated with the most unbounded indulgence; married
very young to one whom she immediately accompanied to the bosom of his
family, in another kingdom. Transplanted, when little more than a child
and eminently beautiful, to a distance from all her friends and advisers,
her conduct was irreproachable as a young wife, a young mother, and a
young widow. In her second marriage to one who in years might have been
her father, she showed the same discretion and affectionate propriety of
conduct that distinguished the earlier part of her life. Her character
was of that tranquil, unassuming order which dazzles not at first,
but shines more brightly the longer it is examined. She was esteemed,
respected, and beloved. Her beauty was not the majestic, nor the
brilliant; it neither awed nor dazzled; but it was feminine loveliness
of the most attractive, winning description. Her delicate and finely
formed features, of delightful expression, were set off by a thousand
graces of voice, language, manners, and deportment. She was anxious to be
loved, and pleased at being admired. She was religious, kind-hearted,
hospitable, social, gentle, prudent; and neither severity nor envy
ever approached her heart. In my connexion with her I never remember
aught but kindness, partial kindness, approving, applauding, nay, even
admiring, from the first hour in which she adopted me to the last of our
intercourse.
TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.
Bursledon Lodge, Dec., 1819.
Your good wishes have been fulfilled as to the health and spirits of
your friend. I have had but one day of painful headache since my return
to the little green nest, which is now almost entirely overgrown by the
luxuriance of this summer’s extraordinary spirit of vegetation. We are
beginning to cut our way out, as they do in the forests of America;
but, as far as good will goes, with more difficulty; for though we both
acknowledge in theory the necessity of admitting the breeze and the
sunbeam, yet each patronizes every particular tree, shrub, or plant,
which the other proposes to remove. I hope you can give me a favourable
account of Lady —— and her _latest treasure_, and that you now enjoy the
pleasure of seeing her free from the anxiety and apprehension that, even
in her serene well-regulated mind, must occur on the eve of an event of
so mixed a nature. It is really the ‘web of mingled yarn,’ where fear
and hope, pain and pleasure, are more closely and abruptly mingled and
entwined than in any other incident of common recurrence.
Have you read the new _Tales of my Landlord_? The catastrophe of the
_Bride of Lammermoor_ is unnatural, and so shocking, that its truth
should rather have been a reason for consigning it to oblivion, than for
embodying it in a work of imagination. In _Montrose_ we meet an _oglio_
of all the strange and horrid events contained in Walter Scott’s notes to
a former work, yet it has to me, as far as I have gone, a sort of wild
interest.
I have just received verses as wonderful, with reference to the age of
the writer, as any can be; an _Ode to the Duke of Wellington_, and other
poems, Greek, Latin, and English, written between the age of eleven and
fourteen, by the youngest son of Sir George Dallas. They are, I believe,
allowed to be the best ever written by a boy so young; yet they do not
inspire with the idea that young Dallas will be a great poet. They are
more to be admired for finished neatness and exact knowledge of the
technical part of poetry than for strong impressions of nature and of
life. Their merits are more the effects of a fine ear, and a memory
filled by what has been said by other poets, than of deep feeling and
close observation of realities.
* * * * *
_Dec. 13, 1819._—I saw Lord —— yesterday. He is said to have been much
afflicted by the loss of his valuable wife. Oh how I envied one who,
after such an affliction, in looks, in voice, in calmness, in propriety
of manner, is exactly as before, in less than three months. I know that
time wears down the appearance of every sorrow in us all, but happy are
they in whom this effect is so soon produced. This is not, as some
might think, a criticism in masquerade, or an assumption of superior
sensibility. No, it is a real expression of a simple feeling. If we
examine the cause of our criticizing a too rapid forgetfulness of the
departed, we may find it proceeds from selfishness; we do not like to be
reminded how soon we may be forgotten ourselves.
* * * * *
_Dec. 31._—It is not wholly our refinement, as we are apt to think, which
has banished social and sprightly amusements from our drawing-rooms.
Commerce, contracts, loans, and war prices have poured an influx of
wealth into hands not hitherto in contact with the Corinthian pillars
of society. Many persons were suddenly raised, as well by wealth as by
alliances, places, and Court favours, to mingle with those, of whom some
boast a long line of distinguished ancestors, others all the advantages
of the best education, and not a few unite both. The patricians were not
delighted with the intimacy with such persons which playing at cards
for a low stake, private acting, domestic dancing without the formality
of previous preparation, or small plays, naturally produced; nor in
general could the merely wealthy shine, where ease, sprightliness, and
accomplishment were required. Accordingly they invited their noble
friends to splendid dinners in apartments of Eastern magnificence; and
from the moment these invitations were accepted, our English nobility
declined from those habits of simple enjoyment by which they were
formerly distinguished. They were disinclined to be much inferior in
_recherche_ and expense to these new acquaintances, and invited them to
entertainments more luxurious and more formal than they had themselves
habitually given—more luxurious from contagion, more formal, in part
to preserve their own dignity—thus adding insensibly to the far-sought
delicacies of the table, and the ornament of their houses; till at last
all society, saving Almack’s, which is a ‘bright particular star,’
and that dignified delightful scene of dozing, the Ancient Music, has
taken one uniform colour. The duke, the commoner, the contractor, all
_entertain_, as it is called, in gay apartments, full of pomp and gold;
‘And one eternal dinner swallows all.’
TO A SON (aged 14).
Bursledon Lodge, Feb., 1820.
Our good King’s death made an impression of melancholy on my mind, though
I had only seen him in the usual way at the Queen’s Drawing-rooms. But I
can never forget the paternal benevolence of his manner—banishing awe,
without diminishing reverence. When presented to him, I partook of the
usual feeling experienced by all who have lived to womanhood in a country
where they never could see a king, and I was intimidated at the idea of
being under the eye of a monarch; but the kindliness of his manner soon
removed all my little feminine bashfulness; and from that day, whenever I
went to the Drawing-room, I used to watch for his approach with pleasure.
His character, I think, will take a high place in history. He was
sometimes, I believe, mistaken in the line of his duty; but he always
pursued the road his conscience pointed out; and if we weigh his conduct
with his temptations, and consider his justice, temperance, piety,
purity, domestic affections, humility, and patience, I know not whether
we could safely say, his dominions contained a better man.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.
Bursledon Lodge, Feb., 1820.
Our fears are now gradually subsiding. They were artfully excited by
both extremes—by the Radicals, and by the friends of arbitrary power.
_Both_ have gained their point. Strong and unpopular laws have passed;
and discontent has increased. I pity the Moderates, the constitutional
Whigs, the temperate zone, in short. Between the _frottement_ of opposite
tendencies to anarchy and despotism, they have a chance of being _un peu
froissé_. As I rank my best friends and myself in this class, I look on
it with double interest.
I do not like to talk or write of our good King’s death. Some noble mind
will, I hope, do justice to his admirable qualities. They were so equally
tempered, and his line of conduct so undeviating, that it requires
meditation to see the full beauty of a character which was not set off by
contrast, nor affected us with any surprise. It is too much the custom
to blame him individually for the wars we have _endured_—for war is but
another name for suffering, to the victors as well as the vanquished. If
he erred on this point, he erred with a great proportion of his people,
and some of the strongest minds in his dominions.
Lord A. has left us after a short visit. He was more alive to general
subjects than he has been for some time, not being so much smothered
in petticoats as he was lately. There passed a moment when his society
was all composed of us ‘fair defects,’ and certainly his mind requires
stronger food than the pap we can offer him. I never knew a man live
entirely with women who did not suffer from it more or less.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Bursledon Lodge, Feb., 1820.
I do not believe Hayley is a man of bad character; he is loved and
admired by some of the most respectable. I paid him a visit last
autumn; a friend of his brought me to his little villa, near Bognor, by
appointment. He lives in the prettiest nutshell possible, a miniature
paradise; no _luxe_ about it, except that of extreme neatness; and fine
pictures; Romney, painted by the artist himself, Cowper, Charlotte Smith,
Gibbon, and others of celebrity, graced his walls; and he pleased himself
and me by showing me beautiful portraits of his wife, his mother, and
other relations. We then walked round his small garden, strolled on
his velvet lawn, and returned to drink coffee, which he always does at
two, the coffee being accompanied with various other matters for his
guests. Afterwards we returned to his drawing-room and pianoforte, where
he showed me several songs, chiefly _sacred_, of which the words were
either by Cowper or himself, and he seemed pleased that I could play and
sing them at sight; for I still retain my voice, and, though I have no
time to practise, it does not seem inclined to leave me, which I wonder
at. I think he said he was seventy-five. He _did_ lately marry a young
wife, but _that_ ‘crime,’ according to Sheridan, ‘carries the punishment
along with it;’ they soon quarrelled, and parted, for the bard who sang
so sweetly the ‘Triumphs of Temper,’ is said to be somewhat irritable and
irascible; the lady was so too, and expected he would have done nothing
for the rest of his life but sing her praises. His look and manner denote
impatience, curbed by good breeding; and his nieces seem much afraid
of him; so, I perceived, did his visitors and old friends. I think his
manner and the expression of his face create awe rather than put one at
one’s ease. At least such was the impression upon me.
TO A FRIEND.
Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 10, 1820.
I cannot defer a moment in writing to you on an event so interesting as
our dear ——’s marriage. I have been informed that, as to the externals
of life, her choice is not that which her parents would naturally
have made. In this there is one bright side, that it is her unbiassed
choice—unbiassed not only by the wishes of others, but by any of those
mixed motives, calculations of ambition or interest, which so often lead
to disappointment, and sometimes induce the young to part with their
liberty, where they do not _love_ so much as they ought, either for
their own happiness or that of their husbands. Those women who choose
for themselves undoubtedly become the best wives, and I am sure, from
the warmth and tenderness of ——’s disposition, that her affection as a
daughter will receive a strong accession from her grateful sense of your
kindness and that of Mr. —— in yielding to her on this important point.
Of that she will feel the merit still more, if she herself becomes a
mother.
I am anxious to hear from you, for I know by experience, that for one’s
children one hopes to attain opposite advantages, both from the right
hand and from the left; and that any event respecting them which does not
almost unite irreconcileable blessings, displeases one at first; but a
little time passes away, imagination ceases to operate, every feature in
the prospect bears its due proportion, and one is somewhat surprised on
recollecting one’s first uneasiness and displeasure.
TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.
Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 17, 1820.
I hope the circumstances of ——’s intended marriage are more favourable
than Mrs. —— represents them. In one’s first vexation one sees only the
dark side, and one overlooks every little sunny spot. I wrote, as you
advised, but I thought it kindest to write immediately, because your
dear self, and many others, have found comfort from being presented at
the first moment of intense feeling with a different view of things from
their own. Besides, she might have felt embarrassment in announcing a
circumstance of some mortification (some one says, women always feel as
if a misfortune were a disgrace), and I thought a peace-making letter
might spare her this slight pain, and be of some little use. As to ——
and her lover having behaved so ill, though I am now a mother, not a
daughter, I still think, and even more than I did then, that we owe great
indulgence in these cases to the young, when the feeling is love, the
purpose marriage, and the parties unmarried. This is an opinion every one
acts upon, though few have the sincerity to own it. Therefore parents
would save themselves much trouble by being mild and gentle at first.
* * * * *
_March 15, 1820._—I see that last Sunday deprived me of an old and tried
friend, E—— C——. His love for Colonel St. George, his friendly and
almost fatherly regard for the young girl who, as St. George’s wife,
was at once brought from retirement and quiet to the turmoil of a most
dissipated capital, the vivid affection in which he _seemed_ enwrapt for
a short period on the commencement of my widowhood, which he allowed
me to repress without painful explanations, the original foundation of
friendship which all this left behind, and his late efficient kindness
to my dear Charles, will often revive in my recollection. There was an
individuality about him which is rare, and is becoming more so every
day. His manly frankness, his good nature, doubly valuable because one
saw it sprang from a vigorous root, his spirit of enjoyment, simplicity,
classical taste, and quick intelligence, made him a most pleasant
companion. He was self-poised; his manner was alike to all, the same
in all society, because he valued not more than they deserved those
adventitious circumstances which are dependent on the breath of a circle.
Though his life was devoted to his profession, and perhaps shortened by
his attention to its duties, he was without ambition, sought neither
honours nor emoluments, and he closed it retired in the bosom of his
family, towards whom a long absence had not impaired his affection.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
London, March 22, 1820.
The Ancient Music was delightful to-day—the singing middling. I, who
have heard Mrs. Billington’s ‘They have triumphed gloriously,’ like
a brilliant and magnificent rainbow, can only be _astonished_ by the
clearness and sweetness of Mrs. Salmon’s or Miss Stephens’ exertions.
I was delighted with Jomelli’s Berenice, from _Lucio Vero_. The
recitative is sublimely pathetic, and the _moans_ of the accompaniment
make it absolutely a fine duet. I allow that in the song the voice
accompanies the instrument; but this is no more a defect, when it suits
the situation, than Satan being Milton’s hero. I met Rogers and Henry
Sanford; both of whom were amusing. The poet was unfeignedly glad to see
me, gave me a seat, and sat by me. I went late, and but for his exertions
in bringing me to a place I had not seen, should not have found one for
some time, as it was quite full. He recommended to me Grétry _On Music_.
I tried to make him say a word in honour of H——; dumb as the dead! his
countenance even did not show that he heard me.
Do not order anything unpleasant, or say anything in the way of reproof
to the tenants, while you are in Ireland. Let your arrows fly like the
Parthians’.
TO MRS. —— (a god-daughter).
London, March 29, 1820.
You are aware I am acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. —— having given but a
reluctant consent to your marriage. This occurs so often in the course
of events, without any cause to blame either side, that there is no
indelicacy in my mentioning it. All I wish to graft on it is this—_You_
have carried your point; if I may so express myself, _you_ have gained
the victory; _they_ are in the novel and irksome situation of having
given up their wishes, and given them up to _one_ whom they have been
accustomed to expect should yield to _them_. Let me, then, entreat you
not to take the smallest offence at anything that may occur on their
part, particularly during this moment of unavoidable irritation; and on
your side, recollect that every concession, every small quiet attention,
every degree of _filial humility_, is honourable and becoming to an
affectionate daughter and a young wife. Mr. —— will have sufficient
complaisance for you cheerfully to concur in this pleasing task. When
I think of your dear father’s advanced age, how I grieve there should
be a shadow of coldness between him and the beloved of his heart. _You_
may put an end to it when you please. Believe a mother on this head. Our
children would be omnipotent in their influence over us, if they knew the
effect of the most trifling proof of their affection.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
London, March 29, 1820.
I made my _débût_ as a diner-out at ——’s yesterday. He sacrifices his
good sense at the shrine of party, loudly boasting of ultra-Toryism,
and crying, ‘My Tory principles go farther than yours; I am really a
Tory; _I_ think the Manchester meeting _was_ illegal’ (by the bye, that
discussion is quite gone by). This was chiefly addressed to a quiet
guest, who avowed different principles, but seemed determined not to
argue with his Amphitryon. F——, H——, and his ministerial friends appear
to shrink from his assistance, and to deprecate his entering into
discussion. Lady R. seemed displeased that Lord —— should be a peer, and
Sir John nothing—but a baronet; asked me spitefully where Lady —— was
_now_, as if she was not most probably with her husband. I repaid her
by telling her how much the King loved _his Lordship_, and what fine
things _his Majesty_ had said of him to me. She returned this blow by
talking of women who died suddenly of water on the chest, and bringing
it home to such invalids as I am—and so do ladies carry on the war. Mrs.
F. has discovered that our relations came to London too late in life,
and had much better fix somewhere else, politely inferring that it will
not be in their power to pierce the dense column of good society. She
intended to please me, on common family principles.... You may see I have
been associating too much with women, having descended from general and
elevating subjects to those which are particular and lowering, from _la
vie intérieure_ to its opposite.
I sang pretty well, as some tell me with polite surprise; but as I know
I _must_ grow old, and am anxious to preserve the amusement of singing a
few years longer, I enjoy the sweet, and am insensible to the bitter, of
the compliment. The truth is, my timidity, or _mauvaise honte_, or what
you will, is weaker, and less depresses my voice, which therefore seems
stronger.
* * * * *
_April, 1820._—Attended Dr. Crotch’s lecture on music at the Royal
Institution.
‘The student should distrust his own taste, and also that of any master
who advises a scholar to copy _him_ exclusively. He must distrust the
oracles of fashion. Fashion can operate neither as a guide, nor yet as a
beacon, being sometimes right, and sometimes wrong. He must carefully
distinguish applause from fame. The first may be given from various
causes, independent of merit, and may be only temporary; while fame is
the consolidated opinion of the best judges, increasing from year to
year, till in the lapse of time it bears down, as it rolls along, the
opposition which interest, prejudice, or fashion may have raised. The
works of the best ancient masters stand on this firm foundation, and
therefore ought to be the student’s chief study. If he does not admire
them at first, let him dwell upon them till he does.
‘But some will say, The best music is that which naturally pleases those
who have not studied the science. This is not the case. Among a number of
hearers, the majority will be best pleased by music of an inferior kind;
and something analogous to this takes place in all the arts. The finest
efforts of art will only appear such to the finest judges, who are always
rare. A good ear and good general taste is not sufficient to qualify a
man for being a judge of music. We often hear such an one desire to be
lulled to sleep by what pleases him most. If he was really a judge, the
best music would much more probably keep him awake. Vocal performers are
bad judges of instrumental, and instrumental of vocal music.
‘Music may be divided into the sublime, the beautiful, the ornamental.
From “To Thee, Cherubim,” to “the majesty of Thy glory,” in Handel’s
_Te Deum_ on the battle of Dettingen, is sublime. Pergolesi’s “Dove
sei,” in _Eurydice_, is beautiful. Handel’s Fifth Harpsichord Lesson is
ornamental. The sources of the sublime are awe, magnitude or extent,
simplicity, and intricacy. A chorus of heavenly beings uniting in
praise of their Creator, is an awful and sublime idea, awakened by many
of Handel’s compositions. The full effect of an orchestra reaching to
the heights and depths of musical sound, gives an idea of vastness and
extent. Simplicity from the powerful effect it conveys of a single
feeling, creates conceptions of intensity and force. Thus the unadorned
columns of a Grecian temple are sublime in their simplicity and
reiteration; while in a Gothic cathedral, the intricacy of infinitude
gives the same result of sublimity.’[62]
* * * * *
_April 9._—A conversation passed at Lord Clifden’s on the delusive
opinion that authors were best known by their works, and on the
possibility of a Revolution in England. The combination of these
two ideas produced the following extract from a Review, supposed
to be carried on a century hence by the descendants of some of our
noble families, then obliged to write for subsistence, and edited in
Birmingham, then become one of the chief seats of literature.
* * * * *
From an article in _The Birmingham Review_ of 1920, on Howard’s _Lives of
the Poets_:—
It is lamentable that the late civil wars have destroyed nearly all the
private memoirs of those writers who flourished in the 19th century. The
number of libraries burnt by the insurgents, or made into ball-cartridges
by both parties, or bought up by charitable associations and boiled
down into jelly, to make nourishing soups for the poor during the years
of famine, have left us no materials from whence to collect any account
of that pleasing versifier, Rogers, who forms a sort of link between
the minor poets of the time and such powerful writers as Scott and
Byron. Yet, in fact, an author is best known by his works; and we do not
hesitate to pronounce Samuel Rogers one of the mildest of men, wholly
without gall, and partaking largely of the quality our friends the French
call _bonhomie_. There are no strokes of wit, vivacity, or powerful
imagination in his writings; but so much mildness, and such exquisite
feeling for all the tendernesses of domestic life, as speak him one
whom to know was to love, who never suffered a sharp word to pass his
lips, and in whom his friends could have had no fault to lament but an
excess of meekness. Indeed, this is strongly proved in his permitting his
_Jaqueline_ to be bound up in most unequal alliance with Byron’s _Lara_
and an offensive preface, in which the latter jocosely, but rudely,
establishes a comparison between them.
Some have suggested that it is probable he may have been Byron’s domestic
chaplain. We know this _noble_ author (to speak in the jargon of those
days), after being suspected of philosophical principles, became
extremely superstitious, having even proceeded so far as to publish a
volume of hymns, a change that may have been caused by his grief for the
elopement of his wife, which seems, from his pathetic ‘_Farewell_,’ to
have affected him deeply. We cannot, however, adopt this opinion, as _The
Revᵈ._ was always prefixed to the names of the national clergy, till
that order was dissolved by the seventeenth General Assembly in 1870.
Rogers may, however, have been one of the numerous Dissenters of his
time. We think we see him, with an affectionate wife, and half a dozen
rosy children like himself, free from envy or solicitude, his honest face
beaming with health and cheerfulness, retired and contented—‘the world
forgetting, by the world forgot.’
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.
London, April 19, 1820.
I met Rogers and Jekyll at Roehampton; a pleasant _duo_, who keep time
and tune together, and, in the language of musicians, mark their points.
Take a fragment of Rogers:—
So, Mr. Wilmot, you are going to the Duchess of ——’s?
_Mr. Wilmot._—Yes, immediately.
_R._—How _fat_ you’ll grow.
_Mr. W._—_Fat_, how so?
_R._—You will sleep so much. They go to bed so early.
_Mr. W._—No, I never go to bed early.
_R._—You will, indeed.
_Mr. W._—No. I always read in my own room.
_R._—You will not. _Measure your candle._
(_Exit Mr. Wilmot._) _Rogers_ (_to the remaining circle_).—That Mr.
Wilmot is a sensible man. I don’t say so from my own knowledge; not
the least. He wrote a book, too. That, you’ll say, was _nothing_. And
printed it. I don’t say that from my own knowledge either, for I never
read it, never met anybody that had.
* * * * *
_April, 1820._—Reflections for my sons.—May I learn to be humbly thankful
for the blessings showered upon me; for an active and healthful body,
a mind capable of receiving instruction, a liberal education, wise
teachers, affectionate relations, and more than a sufficiency of all
the goods of this life; for birth in a free country, far from the seat
of war; for having been hitherto preserved from the commission of great
crimes; and, above all, for the knowledge of the will of God as revealed
in the Holy Scriptures. When I may be disposed not to have a due sense of
these blessings, let me turn my thoughts to the sufferers in occupations
of severe labour, in painful disorders, in extreme penury, in sorrows
by the side of a dying friend, in sorrows from the wickedness and
ingratitude of those whom they love; in the agonies of starvation, in
the horrors of remorse, in hopeless and helpless anguish on the field of
battle; in infamy, in dungeons, in chains, in slavery, in torture.
Let these reflections check in me that spirit of discontent prosperity
may produce, and impress on me thy commands, O God, that all those who
are fortunate in this world should watch over and relieve their afflicted
brethren; thy declaration that Thou wilt punish those who neglect this
duty so repeatedly enjoined in thy Holy Word. Let me, therefore, avoid
all those acts which would incapacitate me from assisting the poor and
helpless; and let me not give this assistance from compassion alone,
but because Thou hast commanded it, and because Our Blessed Lord has
vouchsafed to accept it as an evidence of our faith and our love.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.
London, May, 1820.
The _Gazette_ of to-day is to contain the fate of the first Drawing-room.
I have heard it is to be without hoops and without men—a face without
nose and without eyes—but the changes of mind at the Great House are so
rapid that impatient gossip toils after them in vain. Lady C. says that
ladies shall walk at the Coronation, ministers say they shall not; and
these two resolves are changed night and morning. We are amazingly like
the Court of France in the later days of Louis the Fourteenth. There
is the same extensive influence of favour in all directions; the same
universal and avowed cupidity, the same delight in luxury, the same
dangers and the same blindness, and the same public display of devotion.
I went yesterday to Newgate, to see Mrs. Fry’s performance. I by no
means wish to underrate her merits by the phrase. The same lips which
said, ‘Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,’ have also
said, ‘Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on
a candlestick;’ leaving the heart at liberty to follow either precept,
as it conscientiously judges one or other most useful at the time; thus
proving in this instance, as in so many others, that the Gospel is ‘the
law of liberty.’
Miss Hewitt, Lady Jane Peel, and I, set out at ten for Newgate; where a
stonework of fetter over the door told us we had arrived after a twenty
minutes’ drive. Two fat and jolly men received us in a sort of office,
and civilly consigned us to a maid-servant, who led us up two narrow and
steep flights of stairs to a small homely room, in the middle of which,
her back to the door, Mrs. Fry sat at a table, with books and papers
before her. The female convicts, I suppose about sixty in number, faced
her on rows of benches, raised as in the gallery of a theatre. Opposite
to these were two or three rows for the visitors, and a single row on
each side, all as full as possible. As we entered, we were slightly
named to her, and slightly acknowledged. The smell was oppressive, and
the heat unpleasant, but this was instantly forgotten in the interest
of the scene. The convicts first drew my attention. They were of decent
appearance and deportment, habited like the lowest class of servants.
They were singularly plain, but most of them in the prime or vigour of
life, not one very old woman; and two had children, whom they nursed.
Among the visitors I saw a few of my acquaintance, and some persons of
note.
After a short silence Mrs. Fry read, in a soft, low, silvery tone the
fourth chapter of the Ephesians, with perfect intelligence and expressive
sweetness. She then paused, and explained what she thought wanted
elucidation in a few simple well-chosen words. Two men of the Society of
Friends spoke a few words of exhortation. She then read a Psalm, and,
I think, did not say anything in explanation; but she knelt down and
commenced a prayer for comfort to the unhappy convicts, and spiritual
blessings for them, for us, and for all. This prayer was chanted in a
way, I am told, peculiar to the Society of Friends. I did not like it,
with all the advantages of Mrs. Fry’s sweet voice and musical skill. It
is not a regular tune; the words rise a few notes in the scale in regular
progression, and fall again to the same place, but never descend lower
or change their order. Many words, of course, sometimes are given to one
note, and the long-drawn emphasis sometimes laid on ‘and,’ and other
equally insignificant words, was disagreeable to my ear. On the whole,
it affected my nerves unpleasantly, and wanted the solemn unction of
the human speaking voice. Music ought to be very fine when we address
the Deity; even then it seems more suitable for repeating, or dwelling
on, our petitions, or for praise and gratitude, than for humble, deep,
deprecatory prayer.
The convicts now left the room. A subscription followed; and Mrs. Fry
offered to show us the jail. I went part of the way; but as we seemed
to walk through narrow, dark, and winding passages cut out of the cold
rock, my courage failed. Thought dwelt intensely on those that went in
that way, never to return but to death or banishment, and I felt that I
was exposing myself perhaps to illness, when uncalled on by any duty. I
prevailed on a good, kind Quaker friend to be my Orpheus, and was very
glad to see the light of day once more.
It was a fine lesson of humility and gratitude. The doubt whether in
similar circumstances one might not have been more guilty than the worst
of these women, the reflection how deeply they might have been assailed
by the temptations of want, added to every other infirmity of our nature,
and how bitterly they might expiate in this world the offences of which
they had repented, all pressed on the mind at once.
_June 13._ Mrs. Fry and all the remarkables have faded like stars at
sunrise. The Queen, the Queen alone fills up the London show-box, and
frights our Court from its propriety. _Figurez-vous_, a woman still
handsome, fresh and vigorous as at fifteen, attended but by an alderman,
a female friend, a page, and half a dozen servants, causing the stoutest
hearts to quail; making necessary nightly patrols of cavalry, and an
increased military force in the capital; terrifying the Cabinet Ministers
from their business in the House of Commons; occupying all tongues, all
pens, all eyes, if they could but obtain a sight; keeping the King in
check, and finally being the innocent cause of your mother’s windows
being broken by the mob, as a little epilogue to their more serious
performance at Lady Hertford’s.
* * * * *
_May 26, 1820._—Mr. Grattan has taken leave of all his friends, and
resigned himself to that departure from his life and his fame which he is
aware must shortly take place, in the due course of a painful complaint.
He is perfectly simple, affectionate, and sublime. On the confines of
another world, he still enjoys the best this can give—in the company
and cares of his wife and his four children, all warm-hearted, loving,
and intellectual. But he has not lain down on a sofa to close his eyes
in apathy, and indolently attend the stroke of fate. He feels a desire
of dying in his vocation, and employing his last breath in pleading the
cause of his Roman Catholic countrymen. His great mind still connects
itself with earth by the link of patriotism, though all other ties are
dissolving or dissolved.
* * * * *
_June 23._—Heard the tumultuous shouting of a well-dressed and exulting
crowd on a glimpse of the Queen, who appeared once on her balcony on her
return from an airing. There was pleasure and triumph in the sound; but
it was not unmingled with a stern consciousness of power. It filled me
with mournful anticipations. The King, his ministers, his courtiers, and
the whole phalanx of the supporters of Administration are on one side,
and the Queen and people on the other. In these shouts I heard the voice
of a lion; pleased, but still a lion—the murmurs of the sea; gentle, but
so are the precursors of a storm. Some say dislike to the King creates
the greatest part of the interest in favour of the Queen. I do not think
so ill of the English character. I believe it proceeds from the immutable
sense of justice.
TO MRS. WILLIAM TRENCH.
July, 1820.
I send you, as you desire, a few of the _Monodies_,[63] and am delighted
that you do not think me so weak as to look on the criticism of a friend
as a _mishap_. What you say is perfectly true. It _is_ very inferior to
the four beautiful lines quoted in _The Morning Chronicle_, of course
very inferior to the subject; and it is even inferior to the author; as I
have never written anything on so good a theme with so little originality
or effect. However, had it been much worse, I should have wished to
strew on the grave of our patriot a weed from the desert, if I could not
procure a flower; a pebble, if I could not bring a gem; and I was foolish
enough to limit myself in time, being desirous to finish it immediately,
after the thought occurred that it might be printed for the day of the
funeral.
I should write much better if I had ever been criticized. The heaths,
and many other flowers, require wind (not merely air, but blasts of
wind) as well as sunshine; and it would have been both a stimulus and
an improvement, if I had ever heard the voice of truth. But alas!
that was impossible; and my little attempts _can_ have no merit but
that of showing to those who love me, what I might have done, had I
not been deprived of the advantages of classical learning; had I not
been flattered in my youth, as one to whom mental acquirements were
unnecessary; had I not been the fond mother of nine children, and the
troublesome wife of one whom I do not much like to have out of my
sight;—four very unfavourable circumstances to the cultivation of any art
or science whatever. I have said more on this subject than it is worth;
but when I write to those I love or esteem, I am naturally diffuse;
beware, therefore, of beginning a correspondence with
Your affectionate sister.
* * * * *
I do not know whether the two following stanzas were intended
to form part of a larger whole, or are complete in themselves.
They are, to my mind, the highest which the writer accomplished
in verse; at all events, the highest which has come under my
eye.
Their eyes have met. The irrevocable glance
Stamped on the fantasy of each a face,
That neither weal nor woe, nor meddling chance,
Shall ever pluck from its warm resting-place:
There it shall live, and keep its youthful grace;
Time shall not soil a single glossy tress,
Nor lightest wrinkle on that surface trace;
In life, in death, remains the deep impress,
Through all eternity endures to curse or bless—
Eternity! sweet word to lover’s ear,
For love alone unfolds a sudden view
Of thy long vista and immortal year;
All other passions do some end pursue,
And in fruition die—to live anew,
And seek the food that kills. Love’s finer frame
Turns all to aliment and honey-dew;
Of past, of future, hardly knows the name,
Exists self-poised, and wishes all its days the same.
* * * * *
_Aug. 31, 1820, Tunbridge Wells._—Safe at the Sussex Hotel, after going
down such hills! The road most beautiful from luxuriance of vegetation
and display of the finest trees, chiefly elms, with all their varieties
of wreathed roots, mossy or shining stems, and picturesque forms. All
around shines with neatness, high finish, and an air of prosperity.
Orchard gardens and hop-grounds meet us at every step, yet not so as to
detract from the general air of freedom and nature in the landscape.
* * * * *
_Sept. 5._—This pretty spot is just as I left it, except that formerly
all strove to meet, and now all seek to avoid each other. Refinement, an
increasing taste for domestic life, purer morals, poverty, may all have
some share in this change. It is no matter of regret to me, whose highest
pleasures are within my own dear family circle. Yes, I forget another
novelty, a clean, square, creditable brick-built Methodist chapel, where
I heard a sermon last night that in point of matter was not unworthy of
any pulpit in Great Britain. The manner was less pleasing, yet there
was an air of sincerity which secured sympathy and attention. The
extemporaneous prayers and singing were also good. On the whole, there
was not a peg whereon to hang a fault; and I hope I do not derogate from
Church of Englandism by saying I thought it a very suitable, rational,
and pleasant way of passing an hour, and one calculated to awaken and
confirm religious feelings.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.
Tunbridge Wells, Sept. 10, 1820.
On the day of our eclipse I was pleased at thinking that you were
certainly looking on the same object, engaged in the same contemplations,
as your mother. The weather was so fine here that we saw it to
perfection. The diminution of light was apparent, and its quality seemed
altered, every object assuming an appearance comparatively wan and
sickly, the sky becoming of a colder blue, tending to a dull purple, and
the leaves of the trees of a more yellowish green. I also thought they
seemed to droop, though in a degree scarcely observable, except to a very
close attention. The thermometer sunk from 78 to 73. Pray what were the
peculiar appearances you observed? I should like the opinion of one who
is so good a judge of colours, and of the _savans_ of Sweden.
What papers do you take at present? The Queen’s trial was a wonderful
harvest for the newspapers. I despair of giving you any idea how much
England is occupied and agitated by this trial. The feeling it excites
beats like a pulse through the whole kingdom. I cannot help thinking
it is possible the Lords may throw out the Bill. This supposition is
contrary to all common calculations, founded on the usual march of
self-interest. But these are no common times; and the extraordinarily
strong expression of feeling out of doors, the character of the
witnesses, so exceedingly low, the improbable nature of their evidence,
some touch of the immutable principles of justice, the divisions in the
Cabinet, and many other working causes, may possibly effect this.
_Sept. 14, Brentford._ This letter was begun four days ago, and I am
so far on my way to town. I have been amused, while I sat alone in
the small, dull, square drawing-room of this inn, how many bookish
associations this town excites. First, enter the Two Kings of Brentford,
smelling to one nosegay; and Prince Prettyman, dressed in one boot,
attended by their whole party, ushered in by Bayes and his friends. Next
comes Pope with his imitation of Shenstone; and, lastly, the venerable
Mrs. Trimmer, with all her numerous productions, domestic and literary,
followed by a troop of children whom she has saved from tears and
punishment by her elementary books, and bearing in her hand that sacred
Volume, she so well explained, and so diligently observed. With all this
good company I could well bear to wait for dinner, even if I had not the
great pleasure of writing to you with that freedom from interruption one
can never enjoy so fully as at an inn.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
Chessel, Oct., 1820.
I am happy here, but I have to reproach myself with talking too much,
and also with taking possession too much of the Reverend John Owen,
and sometimes even _differing from him_—supposed to be the author of
_The World without Souls_, attributed to Cunningham, and Secretary
from the commencement of the Bible Society—orator, poet, musician,
singer—father-in-law of young Wilberforce, friend of Porteus and old
Wilberforce—and the very best talker of religion I have yet heard. I do
not mean that he is not a doer also, but he has the happiest power of
introducing religious topics without gloom and without affectation. I
mean to endeavour to renew his acquaintance, and extend it to his wife
and daughter.
* * * * *
_Nov. 7, 1820._—I have just finished Southey’s _Life of Wesley_, a book
one cannot read without some religious improvement; but what a trimmer
poor Southey is, bowing to right and left! I have looked into Croker’s
translation of Fontaine’s _Fables_. I grieve to see my dear old French
friend in a masquerade Court dress, a Windsor uniform. It is a coarse and
bad translation. He leaves out the sweetness, _finesse_, and simplicity
of his author, and substitutes a vulgar jollity of phrase, quite
intolerable on comparison with the original.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.
Elm Lodge, Dec. 20, 1820.
Having just sent an excuse to Mrs. F., who annually collects her
neighbours on the shortest day of the year, I am inclined to criticize
the habit of keeping in villas and small country houses all festivities
for Christmas, _because_ the very wealthy, who have immense houses, and
whose large parties remain under the same roof during that foggy period,
fix on it for their amusements. It is a misfortune when they who are
neither wealthy nor great ape the habits of our Crœsuses and grandees.
There is then no proportion nor keeping, and little friendly society, in
their proceedings.
Lord —— is in the same state; but enjoys his existence more than one
would think possible. Yet he loves not reading, and is debarred most of
the pleasures of a good dinner, being forbidden meat and wine. His wife,
his children, his garden, his wheelchair, his newspaper—and his loyalty,
evinced in hating the Queen, the Radicals, the press, the parish paupers,
and the Whigs, fill up his day; as snip-snap-snorum does his evening.
You have heard of the burning of Wootton, the _paterno nido_ of Lady
Carysfort, just fitted up for Lord and Lady Temple; nothing saved but
her jewels. Lady —— tells me that the poor people of the neighbourhood,
after making the most extraordinary efforts to save the house, which was
completely burned in three hours, actually sat down and cried over the
ruins. Her sweet mind is fully convinced of this, and, indeed, so was I,
till I began to write it. But putting a thing on paper is a sort of test
of its probability; and now I begin to doubt a little so feudal a proof
of attachment on this side of the water. Pass but the Channel or the
Tweed, and it would be more probable.
TO JOHN BULLAR, ESQ., SOUTHAMPTON.
Elm Lodge, Jan., 1821.
Accept my best thanks for your valuable little volume. I read the
greatest part of it to my family circle last night. My four boys were
interested, and my nephew took the book the moment I laid it down, in
order to become better acquainted with the whole of its contents. It
gives a most pleasing view of the power of religion, and is the more
valuable from the incidental lights it throws on various points of our
faith.
If I might, unblamed, be permitted to use the phrase on so serious a
subject, I should confess I was very much gratified by its being written
in such _exquisite good taste_ that neither the scoffer, nor the sceptic,
nor the most fastidious man of the world, could find aught to ridicule.
This may seem absurd, but I know too well the power of ridicule in
obstructing the path of truth, not to rejoice when I see every door shut
against so dangerous an intruder; and we must acknowledge this is not
always the case in narratives drawn up with the best intentions.
... I am pleased at finding that so admirable a person as Isaac Watts was
born in this neighbourhood, which I consider as my adopted home; and I
wish you would, on a second edition, interweave a few more anecdotes of
his private life. No one scarcely in these tempestuous and exciting times
will read the biography of Isaac Watts as a single work; but a little
more knowledge of him would be acceptable to all, since his hymns are
equally prized by all gradations of intellect, and are repeated equally
in the palace and the cottage.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.
Elm Lodge, Jan. 20, 1821.
Did you not think very differently on the subject which still occupies
all England, when you first mentioned it to me, from what you now
conceive? You perceive the reports on which you and many other sensible
and impartial people founded their opinion, were _raised_ by those
who afterwards affected to inquire into them. Some of them were so
exquisitely and ridiculously improbable, that it shows how ill those who
speak untruth most intrepidly know how to manage their falsehoods; and
one begins to believe Mad. de Genlis, who says a person very little used
to deception will carry it on with ten times the skill of a hackneyed
deceiver. The former is more cautious, and weaves both a finer and a
stronger web. When I was told _she_ had danced, entirely disrobed, on the
top of a house in Italy, I _did_ say, to the astonishment of a circle of
women, that I could not have believed it had I seen it. I should more
easily have supposed some one had been hired to personate _her_; for
there would have been temptation for an odious and disagreeable and vile
act; while in her case all the temptation was on the other side.
You will be pleased to hear good accounts of my health. Meanwhile, the
trapdoor is opening on all sides.... If we did not sometimes see it
open thus suddenly, we should quite forget it was ever to unclose for
ourselves. But these are private losses. The good, the benevolent, the
expansive-hearted William Parnell is gone—the friend of Ireland, the
friend of the poor. I have seldom regretted so much any one of whom I
knew so little; but that little was always interesting. I first saw him
in attendance on a sick sister at Shrewsbury, resisting all the efforts
made to induce him to relax in his care of her, though eagerly sought
for by all whose acquaintance was thought desirable. I then met him, the
friend of Mrs. Fry, the advocate of education, the earnest endeavourer to
ameliorate the fate of Ireland; and I trust he will have his reward. In
general, I avoid making my letter an obituary. Am I right? am I wrong?
TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.
Elm Lodge, Feb. 26, 1821.
My —— is come to the second mother-loving age. About eight or nine, when
they wish to go everywhere, and when dogs and ponies, &c. &c., engage a
part of their affections, their tenderness diminishes for a mother, whose
fears lead her frequently to oppose their pleasure. But about fifteen,
when the mind makes a rapid expansion, and independence of her alarms
is pretty nearly established, they become as fond of her as ever, until
about twenty, when _other creatures_ disturb them, and again lessen the
force of early attachments.
_The Abbot_ tired me. Why did Walter Scott try to pourtray female
pertness and violence in the four seasons of life? The young lady is a
flippant miss; Mary Queen of Scots—in defiance of history—Mary, whose
courtesy and sweetness won all hearts, and induced many who would have
resisted her beauty to overlook her faults, is caustic, satirical,
and full of repartee; the _ci-devant_ lady who is her guardian is as
ill-tempered as any ill-received and faded toast of our own time; and
the old nurse is full of vulgar violence. Perhaps I am not sufficiently
indulgent; for I have ceased to be much amused by novels.
TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., STOCKHOLM.
Elm Lodge, March, 1821.
Your last letter was so cheering I am living on it still. It left a glow
in spite of its description of nights two-and-twenty hours in length,
and of the pleasures of sliding on ice, and the necessity of being
furred up to the tip of the nose; and this warmth will last, I hope,
till the arrival of your next. I cannot help wishing that in your next
interval of leisure you would give us a little volume. A tale, of which
the scene was laid in Sweden, would have novelty for us—a courtship in a
_traîneau_—ministers tumbling in the hay—and then the delights of your
polar day—
‘The snow-clad offspring of the sun,
A polar day that knows no night,
Nor sunset, till its summer’s gone,
Its sleepless summer of long light.’
Do you receive the novels of the day? _Il faut que ceux qui veulent
écrire des romans se dépêchent._ Only Walter Scott’s, and those written
by persons distinguished some other way, are read; and these are read
more in the spirit of criticism and cavil than admiration. While Belzoni
is descending into the catacombs, and Parry is penetrating to the pole,
while history wears all the attributes of romance, and chemistry all the
brilliancy of fiction, few people have patience to follow the adventures
of beauties, robbers, and outlaws.
My black seal is for Lady D——. Her cards were out for an assembly, when
she died, with very little suffering of mind or body. I am sure the
Bath ladies who lost her party, think themselves most to be pitied,
and somewhat ill-used.... Ladies are seldom kind to their _dames de
compagnie_. Why is it that, except in motherly and sisterly connexion,
women appear so much to dislike each other? As Lady D. seemed disposed
to live for ever, being eighty-four, without infirmity, and enjoying all
the amusements of youth, in Bath, that Paradise of female longevity, I
am sure I wish for my sake she had. I shall miss her kind and laudatory
manner to me and mine, her approving peep through her spy-glass, and all
her cheerful, good-humoured, civil ways.
TO MRS. —— (a god-daughter).
April, 1821.
Excuse me for not having sooner expressed the pleasure I felt in hearing
of your being well, and mother of a fine little boy. This is the most
delightful period of our existence; and when one forgets the little
anxieties about a baby’s health, and the transient sufferings attendant
on their birth, often does one look back on those hours when infants were
blossoming around one, with regret at their having so swiftly glided
away. I believe it is the happiest time of every woman’s life, who has
affectionate feelings, and is blessed with healthy and well-disposed
children. I know, at least, that neither the gaieties and boundless
hopes of early life, nor the more grave pursuits and deeper affections
of later years, are by any means comparable in my recollections with
the serene yet lively pleasure of seeing my children—my beautiful,
affectionate, and sprightly children—playing on the grass, enjoying their
little temperate supper, or repeating ‘with holy look’ their simple
prayers, and undressing for bed, growing prettier for every part of their
dress they took off, and at last lying down, all freshness and love, in
complete happiness, and an amicable contest for mamma’s last kiss.
* * * * *
_May 16, 1821._—Saw the Exhibition.
_Guess my name_ (Wilkie)—interior of a cottage—a woman in a cloak, with a
charming sweetness and cordial hilarity of countenance, such as reminded
one of Mrs. Jordan, has placed her hands over the eyes of a peasant
seated at a table, and is _seen_ to utter these words; an old man at the
door, who seems to have followed her, enjoys the incident, as do three
or four other spectators. It is a sweet picture, and awakens kindly
unsophisticated affections.
A charming _Eastern Landscape_, by Daniel, with beautiful figures—water
still and transparent—a house on a hill, catching every hope of a
breeze—scattered palm-trees and sufficient vegetation to refresh the
imagination under the evident heat of the atmosphere—some lovely young
women of the labouring class, undepressed by its effects, engaged in
light occupation on the brink of the river.
A lovely miniature in enamel of the late Dowager Duchess of Leinster,
reading.
A head of Walter Scott, with a smile of the most playful humour. Another
of Wordsworth, a fine pensive face, but nothing of the lackadaisical
manner report has attributed to the lake poet—both by Chantrey.
_Belshazzar’s Feast_ (Martin). It speaks strongly to the imagination, and
is a powerful creation of light, and a new language in painting. The idea
is fine, and I augur much from Martin, who seems to have a powerful fancy
and a noble daring.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
London, June 2, 1821.
I have always avoided making my letters bulletins, as I wish neither
to give pain nor to excite _ennui_; but I cannot conceal from you
the opinion of Sir Henry Halford, justified by the success of his
prescriptions, that I shall completely recover my health. My size is
undiminished; it makes me very uncourtly in appearance, and is the
despair of some of my refined friends; but is the less alarming, as
it is not the fulness of relaxation, but such as would do honour to
a dairy-maid or farmer’s wife; and is convenient in one respect, for
it serves, without the odium of singularity, as an apology for my
being far behind my cotemporaries in variety of dress and quantity of
trimmings. When gently reproved on that subject, I always say, ‘Oh,
you know my size;’ and the decorated lecturer gives a pitying glance
at _me_, an approving one at _herself_, and becomes silently absorbed
in the contemplation of her flounces. The necessity of pleasing _him_
is sometimes hinted at on these occasions. Poor souls! they know not
how secure I am. You must know that in this town _time_ brings no
relaxation to the vigour of dress. On the contrary, while some of the
young have good taste enough to trust to their charms for a few years,
and are distinguished by their simplicity, scarcely any of their mothers
resign, or cease accumulating, ornaments, till they exchange them for
the winding-sheet. An awful instance of this passion occurred in my
neighbourhood. A person whose beauty had raised her from the rank of
milliner to that of wealthy widow, in her last will ordered that she
should be dressed for the grave in all her laces and diamonds, which
should be buried with her. This is ‘the ruling passion strong in death’
beyond what fiction would have ventured to describe.
TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.
London, July, 1821.
All silly persons talk of nothing now but the Coronation, so you
may guess how much one hears of it. Such numbers have put on their
fool’s-caps about it, and are jangling them in one’s ears, that it is
quite deafening.
_HE_ says, that no dowager may walk at it. ‘I will have no dowagers;’
L’INGRAT!!
Lord —— is in alternate paroxysms of delight that he and his wife may
walk at it, and of terror at the expense. She jingles her bells more
quietly. He was shocked at my repeating, though I said I did not believe
it, that each dress would cost £800. The love of money and show are
usually united.
I have just skimmed _The Monastery_, and am angry with the author for
appropriating our Irish Banshee, and making so little of her, for she was
originally a poetical creature. He degrades her to something between a
ghost and a fairy, who comes popping up in all places on the most trivial
occasions, and then melts away like a lump of sugar, till she is called
again. Fleury’s account of Buonaparte’s last short reign,[64] is by far
the cleverest of the new books I have read, and, to all but military men,
more amusing than Napoleon’s own _Memoirs_.
If I were not ashamed of the length of this letter, I should ask if
you had seen Mrs. Delany’s _Letters_.[65] They are too much alike, and,
short as is the volume, it might be shortened with advantage; but some of
them give a most pleasing and minute picture of the interior of Windsor
Castle in the happiest days of our late Sovereigns. They are valuable
historically, as a faithful, though slight sketch of that branch of
history, detailing the private life of the great, of which the French
have too much, and we too little. We are now reading Cottu, _On the
Administration of Criminal Justice in England_. He takes, also, a rapid
and entertaining view of our social life, our elections, &c. &c., and is
a very pleasant writer, particularly as he finds us all perfection. It is
gratifying to see oneself in so becoming a glass.
TO THE SAME.
London, Aug., 1821.
I know you will be pleased to hear that the tickets, for which we were
so much obliged, did all that tickets could do. The place was excellent,
particularly for me, who lived half the time in the air, which enabled
me to bear fifteen hours’ attendance, and some carriage and other
difficulties, without injury. I opened my eyes on a hair-dresser at a
quarter before four, was _en route_ in a white satin dress-gown and
court plume at five; at six, was seated in the Hall, after various
difficulties occasioned by the dulness of doorkeepers, and some danger
from the circumstance of my being within a few yards of the gate at the
very instant the guards were called out to oppose the Queen. Tired to
death at having been sent backwards and forwards by doorkeepers, I was
at last near the right entrance, when I heard loud shouts, a few faint
hisses, and a cry of ‘Close the doors.’ The Guards are called out; the
Battle-axes rushed in, and absolutely carried me in amongst them, and
with wonderful alarm was the door closed against a woman—and a Queen.
The show was all that Oriental pomp, feudal ceremonial, and British
wealth could unite. The processions in _The Curse of Kehama_, and in
_Rimini_, with the painting of _Belshazzar’s Feast_, were continually
recalled to my memory. The conflict of the _two lights_ from the blaze
of artificial day mixing with a splendid sunshine, the position of the
King’s table, the pomp of the banquet, with its vessels of gold and
silver, the richness of the dresses, and a thousand other particulars,
rendered the resemblance so perfect, it seemed as if the Feast had been
in some degree copied from the picture. Thus does art seem to contain the
germ of all that is developed in life.
Our loyalty was noisy, and I think our roarings might have been dispensed
with; for we roared not once, nor thrice, but at least a dozen times. We
had great desire to roar for the horses also; but an energetic _hush_
from those who conducted the ceremonial silenced us with difficulty, as
we attempted it repeatedly.
The Archbishop of York, in his coronation sermon, assured us that,
‘judging of the future by the past, we had reason to expect a reign
of extraordinary virtue.’ The Abbey, when looked down upon from one of
the upper pews, appeared like a Turkey carpet continually changing its
pattern.
* * * * *
_Aug. 8, 1821._—The Queen died yesterday evening at half-past ten. Deep
compassion and unaccountable regret filled my mind on hearing this news,
mixed with something like shame that a foreign Princess should have been
made so unhappy by her connexion with this country.
* * * * *
_Aug. 11._—Lady Fanny Proby having offered me places in Lord Buckingham’s
private box, I saw that splendid pageant, the Coronation, at Drury Lane.
A crowded audience, packed as close as art could place them, except in
the private boxes, sat with ineffable complacency to witness the mimic
coronation of one whom they applauded each time he was named, and whom
this time last year an audience of similar materials would scarcely
hear mentioned without hissing and contumely; while they bestowed not a
thought on one who lies yet unburied, on one of whom this ceremony was
calculated to remind them, on one who is said to have died of grief in
consequence of the wrongs she received from him they now applaud, on one
whom this time last year they idolized; to whom the most distant allusion
set the theatre in a roar—not of laughter, but of wild and tumultuous and
enthusiastic applause.
Popular applause! popular attachment! intoxicating draught, misleading
_ignis fatuus_;—how often will they lead us to the edge of a
precipice—and leave us there.
* * * * *
_Sept. 23, Roehampton._—On arriving here on the 16th, found my dear Miss
Agar in her bed, and after an anxious and miserable week of trembling
anxiety, received her last sigh at nine o’clock this morning. One of my
earliest, and for many years my dearest, friend—the kind, the generous,
the steady, the pious, the cheerful, the pleasant, the wise. Farewell, my
Emily!
* * * * *
_Oct. 1._—Left Lord Clifden’s—oh! how much poorer than when I arrived;
one of the treasures of my heart, after my husband and children by far
the dearest, taken out of the small but precious circle.
TO THE COUNTESS OF CARYSFORT.
London, Oct. 4, 1821.
My health, of which you are so good as to inquire, continues unimpaired,
though I feel much of that listlessness of sorrow which succeeds to the
first energies of grief. My loss is irreparable. The friend of early
youth, whom I always found equally partial, tender, efficient, and
sincere—who never lost an opportunity of giving pleasure, and whose
affection transformed my very faults into so many perfections, must, by
her departure, leave a chasm never to be filled; and I know not whether
it does not increase my regret, that the very unpretending simplicity,
which was a charm in her character, in some measure concealed the powers
of her understanding, and the virtues of her heart, from all but her
closest intimates. I know no one who gave so much in proportion to their
means, and not only to the very poor, but to those of a higher class,
who are more rarely recollected or assisted. She refused no one, till
she tried whether it was possible, by her purse or her influence, to
serve them. Every year of her life ripened her piety, her charity, her
faith. At the head of a large establishment, to which she contributed
a movement of the most beautiful tranquillity and order, she made all
around her happy; and, not content with feeding and clothing the poor,
used to send her maid to discover whether want existed in the cottages;
and to reproach herself, in spite of a state of health and routine of
avocations and duties that rendered it impracticable, for not going
in person. She was an early riser, and free from all effeminacy and
personal indulgence. She set her mind for the day by reading at least two
chapters in the Bible and a portion of the Psalms, before she appeared
at breakfast, and she was regular in her studies of a few of the best
books on religious subjects. It was some effort to go last Sunday to the
church, where I had never been but with her. But her own composure seems
to have spread itself around her, and to have remained among her friends
without the smallest diminution of the depth, and with a great addition
to the tenderness, of their regrets. On the 25th, I again saw her dear
remains, wrapped in white satin, and reposing on a white satin mattrass
and pillows, in her last quiet bed; for though all was conducted with the
privacy she desired, it was mingled with the respectful state suitable
to her condition. On the evening of the 27th, I prayed by her _closed_
coffin—a solemn, not a gloomy, object. It lay in the midst of one of the
largest rooms, which was fully lighted, and in its sombre magnificence
this her last dwelling left a serious impression, but inflicted no
additional pang. She reposes by the side of the mother she so much loved.
* * * * *
I gaze upon thy vacant chair,
And almost see thine image there;
I view the slowly-opening door,
And scarce believe that never more
Thy step of lightness there shall tend
With cordial smile to greet thy friend,
My Emily.
Thy gentle care was ever nigh,
When sorrow heaved the secret sigh;
Thy bounty fell like evening dew,
Refreshing those who never knew
Whose tender hand their pillow smoothed,
And hours of anguish sweetly soothed,
My Emily.
Ennobled was thy closing strife;
Thou didst not fondly cling to life,
But the pale monarch’s call obeyed
Without surprise and undismayed,
In wedding garments, purely bright,
With well-trimmed lamp of steady light,
My Emily.
I saw thee in thine hour of prime,
I saw thee gently touched by time,
I saw thee as thy spirit fled,
I’ve seen thee since, beside my bed,
A placid dream, pure, soft, and fair,
A soul of love, a form of air,
My Emily.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Roehampton, Sept. 29, 1821.
I reproach myself for having permitted you to learn by the public papers
the misfortune I have suffered in losing my invaluable friend Miss Agar,
as I know your kind heart will form a thousand apprehensions as to the
effect of such a disruption on my health and spirits. Believe me, my dear
friend, that her composure, fortitude, and Christian resignation, have
left with her friends the priceless legacy of an example which forbids
every undue murmur, every selfish indulgence of grief. ‘Our little life
_is rounded_ with a sleep;’ and till that last sleep our character cannot
be perfectly understood or completely finished. Hers has stood this test,
and her departure reflects back a light on all her preceding days.
* * * * *
_Oct. 8._—Lord Clifden feels, and bears, his loss as he ought—a second
self, affectionate as a wife, clearsighted to his interests, temporal and
eternal, as a sister, observant as a daughter, the tenderest nurse to him
in sickness, the most admirable regulator of a family, which moved with
the silence, order, and harmony of the spheres—a pleasing, cheerful, and
entertaining companion, and as grateful to him for his liberality to her
of this world’s goods, as if she had not been deserving of all he could
bestow.
TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.
London, Oct. 15, 1821.
Besides ‘that which cometh upon me daily,’ I have been visiting a lovely
little being, a soul on the wing, one of —— ——’s nieces, who adorns a
death-bed of poverty and privation with the sweetest and most endearing
Christian graces. Oh! how his bosom ought to be wrung in comparing her
present situation with that she might have been in, had he behaved with
common honesty; but wickedness brings its own balm.
Lord Waldegrave’s _Memoirs_[66] are worth reading, and show an
accomplished mind, so habituated to courtly restraint in expressing its
thoughts, that attention is needful to find the full meaning of the
writer, in the low and gentle tones by which it is communicated.
—— has a delightful voice—not a single defect to be removed; whatever he
has to do will be merely progress, which is given to about one person in
five hundred. He even opens his mouth smilingly and horizontally, like
an Italian, instead of dolorously and perpendicularly, like a native of
England.
* * * * *
_Nov. 7, 1821._—I left Mr. Sloane’s to-day with regret, and the happy,
orderly, and dignified tranquillity of his hospitable habitation. Such
kindliness in the master, such affectionate respect in the servants, but
with that perfect love which casteth out fear—such a good library, so
frankly communicated—such perfect comfort, which would slide into state,
if it did not make an effort against it—such magnificent oaks, and the
whole park scenery thrown into the house by large plate-glass windows!
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Nov. 20, 1821.
I am grateful for your daughter’s kindness, and for the depth of feeling
with which she has entered into my deprivation. Although this misfortune
was at the time softened by every favourable circumstance, and that
I constantly reflect with satisfaction on my dear companion’s having
escaped the various ills which might have pressed upon her latter days,
and which seem to lie in wait for the most prosperous, yet her loss is
in some degree a growing sorrow, as circumstances permitted us to be
very much together, and we were on terms so confidential that I want her
advice or assistance, or miss her company or her letters, every day of
my life. Sometimes I hear a humorous anecdote, which my first impulse,
before ‘I waken with a start’ to the reality, is to treasure up for her.
Sometimes I have some little charitable scheme, which she would have
moulded into form, or some little family dilemma, in which her reason,
religion, knowledge of the world, and of _me_, would have enabled her
to guide me. When I was in retirement, her amusing letters brought a
thousand interesting public topics under my eyes, giving me the opinions
of many sensible and some eminent men, condensed into small compass. When
my husband went to Ireland, she did all in her power to make amends for
his absence, and never thought it possible to see me half enough. In her
heart I read as clearly as in my own.