of excitement and enthusiasm in the vast multitude who thronged and all
but choked up the Queen's way. All hats were lifted, but there was not a
hatful of cheers, and the whole thing produced a disagreeable effect of
coldness, indifference, or constraint.
Harness said it was nineteenth-century breeding, which was too exquisite
to allow even of the mob's shouting. He is a Tory. T---- M----, who is a
very warm Whig, thought the silence spoke of Paisley starvation and
Windsor banquets. I thought these and other things besides might have to
do with the people's not cheering.
E---- (who, bless her soul! has just been here, talking such gigantic
nonsense) must have misunderstood me, or you must have misunderstood
her, in supposing that I made a distinct _promise_ to answer four
crossed sheets of paper to four lines of yours. I said it was my usual
practice to do so, and one from which I was not likely to depart,
because I hate writing a short letter as much as I hate writing any
letter at all....
Have you received one letter from me since you have been in Mountjoy
Square? I have written one to you there, but, owing to the habit of my
hand, which is to write "Ardgillan Castle," the direction was so
scratched and blurred that I had some doubts whether the letter would
reach you. Let me know, dear Harriet, if it does....
E---- must have made another blunder about Lady Westmoreland and my
sister. It is not the Duke of Wellington's money, in particular, that
she objects to receiving; she does not intend to sing in private _for
money_ at all, anywhere, or on any occasion; which I am very glad of,
as, if she did, I think social embarrassments and professional
complications of every sort, and all disagreeable ones, would arise from
it.
We were all very cordially invited to Apsley House by Lady Westmoreland,
before my sister stated that she did not intend to sing there for
money.... Besides this, there came a formal bidding in the Duke of
Wellington's own hand [or Algernon Greville's, who used to forge his
illustrious chief's signature on all common occasions], with which we
were very well pleased to comply....
A---- has been trying to inoculate me with Paul de Kock, who, she
assures me, is a _moral_ writer, and with whose books our tables,
chairs, sofas, and beds are covered, as with the unclean plagues of
Egypt. I read one of the novels and began another. They are very clever,
very funny, very dirty, abominably immoral, and I do not think I _can_
read any more of them; for though I confess to having laughed till my
sides ached over some parts of what I read, I was, upon reflection and
upon the whole, disgusted and displeased....
I have _precisely_ your feeling about Mrs. F---- in every particular; I
think her the funniest and the kindest old maniac I am acquainted with,
and my intercourse with her is according to that opinion. Good-bye, my
dearest Harriet; God bless you. I wish I was where I could see green
fields. I am in miserable spirits, and would give "my kingdom for a
horse," and the world for an hour's gallop in the country.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
[My dear and excellent friend the Rev. William Harness refused from
conscientious motives to hold more than one Church benefice, though
repeated offers of livings were made to him by various of his
influential friends. Lord Lansdowne, who had a very affectionate
esteem for him, gave him the civil office I have alluded to in this
letter, and this not being open to Mr. Harness's scruples with
regard to sacred sinecures, he accepted. His means were always
small, his charities great, and his genial hospitality unfailing. He
was one of the simplest, most modest, unpretending, honorable,
high-minded, warm hearted human beings I have ever known. Goodness
appeared easy to him--the best proof how good he was.]
HARLEY STREET, February 5th, 1842.
DEAR HARRIET,
I did not care very much about the _fete_ itself at Apsley House, but I
was very glad to go to it upon the Duke of Wellington's invitation, and
felt as much honored and gratified by that as I could be by any such
sort of thing. My sister did sing for them, though, poor thing! not very
well. She had just gone through the new opera, and was besides laboring
under a terrible cough and cold, through which, I am sorry to say, she
has been singing for the last week. There was no particular reason for
her not taking money at _that_ concert. She does not intend to be paid
for singing in society at all.... Of course, her declining such
engagements will greatly diminish her income, popular singers making
nearly half their earnings by such means; but I am sure that, situated
as we all are, she is right, and will avoid a good many annoyances by
this determination, though her pocket will suffer for it....
I know nothing whatever, of course, about the statements in the papers,
which I never look at, about the financial disgraces and embarrassments
in America. The United States Bank (in which my father had put four
thousand pounds, which he could ill spare) is swept from the face of the
earth, and everybody's money put into it has been like something thrust
down a gaping mouth that had no stomach; it has disappeared in void
space, and is irredeemably lost. I have seven thousand pounds in the New
Orleans banks, which I have given my father for his life. Those banks,
it is said, are sound, and will ere long resume specie payments, and
give dividends to their stockholders. Amen, so be it. It is affirmed
that Mr. Biddle's prosecution will lead to nothing, but that the state
of Pennsylvania will pay its debts, means to do so, and will be able to
do so without any difficulty.... God bless you, dear Harriet. Write to
me soon again, for, though I do hate answering you, I hate worse not
hearing from you.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
I am glad you liked "Les Maitres Mosaistes;" I think it charming. Thank
you for your "Enfant du Peuple." I have been trying some Paul de Kock,
but _cannot_ get on with it.
[Of Madame George Sand's few unobjectionable books, "Les Maitres
Mosaistes" seems to me the best. As an historical picture of Venice
and its glorious period of supremacy in art, it is admirable. As a
pathetic human history, it is excellent; with this drawback,
however, that in it the author has avoided the subject of the
relations between the sexes--her invariable rock ahead, both morally
and artistically; and it is by the entire omission of the important
element of love that this work of hers is free from the reproach the
author never escapes when she treats of it. It is a great pity her
fine genius has so deep a flaw.]
HARLEY STREET, February 11th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HARRIET,
... I want to know if you can come to us on the 20th of this month,
instead of the 1st of March, as I expected you. I believe I told you
that the Duke of Rutland, when we met him at the Arkwrights', at Sutton,
gave us all a very kind invitation to Belvoir, which we accepted, and
have been expecting since that some more definite intimation when the
time of our visit would be convenient. He called here the other day, but
we were none of us at home, and this morning we and my father heard from
him, recalling our promise to go to Belvoir, and begging us to fix any
time between this and the month of April. Now, the only time when my
sister can go, poor child! is during Passion Week; and as I am very
anxious that she should have the refreshment of a week in the country,
and her being with us will be a great addition to my own enjoyment, I
want to appoint that time for our visit to the Duke of Rutland. That,
however, happens about the 20th of March, when I expected you to be with
us; but if, by coming earlier, you can give me as long a visit as you
had promised me, without inconveniencing yourself, I shall be glad, dear
Harriet; for though _we_ can go to Belvoir at any time before or after
March, I wish my sister not to lose a pleasant visit to a beautiful
place.
To tell you the truth, it would be a great pleasure to me that you
should come so much sooner than I had reckoned upon having you; and as
Emily and I trotted round Portman Square together to-day, we both made
out that, if you come into this arrangement, you will be here on Tuesday
week, which appears to me in itself delightful. Let me know, dear, what
you decide, as I shall not answer the Duke of Rutland until I have heard
from you.
I promise myself much pleasure from seeing Belvoir. The place, with
which I am familiar through engravings and descriptions, is a fine house
in one of the finest situations in England; and the idea of being out of
London once more, in the country and on horseback, is superlatively
agreeable to me.
And now, my dearest, to answer your letter, which I got this morning.
For pity's sake, let Lady Westmoreland rest, for the present; we will
take her up again, if expedient, when we meet.... The Duke of Wellington
called here the other day, and brought an exceedingly pretty bracelet
and amiable note to my sister; both which, as you may suppose, she
values highly, as she ought to do.
About the cheering of the Queen on her way to Parliament the other day,
I incline to think the silence was universal, for everybody with whom I
was observed it, except Charles Greville, who swore she was applauded;
but then he is deaf, and therefore hears what no one else can. Moreover,
the majority of spectators were by no means well-dressed people; the
streets were thronged with pure mobocracy, to a degree unprecedented on
any previous occasion of the sort, and, though there was no exhibition
of ill-feeling towards the Queen or any of the ministers, there was no
demonstration of good will beyond the usual civility of lifting the hats
as she passed. Indeed, Horace Wilson told me that, when he was crossing
the park at the time of her driving through it, there was some--though
not much--decided hissing.
Your lamentation over my want of curiosity reminds me that on this very
occasion Charles Greville offered to take me all over the Coldbath
Fields Prison, and show me the delights of the treadmill, etc., and
expressed great astonishment that I did not enthusiastically accept this
opportunity of seeing such a cheerful spectacle, and still more
amazement at my general want of enlightened curiosity, which he
appeared to consider quite unworthy of so intelligent a person.
I have not read Stephens's book on Central America, but only certain
extracts from it in the last _Quarterly_, with which I was particularly
charmed; but I admire your asking me why I did not send for his book
from the circulating library instead of Paul de Kock. Do you suppose _I_
sent for Paul de Kock? Don't you know I never send for any book, and
never _read_ any book, but such as I am desired, required, lent, or
given to read by somebody? being, for the most part, very indifferent
what I read, and having the obliging faculty of forgetting immediately
what I have read, which is an additional reason for my not caring much
what my books are. Still, there is a point at which my indifference will
give way to disgust.... ---- recommended Paul de Kock's books strongly
to me, therefore I read one of them, but found it so very little to my
taste that I was obliged, against my usual rule of compliance with my
friend's recommendations in these matters, to decline the rest of the
author's works. I have begun your "Enfant du Peuple," and many are the
heartaches I have had already, though I have read but little of it, over
that poor Jean Baptiste's tender and touching love, which reminds one of
Jacob's serving seven years for the sake of Rachel, and hardly counting
them a day....
Dearest Harriet, if in the matter of your visit to us you cannot alter
your plans, which have already been turned topsy-turvy once to suit
ours, we will go at some other time to Belvoir, and my sister must e'en
give it up, as in my professional days I had to forego Stoke,
Chatsworth, and, hardest by far of all, Abbotsford.
God bless you, dearest Harriet. Give my kind love to M----. I rejoice to
hear of her convalescence. Remember me affectionately to Dorothy, and
believe me,
Ever yours,
FANNY.
GRIMSTHORPE, March 27th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HARRIET,
Thank God and O'Connell for your smooth passage. I really dreaded the
effects of sea-sickness for you, combined with that racking cough....
We left Belvoir yesterday, and came on here, having promised Lady
Willoughby to visit them on our way back to London.
I do not know whether you ever saw Belvoir. It is a beautiful place; the
situation is noble, and the views from the windows of the castle, and
the terraces and gardens hanging on the steep hill crowned by it, are
charming. The whole vale of Belvoir, and miles of meadow and woodland,
lie stretched below it like a map unrolled to the distant horizon,
presenting extensive and varied prospects in every direction, while from
the glen which surrounds the castle hill like a deep moat filled with a
forest, the spring winds swell up as from a sea of woodland, and the
snatches of bird-carolling and cawing rook-discourse float up to one
from nests in the topmost branches of tall trees, far below one's feet,
as one stands on the battlemented terraces.
The interior of the house is handsome, and in good taste; and the whole
mode of life stately and splendid, as well as extremely pleasant and
comfortable. The people--I mean the Duke and his family--kind and
courteous hosts, and the society very easy and free from stiffness or
constraint of any sort; and I have enjoyed my visit very much....
We had a large party at Belvoir. The gentlemen of the hunt were all at
the castle; and besides the ladies of the family (one unmarried and two
married daughters), we had the Duchess of Richmond and her
granddaughter, the Duke and Duchess of Bedford, Lord and Lady
Winchelsea, Mademoiselle d'Este, and a whole tribe of others whose names
I forget, but which are all duly down in the butler's book.
Every morning the duke's band marched round the castle, playing all
sorts of sprightly music, to summon us to breakfast, and we had the same
agreeable warning that dinner was ready. As soon as the dessert was
placed on the table, singers came in, and performed four pieces of
music; two by a very sweet single voice, and two by three or more
voices. This, with intervals for conversation, filled up the allotted
time before the ladies left the table. In the evening we had music, of
course, and one evening we adjourned to the ball-room, where we danced
all night, the duke leading down a country-dance, in which his
house-maids and men-cooks were vigorously figuring at the same time.
Whenever my sister sang, the servants used all to assemble on a large
staircase at one end of the ball-room, where, for the sake of the sound,
the piano was placed, and appeared among her most enthusiastic
hearers.... The whole family were extremely cordial and kind to us; and
when we drove away, they all assembled at an upper window, waving hats
and handkerchiefs as long as we could see them. I have no room to tell
you anything of Grimsthorpe. God bless you. Good-bye.
Ever yours,
_Fanny_.
[My first introduction to "afternoon tea" took place during this
visit to Belvoir, when I received on several occasions private and
rather mysterious invitations to the Duchess of Bedford's room, and
found her with a "small and select" circle of female guests of the
castle, busily employed in brewing and drinking tea, with her
grace's own private tea-kettle. I do not believe that now
universally honored and observed institution of "five-o'clock tea"
dates farther back in the annals of English civilization than this
very private and, I think, rather shamefaced practice of it.
Our visit to Grimsthorpe has left but three distinct images on my
memory: that of my bedroom, with its furniture of green velvet and
regal bed-hangings of white satin and point lace; that of the
collection of thrones in the dining-room, the Lords Willoughby de
Eresby being hereditary Lord Grand Chamberlains of England, whose
perquisite of office was the throne or chair of state used by each
sovereign at his or her coronation; and my intercourse with
Mademoiselle d'Este, who, like ourselves, came from Belvoir to
Grimsthorpe, and with whom I here began an acquaintance that grew
into intimacy, and interested me a good deal from her peculiar
character and circumstances.]
HARLEY STREET, London, March 31st, 1842.
MY DEAR T----,
... My father is in wonderful health, looks, and spirits, considering
that in all these items this time last year he was very little better
than dead. My sister is working very hard and very successfully, and
proposing to herself, after two more years of assiduous labor, to retire
on a moderate income to Italy, where she would rather live than
anywhere else. But, oh dear me! how well I remember the day when that
was my own vision of the future, and only see what a very different
thing it has turned out! I think it not at all improbable that she will
visit the United States next year, and that we shall find that moment
propitious for returning; that is to say, about a twelvemonth from next
month.... So much for private interests. As to the public ones: alas!
Sir Robert Peel is losing both his health and his temper, they say; and
no wonder at it! His modification of the corn laws and new tariff are
abominations to his own party, and his income tax an abomination to the
nation at large. I cannot conceive a more detestable position than his,
except, perhaps indeed, that of the country itself just now. Poverty and
discontent in great masses of the people; a pitiless Opposition,
snapping up and worrying to pieces every measure proposed by the
Ministry, merely for malignant _mischeevousness_, as the nursemaids say,
for I don't believe they--the Whigs--will be trusted again by the people
for at least a century to come; a determined, troublesome, and
increasing Radical party, whose private and personal views are fairly
and dangerously masked by the public grievances of which they advocate
the redress; a minister, hated personally by his own party, with hardly
an individual of his own political persuasion in either House who
follows him cordially, or, rather, who does not feel himself personally
aggrieved by one or other of the measures of reform he has
proposed,--yet that minister the only man in England at this moment able
to stand up at the head of public affairs, and the defeat of whose
measures (distasteful as they are to his own party, and little
satisfactory to the people in general) would produce instantaneously, I
believe, such confusion, disorder, and dismay as England has not seen
for many a year, not indeed since the last great Reform crisis;--all
this is not pleasant, and makes me pity everybody connected with the
present Government, and Sir Robert Peel more than anybody else. I wonder
how long he'll be able to stand it.
What have you done with Lord Morpeth? And what are you doing with "Boz"?
The first has a most tenderly attached mother and sisters, and really
should not, on their account, be killed with kindness; and the latter
has several small children, I believe, who, I suppose, will naturally
desire that your national admiration should not annihilate their
papa.... I wish we were to come back to America soon, but wishes are
nonsensical things.... Give my dear love to Catherine and Kate [Miss
Sedgwick and her niece], if they are in New York when this reaches you.
Good-bye, my dear T----. I would not have troubled you with this if I
had known Mrs. Robert's address; but "Wall Street" will find you, though
"Warren Street" knows her no longer.
We have been spending ten days at Belvoir Castle, with all sorts of
dukes and duchesses. Don't you perceive it in the nobility of my style?
It is well for a foreigner to see these things; they are pretty,
pleasant, gay, grand, and, in some of their aspects, good; but I think
that who would see them even as they still subsist now had better lose
no time about it.
HARLEY STREET, Tuesday, April 12th, 1842.
Did anyone ever say there was not a "soul of good even in things evil"?
From your mode of replying to my first letter, dearest Harriet--the one
from Belvoir, in which I told you I had been strongly minded to write to
you _first_--you do not seem to me quite to believe in the existence of
such an intention. Nor was it a "weak thought," but a very decided
purpose, which was frustrated by circumstances for one day, and the next
prevented entirely by the arrival of your letter. However, no matter for
all that now; hear other things.
You ask after "Figaro" [Mozart's opera of "Le Nozze di Figaro," then
being given at Covent Garden, my sister singing the part of Susanna]. It
draws very fine houses, and Adelaide's acting in it is very much liked
and praised, as it highly deserves to be, for it is capital, very funny,
and _fine_ in its fun, which makes good comedy--a charming thing, and a
vastly more difficult one, in my opinion, than any tragic acting
whatever....
Your boots have been sent safe and sound, my dear, and are in the
custody of a person who, I verily believe, thinks me incapable of taking
care of anything in the world, and has the same amount of confidence in
my understanding that a friend of mine (a clergyman of the Church of
England) expressed in his mother's honesty, "I wouldn't trust her with
a bad sixpence round the corner." However, your boots, as I said, are
safe, and will reach your hands (or feet, I should rather say) in due
course of time, I have no doubt.
I have had two letters from America lately, the last of them containing
much news about the movements of the abolitionists, in which its writer
takes great interest. Among other things, she mentions that an address
had been published to the slaves, by Gerrit Smith, exhorting them to run
away, to use all means to do so, to do so at any risk, and also by all
means and at any risk to learn to read. By all means, he advises them,
in no case to use violence, or carry off property of their masters'
(except indeed themselves, whom their masters account very valuable
property). I should have told you that Gerrit Smith himself was a large
slave-holder, that he has given up all his property, renounced his home
in the South (where, indeed, if he was to venture to set foot, he would
be murdered in less than an hour). He lives at the North, in comparative
poverty and privation, having given up his wealth for conscience' sake.
I saw him once at Lucretia Mott's. He was a man of remarkable
appearance, with an extremely sweet and noble countenance. He is one of
the "confessors" in the martyr-age of America.
I am much concerned at your account of E----, for though sprains and
twists and wrenches are not uncommon accidents, I have always much more
dread of them than of a _bona_ (bony) _fide_ fracture. I always fear
some injury may be lodged in the system by such apparently lesser
casualties, that may not reveal itself till long after the real cause is
forgotten....
I must end this letter, for I have delayed it too shamefully long, and
you must think me more abominable than ever, in spite of which I am
still
Your most affectionate
FANNY.
CRANFORD HOUSE, April 17th, 1842.
I put a letter into the post for you, my dearest Harriet, this
afternoon. This is all I was able to write to you yesterday--Wednesday;
and now it is Thursday evening, and there is every prospect of my having
leisure to finish my letter.
Emily has asked me several times to come and spend the evening with her
mother, and I have promised her each time that the first evening....