I frequently meet a man here, B--H--, whose company is highly
interesting to me. Although a clergyman, he is one of the few
independent thinkers who are able to throw off the tyranny of early
impressions and old habits, and to see by the light of reason, in other
words, of divine revelation, alone. In his opinion, too, a crisis in
religious affairs is at hand. "Ecclesiastical establishments," said he
to-day, "are manifestly the monstrous offspring of the sublime and the
ridiculous, of eternal truth and dark ignorance, of genuine philosophy
and gross idolatry. The more men learn, the more science enables us to
understand external nature and the nature of our own being by
well-established facts, the milder, the more moral will our manners as
well as our governments become. More slowly, religions will follow.
Even the Christian religion, though in its origin one of the mightiest
efforts towards the amelioration of mankind, ever prompted by the
deepest meditation, and the purest heart has, as the history of our
church shows in almost every page since its establishment, deluged the
world a hundred times with blood, and given birth to a succession of the
most frantic absurdities; while philosophy and science have continually
acted as humanizers, without ever demanding such victims, or committing
such outrages. The question is, whether Newton, in discovering the
secrets of Heaven,--whether the inventors of the compass or the
printing-press,--have not done more for mankind, _i. e._ more to further
the progress of civilization, than any of the numerous founders of sects
and religions, who require that men should swear exclusive allegiance to
them. There may, indeed, come a time in which religion and poetry will
be regarded as sisters,--in which a religion of state will appear as
ludicrous as a poetry of state. Were I a Turk, I should say to myself,
It is certainly difficult to get so entirely free of all the prejudices
and superstitions of childhood, as to regard the persuasion of millions,
with a firm unshaken eye, as folly: but having once convinced myself
that it is so, I will not remain a Turk. As Christian, I say, I will
adhere to the _pure doctrine_ which my reason can revere; but I will
have the courage to reject the mass of unpoetical fables, and all the
misrepresentations and disfigurements of the time of its birth, and
still more the bloody and ferocious heathenism incorporated with it by
succeeding ages, even though two hundred millions of men should
sincerely receive them as divine, on the authority of men erring as
themselves. This was the principle on which Luther acted, when he took
the first steps towards Reform; but the light which he purified stands
greatly in need of a fresh cleansing. Honour and reverence be to the
churchman who shall be great and pure-minded enough to feel himself
called to this god-like work! who shall endeavour to execute it without
compromise or fear of men, though the multitude of hypocrites and
pharisees will cry out against him; for history clearly shows that he
has nothing else to expect.
"Has it not ever been the few who have seen and acknowledged the better
and the true? Has it not ever been the many who have proscribed and
persecuted them? Was truth on the side of the fanatical herd who gave
the poison-cup to Socrates? or of that which crucified Jesus? or of that
which burnt Huss? No; it was not till centuries afterwards that the
multitude embraced the persecuted faith, and hardened themselves into
the same stubborn and furious orthodoxy for it, which they had displayed
against it. The want of a religion is unquestionably one of the most
imperious cravings of our nature, especially where laws and institutions
are yet in their infancy. He who cannot frame one for himself, must
receive the _form_ of it from others:--such will always be the many.
This easily explains the grounds upon which the power of the church and
the priesthood must ever rest, and why men are thus kept in
leading-strings for hundreds, nay thousands of years. But to strengthen
and perpetuate this power, knowledge must always be repressed in favour
of faith. Where inquiry is free, one fraud after another disappears,
though slowly;--light bursts at length even upon the darkest corner.
When this point is once reached, the fetters laid upon conscience are
broken, and every individual demands a boundless field for the exercise
of his faith and of his judgment. Absolute sultans, fat dervises, and
haughty satraps, must then fall together, like the dead lees in generous
wine. How miserable a figure do those make, who, at the dawn of such a
day, think they can stop the rising of the sun by turning their backs
upon it, or by holding their antiquated, decayed, and worm-eaten screen,
which is no longer in a state to exclude even a moonbeam, before their
eyes! They may for a while succeed in keeping _themselves_ in the shade,
but they cannot shroud the bright forehead of the day. On the contrary,
their struggles, as impotent as they are passionate, are the surest
harbingers of its inevitable approach."
I agree, for the most part, with B---- H----; but whether his sanguine
hopes will so soon, or indeed ever on this earth, be realized, is
another question. That the world can no longer be governed on jesuitical
principles, and that the liberty of the press, if firmly maintained,
works, and will work, incalculable wonders, I am well convinced:--but
men will still be men, and force and fraud will, I fear, ever
predominate over reason.
In the forenoon I visited the courts of justice with Father L'Estrange,
to hear the military-looking O'Connell plead, in his powdered
long-tailed wig, black gown, and bands. We afterwards went to the
meeting of the Association, to see the great Agitator in a totally
different character. The meeting was very stormy. Mr. L----s spoke like
a madman, and attacked O'Connell himself so violently that he almost
lost his wonted dignity. He made an admirable reply; though he strained
too much after wit, which was not always in the best taste. After this,
a dozen spoke at once. The secretary called to order, but had not
authority enough to enforce obedience. In short, the scene began to be
rather indecorous, till at last a handsome young man with enormous
whiskers and an 'outré' dress, (the dandy of the Association,) sprang on
the table, and uttered a thundering speech which obtained great
applause, and thus restored peace.
I dined at Lady M----'s. She had invited me by a note, such as I have
received a dozen of during my stay here:--I must mention them as
characteristic, for I never in my life saw worse calligraphy or a more
negligent style from a lady's pen. The aim of the great authoress was
manifest;--to announce the most perfect 'insouciance,' the most entire
'abandon,' in the affairs of ordinary life; just as the great solo
dancers in Paris affect to walk with their toes turned in, that they may
not betray the dancer by profession. At table Lady M----, with her
aid-de-camp K. Cl----, 'faisoient les frais d'esprit obligé.' Mr. Shiel,
too, appeared in the character of an agreeable man of the world. The
most amusing part of the entertainment, however, was the acting of
proverbs by Lady M---- and her sister, who both extemporized admirably
in French. Among others, they performed 'Love me, love my dog,' as
follows:
Dramatis personæ:--Lady M----, an old coquette; Lady C----, an Irish
'fortune-hunter;' her eldest daughter, the French femme-de-chambre; the
youngest, a captain of the Guards, a lover of the lady. Scene the
first:--Lady M---- with her maid at her toilet. Confidential advice of
Josephine, in the course of which she betrays various laughable secrets
of the toilet. Distress of the coquette at the first appearance of
wrinkles. Assurances of the Abigail that, by candle-light, nobody can be
handsomer. As a proof of this, the various lovers are adduced, and
love-affairs of former times recapitulated. "La comtesse convient de ses
conquêtes," and with much humour draws a picture of her triumphs.
"Chut!" cries the waiting-maid, "j'entends le capitaine." This
personage, an exclusive, enters with great 'fracas,' carrying a little
dog under his arm, and after some tender compliments tells her that he
is obliged to rejoin his regiment, and wishes to leave her his little
Fidèle, that the fair countess may never forget to remain 'fidèle' to
him. Burlesque protestations, sobs, embraces, farewells. Scarcely is the
captain gone, when the Irishman appears with a marriage-contract in his
hand, by which the countess is to assign over her whole fortune to him.
Like a man well versed in womankind, he treats her somewhat cavalierly,
though with a display of passion, so that after a feeble defence and a
little scene, she consents. Meanwhile the Irishman observes the little
dog, and asks with some surprise whose it is. She stammers out a sort of
apologetic answer. O'Connor MacFarlane now plays the part of the
infuriate jealous lover. The women vainly attempt to appease him; he
storms, and insists on the instant dismissal of the intruder. The
countess makes an attempt to faint--but all is in vain; even Josephine,
who during the discussion of the marriage-contract has just received a
purse behind her mistress' back, takes the part of the incensed
Irishman, who with one hand holds back his lady, and with the other at
length throws the unfortunate little dog out at the door. But, alas! at
this very moment the captain returns to bring the collar which he had
forgotten, and Fidèle jumps into his arms. The terrified women take to
flight; the men measure each other with their eyes. O'Connor MacFarlane
utters dreadful menaces; but the captain draws his sword, and his
antagonist jumps out at the window,--The skeleton is meagre; but the
spirit, humour, and wit, by which it was filled out, rendered it
extremely entertaining. The imperfections of the costume made it only
more piquant. The ladies, for instance, had put on a coat and waistcoat
over their own dresses, and stuck a hat on their heads; their swords
were riding-whips, and Fidèle a muff.
Lady M---- afterwards related to me many interesting circumstances
respecting the celebrated Miss O'Neil, whom, as you know, I regard as
the greatest dramatic artist it has ever fallen to my lot to admire. She
said that this extraordinary young woman, who from the very commencement
of her career had given evidence of the highest genius, remained utterly
neglected at the theatre in Dublin, where she performed for some years.
She was at that time so poor, that when she returned home at night after
the greatest exertions, she found no other refreshment than a plate of
potatoes and a miserable bed which she shared with three sisters. Lady
M---- once visited her, and found the poor girl mending her two pair of
old stockings, which she was obliged to wash daily for her appearance on
the stage. Lady M---- now procured for her various articles of dress,
and took upon herself in some degree the care of her toilet, which had
been extremely neglected. She obtained more applause after this, though
still but little. At this time one of the managers of the London
theatres accidentally came to Dublin, saw her, and had the good taste
and judgment immediately to engage her for the metropolis. Here she at
once produced the most extraordinary sensation; and from a poor unknown
young actress, rose in one moment to be the first star of the theatrical
firmament of England. I still remember her acting with rapture: I have
never since been able to endure the part of Juliet, played even by our
best actresses; all appear to me stiff, affected, unnatural. One must
have seen the whole thread of the life of the Shakspearian Juliet thus
spun before one's eyes to conceive the effect. At first, it was only the
sportive youthful joyousness of the caressing child: then, when awakened
by love, a new sun appeared to rise upon her; all her attitudes and
movements assumed a more soft, voluptuous air; her countenance, her
whole person became radiant,--she was the southern maiden devoting her
whole soul and life to her beloved with all the fire of her clime. Thus
did she burst into the loveliest and richest blossom;--but care and
sorrow soon ripened the noble fruit before our eyes. The most imposing
dignity, the deepest conjugal tenderness, the firmest resolve in
extremity, now took the place of glowing passion, of the quick sense
which seemed framed but to enjoy:--and how was her despair depicted at
the last, when all was lost! How fearful, how heart-rending, how true,
and yet how ever beautiful, did she know how to rise even to the very
last moment! Certain of her aim, she sometimes ventured to the very
utmost verge of her art, and did what no other could have attempted
without falling into the ridiculous: but in her, it was just these
efforts which operated as electric shocks. Her madness and death in
Belvidera, for instance, had such a terrific physical truth, that the
sight of it was hardly endurable; and yet it was only the agony of the
soul, showing through every fibre of her body, which had an effect so
powerful, so almost annihilating, on the spectator. I remember well that
on the evening in which I saw that, I remained wholly insensible to any
physical impression; and even the next morning, when I awoke, wept
bitterly over Belvidera's fate. I was certainly very young then, but my
feelings were those of many; and it was a striking fact, that Germans,
Frenchmen, and Italians, were equally enthusiastic admirers of her;
though, generally speaking, one must have a thorough knowledge of the
language and character of the nation, to feel perfectly satisfied with
its actors. _She_, however, had no trace of mannerism; it was only human
nature in its truest and noblest form, which spoke to every human heart.
She could not be properly called beautiful; yet she had a stately
person, noble shoulders and arms, and beautiful hair. But her peculiar
charm was that indefinable pathetic expression which at the first glance
moved the inmost feelings of the heart. In such features, you think you
discover the trace of every passion, though an unearthly calm is spread
over them like ice over a volcano.
The inhabitants of Dublin had long remained blind to so much genius and
talent; but the year after, when the celebrated, admired, adored Miss
O'Neil returned from London to act a few of her most popular parts, the
infectious enchantment was so powerful, that not only the whole public
was in the greatest state of tumult and agitation, but many ladies were
carried out from the theatre fainting. One became really insane from
witnessing Belvidera's madness, and actually died in a mad-house. Really
such facts as these render the enthusiasm of the many almost disgusting.
This great actress was also distinguished for her remarkably amiable
character: she entirely supported her family, even at the time of her
greatest poverty. She made her first appearance at a little private
theatre in the country: this was afterwards shut, and only occasionally
used by a dilettanti company, when the profits of their performance were
given to the poor of the county. They wrote to Miss O'Neil, who was then
in England, and begged her to consecrate this place, which had witnessed
her first efforts, by the last triumph of her genius, now the admiration
of the three kingdoms; whatever terms she might propose would be agreed
to. She replied, that she felt herself extremely flattered and honoured
by the request; but that so far from accepting any pecuniary
compensation, she would gladly seize the opportunity of offering this
tribute to the cradle of her humble talents. Only on this condition, and
that of being allowed to contribute her mite to her poor countrymen,
would she appear on the day appointed.--I was assured by eye-witnesses
that they had never seen a more perfect piece of acting than her's on
this occasion. Never had Miss O'Neil been better supported,--never did
she so surpass herself. It was a curious accident that a young Irish
gentleman of fortune fell in love with her that very day, and shortly
after married her. He robbed the public of an inestimable treasure; but
who can blame him? Miss O'Neil has now several children, is still
charming, and lives happily on her husband's property. She has never
trodden a stage, either public or private, since her marriage.
[The conclusion of this letter, which, as it appears from the beginning
of the following one, contains a description of some public
entertainments and occurrences, is missing.]