in point of beauty. It is now lower than Somma, and the crater
is apparently flattened.[153] Torre del Greco presents a curious
spectacle, both to the naturalist and ye moralist. The stratum of fresh
lava has raised the coast near fifty feet above its former level. The
lava is of a peculiar texture, more charged with metallic particles
than any of the other strata from Vesuvius, though not equal in
specific gravity to that at Ischia. In many places it is still smoking,
and the cavities are filled by little beggars who seek warmth there.
After a fall of rain the evaporation is curious, for the density of the
atmosphere marks the course of the lava. The infatuation of the people
is wonderful; they prefer rebuilding upon that spot to accepting lands
offered by the King, and not content with that absurdity they add to
it by immediately commencing, and I actually saw myself a house just
finished, which was built within three inches (for I measured them) of
a hole from whence the smoke issued, and upon which I could not bear my
hand from the excessive heat. This surely is verifying that curious,
novel, and true maxim of Adam Smith’s, that every man believes to a
superstitious excess in his own good luck.
The collection of Capo di Monte has undergone various changes in the
disposition of the pictures. The Queen sent to desire I would visit
her at Caserta, but she told me the measles was in the palace among
her children. I therefore declined the honour, on account of exposing
Webby to the danger. I dined at Caserta with the Hamiltons. I found
_Mullady_ altered, and Sir William seemed more occupied about
his own digestion than in admiring the graceful turn of her head.
I returned day and night from Naples to Albano, where I found Ld.
Holland and Mr. M. waiting for me. The next morning I went to see the
lake and the _emissary_. The emissary is an issue from the lake to
carry off the superabundant waters. It is perforated through the hill.
In the evening we drove through the villas at Frascati, and returned to
Rome.
I quitted Rome, and went back to Florence by the Siena road. Nothing
very remarkable occurred during my short stay at Florence. I set off
from thence on April ye 11th. I bid adieu to that lovely spot, where I
enjoyed a degree of happiness for a whole year that was too exquisite
to be permanent. Ld. Holland drove me in his phæton the first post to
Prato: he returned, and I pursued my journey upon the Modena road.
For some reason, unrelated in the text, Lady Webster seems
to have changed her route. On reaching Bologna, instead of
turning west to Modena, she took the road to Ferrara, which
she reached on April 18th.
[Sidenote: RELICS OF ARIOSTO]
Ferrara is but the skeleton of its former grandeur; it is now deserted
and thinly inhabited. The tomb of Ariosto naturally attracted my
veneration; it is in the Benedictine convent. The architecture of it
is bad, and the bust but moderately executed; it represents him very
much in the decline of life. His house, in which his grotto, chair,
and inkstand used to be shown, is now pulled down and destroyed by the
rapacity of the owner. The public library is small, and contains no
books of value. There they preserve the original manuscript of most of
the books of the _Orlando_, chair, and inkstand. The manuscript is
written by himself, and in the margin there are numberless emendations;
thus we discover that those verses that seem so easy and to flow
without exertion, are precisely those that have undergone the most
alteration. At the bottom of one of the pages I perceived written in
pencil:--
Vittorio Alfieri vede e vennerò.
18 Giugno, 1783.
He might venerate, but the harmony he can never imitate.
Early on ye 19th I set off and crossed the Po at Lagoscuro, and from
thence got to Rovigo, a dreadful road and two bad _barques_, one
over the canal Bianco, and the other across the Adigio. Rovigo, the
birthplace of Manfredini, a wretched, straggling town. We reached
Padua at night. I have been there before, but I possess a very faint
remembrance of the place. I have just heard that the unhappy phantom
of royalty, Louis XVIII., has been compelled to quit the Venetian
territory. I remained at Padua several days. Miss Bowdler and Lady
Herries lodged in the same hotel. Ld. Holland overtook me from Florence.
We went to the monastery of Praia, a rich Benedictine order. The
heat of the weather and badness of the road had fatigued us, and we
asked permission to enter the sacristy and refresh ourselves. The lay
brother, who is the porter, repulsed us with harshness, and refused us
admission within the walls, adding that water was the only hospitality
afforded by the monks. On my return to Padua I wrote a letter of
complaint to the Abbot, who answered it with civility, and promised to
reprimand the insolence of the porter.
I went the next evening to see the Villa Quirini, remarkable for
possessing some of the oldest Egyptian monuments in Europe if not
coeval with the Pyramids at least so Dancarville, the learned
antiquary, assured me. He pretends to be so much _au fait_ of
them, that he even shows a mark made by a soldier of the army of
Cambyses; but the reveries of antiquaries are absurd. The French have
broken into the plain of Piémont by way of Nice, and have gained a
great victory over the Austrians. Buonaparti [_sic_] is the French
commander.
They left Padua on April 24, and took the road to Trieste.
From Trieste we went through Carniola, Carinthia, Styria, by way of
Laibach, Marburg, Gratz, and Bruck to Vienna. I stayed a few days only
at Vienna, dined at Sir Morton Eden’s,[154] and saw some of my old
acquaintances. Met Clairfait,[155] who seems a mild, gentlemanlike man.
From Vienna I went to Znaym, Iglau, across the famous field of battle
at Kolin, to Prague; from thence to Dresden. The two posts at Aussig
and Peterwald were just as bad as they were the last time I went. I met
Lady Plymouth at Dresden, and dined with ye Duchess of Cumberland.
From Dresden I went to Berlin; tiresome deep road through sands and
thin forests of pines. At Berlin I came in time to see a review. I
dined with Ld. Elgin,[156] and at his house I saw the celebrated Pitt
diamond,[157] brought from Paris upon sale. Hugh Elliot insisted upon
bearing me company to Hamburg. Great difficulty of accommodation at
Hamburg: the town so filled with emigrants. Went to see General
Dumouriez. I was afraid of crossing the Elbe to Harburg, so went up
where it was narrow. Went through Harburg and Stade to Cuxhaven:
detained there some days on account of contrary winds.
The 4th of June I quitted Hamburg. Crossed from Cuxhaven to Yarmouth in
six days and half. Came straight to London.
An interval of a year here takes place in the Journal,
which Lady Holland, to use her new name, again resumes in
July 1797.
[Sidenote: HER MARRIAGE]
My wretched marriage was annulled by Parliament on the 4th July. On
the fifth I signed a deed by which I made over my whole fortune to Sir
G. W., for our joint lives, for the insignificant sum of 800_l._
Every mean device, every paltry chicane that could extort money from us
was had recourse to.
I was married at Rickmansworth Church by Rev. Mr. Morris to Lord
Holland, on July 6th, 1797. Sir Gilbert Affleck,[158] my father-in-law,
gave me away. As soon as the ceremony was over we went to Richmond,
where I found my mother and my son Henry. They came to this house the
next day and stayed a week. I was twenty-six years old. Ld. H. was
twenty-three. The difference in age is, alas! two years and eight
months--a horrid disparity. All his family behaved to me with the
utmost kindness; they came, those in town, and those in the country
wrote to me. I went to Bowood in July, where I met with his two aunts,
Misses Vernon, and his sister, Miss Fox; they were kind and cordial. In
the autumn I went to Margate.
Having a very bad memory, and many odd irregular half-hours, it has
occurred to me to assist the one and occupy the others by writing
down any events, conversations, anecdotes, etc., that may interest me
at the moment; and though my nature is too lazy to allow me to hope
that I can act up to anything like a systematic pursuit, yet whilst
the fit is upon me to be so employed, I will yield. As I care too
little about politics to talk of them, I certainly shall refrain from
discussing them upon paper, nevertheless this moment is critical and
anxious even to my indifference. The second negotiation is just broken
off;[159] hostilities beginning in Italy; Mr. Fox decidedly seceded
from Parliament, and the session on the point of opening; fresh taxes,
discontents, and the Dutch fleet destroyed.[160] My own individual
happiness is so perfect, that I can scarcely figure to myself a
blessing that I do not possess--indeed, the having such a companion
as I have is, in itself, everything without the accessories of other
advantages.
The 14th October (1797), Mr. Fox, D. of Bedford, etc., dined here, and
it was then finally concluded among them that none of the shattered
remains of their party should attend the meeting of Parliament. As
to the measure of secession there are many different opinions as to
its expediency; but all their discussions end in the loss of time and
temper, for Opposition are too unpopular to have anything left to hope
for, and the system of party is obsolete. It seems astonishing to me
that amidst the number of very able men who still rally round the
standard of Whiggism, not one should have discovered that the temper of
the country requires another species of resistance to Administration
than the old scheme of a regular Opposition with a Cavendish or a
Russell at its head. There is a bigotry in their adherence to their
ineffectual principles that borders upon infatuation.
[Sidenote: MR. FOX]
Mr. Fox appears sincerely to rejoice at the prospect of being able to
give himself up to those pursuits that amuse and, notwithstanding his
powers as a statesman, occupy him most. Literature, and especially
the metaphysics of grammar, and the cultivation of his plants, are
objects that engage the wonderful activity of his mind. He has lately
revived his Greek, and daily gets by heart a given number of lines in
Homer. Having seen so little of him, my opinion of him is chiefly taken
from public report and the very partial picture drawn by his nephew;
however, his very enemies admit that he possesses more estimable
qualities as an individual than falls to the share of scarcely any
other. Perhaps to a harsh observer his facility might be termed a
weakness and his good nature an indolent foible, but if extremes are
bad his bent is on the most amiable side. One cannot but regret that
such a man is lost to society, for so may his retirement at St. Anne’s
be called, and the habits of his life when there. Mrs. Armstead,[161]
I understand, possesses still those merits which, when united to the
attractions of youth, a degree of beauty, and much celebrity, placed
her above her competitors for the glory of ruining and seducing the
giddy youth of the day. She has mildness and little rapacity, but those
negative merits, when bereft of the other advantages, constitute but
an insipid resource in solitude. Besides, as she still retains the
immoderate love of expense which her former life led her into, she may
almost be called a pernicious connection, as disadvantageous for his
comfort as for his reputation; for after all that has passed, fresh
pecuniary embarrassments will be discreditable to him. But I have often
remarked that very superior men are easier satisfied with respect to
the talents of those they live with than men of inferior abilities.
Whether it springs from a movement of vanity, that they despair of
meeting an equal and are therefore contented with gentle accommodation,
or that they are conscious that they have little to learn, I cannot
determine, but the fact is certain.
[Sidenote: GENERAL DUMOURIEZ]
I do not mean to compare Dumouriez to Mr. Fox, but nevertheless I was
astonished to find, in a visit I made him (last June, ’96), that the
partner of his solitude was much the most trifling, insignificant
personage I had ever beheld. He was living in a wretched Westphalian
hovel or barn near Hamburg, with little money and less estimation, and
yet, contrary to what might have been imagined from his inordinate
ambition and vanity, happier (I believe) there surrounded by his brood
of well-disciplined ducklings than after the battle of Jemappes. I
never saw him but once, and that in a way that might have offended a
man less vain. Hearing from his relation, Chateauneuf, a bookseller
at Hamburg, that he lived in the neighbourhood, I proposed making
him a visit, that I might have the satisfaction of seeing one of the
most conspicuous characters that had flourished in the Revolution.
The motive excused the intrusion, and he was flattered. He is short
and fat, and in person very unlike a Frenchman, but the deficiency
in figure to prove him one is amply made up the moment he speaks. He
is full of vivacity, _esprit_, and _agrément_, expressing
himself pointedly and even energetically; and he may be very justly
placed among the best specimens that remain of the genuine character
of a Frenchman under the Monarchy. His pecuniary circumstances are
very narrow--he is going to publish a 4th edition of his works, from
which he hopes to obtain a maintenance. I believe he heartily repents
the unlucky adherence to the Constitution that causes him to be out of
his country, and prevents his rivalling Hoche and Buonaparte, for he
could not conceal the envy excited by their glories. He is a man of an
enterprising genius and undaunted courage, and would never incur the
satire of Mr. Burke’s application of the story of the two generals, one
of whom used to say upon a service of danger, ‘Allez, mes amis,’ and
the other, ‘Allons, mes amis.’ He would always be for the latter.
The unfortunate La Fayette and his family are just liberated from the
dungeons of Olmutz, and mean to embark at Hamburg for that country from
whence he imbibed those principles that have since deluged his country
with a sea of blood.[162] Whatever his errors might have been by
risking such a revolution merely to distinguish himself from the common
crowd of courtiers, or to try to practise the theory of virtue and
patriotism, his cruel captivity has extinguished rancour even in the
breasts of his bitterest enemies. M. de Bouillé,[163] in his Memoirs
just published, mentions his intentions as pernicious and his conduct
as weak, but never represents him as meaning evil; and upon the whole
the impression given is more that of pity than any other. Poor man!
his faults are expiated in his sufferings. His character is that of a
phlegmatic, cold-hearted man, with much vanity and slender abilities.
His cousin Bouillé is of a very different turn: he is quite the _tête
chaude_ of the Royalists, full of that _fougue_ and courage
peculiar to his nation. Misfortunes have softened his mind, and he
allows his reason to conquer his passion; he is candid and impartial
to others and himself. I believe him to be very zealous and honest.
I first became acquainted with him amidst the noise and tumult of a
camp. In ’93, returning from Italy to spend a few weeks in England,
I went from Bruxelles to see Valenciennes, which had just fallen,
and in that tour I made a visit to the Duke of York, who was then
besieging Dunkirk.[164] After dining at headquarters I attended the
funeral of General Dalton, who had been killed the day before on the
very spot over which I passed. The melancholy scene and the noise of
the artillery discharged upon those occasions quite overcame me, and I
declined attending the funeral that followed, of Col. Elde. The D. of
York very politely excused himself from returning to headquarters with
me, on account of his duty requiring his presence, but gave me to the
care of the Marquis de Bouillé, who accompanied me to the Duke’s tent.
Our conversation naturally fell upon those events in France in which he
had had the greatest share, and he gave me a very interesting narrative
of the King’s flight to Varennes, and the whole scheme as conceived by
him which he describes in his Memoirs. He finished with tears, showing
me his _cordon bleu_, which was part of his ill-fated Sovereign’s
wardrobe that had reached Luxembourg, and had been received by the
Marquis. He said it was the last and only relic he had of a master from
whom he had received favours that demanded his eternal gratitude and
tenderness.
[Sidenote: M. DE BOUILLÉ]
I saw him once afterwards at the Drawing-room, and upon my asking him
the name of a tall, gaunt, figure in the circle, he smiled at the
singularity of a foreigner showing to a native the Prime Minister of
the country: for the person was no less than Mr. Pitt himself. There
was afterwards a scheme in the city among the West India planters and
merchants for giving him a pension on account of his noble behaviour in
the islands during the last war. My poor father promised to subscribe,
but I left England, and by hearing no more of it I presume the affair
dropped.
Just before the departure of Lord M. from Lisle,[165] the Trevors, my
old friends, or rather intimate acquaintances, came through France. He
is in a sort of way driven from his post of Minister at Turin, as that
Court exhibited a curious jumble of bigotry and Jacobinism, which must
make a residence there awkward to a punctilious courtier like Trevor.
It was rather whimsical that the morning she visited me was the precise
one chosen by Mr. Fox to come from St. Anne’s, so the first object that
presented itself to her view upon entering the gallery was her old
admirer. Save a little blushing and stammering the old lovers conducted
themselves very ably. The malicious say _nous autres femmes_ get
out of a scrape of that sort with great ease; this instance confirmed
the calumny, as she possessed the greatest portion of the _sang
froid_ of the two.
Mrs. Trevor’s life has been singularly passed, and the latter part
judiciously, circumstanced as she was. She was the daughter of a rich
canon, and was married partly for her beauty and a little for her
wealth. Soon after her marriage she conceived a most insurmountable
disgust towards her husband. She was admired by Mr. F., and, flattered
by his preference, allowed great scandal. She detained him one night at
Ranelagh, whilst the House was assembled and waiting for him to speak
upon a motion he had made: this gave an _éclat_ which perhaps she
did not dislike. But the moment came that was to separate her from
the fashion of London. Trevor’s foreign missions drew her upon the
Continent, where she has remained mostly for these last eighteen years.
The first thing she did was to live apart from him, and keep up a love
correspondence with him; hence to the world they appeared enamoured
of one another. She is a little mad, and parsimony is her chief turn.
She is good-natured, and a little clever. Trevor has no judgment and
slender talents. His foibles are very harmless, and his whole life has
been insipidly good. His _ridicules_ are a love of dress coats,
_volantes_, and always speaking French. _Au reste_, he is
very like other people, only better.
[Sidenote: LADY HAMPDEN]
His sister-in-law, Lady Hampden,[166] is a woman of a most
extraordinary character, and a melancholy proof of how much we depend
upon others even for our virtues. Her father was the man who first
mentioned the present Queen to Lord Bute, and was employed by him
afterwards to arrange the business, and he was, by-the-bye, neglected
by the upstart Majesty merely because he knew the obscurity and poverty
of her native Court. Ly. H. was his only child, and was extremely young
and beautiful when first married. For ten years their marriage was
perfectly happy--the old Lord was living; they lived in retirement and
were poor. His death gave them riches, and the fond, domestic husband
was lost in the dissipated gambler. His house was amongst the first
where a faro bank was kept. Unfortunately this has become prevalent,
and many hold a share at those houses where every allurement is held
out to attract and seduce. It was in this country that a man first
dared to deal at faro without a mask, so infamous did they esteem the
office upon the Continent.
It would be a curious subject to investigate and write a book upon, to
trace back the little points and hazards upon which the fate of the
world, its manners and opinions, have depended. Had Carthage triumphed,
and Hannibal been a second Alexander, how different in all probability
would have been the genius and customs of the world! Commerce would
have stifled the glory of arms, and crushed the taste for the fine
arts. Their industry would have spread civilisation into the heart of
Africa, and that extent of country, now only a barbarous land, might
have satisfied the wants of society, and these miserable Northern
latitudes might still have been left to their Odins, their Druids,
their fogs, and their frosts. What a blessing to have been confined
to go no farther north than the Pyrenees! I may be justified in this
wish, whilst at the moment of making it I am wrapped up in flannels,
and roasting by a fire, to keep my blood in sufficient circulation
to carry on the economy of animal life. Another epoch that would have
operated even more powerfully upon the character of mankind and their
usages was the chance of the battle in France between the Saracens and
the Christians.[167] What would have been the effect had the former
succeeded? One good would have been certain, the human mind would
not have been priest-ridden as it is, and the fear of death would
have been checked and not encouraged. The worst part of the Christian
dispensation is the terror it inculcates upon a deathbed. The wisest
dread it; no person who is strictly brought up in the principles of
Christianity can ever thoroughly shake off the fear of dying. The
Catholics supply instances of this every day; from infancy to manhood
their minds are debased by superstition in every terrific shape. When
capable of reflecting they shake off their shackles, and become from
bigots atheists. So they live, but in fact the evil is but suspended; a
fit of illness throws them back into the bosom of credulity, and like
Gresset[168] they die in sackcloth.
The claims of the Romish Church are stronger upon the imagination than
those of the more purified sects of Protestants. The priests found it
so much to their interests to pervert the understanding, that the love
of power made them hold their empire beyond the grave--hence their
Purgatory.
[Sidenote: EFFECT OF RELIGIOUS WARS]
The Christian priests, with all their subtlety and policy, from vanity
gave the staff out of their own hands. Proud of the praise centred upon
them for being the preservers of learning, they weakly taught the
laity the valuable treasures they had preserved, and by enlightening
them the progress has been such as we see. Had they, like the priests
of Egypt, confined all knowledge to their own body, society would still
have been dependent upon them, and whilst there was no contention,
they might have been a harmless theocracy. Certainly during the
middle ages they were serviceable even to the cause of humanity, for
those very Crusades eventually benefited Europe. They drew forth many
turbulent spirits, who, had they remained at home, would have fallen
into intestine broils, and kept up the feudal governments. Whereas,
though two-thirds of the vast armies that issued out never returned,
yet the one-third that did introduced a taste for foreign productions
to which commerce became the consequence, and the manners of every
country in Europe by degrees softened and civilised. Yet this good they
did was severely bought by the horrors of the religious wars after
the Reformation in Germany when Gustavus Adolphus was called in. That
embraces a horrid period in the annals of history: it was an awful
struggle between reason and bigotry. Fortunately for the advantage
(perhaps) of mankind the former conquered to a degree, and but for
the absurd excesses which have disgraced morality in this French
Revolution, the cause of common sense would have completely succeeded.
But we are nearer a relapse into old errors than a reformation.