CHAPTER VI

.

1817-1821.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, Jan. 7, 1817.

I had obtained a frank for my kind friend the evening before I received her letter; being always a little impatient under her prolonged silence, and particularly so at present, when I am impressed in no ordinary degree with a sense of the ‘changes and chances of this mortal life.’

I am just returned from Lord Clifden’s, where we have passed some days. The quiet, sensible conversation and tranquil life of his small party, have been of use to me; while total change of scene and of topics accelerates in some degree the effects of time. I do not disdain any means, nor neglect any efforts, which can aid me in returning to my usual _habits_—to my usual _feelings_ it is impossible I can ever _entirely_ return. We may lose the sensation of pain, where a limb has been amputated; but I know by experience that the sense of privation _must_ frequently recur. And were affection to be much fainter than it ever has been in my heart, the very spirit of calculation on one’s pleasures must ever recal the lovely, lively image of one who would have embellished the home of advancing years, and sparkled like the evening star on one’s approaching night. I say not this in the language of complaint. I know, and I best know, that I have been favoured by Heaven far above my deserts, and that I have blessings far above the usual lot of mortality. I say it from the habit of opening my heart with _some_ of its weaknesses (who will dare to say they open _all?_) to a dear and candid friend.

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

London, Jan. 12, 1817.

I have been long musing in my bed this morning, and ended by finding that no subjects of consolation, but those drawn from the invisible world, could have any effect in my present loss. It is true, I have many and most valuable treasures in the husband, children, and friends I have left; for though the latter are few, I do not complain of this, as it is a matter of choice, engaged as my heart is by those few. But you know I possessed all these treasures, when I had _her_ also; and such is the avarice of the human heart, it cannot patiently resign anything which has once engaged its affections, though it may previously have been happy without it. I often wish I loved _things_ more, and _persons_ less. I see women who set their minds on worldly advantages, on being sought for in crowded circles, on casino, on dress, on baubles, extremely happy to an advanced age in these childish pursuits. Of these they cannot be dispossessed, and may be so occupied very harmlessly—better employed, perhaps, than I am in my readings and my _reveries_. I own I ought not to have expected the situation of my last two years to have lasted; for I found myself so happy, I should have been rejoiced to rest there for ever, without any change but of seasons, of music, and of books. And when I gained my extra health, as I mentioned to you from Cheltenham, I was _too well_ satisfied for this life, and had _momentary_ presentiments that it could not long endure. While I bore a child every year, this great stumbling-block lay in the way of my comfort. Though delighted to have them when they arrived, my ‘absolute contentment’ was disturbed by looking to an annual day of torment and terror; but when I considered this as over, I had all the pleasures of an escape added to the rest. Here is too much of myself, but I like to open my heart, and I avoid the subject in conversation. You can throw down my letter; but you would be saddened by _listening_ to me; and I wish to increase, not to diminish, your enjoyments.

* * * * *

_Jan. 13, 1817, Bath._—Saw Mrs. C., after an interval of two years. When I left her then, she was in full possession of all her faculties at eighty-five; conversed, read, worked, attended church most regularly, received her friends with ease and grace, and sometimes amused herself with cards. _Now_, she is quite helpless, never leaves one seat except to go to rest, and suffers a partial failure of sight and memory. Still her features are lovely, and her manners mild. The innocence of her mind is peculiarly evinced by her malady; for although perfectly thrown open, and her thoughts presented without veil or selection, no sign ever appears of any feeling for which poor humanity need blush. Neither resentment, envy, nor avarice has the smallest place in her breast. A slight desire of elevation in rank, and pleasure in the remembrance of her beauty, are her only weaknesses. To me she is an object peculiarly touching; for she always loved me much; and, if I might dare to use the expression, she shows a greater degree of respectful and admiring affection at this moment than she ever expressed before.

* * * * *

In unconnected phrases, on that tongue Where once the finished period smoothly rung, The inmost foldings of thy heart are seen; Nor throbs a heart that less demands a screen. Thy powers, declining, feel the approach of night; Fast fall the shadows on thy mental sight; Obscured thy quick perception, once so clear, Thy judgment, only to thyself severe; Thy thoughts without selection find their way; Far from thy purposed meaning words will stray; Yet in full vigour many a gifted mind, By learning nurtured, and by taste refined, For innocence like thine might gladly change Wit’s keenest edge and fancy’s widest range.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bath, Feb., 1817.

C—— is gone to the ball, and I have remained to chat with you undisturbed. ’Tis a melancholy way of _chatting_, whatever may be said of the pleasure _we_ find in having all the talk to ourselves. I went last night to a melancholy concert, to which I brought no spirits, and where, of course, I found none. A little wonderful girl of ten or twelve, first pleased, then astonished, and then fatigued me, on the pianoforte. I was curious to hear her begin, and longed to hear her end. I went chiefly to please the _flock_, who wanted a _shepherdess_, in which capacity I attended. They persuaded, and _applanied_ all difficulties, came for me, and brought me home.

To-day I dined, or rather _fed_, at Mrs. C——’s, for I went at five and came home at seven. She shows distressing symptoms of change, decay of memory, and alteration of countenance. She has been so long the same, so happy, and so made for the sphere she filled, that I, who have not much power of calling up the future, felt as if she was one of the unchangeable parts of nature, and it is with pain I awake to the truth. The poor dear woman, when she heard Miss Acheson admire the _curl_ in my children’s hair, said very gravely, ‘They did not take that from their grandmother, my dear ma’am, for _my hair_ never had the least curl in it,’ literally thinking they were her own grandchildren. No one undeceived her, nor even _looked_ surprised. I have always observed that any _trait_ of real affection or heart strikes people with a sort of awe—perhaps because it is so uncommon—as, on the other hand, evident selfishness diminishes respect, and sets people at their ease. This gives the key to a degree of influence possessed by some minds, not to be accounted for on any other principle.

Lady B. and Miss C. stayed at Lady ——’s ball till five in the morning on Tuesday, and were playing loo in the evening, _fresh_ and _gay_, at least _dressed_ and _noisy_, as if nothing had disturbed their rest the night before.

I continue to like Mrs. ——. She seems a real mother, which is no small praise. At the same time we should not like each other as intimates. The matronly character, the habit of _commanding_ one’s children, unfits us mothers for other than family society in any intimate way. It gives us insensibly a certain dictatorial manner, which, however veiled by politeness or gentleness, takes away from that pliable ease that may be possessed by other women.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Roehampton, Feb. 21, 1817.

You ask whether I know the Duke of Wellington. I do not, but was acquainted with him in my early youth, or rather I often received him as a guest, but was then so diffident and reserved, I do not believe I ever addressed five words to him. He was extremely good humoured, and the object of much attention from the female part of what was called ‘a very gay society,’ though it did not appear such to me. You ask me if I ever lived at Dangan? I passed there a portion of three successive years. It _was_ a fine specimen of feudal magnificence, in space, strength, and grandeur. There were fine gardens, a fine library, a beautiful chapel, all that wealth collects or luxury devises; and Colonel St. George and I, during our residence there, did not derogate from the feudal mode of living; but I was almost a child, and perfectly passive on this and all other subjects.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Roehampton, March 3, 1817.

I arrived here yesterday about five, and am settled in my old room, previously sweetened with white violets by Miss Agar’s kind hands. I was not _much_ frightened at night, considering there was a closet locked, of which I had not the key, and I knew not what or who might bounce out of it. True, I barricaded it with much furniture, particularly of the brittle kind, that the difficulties of opening and the smash of crockery might wake me, and I got up at daybreak to remove my fortifications, lest anybody should guess the depth of my cowardice.

I have no news but that the Princess Elizabeth weighs fifteen stone, so I am not come up to the royal standard yet; and that _growing down_ is not confined to me, for that she is becoming, as it is said, ‘a mushroom’ from having been a fine young woman; and the Regent has lost several inches.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

London, March 23, 1817.

This week has been barren of letters from you, but your last was more than ‘the perfume and the suppliance of a minute.’ It is still fresh and green, and has made me smile as often as I read it over; for one of your letters is always a permanent part of my amusement till relieved by a successor.

Many are the inquiries that have been made for you, and amongst thousands of others, they have been made by Marsh,[58] who rests on his oars, and speaks no more in the House; but, _en revanche_, talks long and well at dinner, takes the lead, gives good jokes pretty often, and bad ones when the good are not forthcoming, having now established such a character that men take them in the lump, one with another. He plays into the hands of Smith, one of the writers of _Rejected Addresses_, but the least efficient; who sings his comic songs after dinner, and returns Marsh’s ball at other times. S—— also acknowledged your civilities to him and his companions. He was near not surviving this acknowledgment, for very soon after, between talking, drinking, and eating all at once, with equal assiduity, he was almost choked, and forced to leave the room. Dott followed him professionally, saw him black in the face, administered somewhat, and brought him back ‘_triomphant, adoré_,’ to eat a second dinner.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, March 27, 1817.

Your expressions of sympathy and consolation are most soothing. I do not become less sensible of my loss, but I am more accustomed to it. Sometimes a quick perception of former pleasure in that delightful gift of heaven _will_ return. I then remember _how_ I felt in looking at her opening beauty, hearing her gay, gentle voice, and watching her dawn of little joys and virtues; and I recollect the hope that accompanied all this, and wonder that I am not more afflicted; for I know that but a small share of my present comparative composure springs from pious resignation. Mad. de Sévigné says truly, ‘_On est si faible, qu’on se console_;’ and we attribute to our strength what we owe to our weakness, to our willingness to be occupied by the weeds, when the flowers are gone. There may be those whose consolations spring solely from religion. I speak but of myself and the majority.

I wish I had some prose subject attractive enough to tempt me to write. Most people are more vain of their dance than their walk, their song than their speech, their verse than their prose. I prefer my own prose to my rhymes; because the want of that precision, command of language, and harmony, gained by a classical education and the study of the poetry of Greece and Rome, is more apparent in verse than prose.

Shall I petition you not to call yourself OLD when you write to me? I cannot bear my friends should resign themselves too soon. Lady Williams Wynne, with whom I passed some days at her sister’s, is sixty-eight, eats green apples, kneels down through our long church service, walks out in October without hat or cloak in a muslin gown, and takes long walks alone many miles through roads, and villages, and fields, wears artificial flowers and three flounces, never speaks of time with reference to his effects on herself; yet never appears to make herself the least young, and is a model of propriety, and of the English matron. The _flowers_ and _flounces_ I know you despise at any season, but I only throw them in to swell the heap.

Now I must have you make this sort of running fight against time, and not talk of yourself as OLD. Mind and heart like yours are never so. Excuse this ebullition of affectionate regard.

SONNET WRITTEN AT NIGHT AFTER RETURNING FROM A DANCE AT MRS. BATHURST’S.

_March, 1817._

I am not envious; yet the sudden glance Of transport beaming from a mother’s eye, When light her daughter’s airy footsteps fly, Supremely graceful in the wavy dance, Wakes with a start such thoughts as slept perchance, Hushed to repose by the long lullaby Of many a fond complaint and heartfelt sigh: Again the host of keen regrets advance; Again I paint what Bessy _might_ have been, Since what she _was_ I never can pourtray; So soft, so splendid shone my Fairy Queen, A star that glittered o’er my closing day, A light from heaven, whose pure ethereal beam Threw its long glories over life’s dark stream.

TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

London, April, 1817.

You are indeed qualified to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ both from the tenderness of your feelings, and the quickness of your faculties. Many with kind hearts fail in the office of comforter, from want of that intuitive perception and delicacy you eminently possess. I am inclined to believe that ‘_telle bonté qu’on a, on n’a que celle de son esprit_;’ and we may think this without supposing any partiality shown to the more highly gifted, when we qualify it with the knowledge that ‘where much is given,’ there ‘much will be required.’

I took my boys to see _Macbeth_ last night, but found that though they read Shakespeare, they did not readily catch the language of the scene. They understood Kean well, his tones are so natural; but the raised voice and declamatory style in which most others pronounce tragedy, renders it, I see, nearly unintelligible to children. I was astonished by Kean’s talents in all that followed the murder, highly as I before thought of them. I suppose remorse never was more finely expressed; and I quitted the house with more admiration of him, and even of Shakespeare, than ever I had felt before.

The sight of the poor in London is even more melancholy than that of the dark, foggy, and snowy sky. I speak not of those who ask, but of the silent and drooping figures in the prime and middle of life, seated, shivering and dying, on the steps of houses, without stockings, without linen, in ragged clothing above that of the lower class, with famine sunken in every line of their faces. ‘This is,’ indeed, ‘a sorry sight’ in this once happy country.

* * * * *

_May 2, 1817, London._—I return next Monday to the country, my spirits, I think, _not_ amended by my visit to town. All earthly sufferings return in paroxysms; mine are nearly as frequent, yet I have done all that my friends desired, have seen a variety of things and persons, mingled in crowds, &c. &c. Employment more _solid_ would be better for a mind like mine; but having this depends not on one’s self, when one is married, and a mother.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

June 24, 1817.

I received your dear letter this morning, and it has thrown a bright sunshine on _my day_; though to others, who had not such a pleasant volume from an affectionate and _amusing_ son, the day was as black, wet, and dirty, as ever disgraced the month of June. As to May, she may have been very lovely when she was young; but she is now grown old, and a more chilly, forbidding, decayed beauty I have never met with.

We are now in town for a few days. My recent misfortune _will_ recur so strongly when I am tranquil, that I am forced to seek variety in whatever shapes, fair or foul, it can be met with. Even as I am now, it will require an effort to unroot myself from the tenacious soil of London, that great mantrap, which catches and retains all descriptions of people, however dissimilar in their tastes, pursuits, and inclinations. I once passed in the eyes of a literal sober-minded circle for being the most dissipated woman possible, because I declared it was pleasant to date a letter from London.

I wish Moore had published _The Fire Worshippers_ alone. It has more merit than the other poems, which are uncommonly gaudy and sugary, and glitter, and dazzle, and cloy, and surfeit us at last. But I sincerely believe he has written _Lalla Rookh_ for the sake of his wife and children. It is evident that his inclinations, perhaps his talents, are not suitable for a work of any considerable length. He is a sweet bird, fitted for short excursions; vigorous while on the wing, but not formed for long flights; and he should not have promised us an epic, and then put us off with four tales, tacked together by a coarse thread.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, June 30, 1817.

I hope your dear daughter will soon entirely recover her health, and look back on her illness, as I can do on all mine, with a deep sense of its advantages—as a touchstone of the affections of those we love—a bond of union twined by protecting cares on one hand, and gratitude on the other—a remembrancer of the precarious tenure of earthly blessings—a new source of sympathy with those that suffer—and a dark shade which throws into gayer and purer lights the common, and therefore often unobserved, blessings of existence.

You particularly delighted me with your description of Lismore, because some of the days of my infancy were passed there. Perhaps no picture is painted on my memory more vividly than that of Lismore Castle—the church—the bridge—the valley—and the unnumbered beauties of that exquisite spot. How often have I gazed with delight from the windows of the Castle; and being ignorant I was short-sighted, of which my eyes gave no outward indication, I imagined no greater enjoyment—when a person put a short-sighted glass as a plaything into my hand, while yet a child. The improvement of the picture was so great that I exclaimed, ‘Oh, this is the way I shall see in heaven.’

I have no news. Poverty goes on increasing, and like the spider in an empty house, spreads her thin grey pall over the kingdom, widening swiftly, though imperceptibly. Our population, though of necessity hungry and idle, are surprisingly quiet. The loans and gratuities proposed by Government, are but drops in a sandy desert; and as Government must take _two_ drops for every _one_ they give (to pay for the machinery of taxation and finance), I, like Mrs. Primrose, ‘never find out we grow richer for all their contrivances.’ In short, we are all becoming poorer, and though philosophers tell us that to sink all together is to keep the same place, they have not quite persuaded us this is practically true. The Bishop of London made this consolatory remark to a poor curate, who replied, ‘Yes, my Lord, we may sink all together, and your Lordship may sink a story, and be still in a good place; but I am on the ground floor, and if I go any lower, I shall be underground.’ If our time of decline as a nation is marked, I hope that it may not be sudden, but so gradual as to cause as little individual misery as possible. Adieu, my dear friend; may every storm blow over your innocent and happy dwelling, unfelt.

* * * * *

_July, 1817._—We are now reading Miss Edgeworth’s _Ormond_ and _Harrington_. The Edinburgh Reviewers have done her much mischief; first, by persuading her to stick fast to the bogs, after she has exhausted all that was comic, pathetic, or striking in the peculiar distinctions between England and Ireland; next, by objecting to her morality being so apparent. Now she never writes half so well as when she evidently endeavours to illustrate a moral or prudential axiom; and in this case, as ships sail best with ballast, she always walks more firmly and gracefully, instead of being impeded in her course.

* * * * *

_Sept. 7, 1817._—When one has not seen an affected person for some years, it is amusing to observe how much their manner has changed. One’s natural manner lasts for life; an assumed one can never be kept in exact repair, and must vary in process of time. Lady C., from being once decisive and lively, now speaks in the toneless whisper of some of the English grandees, with deliberate utterance and unvarying languor.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 20, 1817.

I am anxious to know whether C——’s statement of promotion coming is a forerunner of reality, or a phantom raised to gratify his inclination for writing a letter with ‘private’ at the top, and a recommendation of prudence at the bottom. This, I know, is in itself tempting to some, and, I have heard, is peculiarly so to him.

When you next incline to make me a present, send a few bottles of _Eau de Cologne_. I bought some lately on the faith of the seller, and had recourse to it on one of our extraordinary hot nights at the Brunswick Hotel, when I thought the pillows seemed unsweet. I dashed it about magnificently, but it proved to be _whisky_, so for that night at least, you see, I slept in my _native sweets_.

I admire the critique on _Wat Tyler_ less than you do, because the writer speaks with a contempt of Southey’s abilities quite disingenuous. No man of literary acquirements can really despise Southey as a poet—except, perhaps, one like Lord Byron in the first effervescence of youthful pride, fastidious ideas of perfection, and astonishment at his own splendid, and, in this our day, unrivalled powers. Read _Don Roderick_, and then judge whether Southey is not a poet, and of a very high order.

I am in high admiration of this long line of shore. Last night the sun set opposite to the sea, illuminating its smooth surface, and gilding the boats which skim along it with all the splendid colouring of Paul Veronese, and in an hour after the moon rose behind the waves in quiet and contrasted beauty.

* * * * *

_Nov. 5, 1817._—November in nothing but name. The cannon firing, I hope for the Princess Charlotte’s becoming a happy mother.

* * * * *

_Nov. 6._—The melancholy fate of our lovely Princess strikes with a heaviness of heart like a domestic calamity. So sweet, so spotless, so full of endearing qualities, so firm and ardent in her affections, so nobly bold in asserting them when it seemed her duty, so raised above the faults and follies of her age, sex, and station. It is tragic that she should have expired without a single friend or relative save him who must have been overwhelmed with the unfathomable depth of his affliction. That the heiress of the British Empire should not in her first confinement have had a single female but a mercenary, to watch over her the first night after a dangerous and afflicting labour—that the barbarity of changing her household in her youth so frequently as not to permit her forming an attachment for some valuable married woman, should have deprived her of the cares of a friend—the coldness of the Queen prevented her from wishing for those of an experienced grandmother,—and the faults, perhaps, of both parents cut her off from the assistance of a mother, is indeed a melancholy thought. I did not think anything but the loss of a dear friend could have given me so much pain.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., FRANKFORT.

Bursledon Lodge, Nov. 25, 1817.

After a fortnight of that stillness and depression into which our lovely Princess’s untimely fate had thrown the whole country, some of those whose interest in her was founded on everything but _personal knowledge_, begin to recover their usual tone of spirits—that tone which, while it does not prevent us from regretting a loss, follows our being in some degree accustomed to the privation. Nothing but having been an actor in the scene, could convey an idea of the state of the kingdom. It seemed as if every family had lost an individual from its own circle, who was more or less dear. All was sorrow, lamentation, regret, varied only in kind and degree. The charge of want of religion and loyalty in the lower classes is totally disproved by the manner in which the day of her funeral was kept throughout the whole country. There was an universal pause from labour as on a Sabbath day—or rather as it ought to be on a Sabbath day—and a general laying aside of every thought of business and pleasure. It was a day of prayer and humiliation. The churches and all places of religious worship were overflowing. All sectarian barriers were broken down by the strong feelings of compassion for the living, reverence and regret for the dead. Indeed, when I say pleasure was laid aside, I express myself improperly, for it seemed never to have been thought of in any shape from the time of this deep disappointment to a generous, a devoted, and an enlightened nation. Had a fast day been appointed by public authority, this affecting expression of general sorrow would not have been so clear a proof of the impression made by one whose name is enshrined in our hearts, and who will be remembered for ever as a model of all that is touching and noble, spirited and affectionate, dignified and condescending. The Sunday after her death, all our servants, down to the very kitchen-maid, appeared at prayers in deep mourning. She has been wept in every cottage, and her loss has scarcely _yet_ been thought of as a political calamity, it has come so near every heart as a private sorrow.

TO THE SAME.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 18, 1817.

Accept a little kaleidoscope, the emblem of a poetic imagination; varying, shifting, reflecting, combining, refining, illuminating; and from the simplest elements producing endless beauty and variety; educing order from confusion, and diversity from repetition. May your imagination thus multiply your pleasures.

All is sombre in the general state of England; the poor dying of hunger; and the death of our Princess and her infant, though no longer the subject of conversation to the exclusion of every other, has left a cloud that will not pass away. It seems like blotting spring from the year. Godwin’s new work, _Mandeville_, is in unison with the season and the times. It is ‘darkness visible,’ a tremendous picture of envy, hatred, and revenge. There is a strong instance of the impressive power of genius in Mandeville’s description of his disfigured countenance. One cannot forget a word of it; one knows his face better than that of half one’s commonplace acquaintance.

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec., 1817.

I refresh myself in writing to you with ideas of kindness and affection, after looking over Godwin’s _Mandeville_, which, beginning in massacre, goes on through varied shades of hatred and revenge, and ends by a ghastly wound, the sole and suitable catastrophe of this dismal farrago, occasionally relieved by gleams of powerful and original genius. Perhaps when I read, instead of skimming, I may like it better. It is too late now to dignify hatred. It succeeded for a moment, when the public taste was vitiated by those works of second-rate German authors, which not only corrupted our literature, but led us to form a false judgment of our admirable northern neighbours; for we naturally supposed that the best of their writings made their way here; while of these we saw very few. Besides, Lord Byron’s _haters_ have put all others out of fashion. They alone can be angry, revengeful, or misanthropic with grace. The mob of haters, if we except Marmion, appear a set of vulgar ruffians, since we knew the Corsair, Manfred, &c.

As to Chalmers, he is very eloquent and very good; but many others on the same subject more readily touch my heart, and please my taste. Besides, I do not so much want books to confirm my faith, as to incite me to act up to it. I should be very fortunate if my practice was as firm as my belief.

Lady —— did not come here for nothing. She has persuaded Lady —— that her country-house—just purchased, after three years’ trial, _chiefly_ to please her, and expensively furnished _entirely_ to please her—is in an air injurious to her health. Really with malicious people distance is one’s only safeguard. There is no _muzzling_ them. This is provoking to an affectionate man. When I see how good sort of women tease their husbands, I am not surprised that so many wise men ‘abstain from that employment.’

TO MRS. TUITE.

London, Feb., 1818.

We have taken a house in Gloucester Place. It has in my eyes but one fault, being too well furnished, filled too much with that knick-knackery I should banish were it mine, and dislike guarding for another. Then I unfortunately saw the lady who possesses it, or rather is possessed by it; and she gave me so many directions about covering it, dusting some chairs under the covers, and scarcely sitting upon others, and watching over the extremities of the unrobed ladies who held the lights, and not suffering the housemaid to touch their projections, and not using leather to the gilding, nor aught save the breezes from the feather-brush, that I was really quite sick of _internal decoration_, which, like many other species of wealth, is often a plague to the possessor.

I saw your friend, Lady H., to-day. She is just going to bring her daughter into the world. This second birth is sometimes as painful as the first; and when circumstances are not favourable to the wishes of the mother, it is quite a protracted labour.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Roehampton, March 24, 1818.

Jekyll and Rogers came yesterday, but what has been to me a much more acceptable arrival, so did your letter, a golden branch laden with its quadruple fruits. I never was less entertained with the _par nobile fratrum_. ‘’Tis the brain of the victim that tempers the dart’ of wit as well as of love; and I am beginning to think the constant endeavour to make _something_ of _nothing_ may be tiresome. I am convinced they would have been better apart; and Rogers stifled a pun of Jekyll’s yesterday in a cruel manner. I guessed at it, but did not laugh out, as it was in Latin; and no one but Rogers and me attended to it; the former quickly threw out a squib in an opposite direction. Next morning, Jekyll introduced the subject of the _ducks_ again, in order to pave the way for his pun about _dux_. Again it perished. I thought this was hard. I am very low, which I regret, as the kind friends in the house expected I should have been gay and communicative with _the wits_; and seeing this makes me lower still.

TO THE SAME.

Bath, May 18, 1818.

I got into a sort of scrape by introducing myself last night by Lady C. Burke to Mrs. C——, who had, I thought, mentioned to you a wish for my acquaintance. I supposed I was doing a very civil thing to her, as she had made the _first_ step, in making the _second_; but she gave me that _vacant ill-bred stare_ which the lady whose _protégée_ she was reserved for her _female_ friends, and seemed to think I was doing myself too great an honour. Perhaps she was out of humour at the moment; for a few minutes before a gentleman approached her with winning civility, saying, ‘Don’t you dance?’ ‘Sometimes,’ she replied, with that encouraging _smile_ which forms the direct contrast to the _stare_ bestowed on me. ‘Much too hot for it to-night,’ says he, turning on his heel. This was so like a caricature put into action, that it amused me.

——’s fair one is two-and-thirty, and has been hacked about London and Dublin for many years, and sent here to be young and _naïve_. What might be _liking_, if she had known him long enough, or if she had been young enough not to know the meaning of the various things she has done and said, or if she was a great _parti_, and thought she must make some advances, lest he should not imagine he would be accepted, changes its character when one knows it is so convenient for spinsters of that age to be established.

I like Lady A., though I do not well know why; for mere good looks make no impression on a woman; and I know nothing more of her than that her easy graces and her _laisser aller_, and the mystery of her face, expressive at once of pain and pleasure, make up a prettier outside, in my opinion, than that of any other person I meet at Bath.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

London, May 25, 1818.

I send you the last canto of _Childe Harold_. _La fin couronne les œuvres_, and magnificently too. What in descriptive poetry is finer than his Italian sunset, or the sketch of the Coliseum—except, indeed, his own more exquisitely touched and highly finished picture of it in the last act of Manfred? What shows more intimate acquaintance with the human heart than his stanza on the scorpion-sting of past, and apparently forgotten, griefs? What is more sublime and pathetic than his address to Time, melting so beautifully and unexpectedly into forgiveness? Then his description of the dying Gladiator, that wonderfully tragic and Shakespearian statue, which seems to blend the subdued sensibility of our later days with the stoical patience of ancient heroism; while all fitly closes with a description of the Apollo, that statue which seems like his own poetry personified. In short, you will be charmed, as all here have been.

The Princess of Hesse Homburg will redeem the character of good behaviour in the conjugal bonds, lost or mislaid by her family. She is delighted with her _hero_, as she calls him. In his way from the scene of the marriage ceremony to the Regent’s Cottage, where, to his great annoyance, they were destined to pass the first quarter of the honeymoon, he was sick, from being unused to a close carriage, and forced to leave her for the dicky, and put Baron O’Naghten in his place. He said he was not so much _ennuyé_ at the Cottage as he expected, having passed all his time in his dressing-gown and slippers, smoking in the conservatory.

* * * * *

_June 10, 1818._—I have seen enough to hope no nearer friend of mine will ever engage in a contested election. It shows our fellow-men in a contemptible light; and yet freedom of election is one of the best features in the best Constitution possessed by any of the _old_ States of the world—for I presume not to compare with our daughter. She is ‘fresh as a nursing mother, the current in whose veins is nectar,’ diffusing hope and plenty, cheerfulness and vigour. To expect that England should resemble America in these points, is as absurd as to expect the daughter should be intellectual and refined, polished and accomplished as her mother. Let each endeavour to improve as her years will permit.

Those who bought their mourning for the Queen may lock it up. It is the only dress we have a certainty of wanting, unless prevented by its being worn for ourselves.

TO A FRIEND.

Bursledon Lodge, July 21, 1818.

You have not been surprised at my late silence; you are aware of the slowness and apathy, mental and bodily, which sometimes creep over me. They are now so great that even writing to you is an effort at the moment; and I do it rather in the hope of hastening a letter from you, and giving you some satisfaction, than from my usual pleasure in pouring out my heart before you. I am glad you have left town for many reasons—first, your wishing it; next, the heat; thirdly, your health of body; and lastly, your health of mind; to which the conversation of your foreign friend was by no means favourable. To those of dull feelings, the picture of an impassioned mind like hers is an _interest_, an _amusement_, a _spectacle_, a _sensation_. But to those of vivid feelings—like you and me—it is painful. It is a strong gale blowing upon our minds, and not only disturbing their present smoothness, but disclosing wrecks long concealed below—at least, I found it so, even in the descriptions you gave me. I have just read Mˡˡᵉ de Lespinasse’s _Letters_ in French, which remind me of your friend in almost every line. I hope she may never read them. They have done me no good. They are traced with a pen of fire; and you will own she knew how to love;—finely written, without the slightest attempt at fine writing.

I hope you found Mrs. —— quite well. I have an affectionate regard for her far beyond that inspired by her being most agreeable and valuable, from your friendship for her and her lover-like return. The metal is gold; but your love for her adds to it in my eyes a fine and interesting impression.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, July 23, 1818.

Mˡˡᵉ de Lespinasse’s _Letters_ to Guibert, the great military genius whom Buonaparte acknowledges for his master in the art of war, are my present study. They are a literary curiosity, being exquisitely written, without any view to publicity; but oh! what total darkness as to religion and morality. She does not _defy_, _despise_, or _renounce_ these: she never seems to have heard of them. Educated in a convent, and transplanted to the society of _les esprits forts_ in Paris, appertaining to no family, being the fruit of her mother’s breach of the marriage vow, without father, brother, husband, I _pity_ more, far more, than I _blame_ her. You will read, but I know you will not let them be _seen_ by the young, however guarded. They are so impassioned, and so full of the highest intellect, they must be dangerous.

As to Mad. d’Epinay, she is a clever, amusing Frenchwoman, with so little idea of candour and truth, that she cannot even assume them, so as to deceive us in telling her own story. Poor Rousseau! I never pitied him more, or blamed him less, than since I have read this work, where there is such an evident design to blacken his character.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bursledon Lodge, Aug. 21, 1818.

Sweet Mrs. —— was very low yesterday. I think there is a Platonic affection between her and ——, which I am not at all surprised at. I see it exists at least on her side, and I think on both. You know I can conceive this to exist with perfect innocency, where there is no _love_, properly so called, for any other person. I mean that a woman, who has nothing more than _bienveillance_ for her husband, may with perfect purity have a very strong wish for the conversation of a more sensible man; and where religion _is_, and youth _is not_, I do not think it _very_ dangerous; in fact, I should not think it dangerous at all, but for the extraordinary lessons of experience.

We read Molière in the evening, and being obliged to dwell on the _Avare_ in translating, it increases my admiration. It is the most finished, perfect, witty, humorous, pleasant, moral picture of avarice, in every point of view, admissible in comedy. F—— feels the wit and _finesse_ of it in a manner very surprising at his age.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 15, 1818.

I sympathize in your affliction; but I revere your calmness and resignation, and, as far as is permitted to be proud of the qualities of our friends, I am proud of it. I feel myself raised by contemplating the union of the warmest family affection, of inexpressible tenderness in all the relations of life, with a sublime firmness which unites Christian hope and stoical fortitude. Oh, do not say you are vain of _my_ friendship. Believe me, the exultation ought all to be on my side, and I often thank Heaven for the kindness which prompted you to seek me at Ballitore, and has followed me with partial affection from that hour, veiling my many faults, and placing the less exceptionable features in the fairest points of view.

The manner in which you and yours support your present sorrow, reminds me forcibly of what was said to me by another mourner not very long since. She and her husband had attended her brother to the island of Madeira in his last illness, and shared with his young wife in the anxious task of nursing him. One of them was always by his side night and day, and frequently all. He lingered many weeks in a decline; he was her favourite brother; he was her husband’s bosom friend, previous to the connexion by marriage.

I dreaded meeting his sister on her return; and looked with a kind of sensitive apprehension to the day she immediately offered to pass with me. But she entered with a seraphic smile, was composed and sweet as usual, and in the evening when we were alone, she owned that she must always look back to the period of his loss as one of the most soothing recollections of her life;—‘he was so completely resigned, and so perfectly prepared.’ She is an admirable woman. At eight-and-twenty she has a consummate judgment, is perfectly pure from vanity or selfishness, has looked through the decorations and trappings of grandeur (she is daughter of Lord A——) with that quiet perception which has enabled her to rate them at their real value, is serene like the first mornings of spring, pious, affectionate, and somewhat between the violet and the lily of the valley, in an exterior feminine and pleasing in the highest degree.

Her husband, a clergyman, was obliged to perform the last duties to his friend _before_ and _after_ the termination of existence. He filled all the duties of his office for the inhabitants of Madeira, where there was no resident clergyman. They wrote him a most grateful farewell, accompanied with a present of two hundred pounds, which he accepted, and gave to assist in building a church in the island. These are pleasing passages in the lives of our friends.

* * * * *

_Sept. 10, 1818, Bognor._—This is still a wild, and, in my opinion, unpleasant watering-place. I should rather say _cheerless_ than wild, for it is tame as to scenery; all the buildings are irregular—not that rural irregularity which is consistent with beauty, but that of negligence and indifference to appearance. I am engaged to visit Mr. Hayley to-morrow at half-past twelve.

* * * * *

_Sept. 11._—Mr. Hayley received me with the most cordial politeness, showed me beautiful miniatures and pictures of all kinds; fine portraits of Gibbon, Cowper, Charlotte Smith, Romney, and an enamelled miniature from his own Serena. He was politely pleased with my songs, and made me give him _seven_, at two intervals of my visit. He showed a strong desire to amuse, and succeeded—and would have equally succeeded with less exertion.

* * * * *

_Sept. 12._—When Peter asked concerning John, ‘Lord, and what shall this man do?’ our Saviour answered, ‘What is that to thee? follow thou me.’ When bewildered in speculations as to the future lot of others, this answer has sounded from the depths of my heart, as addressed to me. It strikes at the root of the pride which erects itself into a judge of the acts and intentions of Supreme Wisdom, not only towards ourselves, but others. We are not satisfied with the assurance that to us who have received the revelation of our hopes and duties, happiness, eternal in its duration, and inexpressible in its intensity, is offered to all who sincerely seek it; but we almost reproach God for not making the gift general, unconditional. We seem to accuse the Supreme Being of

## partiality towards ourselves; we ask, What hath this man done? and the

pride of human nature advances like a boundless ocean, in successive waves foaming and thundering against that rock, the existence of evil, but ever leaving that rock in all its strength for future ages and generations to beat against in vain.

Who utter the deepest complaints against the evils of life? They who are most distinguished by its blessings. Youth and genius are amongst the most clamorous of the complainants. I hope and believe that misery is not so miserable as it appears. I have suffered, and I know the alleviations which attend each species of suffering I have endured; alleviations I could not have imagined in the case of another.

* * * * *

_Oct. 11, London._—Just returned from St. James’s Chapel. I hope no foreign _clinquant_ or frippery magnificence will ever alter the simple and noble worship of that chapel, a monument, among many others, of our good old King’s admirable taste—nothing done for show, and the whole distinction arising from the highest excellence in that art of which the use has been sanctified by revelation to the use of religion. ‘Oh Lord, whither shall I go then from thy presence?’ was exquisitely sung. The aërial purity of Knyvett’s voice, differing in the quality of its tone from any mortal music or sound the earth owns, was delightfully suited to a being who speaks of taking the wings of the morning and dwelling in the uttermost parts of the sea. While I deprecate adding to this simple worship, I am equally averse to taking aught away. I should be sorry to find the scientific and affecting music of Handel, Purcell, and Croft, resigned for the unison singing of our Dissenters, pathetic on its first hearing, but soon cloying and insipid for want of variety; and I should deplore changing our majestic, expressive, pathetic liturgy, for the extempore prayers of any individual, however highly gifted. Yet even the last of these changes is within the limits of possibility, and the former is more than probable.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1818.

I should be ‘dull as the fat weed that rots itself in ease on Lethe’s wharf,’ had I not been delighted with your last. In fact, your letters give me so much pleasure, they give me some pain; for I always regret I have not an audience to whom I could read them, stealing a modest eye round the applauding circle.

I have been much indisposed, but am to-day pretty well, saving a cough, which proceeds from the _malaria_ of Bursledon church, which is _damp_ by nature, and was yesterday _close_ from people, and people of a class who are unconscious of hair-brushes, honey-water, and _Eau de Cologne_. You know the sort of air, composed of the living and the dead, in a close country church with a large burying-place. I am always a little the worse for it.

You have given me _carte blanche_ as to your charities; but I never recollect we are two distinct personages, except when I am to spend your money; and on this subject I feel myself so miserably _chiche_ (excuse a vulgar gallicism from the vocabulary of nurses and abigails), that I am ashamed to see how little I give for you in proportion to what I ought. Be so good, therefore, as to specify a sum for the purpose, which I will then feel it my duty to bestow.

The Queen’s death has been so long expected as to make no impression on the little circle around me. I feel for those who _must_ regret her; but no woman who reigned so long has ever taken so little root in the hearts of her people. Her own supposed heartlessness chilled all the warmer feelings.

We have a miraculous young poet in our neighbourhood—son to Sir George Dallas. He has excited the wonder and admiration of Dr. Parr, Scott, Southey, Rogers, and about ten others, who all declare, in reply to a circular letter of Sir George’s, that no one at his age—now past eighteen—ever wrote Greek, Latin, and English verse so well. I think his ear is admirable, his verses always musical, and showing a wide range of thought. There are who do not think, maugre all this, that he will ever be a great poet. None of his verses ever _stick_—to the heart or the memory. His manners are simple, pleasing, and well-bred. He is not vain; but I suspect that praise is become to him less a pleasure received than a want supplied.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1818.

I have had a conversation with our new friend, which, considering his _relative_ situation, gives me serious concern. I find that he is an unbeliever; that he has filled his memory with every trite, pert, and often confuted argument against the character of the Bible, beginning with the Creation, and ending with the most solemn and sublime of our doctrines. This is a melancholy case, and in my mind destroys that species of confidence which you give or withhold, not from reasoning, but from feeling. He started from Genesis with a remark how _absurd_ it was—(Moses, wise in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, what people are they who assume a superiority over thee!)—well, how absurd it was to say that the _light_ was created _first_, and _then_ the sun and moon. Would not common modesty make any one suppose that one did not perfectly understand the passage, rather than accuse a narrative of absurdity, which has been read with reverence by the wisest of the uninspired, and written, perhaps, by the wisest of the inspired? Happily, I found a complete reply to this in King’s _Morsels of Criticism_.... These very circumstances are among those which prove the truth of the Bible—this simplicity of narrative, which, going straight to the point, stops not to clear up those trifling difficulties, which a willing mind will not cavil at, and a diligent mind will endeavour to comprehend. I have given him the book, and hope to find answers for all his petty objections. It is safe to look for them in good writers, and unsafe and unseemly, perhaps, in a woman to enter the lists of controversy herself.

* * * * *

_Nov. 31, 1818._—Perhaps I may not live to want this book;[59] if not, I request my dear F—— will use it during the year 1819. It will remind him of one who loved him well.

I am now in good health and spirits, and therefore what I say to him here cannot be attributed to _gloom_. I beg of him to remember that I have never found any pleasure wholly unmixed with some little disquiet, _except that_ of _trying_ to do good, _to increase the happiness_, or _lessen_ the _misery of others_; nor any _pain_ so severe as the recollection of having in any instance done _wrong_.

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 1, 1818.

It grieves me that any waters should be thought necessary for Mr. Ellis; and I am particularly sorry that he intends making his visit to Harrogate a time for study. Do explain to him the danger of this. Many persons cannot with impunity even write a letter. I wish he would do as our Continental friends, who are often wiser in their generation, especially in what relates to care of themselves. They lay aside not only their wisdom, but their dignity, at those places, and take the goods the gods provide, though these may come in the shape of people who, like the witches of _Macbeth_, ‘are not inhabitants of earth’ (that is, of the _beau monde_), ‘though they are on it.’ My fears for Mr. Ellis are that he will lead a sedentary, refined, grand, and melancholy _old_ life, instead of the desultory, rambling, thought-dispelling existence which gives to these waters half their value.

I wish I could show you a bouncing, talking, conceited, squat, broad, rather plain, much adorned and little clothed Mrs. ——, who is _so_ like Punch in Petticoats, from the loud shrillness and continuance of her talk, the showiness of her dress, and the vehemence of her gestures. She whirls like a tee-totum, and rattles like the machine placed to scare birds from a cherry-tree. But I am like Mˡˡᵉ de Fontanges (_vide_ Sévigné), who said, on being offered liqueurs, ‘_Madame, ce petit garçon oublie que je suis dévote_’—only I am _myself_ forgetting my resolutions, which is worse.

* * * * *

1818.—The following little sketch was never, so far as I know, even written out. I find it complete, but in the rough, with the erasures and interlineations of a first draft. It was intended to be one of a series, as is plain from a few lines written on the same sheet of paper, in which the writer says, ‘When we abound with writers who describe every object on every side, why should not one painter, taking up a lighter pencil and using a fainter colour, indicate rather than detail, and thus invite attention to real life by slight sketches, rather than by the fulness and perfection of a finished Dutch picture?’

HOLLAND HOUSE.

BY THE GHOST OF LA BRUYÈRE.

Aurelio has no desire more powerful than that of rivalling, perhaps excelling, Holland House. Alas! poor Aurelio! In our time at least Holland House will never know a competitor. It has all that London requires—an honourable name, entwined and illustrated with recollections of Charles Fox—delightful amenity, fine understanding, and a most benevolent and upright heart in the noble host—in our hostess, who always keeps her state, talents, caprice, some beauty, and infinite imperiousness, forming a spirited contrast with one or two points in her position—in short, the zest of many contrarieties, as piquant as the infinite variety of her cook, a man, ‘take him for all in all, we ne’er shall look upon his like again.’ To have him in our mind’s eye alone, would be the torment of Tantalus; therefore, when he departs, we can only hope to forget him; for alas! the cook, like the actor, lives but in the present; unless, indeed, he succeed in giving his name to some dish which may carry it down to the remotest posterity with that of Robert, Maintenon, Véry. While such a cook covers the table, and the flower of our wits and poets surround it, while more good things are eaten and said there than in any other circle of the same magnitude in the civilized world, Holland House must ever remain unrivalled.

* * * * *

_Jan. 1, 1819._—I opened the _Anti-Jacobin_ lately, and was shocked at Canning’s lines on Mad. de Staël. At the same time, I was pleased to see how twenty years have increased our refinement, and added to the rank and prerogative of woman. All parties blame Croker for his coarse and savage _critique_ on Lady Morgan, under cover of reviewing her _France_; yet it is milk and water, both in mildness and purity, when compared with the lines on Mad. de Staël, which then lay on every young lady’s table; though now every man would reprobate, and every woman wish to disown having seen it. I see Canning always laughed at many subjects which were unfit subjects for a jest.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Feb. 22, 1819.

I can well appreciate the kindness which leads you to communicate your sorrows to me; and I think myself highly honoured by the power of infusing any portion of that balm you so well deserve to receive from the hands of friendship. I am very much impressed in reading the annals of those whom you regard, by seeing how much the stroke of final separation is lightened both to the sufferer and survivors (who are often indeed the severest sufferers), by the blameless lives, close ties of family affection, and temperate habits, which are more frequently found among those of your persuasion than any other. I do not mean to draw any inference tending to flattery: you can understand an opinion in all its bearings; and to you explanation is unnecessary.

The stings of death arising from those errors and those crimes, from which the sobriety and staid simplicity of the Friends happily keep them at a distance; the indifference of relatives, who in their career of ambition have hardly time, if their aspiring pursuits left them inclination, to watch the couch of departing life; the complicated ailments produced by the madness of luxurious tables and studied refinements of indolence and ease,—from such your Society seem in general happily exempt, and fall, like the nipped blossom or the ripened fruit, by an end, ‘without sin, without shame, and as free from pain as may be.’ Such was the end prayed for by the good Bishop Wilson, and may such be ours.

I read Buxton _On Prisons_ last Christmas. It interested me greatly; and I was happy to see another ray of light thrown on those abodes of wretchedness. The force and closeness of his reasoning are admirable. His introduction is a masterpiece: never, perhaps, was so much explained, and so many errors unanswerably confuted, in a few words. He gives a new idea of the duty of society towards prisoners. To me he was peculiarly gratifying; because I had always entertained the opinions he maintains, and had _suffered_ myself to be persuaded that in _me_ they arose from the weakness of my heart.

Our Queen was estimable in essentials; but she was not beloved even by her family, if we except her good, kind husband. We cannot be surprised if she was little regretted by her people. Her age and sufferings had prepared the good, and the unfeeling do not see that any affectation of sorrow is called for.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

London, March 10, 1819.

I wish to send you Rogers’ new poem. It is rather too largely entitled _Human Life_: it is the _beau ideal_ of the life of an English country gentleman, from his cradle to his tomb, and is exquisitely touched; but to relish it one must love the country, and love one’s children, and be alive to all the minutiæ of domestic life; for though our country gentleman is a _soldier_ and a _senator_, yet his retirement forms by far the longest, as well as the most beautiful, part of the poem. It is not much relished in my little London—is called flat, prosaic, and dull; but _the public_ have bought it with avidity.

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

London, March 18, 1819.

I should feel ungrateful if I deferred thanking you for the pleasure your last poem has given me. You deserve the peculiar gratitude of every fond mother, for you have divined, embodied, and immortalized the tenderest and the purest feelings of her existence. In looking back, the only days I earnestly desire to recall, are those which glided away while I was ‘girt with growing infancy,’ and read in the eyes and the smiles of my children, who were affectionate and beautiful, a promise of happiness, such as this world can never fulfil.

You have given us the _beau ideal_ of the life of an English gentleman, and conquered the very difficult task of rendering highly poetical that of which the original, divested of the beautiful colouring you have thrown upon it, is daily before our eyes. Without availing yourself of distance of time, or of place, of excitement, or of an appeal to any but our best feelings, you, like our own Apelles, have given to portraits of simple, unsophisticated, virtuous English nature, the dignity of historic painting, and the graces of fiction.

They who can read your thirty-eighth page without tears, I should suppose are few.[60] To me it was peculiarly affecting from the circumstances of my past life; but I must not allow myself to select gems from the casket, and now with much difficulty I shall restrain myself from saying more.

It is so pleasant both to feel and to express admiration, that I know you will forgive me for having thus obtruded mine.

* * * * *

_March 24, 1819, London._—The Automaton chess-player faces the spectators, seated at what appears to be a table, upon which his chess-board is placed. He wears a rich Turkish habit, sleeves and vest of gold stuff, a dark green mantle like a lady’s triangular shawl, trimmed with fur, a white turban and heron’s feather. His right hand is extended gracefully on the table, his attitude is dignified, his aspect grave, and his countenance of that class we of the present day often designate as a Kemble face. One is surprised on first viewing him, at feeling a strong impression of sadness, and somewhat of awe, from his complete immobility, as connected with so close an imitation of life. After a few minutes, one of the spectators, who has engaged him many nights before, ventures to attack this representation of destiny, and concedes to him the right of opening the game.

A slight noise is heard of winding up, and the fateful figure raises its left hand—‘that hand whose motion is not life,’ for Lord Byron’s expressions must cross us everywhere we go. This inauspicious hand, which bears some resemblance to the talon of a bird of prey, although covered with a white glove, now lifts its pawn, and drops it in another place with a slight, but hard and bony noise. The humble-looking opponent plays his best, but his schemes are thwarted, and his pieces inexorably taken, the Automaton always putting them aside before he places his own, differing in this alone from the living player, in whom these movements are usually simultaneous. The game goes on, the spectators take part with their fellow-mortal—whisper—advise. He is puzzled with their hints, and somewhat appalled by engaging an unknown and mysterious power. The very buzz and delay of winding up increases his embarrassment. Once when he was slower than usual, the handsome right hand tapped on the table as if to reprove his tardiness; and the poor player seemed fearful of having made his opponent wait too long. At last the talon-like hand, after pouncing like a bird of prey upon several of his adversary’s best pieces with an alarming air of unwavering volition, checks his king and castle. The Automaton, secure of a speedy victory, nods his head with an air of conscious superiority, like the statue in _Don Juan_. A few moves finish the game, which has lasted about half an hour, and a fresh adversary advances to a fresh defeat.

This invincible champion is engaged for above a hundred nights. He has never yet been conquered in England. This is the triumph of mechanism; no one has yet discovered, or made any plausible guess how the impulse of the real player is communicated to the figure. Many persons seem to think it owes its power of playing chess better than all its opponents to its original formation; and that its capability of motion and skill in the game are inseparably united. Some only admire how neatly he takes up his pieces. After he has played, he and his table—for they are one and indivisible—are rolled away, and succeeded by an Automaton Trumpeter, who is complete from top to toe, and represents a large portion of mankind, for he holds up his head, is a fine military figure, dresses well, _se présente bien_, beats time correctly, and plays two marches in good tune. Many come in, aye, and go out too, of the world, in this their vocation, who do little more.

There is no visible communication between the Automaton chess-player and any human being. The lower part of the table, which is shaped like a chest on the side where it meets the eye of the spectators, is not large enough to admit a man, nor could any one so placed view the chess-board. He and it are rolled about without mystery or hesitation. His possessor walks or stands near him, with apparent carelessness, and lays down the pieces he has taken from his adversary in the course of the game, but has no other communication. He plays by day, and the room in an evening is fully lighted. There is some little trick, however, in the Automaton’s appearing invincible, as he allows but an hour in the evening, and half that time in the morning, for any game; and it is easy to conceive that a skilful player, who might not be capable of always winning, might in every instance have the power of protracting a game so as not to lose it within an hour.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Salthill, May 17, 1819.

I seize a quiet hour at Salthill, where we came yesterday for the purpose of breathing a little fresh air, and sitting under the shade of the lime-trees, to converse with you in peace, to ask of the health and welfare of your friends and family, and to complain a little of my own—I mean of my health, which has never been passable for four-and-twenty hours together since I left the country. You, I am sure, wonder why I came to town, and why I stay there; but you must know London operates as a magnet when one is absent from it, and is full of the _glue_ Mad. de Sévigné speaks of as abounding in the society of _les dévots du Faubourg_—I forget which,—when one is in it. Be dissipated or domestic, sick or well, good or bad, wise or foolish, London, once tasted, will be required again and again. This is a mystery, and I leave it to wiser heads to explain. It is a good hint to country gentlemen not to be too anxious to give their wives a sip of this enchanted Cup.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

London, July 2, 1819.

_Mazeppa_, like some portraits of the Regent by Cosway, is rather a description of the Horse and his Rider than _vice versâ_. The horse is certainly the hero. Where he and Mazeppa are united, all the pictures of this new Centaur are hold, impressive, and energetic. We are breathless with suspense and terror during Mazeppa’s perilous course, which recals, and perhaps excels in force and beauty, that of Leonora’s unknown horseman. It seems as if the author had tried his strength, in awaking so deep an interest without displaying any other feeling of the mind than the mere instinct of self-preservation, as in ancient Greek tragedies our sympathy is excited by an excess of physical suffering alone. Mazeppa’s indifference to the fate of his mistress is something worse than I could have expected even from the proverbial ingratitude of man.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Cheltenham, Aug. 8, 1819.

My recollections of Anna Seward are as favourable as gratitude for the most sedulous desire on her part to receive with marked kindness the visitor introduced by her Llangollen friends can make them. You shall have them copied _verbatim_ from my journal when I return.[61] Her genius seemed of an order calculated to take much higher flights than she ever accomplished. The growth of her wing was impeded by ‘too much cherishing.’ She lived in the relaxing atmosphere of a country town, where she was indubitably superior to all the women and most of the men in mental gifts and attainments, and though not absolutely beautiful, her personal attractions were considerable—two circumstances adverse to the expansion of talent. ‘_Trop d’encouragement lasse le génie_,’ says Mad. de Staël, an accurate observer of external life and internal feelings; and the more personal advantages a woman possesses, the farther she is removed by man from that tone of equality which would tend to her improvement. While young he too often looks at her as his prize or his prey, his friend, his enemy, or his victim, to render her even-handed justice. And when old, he considers it as something inherently ridiculous that she should wither away, according to the universal law of nature, and deems her change ‘from fair to foul’ (as Lord Byron uncivilly calls it, when speaking of his mistress) a fit subject for all his powers of ridicule. A country town also is a nursery of much vanity in those who are superior to their companions. Each remarkable person is usually unrivalled in his own department; and the dissipation is more constant, more from morning till night, and more _dozy_ and stupefying than in a capital. Her _Letters_, I own, I had not patience to read through. Her account of living characters seemed to me prolix and dull, though I had no right to complain, being dismissed with the laconic phrase of ‘amiable, lovely, and accomplished.’ It would have required much higher sauce to bribe me to go through the book.

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

Cheltenham, Aug. 8, 1819.

If I were in danger, I could not be removed in a better time, _provided it is suitable to my eternal interests_; for I should leave all the people I most love prosperous and happy, and all, except your dear self, in good health. I have a sufficiency for all my boys, and the most complete union and affection in my family; and I should escape the steep part of the down hill, for as yet many circumstances have combined to hide from me that I was going down. My husband being much younger than the husbands of my cotemporaries, my children being young, the cheerfulness of my temper when well, and my freedom from the common cares of advancing years, have all combined to keep me in a comfortable atmosphere of youthfulness, which could not have lasted many years longer. Besides, from the multifarious accidents of life, a few added years might give me the pain of losing some of the dear objects of my affection. So, to return, _provided it were suitable to my eternal interests_, I could not go in a better time; yet, I assure you, I would much prefer staying with those I love.

* * * * *

_Oct., 1819._—A letter full of the most awful details relative to the Duke of Richmond’s death. They shall not darken this paper. On so awful an infliction, from which no care can insure us, and which may at any moment occur to us or ours, it is best not to fix our eyes too steadily. One circumstance only it may not be wholly unprofitable to keep in mind. The bite was inflicted by an _irritated_ animal—a fox, which had been confined, escaped to the woods, was retaken, and became enraged at being again subject to confinement. I remember the Duke of Richmond in Ireland, when, as Col. Lennox, he was an object of universal admiration to the young of both sexes. His duel with the Duke of York seemed to have something in it chivalrous, displaying a recklessness of all selfish considerations. We knew little of the particulars, but this mystery increased our respect. He was supposed to excel in all manly exercises, and that was a higher praise in those days than it is in these more intellectual times. He was said to be the finest formed man in England, and his playing at cricket was praised as an exquisite display of grace, strength, and skill. When Lord Buckingham was Secretary in Lord Westmoreland’s Administration, he gave parties in the Phœnix Park, where the _élite_ of the young men played cricket, while Lady Westmoreland and a few young women, either of the highest station or selected from the beauties of that time (and in those days beauty was itself a dignity), sat in a tent as spectators. The writer is ashamed to say, that such is her propensity to _ennui_ under the smallest constraint or continuity of enforced pleasure, she has suffered greatly under the delights of these

## parties, and was too well prepared to answer the question, ‘_Est-ce que

je m’amuse?_’ Yet by those who never were invited how much were they desired; how much were the initiated envied by those who were hopeless of admission. Cricket was succeeded by a dinner; cards and dancing filled up the interval till the appearance of a supper, twin brother to the dinner; and then by the light of the waning moon or rising dawn, we parted to drive through the beautiful scenery of the Park.

* * * * *

_Nov. 10._—Yesterday evening I tried to read Boccaccio, in order to find a tale to amuse my children. The language may be very fine and very pure, but the stories in general are so cumbrously told, so loaded with unnecessary circumstance, so coarsely indecent, and so brutally cruel, that I cannot but wonder at the reputation of this work. Impurity without wit, and _dénouements_ of assault and battery, are to be found in almost every page of the tales that mean to be gay. Yet a few of them are charming, and I love to see the mine where Shakespeare found so much valuable ore.

* * * * *

_Nov. 19._—An amendment in health disposes us to look on all around us with a favourable eye. I am not surprised that the gradual recovery of spirits incident to humanity, when it begins to ‘wear down’ a great sorrow, has sometimes induced men hastily to marry, without much apparent temptation, when the first affliction for a beloved wife was fading into calm regret. This action has been a theme for obloquy to all professors of sentiment, somewhat more than it deserves. It is rather a symptom of that easiness of being pleased which attends recovery of mind or body, than one of fickleness. Last winter I found this house disagreeable, dark, confined, small. I was going down the hill, as to health. This year, in the gloomy month of November, I think it comfortable, compact, convenient; I am ascending in the scale, and see a better prospect around me.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

London, Dec., 1819.

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.

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_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.

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_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.

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