CHAPTER VII

.

1822-1827.

A comparatively brief chapter will contain all which I desire further to offer of my Mother’s ‘Remains.’ Her health had for some years been giving way, but the four or five last years of her life were years of much suffering; nor did the physicians seem perfectly to understand her case. She now seldom woke without what in one place she calls her ‘penal visitation of headache;’ and I trace evidences of failing health, and of the painfulness of all mental exertion, in the rarer entries in her journal, and, so far as I can gather, the fewer letters which she wrote during these years.

TO THE REV. —— ——.

Elm Lodge, Feb. 27, 1822.

I thank you for your partial opinion of ——. I hope he has already judged for himself in the spirit of the text, ‘What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?’ but I should very much deprecate religion being pointed out to him chiefly by that feature you have mentioned—‘having principles and motives for action different from the world in general.’ I sincerely hope that he will have such principles and motives, and I see that he has; but I do not wish him too soon to be aware of it, _nor ever to dwell on it_. The former is dangerous as terrifying the young by apprehensions of singularity, and adding weights where we would wish to give wings; the latter is doubly hazardous, and is so at all ages. ‘Lord, I thank Thee I am not as other men,’ was, and ever will be, a pharisaical distinction.

* * * * *

_March 6, 1822._—I have just begun to read _The Spectator_ again, after a lapse of fifteen years; and am a little surprised at finding Sir Roger de Coverley only fifty-six, as when I first read them I did not understand how any one could feel any interest but that of compassion for so very old a man, except he was one’s grandfather, or among one’s own particular friends. I remember at nine years old somewhat of the same feeling for the delightful Sévigné, when her first letter mentioned her having a married daughter. I wished to shut the book; all became colourless and insipid as connected with a woman so far advanced in years.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Elm Lodge, March 21, 1822.

I sincerely regret the breach which has been made in your domestic circle, and perfectly recollect the amiable simplicity of the worthy sisters, as well as your account of the strength of their understandings, and unbroken chain of their virtues. I can enter into the added regret felt by a tender mother, when she sees those venerable trees decay that would have sheltered her young plants with that affectionate mixture of esteem and _instinctive_ fondness, only to be felt by those who have witnessed their growing infancy. But, above all, I recollect your sincere piety, and see in it the balm for all the ills of life. With only the difference of being a little sooner or a little later, it equally heals all your sorrows, and turns them into themes of sweet and hopeful resignation.

* * * * *

_June 6._—Your little work is most pleasing, and highly useful; for none, I think, can read it without an amelioration of the heart. Gratitude for one’s own temporal blessings, content with one’s situation, if raised above the pressure of want or necessity of labour, a certain dislike of frivolous expense, and views of human nature sane and practical, must be more or less excited by a close inspection of ‘the short and simple annals of the poor.’

TO MRS. HAYGARTH.

Elm Lodge, March 21, 1822.

We could not let Mr. Brigstock have this lovely spot. If you saw the Hamble, as I do every morning from my bedroom, sometimes at low tide, ‘in windings bright and mazy as the snake,’ and at high tide in one broad sheet of dazzling splendour, which, when I suddenly open my window, reminds me of a ray of the Divine presence, you would see the immense difficulty to my weak mind of parting with anything so beautiful. Mr. T. is firmer, but I think he _feels_ as much reluctance. The spring has advanced with unspeakable sweetness and brilliancy. I am covering this place—perhaps for Mr. Brigstock of the untunable name—with roses, honeysuckles, violets, and early flowers. There are already a great abundance, all my own planting, but I am spreading them in every direction.

SONNET TO THE RIVER HAMBLE.

_March 22._

The sun forsakes thee, yet thou still art fair; In thy own graceful curvings fond to twine Like the young tendrils of the gadding vine, Beneath this azure sky and fragrant air. Let others to more southern shores repair, And boast their glowing summers; be it mine, Pleased on thy verdant margin to recline, Heedless what aspect alien climes may wear; And mark the white-winged barks that swiftly glide, Like sportive birds, along thy glassy tide; Now by a circling wood’s theatric pride, Now by yon Castle, firmly knit, though grey, Which there shall stand, untouched by dim decay, While like thy waters we shall lapse away.

* * * * *

The following letter is a reply to one of Lord Howden’s, giving an account of a cenotaph, with its inscription, which he had erected to the memory of Colonel St. George, his half brother, in a church which had just been built by him on his property in Yorkshire.

TO LORD HOWDEN.

April 5, 1822.

I sincerely thank you for the sadly pleasing satisfaction I derive from seeing you so deeply imbued with those recollections which will fade among the last of mine. It is pleasing to see springing up in acts of solemn tenderness, those seeds of friendship sown so many years since. Affection so constant it is honourable both to feel and inspire. Your inscription, in its dignified and unaffecting brevity, is perfectly consistent with truth, and says much in few words.

Honours to the dead seem particularly consonant to the spirit of the Christian religion. When the great Author and Finisher of our faith implied an approbation of costly ointment as anointing Him for His burial, and vouchsafed to lie in the tomb of the wealthy, He seemed plainly to permit us to gratify our feelings by reverence to the departed. These attentions contain, also, a tacit proof of our sense of the immortality of the soul. If the beloved who have gone before us were nothing, we should not have the same pleasure in cherishing these remembrances. We are not half so apt to think too much of the departed, as to forget them too soon; for, if we examine our own minds, we shall find we are never so innocent, so little selfish, so pious, or so charitable, as when under some affliction for the loss of a friend; and these recollections, far from unfitting us for our duty to the living, strengthen us in every good resolution.

I have been led to enlarge on this, partly from the pleasure of finding you think as I do, and have not adopted a cold and heartless philosophy, now so prevalent, and partly from having suffered a severe privation in the departure of my dear Miss Agar. Her deep affection for me, her excellent understanding, and her admirable heart, ever active in works of piety and charity, concur to make this an irreparable loss. I was at her bed-side during her whole illness, till the last, and after the last. It was a fine lesson of resignation and unassuming firmness.

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

Roehampton, April 24, 1822.

I write from Roehampton, which I could not summon up courage to revisit until now. It was a melancholy moment when that bell rung at the gate, announcing a visitor, which used to give _her_ so much pleasure, when I was expected; and when I went into the house and missed her cheerful welcome; and in my room found not the flowers she used to leave; and when at night I retired without being followed by her for a short half hour, sometimes to laugh at the little shadows or flittings of vanity or peculiarity we had witnessed, but oftener to arrange some little plan of charity or kindliness, in which she took the lead.

Lord Clifden is extremely pleased with Mr. Ellis’ choice. I presume her to be one of those dignified and refined young persons, in whom the rays are so equally blended as to produce pure white; for I have always heard her described as extremely amiable, without any definite addition; and this is exactly what Lord Clifden would desire in the wife of his son, in which he is sincerely joined by your affectionate mother.

* * * * *

The following earnest _jeu d’esprit_ was written at the commencement of the Irish famine of this year, and printed for private circulation.

A DINNER IN 1822.

I was yesterday one of sixteen, at a dinner of that neutral tint in externals, which never excites a remark, being on the general plan adopted by ninety-nine in a hundred, from the country gentleman, or the _aspirant_ to office, of two thousand a year, to the peer of twenty or thirty, or even the more wealthy Leviathans of the East. In the small remainder we may find all those who either _entertain_, as some call it (and oh! how often is the word misapplied), with singular and princely magnificence, or who have courage to refrain from any part of the general usage, unsuitable to them.

Any difference that may exist in this universal scheme of dinner, is found in the execution, never in the plan. Some are dignified by sauces more elaborate—purer bread—hotter soup—colder water—a better regulated atmosphere—silent celerity rather than bustling officiousness in the attendants—and an air of ease and unconcern in the host and hostess, as to the _matériel_ of the performance, evincing perfect confidence in their cook, and proving their present situation to be one of facile and frequent occurrence.

Most of the guests had rather played with the first course; the habit of eating a solid dinner alone, or _en famille_, under the specious name of luncheon, having taken away all natural inclination for food at seven in the evening. Many of them had refused every dish but one or two at the second, and the _soufflé_ and _fondu_ had replaced their numerous predecessors, when Mr. Redgill, a persevering diner, one of the few better employed hitherto than in mere words, remarked how much distress there had been in Ireland, adding, ‘they will be very well off now—ships are preparing, freighted with oatmeal; but, I suppose, they’ll not like anything but potatoes.’

‘Why,’ replied Colonel O’Trigger, ‘the potato’s the finest food in the world—(some Parmesan, if you please)—where do you see such fine fellows?’ (expanding his own Hibernian chest to most sergeant-like dimensions.) ‘When they get a little milk with their potatoes—(some port, if you please; I always take it after cheese)—when they get a little milk with them, they are the happiest people in the world!’

A prudent old gentleman then said, the present subscriptions would pay all the Irish rents. Another observed that a little starvation would be very good for them, and might bring them to a due sense of gratitude to the present government. A fourth, that it would finally be a benefit as absorbing the population, which appeared to him most desirable; for, he was anxious to prove, that a plenteous harvest, whether animal or vegetable, was fraught with misery and danger, now we were no longer blest with war to carry off our superabundance: while a fifth reasoned elaborately to show that, as it was impossible wholly to relieve the starving peasantry, nothing was so merciful as to leave them to the working of events, instead of prolonging their misery by charity, which must finally be ineffectual.

This discussion was interrupted by one of more general interest—on the proper hour of the day in which fruit ought to be plucked: and on the tube of tin, lined with velvet, which insidiously solicits its fall, with soft prevailing art, at the moment of perfection, without sullying its bloom by one ungentle pressure. Sir Philip Cayenne, a short, coarse, and sultry personage, to whom a pine-apple or a bunch of grapes seemed as unsuitable as a fan, assured us he never could touch them, unless culled before sunrise, and kept in a northern aspect. From this topic, he naturally digressed to his wines—his _Greek_ wines! _his_ Tenedos! _his_ Cyprus! High and musical names! with all your delightful and shadowy associations! ye were ‘familiar in his mouth as household words,’ and, in his general spirit of appropriation, ye became his own—till his devotion to a plate of early strawberries, similar to those he told us he had bought that day for half-a-crown a dozen, suspended every other idea.

Such are the studies and pursuits of hundreds, while thousands of their fellow-subjects are expiring in the agonies of hunger—dropping down from inanition in the roads—in the ditches—in the fields—in the lime-kilns, where they sought a little temporary warmth, or the means of prolonging a miserable existence, by heating their last small pittance of coarsest food.

As to luxury, I know that the words, too much, and, too little, are high treason against property. But, though no tangible line can be drawn, though Lear is right when he says,

‘Oh, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous; Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast’s;’

yet, surely, less general profusion, with more charity and some self-denial, which the luxurious might well practise as the parent of fresh enjoyment, would become our Christian profession, and our present state. All are embarked on a stormy sea: the winds whistle in our shrouds, the sky wears an ominous aspect, and whether we can or cannot avoid the rocks that surround us, let us at least treat our fellow-passengers with kindness, and mitigate the sufferings we are not yet called on to endure.

* * * * *

_June, 1822._—Among the many consolations, most of which fail to console, a few, I think, have been overlooked, which may, at least for a few moments, lighten the chain of years, that chain to which every revolution of the sun adds a new link, some painful and heavy, others brilliant and elastic. The treasures of recollection—that best cabinet of curiosities, better than diamonds, or gems, or Alduses, or Caxtons, or visiting-tickets, or even franks, all of which have been sought by indefatigable collectors—the treasures of recollection can only be obtained from the hand of time.

To have been presented at a Drawing room to the late King and Queen, is a recollection worth having. To have encountered in the benignant eye of majesty that of the best husband and best father in his dominions—to have received, perhaps, his cordial approbation—to have seen the monarch softened to the mind’s eye by viewing him as a sharer in the same affectionate ties which tame the pride of greatness, not alone by the tenderness they infuse, but by making it vulnerable at so many points. A Drawing room in the last reign seemed an epitome of the country. All was quietly cheerful; and an air of freedom, a something which reminded one of a land of liberty, was blended with the whole arrangement. The King and Queen were as parents surrounded by their children. They kept no state. They circulated about the room, as anxious to speak to all as each individual was to be addressed by them. Their state was in the minds of their subjects, and their guards in their hearts’ affections.

Is it not worth something to have seen Mrs. Siddons in her days of magnificence—Mrs. Siddons, who has lent to the very syllables of her name an elevation and a charm so strong that no effort of mind could now effect their separation—so strong that none who saw her in the splendour of her meridian ever pronounced that name without a tone and a manner more softened and raised than their habitual discourse.

She sometimes gave vitality to a line which stamped it for ever, while all surrounding recollections have faded away. I remember her saying to a servant who had betrayed her, in some play no longer acted—

‘There’s gold for thee; but see my face no more.’

I am sorry that this is the moment in which she comes most strongly on my recollection. I wish it had been in one of Shakespeare’s plays; but so it is. There is no giving an adequate impression of the might, the majesty of grace she possessed, nor of the effect on a young heart of the deep and mysterious tones of her voice. Kemble as Coriolanus, when she was Volumnia, equalled the highest hopes of acting.

And is it not also much to recollect Kemble, when he, too, was after the high Roman fashion, and the last of the Romans? Some persons begin now to praise him for his classical and erudite performance of certain characters, as though he had been denied the power of touching the tenderer sympathies of our nature; but who has seen him in _The Stranger_ or Penruddock, and not shed tears from the deepest sources? His tenderly putting away the son of his treacherous friend and inconstant, but unhappy, mistress, examining his countenance, and then exclaiming, with a voice which developed a thousand mysterious feelings, ‘You are very like your mother,’ was sufficient to stamp his excellence in the pathetic line of acting. But in this respect Mrs. Siddons was a disadvantage to him. I enter into no comparison between their merits; but it would have been fair to remember that the sorrows of a woman formed to be admired and revered, are in general more touching, more softening, than those of a warrior, a philosopher, or a statesman; and because Kemble did not make us weep and wail, like his incomparable sister, we did not do justice to his powers of moving the passions. I always saw him with pain descend to the Stranger. It was like the Genius in the Arabian tale going into the vase. First, it seemed so unlikely _he_ should meet with such an affront, and this injured the probability of the piece; and next, the Stranger is never really dignified, and one is always in pain for him, poor gentleman! And though the character is at times highly pathetic, in the next five minutes there is something so glaringly introduced for stage effect as to produce an unpleasant interruption of the current of feeling.

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

(With a box of sauces and spices, and _The Cook’s Oracle_).

London, June 26, 1822.

Various means of increasing your powers of pleasing accompany this letter. Accept a didactic volume, showing you how to make the best use of them. Neither Walter Scott nor Lord Byron have had so quick and profitable a sale. It is thought the best book of cookery extant; but, as it unveils the secrets of the trade, professional cooks would willingly burn, stew, bake, boil, mince, hash, broil, pound, fry, baste, hang, quarter, cut up, or otherwise execute it and its author. If the _Oracle_ is the first that speaks on the subject in Sweden, I shall think myself a national benefactor.

I hope you have read every word of Sir James Mackintosh’s speeches on the Criminal Code and the Alien Bill—both admirable; the first a _chef-d’œuvre_, and touching on many points of interest—Napoleon, and the Code which would immortalize him, were his victories forgot—Charles Fox, and his inextinguishable philanthropy—our native _sœurs de la charité_, with that meek and energetic woman at their head, who has raised the character of her sex. All these are panegyrized with taste and selection—the whole speech vivified by arguments, illustrations, facts, and quotations, apt but not commonplace; while good temper, and a simplicity which refrains from any appeal to the passions, shows his calm sincerity in the cause of humanity, and his willingness to sacrifice all the brilliancy that satire and pathos might give, rather than lose the strong hold a plain statement always best retains on an English audience.

Foscolo’s Lectures are concluded, which I regret, though I learned little from them. But it was something to hear a language one wished to improve in, although one brought scarce any recollections away. The atmosphere was of the deepest cerulean tint—authors, blue ladies, chemists, politicians, poets, with a slight infusion of _couleur de rose_. Foscolo’s merits induced many to subscribe who, from other avocations, could only look in once or twice; and for him it has been successful, both as to fame and profit. He made these lectures subservient to his great object of awakening a horror of despotism with infinite ingenuity; and to one who had once remarked this primary view, there was a double source of amusement in listening to him.

* * * * *

_July, 1822._— ... Who can talk of public speaking and not mention Mr. Irving, the chief subject of conversation, for whom people brave pressure, fatigue, and the most intolerable heat? Young men, in their eagerness to hear him, make parties ‘to board the pews;’ that is, to jump in over the sides, in defiance of locks, sextonesses, and private property. Lady Jersey says he is perfect; and Mrs. Canning, whose opinion begins to be quoted (‘what a kind of being is circumstance’), and who is said to be a dissenter, declares herself ‘entirely satisfied with his doctrine;’ while Colonel Abercrombie professes he could bring twenty preachers from Scotland of superior powers.

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

Elm Lodge, July 19, 1822.

Like you, I have been reading _The Fortunes of Nigel_. It is a clever book, more so than most of the last Walter Scotts; but it does seem written, like Hodge’s razors, solely to sell; for the author is not affectionately attached to any of his characters, as if he had interested himself in the composition. The fine Rembrandt painting of the miser and his daughter, and the adventures connected with them, dignify the whole book. Martha’s character beautifully marks the force of plain sense and strict principle in exciting intense interest under a variety of disadvantages of person and situation. The miser stealing in at night, and putting forth his withered finger for the piece of money on the table of one peculiarly under his protection, would be a fine subject for Wilkie. The danger Nigel and Martha incur of being themselves suspected and seized as authors or accomplices of the murder, is well indicated, and we are fully impressed with it, though it is never once mentioned.

What can we say of the misery of Ireland? At first it created watchful nights, cheerless days, and a sort of reluctant shame at sitting down to a table amply spread. But the awful continuance of famine, which ought to make it more appalling, has blunted the edge of these feelings.

TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

Elm Lodge, Sept., 1822.

Were you not electrified by the frightful news of Lord Londonderry having _so_ concluded his eventful life? It was more painful to me than I could have supposed possible. The intervening years, during which I only _heard_ of him, seemed to vanish, and I saw him the calm, engaging, mild, dignified person I once knew, and could hardly believe what had occurred. ‘O _Time_, thou beautifier of the dead!’ may be true, but I think, ‘O _Death_, thou beautifier of the departed!’ is far more just; for time sometimes wears away the sudden beauty with which those are invested in our minds, who have just passed away from this state of existence.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Roehampton, Oct. 7, 1822.

Your kind letter feelingly pourtrays the lights and shades of human life. It describes two most affecting strokes of final separation as to this world—softened, however, by the piety and resignation of the departed, and the consciousness of past kindness in the survivors, the only real sources of consolation, except those living waters from whence flows comfort, unexpected, inexhaustible, and indescribable.

Of these calamities I hope the severity is passing away, though I know from experience how deep must have been the wound which divided you from your early friend; while, on the contrary, the happy marriage of your daughter seems the foundation and commencement of future felicity. May you enjoy as much of it as is consistent with the conditions of human life.

I am now in the very spot where I felt so many pangs at this season last year; and I am pleased to see in her whom Providence has sent to take my dear friend’s place, one whom she would, I think, have chosen out of a thousand. She is grand-daughter, on one side, of Lord Carlisle, a man of taste and letters; on the other, of the admired Duchess of Devonshire, whose pictures she resembles. Her gentleness, good sense, amiable simplicity of manners, her unaffected grace, and watchful acquiescence in all the orderly, quiet, retired, and literary habits of the house, are delightful.

Pray let me soon have a line about your young lovers; I love to hear of happiness. I smiled at reading in your letter, ‘I am no manœuvrer.’ It is as if the sun should say, ‘I do not shed darkness.’ At the same time, I am pleased to find thus incidentally that your new relation unites, with more essential points, those which the world thinks worth seeking after.

* * * * *

The following letter is a reply to one from a friend of her youth, giving an account of a painful and perilous operation just undergone.

TO MRS. ——.

Roehampton, Oct. 9, 1822.

There are certain unexpected feelings in which admiration, pity, sorrow, and surprise, are so intimately blended as to make it impossible for us to describe them. Such your letter, which is now before me, and of which I shall never forget even the shape and character, is well calculated to excite. For a moment it stunned me, and when tears brought back the more precise consciousness of all you have so nobly endured, the crowd of ideas and images that pressed upon me, gave to minutes the fulness of years.

Why did you not write for me? Perhaps you know not that as a nurse I have perfect self-command, and that the care of those I love never injured my health; nay, that the privation of sleep, and the watchfulness it induces, seems to do me good. Your being capable of passing so much time alone on this awful occasion, proves to me that you have indeed a Friend, who is a very present help in trouble. Philosophy seeks witnesses, Christianity endures, nay, chooses, solitude.

The whole night were those images before my eyes, and thankfulness for your escape in my heart. Your letter reached me in the evening of yesterday; till to-day I could not bring my thoughts to the discipline they required before they could be offered to the person whose trial had so deeply engaged them. Even now I can scarcely refrain from making inquiries, describing feelings, and entering into details which I know would at present be unfit for my dearest friend. I do sincerely thank the all-wise Disposer of events for the calmness, courage, and serenity, with which you were endowed. ‘Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above.’ No human reason could bestow on a tender and delicate woman, accustomed to every indulgence, and with nerves shaken by former events, such unshrinking firmness.

In a day or two I shall be capable of addressing you on common topics. At present I feel overcome with a sense of reverence for your patience and courage, and a kind of reluctance to mix them in my thoughts with baser matter. Adieu, my dear ——, and believe me, with that glow of affection which is excited by the sufferings of those we love, ever, ever yours.

* * * * *

_Oct. 26, 1822, Elton Hall._—Went to Burleigh, an extensive Gothic building, stored with a rather poor, but very large, collection of pictures, china, curiosities, and relics of every description, including Queen Elizabeth’s watch, needle-book, and the busk of her stays, King William’s pocket-handkerchief, &c. &c. &c. We saw the picture of the Cottage Marchioness, and we all agreed it was she who appeared to have made the _mésalliance_, and not her lord, when we contrasted her spirited, yet gentle, countenance and elegance of air with his heavy form and dull face.

BURLEIGH.

In reverent guise this ancient pile survey, Girded with oaks, whose tinted foliage gleams With autumn’s golden hue, while length’ning streams Between their hoary trunks the western ray; As lingering smiles the cloudless star of day, Full on these halls are flung his parting beams, Where Time’s ennobling touch has furnished themes That rouse the soul through centuries to stray. I see our maiden Queen beside me sweep, And shrinking feel the lightning of her glance, Or view her lofty form relaxed in sleep, The mind’s vast power subdued as in a trance; Till all these splendid scenes in dimness fade, Lost in the glory circling round her shade.

TO MRS. TUITE.

Elton Hall, Oct. 29, 1822.

I write from Lord Carysfort’s, where I am paying a long-promised visit, in which my love of home, and my various ties, have prevented me from indulging myself, during many years of hopes and intentions. Like some other hopes, its fulfilment has been deferred too late to be attended with the enjoyment which would formerly have accompanied its fruition, as I found Lord Carysfort in a wretched state of health, and recollect with surprise that the advanced and enfeebled person I behold, is one with whom I have danced in all the contagious gaiety of the ball-room, and whom I have seen dancing with the lovely, and then youthful, Queen of Prussia. He is, however, as agreeable as ever, when he does converse. His finely furnished mind, expanding in so many directions, and full of taste and feeling, is a continual feast. His very prejudices, which are numerous, and the mistaken opinions he forms in consequence of extreme sensibility, give a zest and novelty to his conversation. You are always doubtful what he will think or say—never absolutely on _terra firma_; you are sailing on a rapid river, always feel the motion of the boat, and are aware that the next reach may give you a prospect quite unexpected. Lady Carysfort loses nothing of the impression of sense and dignity in her first _abord_ by a closer inspection. Her uniform kindness to me, is as a sister’s and mother’s mixed might be. It is pleasant to find an acquaintance merely incidental, thus ripen into a friendship of more than twenty years.

* * * * *

1822.—I am disposed to think the following is the recasting of a ballad in the Irish language. There are several Scotch variations of the same.

Who will shoe my little foot? who will glove my little hand? All shivering and chill at your castle gate I stand. The rain rains on my yellow locks, the dew has wet my skin; My babe lies cold within my arms; Lord Gregory, let me in.

Oh, the night is far too murky, and the hour is far too late, To open for a stranger Lord Gregory’s castle gate.

Oh, and don’t you remember one night on yonder hill, When we changed rings together, sore, sore against my will? Mine was of pure gold, and yours was but of tin; Mine was true to the heart, yours false and hollow within. The rain rains on my yellow locks, the dew has wet my skin; My babe lies cold within my arms; Lord Gregory, let me in.

Oh, the night is far too murky, and the hour is far too late, To open for a stranger Lord Gregory’s castle gate.

Oh, and don’t you remember one night by yonder cross, When we changed cloaks together, and still to my loss? Yours was the woollen grey, and mine the scarlet fine, Yours bore an iron clasp, and mine a silken twine. The rain rains on my yellow locks, the dew has wet my skin; My babe lies cold within my arms; Lord Gregory, let me in.

Oh, the night is far too murky, and the hour is far too late, To open for a stranger Lord Gregory’s castle gate.

Your castle gate is closed, but I behold your moat, And there your cruel eyes shall see my body float.

TO MADAME DE STIERNELD.[67]

Jan. 26, 1823.

We have all been a little disappointed in Moore’s _Loves of the Angels_. The first angel’s story is that of a Bond-street _beau_; the second, an adaptation of the tale of Jupiter and Semele; the third, an account of an earthly couple, and a pair not of the very first order. Yet, with all this poverty of conception, the details are very beautiful, and the whole poem, like the wings of the angels he describes, sparkling with brilliant prettinesses.

The severity of the frost continues. The pert sparrow, the twinkling water-wagtail, the silent lark, are feeding in perfect tameness outside our windows. Every leaf is covered with a smooth crystal case, which can be slipped off like a sheath, retains the mark of every fibre, and looks like a splendid diamond _aigrette_.

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

Elm Lodge, Feb. 9, 1823.

In the depth of my present retirement I can talk to you only of public events. Are they not highly interesting? Two such names as Greece and Spain engaged in contests, both for liberty, _one_ for existence; France on the verge of some change, from merely natural causes—the advanced age and ill health of her monarch; Russia collecting all her strength to act the part of the King of Beasts, _Tollo, sum Leo_, whenever any opportunity offers; Italy holding her breath for a time. In England, ‘motley’s your only wear;’ suicide from distress of mind attendant on ruined fortunes common among three-fourths of our population, and an exulting air of prosperity beaming around the remainder, who are profiting by low prices and increased possessions; Cobbett consorting with the magnates of the land, consulted and addressed by the patrons and superiors of those who hissed him to silence four years since. The singularities of Ireland are more singular, you know, than of any other country. Four years since, the populace threw stones at their constant and well-tried friend and protector, Grattan; while now a powerful party have shown animosity against the dignified Wellesley, whose presence was expected to heal all dissensions. He is, however, supported by all _but_ that party, and, upon the whole, I believe the play-house riot was productive of a great mass of happiness, by giving the writers, talkers, and partisans of our talkative, expansive, and party-loving countrymen, a _débouche_ for their effusions. It is certain no single bottle ever inspired so many words.

TO THE SAME.

Elm Lodge, Feb. 23, 1823.

Politics are interesting enough now to occupy a large portion of one’s mind, particularly when one feels that politics are but humanity on a large scale. Instead of seeing one steady machine of government going slowly but surely on to its purpose, with occasional attacks from systematic bodies of foes, whose opposition one might calculate, and who now slightly retarded its movements, now were crushed by its progress, we have a complete orrery, and do not in the least know what planet or what comet will draw attention next. Canning has been eclipsed by Robinson, whose speech announcing the remission of two millions of taxes has been admired more than any other of the opening Session. It may owe this in some degree to the subject of its communication, which found an echo in every pocket through the kingdom.

* * * * *

_March 29, 1823._—Temporary separations between parents and children being designed by Providence for frequent occurrence, bring with them unexpected sources of consolation, and a new set of pleasures, not so constant, but perhaps more vivid, than any which attend even the delightful intercourse between them. An unexpected letter, the conversation of a stranger who has seen one’s child within a short space of time, and is like the Bologna diamond of _Werther_, the knowledge of their progress in virtue, intellect, or even in worldly prosperity, which seems peculiarly their own when at a distance from us, and the rapture of reunion, are all pleasures of the highest order.

TO MRS. TUITE.

London, April 20, 1823.

I am just embarked in Campan’s voluminous memoirs, and regret the time I must give to her sensible gossip—for such it is—not a _lueur_ of genius; I know, too, she _must_ be partial, and her volume contains as much as half Hume’s _History_. But every one is reading her; and as there are now few amusements, fewer invitations, and no spare money, all the world is occupied with books; and not to be qualified to talk of Mad. Campan is to abdicate your place in conversation. I saw a very fine performance of _Esther_ by her _élèves_ when I first went to Paris. I cannot imagine it to have been better performed at Saint Cyr.

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

April 29, 1823.

We are all reading Mad. Campan and Las Casas. The embers of the old French Court, and the short-lived splendour of that which in all respects was _unique_, shine out in both these works in their different degrees. The lovers of minute gossip—and they are many—delight in knowing on which side Louis XVI. got out of bed, and with what _étoffe_ Marie Antoinette lined her flannel bathing-dress; while others are gratified, after having read O’Meara’s book, by finding a new and deeper vein displayed in the mind of that wonderful man who has occupied us since his death more than all the living great ones he has left.

I have at last received _Ariosto_, and hope you will be pleased with it. It is a work I never did read through. As far as I can judge from the brilliant passages which everybody knows, Rose seems a spirited and faithful translator, except in the opening stanza. That beautiful and dignified enumeration, which keeps your attention in breathless suspense, while it goes on like a fine procession, and which falls so harmoniously on the ear, is sadly vulgarized by the commonplace

‘Of loves and ladies, knights and arms, I sing.’

TO THE SAME.

Elm Lodge, May 29, 1823.

This fine though cold weather finds your mother at Elm Lodge for a week, among blooms and verdure of the highest beauty, with an intention of returning next Saturday to Montague Square. This week would be called a little oasis in the desert of the town season by some who consider London as a heartless, dissipated, hot rendezvous, where so much pleasure is to be swallowed—no matter with what distaste—and so many ‘things to be done,’ only because others do them. You and I, however, look on London with other eyes, as the centre of wholesome, well-regulated liberty, of unfettered social intercourse, and of constantly-recurring opportunities and facilities for improvement at all ages. Would we were there together to enjoy them as heretofore. Nothing can be purer than the present predominating pleasures of town, for all those who are not in the dinner vortex—seeing fine pictures all the morning, and hearing fine music all the evening.

I know not whether you have seen Mr. Angerstein’s collection. It is now shown by tickets, given by his heir to a long list of acquaintance on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Six Claudes, with more than the usual imaginative elegance and poetic grace of that most delightful painter; were I Dame Nature, I would never sit for my picture to any other hand; for he not only represents her as perfectly beautiful, but as adorned with the highest taste and in the sweetest humour.

There are also the originals of Hogarth’s _Mariage à la Mode_, which strongly prove how much his pictures lose by being translated into engravings. As his style admits not exquisite outline, much of the beauty of his youthful figures arises from their colouring; and in the diminution of their good looks by hard black and white, we lose some of the charm and much of the probability of the story. In the engraving, the lawyer is so plain that it is difficult to consider him as a lover; not so in the painting, where he is whispering the bride with a dark-eyed handsome countenance of intense and glowing interest, and where, from due management of colours, even his flowing dress has some degree of beauty. Whimsically characteristic is his double occupation; for he is mending a pen, from long habit mechanically; and this neither interrupts nor is interrupted by—his making love.

The contrast between the fathers is much more striking, when we see the complexion of the full-fed gouty peer, and compare it with that of the penurious citizen; and the death-scene of the lady is far more impressive. The darned and dirty table-cloth, the squalor of the furniture and apartment, her ghastly paleness, and the stained complexion of the withered and weeping nurse, add a force to this picture I never dreamt of from the engraving.

There is also a Scotch merry-making by Wilkie, full of rustic humour and glee, with occasional touches of tenderness and a general tone of beauty. A young girl endeavouring to draw her father from a revel, where he has already drank too much, is full of sweetness; and while she presses his arm in the tenderest manner on one side, a more ardent, not more anxious, pleader on the other, in the shape of a jovial youth, has amicably seized the old man by the collar, and endeavours to allure him from her gentle grasp.

Canova, you see, is settling down into his due place; a fine sculptor, but not quite a Praxiteles, not the finest of all sculptors, ancient or modern.

* * * * *

_June 1, 1823._—Left, perhaps for ever, certainly for two years, the dearest spot to me in the world—a home dearer to my children than any home I ever saw to any other human beings—beautiful, and every day becoming more so under the minute touches of affectionate assiduity. However, in two years there are but 365 + 365 = 730 days, and one of them is past: 730 - 1 = 729.

* * * * *

_June 2._—730 - 2 = 728. The only home I have ever known rushed on my first waking thoughts, as one not to be seen for two years. Shall we enjoy it then as now? How many things may happen in two years. What a considerable part they are of the time in which I can hope to enjoy any pleasure from externals. When we meet _persons_ after a long absence, they very often do not seem the same from some change in them, in us, in both. Will it not be the same as to a _place_? Will not my dear boys, for whose sake I love it, lose their keen relish for its pleasures and its beauties?

* * * * *

_June 7._—The Green Fever has not subsided. On opening my eyes I long for the song of the birds, the hush of the trees, the smell of the flowers, the sounds and sights and sense of beauty. I comprehend the calenture, when the sailor, under the heat of a burning sun, leaps from the stifling deck to the green fields he fancies undulating beneath him, and finds no repose but that of death.

SONNETS.

I.

ON THE DEATH OF TWO INFANT SISTERS—TWINS.

_July 28, 1823._

Sweet buds of being, ye have passed away To bloom for ever in a fairer clime, Escaped the blasts of earth and grasp of time; As cradled in a mother’s arms ye lay, In this bright hope ye smiled serenely gay, Soft as the tender plumage of the dove— Ye seraph-sisters, whose brief life of love Shone like the dawn of your celestial day. Your bark of joy scarce touched this chilling shore, Your vests of clay ye but a moment wore, Ye sparkled like twin drops of morning dew, Reflecting heaven’s own tints of rainbow hue, And then, blest pair, endured no painful strife, But, sweetly smiling, languished into life.

II.

UPON A GRECIAN VASE SCULPTURED IN BASALT, SIMILAR IN DESIGN TO THE PORTLAND VASE, AND SUPPOSED TO REPRESENT THE ELEUSINIAN MYSTERIES OR ELYSIAN FIELDS, A FEMALE FIGURE IS SEEN, IN A THOUGHTFUL ATTITUDE, TO WHOM A YOUTH DESCENDS FROM ANOTHER REGION.

Springs not the gentle sadness of her brow From her own sorrow, but man’s general doom. This youthful bride, nipped in her dewy bloom, Was torn from him, whose passion’s early glow Bade every flower that crowns existence blow, To scent her path. Lo! in her bridal room, While hymeneal garlands breathe perfume, The mourners’ choral dirge is heard to flow. He, desolate, who could not long endure This widowed world, forsook the upper air, Seeking for death, pale sorrow’s only cure; But found Elysian groves, and found _her_ there, With immortality—by love enjoyed, To meaner hopes and hearts a cheerless void.

TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

London, July 31, 1823.

You were not, I hope, out on any of your charitable excursions in the late dreadful thunder and lightning—a spectacle which I find always treated with surprising levity. I had an aunt who always locked herself into some closet or press—I believe, that the lightning might not find her out. Are we not a little in the opposite extreme, when we avow feeling no apprehension whatever of what may bring the severest infliction, and is always expected to accompany that day which must come at some time, and may come at any time? You will say I am writing _de la pluie et du beau temps_; but I see so little upon earth that I must go to the atmosphere for subjects.

I am reading Hayley’s _Life_—flat and pompous, but with green spots. According to his own statement, he was but an indifferent husband; and I think I can spy out he was not much better as a son. He, or his biographer—for it is a sort of partnership—is ever making demands on your wonder, and introducing the commonest circumstance as a remarkable incident. All that relates to Cowper is of course interesting.

Town is extremely thin; but the cricket-ground to-day was a gay and pretty sight, a certain number of the families and friends of the Harrow and Eton players having attended; just enough to embellish, not crowd, the scene. Twenty-two of the flower of English youth, dressed in plain white, in different attitudes of swiftness exertion or repose, on English verdure, all enjoyment and animation, under the temperate beauty of a summer sky just veiled by light clouds, had a very Elysian appearance; and as the words of the players were inaudible to us, though at no great distance, there was a sweet stillness, almost silence, just broken by their quiet tread and the gentle applause of the lookers on.

TO MRS. HAYGARTH.

Elton Hall, Oct., 1823.

Mr. T. has returned to me after a pleasant visit to Ireland. He described the journey and passage as so improved by fine roads and those prosaic conveyances, the steam-boats, as to be now quite a party of pleasure. He saw nothing new in Ireland, but the fearful increase of our hungry and idle population, appearing to baffle all hope of finding employment commensurate with their numbers, and proving the truth of that expressive phrase, that the attempt is like the race of the tortoise with the hare; but alas! not likely to be so successful. He was glad, however, to see more just opinions prevalent on the subject, in all ranks, than heretofore, and to find that all agreed as to the _willingness_ of the people to work, and the impropriety, except in extreme and rare cases, of giving them charity in any shape but that of employment.

Mr. Haygarth is not, I hope, satisfied with Rose’s opening of _Ariosto_. I own I never did nor could read the original work through, nor took any pains to conquer my reluctance; as by snatching the beautiful passages, which everyone is ready to point out, one avoids all which is said to be offensive. But I have always admired the grace and dignity of the enumeration of the first stanza, the attention so beautifully awakened by the procession of lofty images in the most musical verse; and vulgarizing this down, as Rose has done, to

‘Of loves and ladies, knights and arms, I sing,’

appears to me in the opening quite disrespectful to the author he translates, and to his readers.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, Nov. 11, 1823.

Allow me in great haste to express a wish you would reconsider the paper on bankruptcies. Its whole tendency seems to be that of softening down the demerit of an action which spreads distress and ruin, to which the temptations are numerous, and which is so lightly visited by the law, that it is doubly unsafe to relax the force of opinion that remains against it. While crimes of violence are every day becoming more rare, crimes of fraud are so rapidly increasing, that, if we wish to trim the boat, we should rather try to impress firm principles of honesty than to spread that softness which is making swift progress, and is almost afraid to express sentiments of blame with regard to any human action.

The humanity and mild habits of the times make it quite unnecessary to increase our tenderness for the bankrupt, while the frightful extent and number of fraudulent failures, prove that any such attempt, if an indulgence to the few, would be cruelty to the many. I do not think we can possibly call it ‘hardened’ to disapprove of extravagance and want of precaution, because some persons have, in consequence of ruined fortunes, suffered insanity, epileptic fits, &c. &c. Gambling produces the like effects; but we do not think it ‘hardened’ to blame gamblers.

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

London, Nov. 11, 1823.

I shall send your last production either to _The London Magazine_, or to Miss Baillie’s _Bouquet by Living Authors_, if she intends to tie up a second; which it is said she will do, having cleared for the benefit of a distant friend fifteen hundred guineas by the first. Sir Humphry Davy’s contribution, called Human Life, is a very fine bird’s-eye view of existence, chiefly as connected with the Deity—commencing from, and returning to, the Divine Essence—in the enjoyment of whose favour, and the possession of knowledge, he makes our heaven to consist; but with so little reference to the feelings of mere humanity, that one may humbly conjecture (if allowed to speculate on so awful a subject) minds like his are destined to rank among the Cherubim who _know_ most; while those who are less divided from their fellow mortals by victories in science, will be classed among the Seraphim who _love_ most; this rabbinical distinction being very striking, and at least probable.

A lady spoke the other day of the impossibility of knowing her own sex till she saw them in the company of men; and cited one whom she thought all gentleness, propriety, and delicacy, during some days passed in a country house, till at last a man came to nail down the carpets. _A man_, like Ithuriel’s spear, makes some women start up in their own shape, and so it was here. She immediately displayed forwardness, affectation, and coquetry in all their varying forms. How often we are reminded of this story.

I hear the Dowager Lady —— will certainly marry Mr. ——. As we heard from one to whom her physician announced it, that she bore her lord’s death ‘like a Lion,’ one is the less surprised that she should so soon have made a second choice.

TO THE SAME.

London, Jan. 1, 1824.

Alas! I knew the sad news of Mad. de Stierneld’s departure a little before your letter confirmed it. Her house, all covered with announcements of its being on sale, first surprised me; but there we were only directed to another and smaller habitation, where we thought the Baron had removed on changing his former house, which I knew was not quite approved. The quivering lip and sorrowing countenance of the servant, when I inquired if _she_ was at home, spoke the whole truth at once, and never did I so much regret one whom I had so seldom seen, _passée comme une fleur que le vent emporte_. Nature is at war with excellence, and seldom does one so faultless run the usual career of life. How deeply do I feel for her sorrowing mother. Tell me what other children she has.

My chief objection to your present situation is, that you can learn nothing there of your _métier_, and see but little of the illumination which is centred in the more literary and busy capitals of Europe. Its rays become very faint at such a distance from the centre. If you would produce a clever volume, to be printed in London, and perhaps acknowledged only in case of success, it might remind our Premier of his hyperborean client. Translations are now in great request; for every man _must_ know everything, talk of everything, and, if he possesses not a language, must catch the spirit of its _chef-d’œuvres_ as he best can. Versions of Swedish poets, with your name at once, would be extremely popular both here and there.

Adieu, I continue well, and want nothing but you to keep me so.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, Jan. 12, 1824.

I very much regret that sorrow should so often find its way to Ballitore; but where love extends, there extends the domain of joy and grief. Two of the fairest flowers of the garden have been lately nipped in the very bloom of life. Lady Caroline Pennant, the sole daughter of the Duchess of Marlborough, the only perennial spring of comfort she has known in an eventful and unfortunate life, died ten days after her confinement, last week; and Mad. de Stierneld, whom I have already mentioned to you as one who interested me most particularly, faded away in the south of France this autumn, in a decline. Both were excellent, amiable, and interesting, living for their virtues and their affections, without one atom of the pride, vanity, or fondness for display, from which so few of our sex are exempt.

‘A DREAM WHICH WAS NOT ALL A DREAM.’

_Feb. 2, 1824._

‘What dost thou here, white woman, say? To bed, to bed—away, away. While music flings its charms around, And fairy forms obey the sound With looks of love and smiles of pleasure, Responsive to the minstrels’ measure, White woman, say, what dost thou here, Wearing that cold unearthly sneer? A baleful fire lights up thine eye, Which cannot warm, and will not die. Thou seem’st a deathlike chill to bring, Like the last snow-shower deep in spring, When tepid winds and blushing flowers Have hailed the rosy-bosomed hours; Say, art thou of the Court of Death, Congealed by winter’s icy breath?’

She came, she went,—away, away; And still she haunts the cheerful day; But where is he, the mild, the bland, With welcome in his eye and hand, By whom that night an only child, A sweetly budding daughter, smiled, A radiant girl, while oft he stole Glances tow’rd her so full of soul As shed on each a nameless grace, Love’s light reflected on each face,— The child in her sweet hour of prime, The father, yet untouched by time?

Torn from its root, for weal or woe, The blossom lives. The tree lies low. It fell before a leaf was sere, Nor lived to feel the waning year.

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

London, May 11, 1824.

The London turmoil of this year will be short, for the House will not sit much longer than the 17th or 18th. It is called by ultras on both sides a very milk-and-water Session. Very little has been done in the way of economy and repeal of taxes; but that little gracefully, and the leaf-gold spread over an immense surface. The Drawing room was such a squeeze, such a squash—without, of horses, carriages, and footmen—within, of petticoats, mantles, trimmings, ornaments, and fine ladies,—as has been unknown in the courtly annals of England. Lady Arundel was ill for several days from the actual pressure she received; and the quantity of jewellery lost would set up a Bond Street shop. In general, entertainments have been sumptuous, but balls few, owing partly to the Rossini fever. People preferred concerts, that they might have the pleasure of giving him fifty guineas for singing with taste, without a voice; and his wife twenty-five for singing without either voice or taste—as I am informed, not having heard either of these foreign wonders; who, having the advantage in the eyes of John Bull of not being ‘in these rough shades bred,’ will probably carry away ten thousand pounds as the fruit of their winter’s exertions.

The Duchess of Northumberland’s magnificence does not seem to give so much heart-easing delight as did the more luxurious Oriental splendour of Mrs. H. Baring, who has seceded at a most unlucky time; her fine entertainments being taken out of the pool when there were fewer of any other than usual. The marriages have been few, the scandalous anecdotes on the most limited scale.

* * * * *

_May 29, 1824._—Sir William Hoste told me that a French naval officer once said to him in a confidential way, ‘_Si j’ai un défaut, c’est que je suis trop brave_.’ On my saying, ‘I am sure this was one you took prisoner,’ he acknowledged it, adding, that the same person, after a very moderate resistance, said to him, when he first appeared on deck as his prisoner, ‘_Monsieur, je suis le commandant qui s’est tant distingué dans cette barque que vous voyez_.’

TO A SON (aged 18).

Richmond, July, 1824.

We came to Richmond this morning, as it was absolutely necessary to change the scene for a few hours after my separation from you. ‘Perhaps the lady will like to see the steam-boat,’ cries a dapper waiter, with an air of importance at having so charming a spectacle to offer. In spite of the glare and intense heat, I lifted up my eyes to view what to me was quite new, and saw nothing but long snaky trails of smoke, puffing, puffing on towards the right in the direction of the river, and dishonouring the blue sky and beautiful face of the Thames. Then appeared a flaring scarlet flag; and lastly, to the tune of Paddy O’Rafferty, a great green and yellow beetle floating on its back, with a tall chimney-funnel rising from its middle, breathing out volumes of smoke. This creature swarmed with people. They were like ants which you could gather from an anthill in a tea-spoon, all fervid, and gaudy, and noisy, and bustling, and important, and delighted with their truly infernal machine, only fit for sailing on the Styx; which has excluded from the water all beauty and freshness and variety, and hope and fear, and anxiety for friends, and good wishes for a fair wind. I wrote for an hour, and asked if the horrible vision was gone. ‘No, ma’am,’ answered the waiter, triumphantly; ‘it’s filling.’ I looked up; there was scarce standing room; the chattering increased; the sweet strain of Paddy O’Rafferty recommenced. Smoke now arose from various places, about, above, and underneath. ‘All’s well,’ cried a pert sharp voice, not in the deep tone of an ‘ancient mariner,’ but in that of an ostler on the high road. The huge dragon of the waters splashed with its horrid fins, bustled and porpoised about, slowly and with difficulty worked its clumsy self round, and at last took itself away, passengers and all enveloped in one mantle of smoke.

‘Hence, hence, thou horrid bark, the uncouth child Of commerce and of coal!’

TO THE SAME.

Tunbridge Wells, Aug., 1824.

I have heard but once from you since you crossed the Channel. That you have neglected writing, it is not permitted to me, knowing you as I do, to think for a moment; and I regret the untoward circumstances, whatever they may be, that thus aggravate the languor of indisposition, and the anxiety of affection like mine.

The race-fever subsided the day before yesterday, and these pretty hills are at last disencumbered of their vile attire of booths, of monsters, including even the learned pig, who came from London hither to better his condition, with Italian beggar boys, tortoises, gypsies, singers, conjurers, pickpockets, foot-racers, boxers, &c. &c. &c.

I try to go out, but am not much attracted, as I am in a _respectable_ house, with drawing-room upstairs, and on the high road; so I seldom leave home, except at regular and fixed periods, and enjoy none of the half and half out life, one leads if on a ground floor that opens upon a garden or pleasure-ground, however small. To-day the _Remains_ of Kirke White fell in my way, and have pleased me extremely. His gentleness, elevation of mind, and complete discretion, are deeply interesting. I shall add the volume to your library when I meet a better edition. It appears he fell a victim to an over-scrupulous delicacy. After having had a fit, evidently brought on by too much study, instead of going for a short time to his home, or suffering his mother to know he was ill, he remained even in the vacation at Cambridge, because the College were paying for him a mathematical tutor. Oh! how much does the struggle of genius and excellence against poverty remind us that we are but stewards of our worldly wealth, and warn us to turn a portion of it from our own superfluities to the necessities of others. I never felt this more strongly than in reading Kirke White’s _Remains_, and seeing one so highly gifted suffering intense anxiety from the want of a very small portion of the waste of his companions and fellow-students.

All at home are well, and _one_ is more anxious to see you than she ought.

* * * * *

_Aug. 16, 1824._—Saw Penshurst. The road from Tunbridge Wells is a beautiful preparation for seeing this interesting castle. It winds on the upper lines of some very high ground; and looks down on wide vales of the most delightful verdure and richness. Penshurst disappoints at first sight. The building has little beauty, is entirely seen before you enter the grounds, and is not a hundred yards from the entrance gate. Can this be Penshurst? is the first question; but when within its walls, touch after touch increases its dignity. Its great antiquity, the recollections and portraits of Sir Philip Sidney, of Algernon Sidney, of Sacharissa, of Queen Elizabeth, _her_ presents, _her_ needlework, _her_ chair, the variety of paintings, the beauty of the surrounding park, and the singular union of dignity and cheerfulness in all the old rooms of the Castle, give it a heartfelt charm of no common order.

TO MRS. HAYGARTH.

Sevenoaks, Sept. 4, 1824.

I am not surprised you are pleased with the neighbourhood of Chepstow, where art has spoiled nature so little, and where sudden and overgrown opulence has not laid its heavy paw. What beautiful banks, what rich verdure, what winding ways, unfolding such unexpected thickets, with their tangled luxuriance of hanging branches and fantastically twisted roots, into which Faust has taught us to put a sort of life. Then the houses are so English, with the shade of Queen Elizabeth, hovering about so many of those old mansions which bear the impress of her time. I was not well enough to see Knowle, and have profited but little by my absence from town. I, however, visited Penshurst, a volume in itself, and Summerhill, one of the pleasantest places I have seen, as fresh as Fairy Land, with slopes and walks of exquisite beauty.

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

London, Sept. 10, 1824.

When you return, you will find the squares amazingly improved by being macadamized; you will find baths which you can heat by a handful of coals, without fire or grate, provided you have a window or chimney to admit the tube which carries off your smoke; you will find lamps which light themselves on your touching a spring; you will find fruits ripened and chickens hatched by steam; you will find all the young ladies you left grown older, and all the old ones younger; you will see dandyism so universal, it no longer inspires conceit; you will meet ices, confectionary, a reading-room, and well-conducted young ladies at a horse-bazaar; you will find Irish men and Irish poplins out of fashion; and, above all, you will find a very, very loving mother.

TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

London, Sept. 14, 1824.

Penshurst and Summerhill were all I saw, my carriage being very heavy, and myself very cowardly. I had not sense to venture in the little pony-carts which were the delight of everyone else. However, if health returns, I hope a common degree of courage will return with it; for I really despise my own fears, though educated to think them feminine and amiable, according to the laudable practice of many families in my time, confirmed by the sage Dr. Gregory,[68] who, I believe, did more mischief in his day, with good intention, than many who set about doing it for mischief’s sake. One plain phrase I met lately, pleased me more than all his fine-spun theories about the propriety of female terrors—‘It is not permitted to a Christian to be a coward.’

... The fault of Gregory, as of _The Spectator_ and many authors of their day, is, that they write as if woman’s whole existence was comprised between fifteen and the fading of her bloom or beauty. If they talk of her devotion, it must be associated, not with ideas of duty, reverence, and piety, but with a hint how much it lights up her features. She is recommended good humour, because it will preserve her complexion; and a modest dress and demeanour, because!!! they are more attractive than any other, even in the eyes of the greatest libertines.

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

Farnham, Dec. 17, 1824.

From my favourite inn at Farnham I write to say how impatient I grow for a line from you, having past a fortnight without that cheering northern light.

Our November and December, until this day of eternal rain, have given us the most beautiful specimens of spring, and all Hampshire is as busy as a bee-hive in active pursuit of pleasure, chiefly in the tangible shape of good dinners. Mr. W. Rose, Ariosto’s best translator, his only good one in the opinion of Ugo Foscolo, is at present with his mother in the Polygon, but keeps his state, and withdraws himself from worshipful society. Murray, on observing the merit and reputation of his _Court and Parliament of Beasts_, offered him £3000 to be the interpreter of Ariosto; which, although he is rich enough for all his wishes, he thought it right to accept, according to custom, for the benefit of his nephews and nieces, &c. &c. Foscolo says, that the beauty of Ariosto’s style being his chief excellence, those who only know him by his present translators are wholly ignorant of his merits.

I desire no better advocate than you have been for the lady of ——. I think you imagine my story, such as it is, relates to your kind friend. Not so. That gallant vessel is safe in port. It is at the fresh, the trim, the gaily ornate ship which lately sailed out of harbour, all these small shots are fired. In London we war not with the dead; dowagers of a certain age can do no wrong; but the young, and splendid, and prosperous can do no right—can perform no act without some little flaw, to be detected only by the vigilance of female observation.

* * * * *

_Jan. 3, 1825._—Sat by the venerable Bishop of Norwich at dinner at Lady Listowel’s. He was a delightful neighbour. One cannot but admire his love of liberty, his kindly way of seeing all the actions of others, his humility in speaking of his own, the simplicity of his tastes and habits, and the pleasing contrast of peculiar courage in conduct, and almost feminine mildness of manners.

* * * * *

_Jan. 5._—A visit from Joseph Humphries, a benevolent Quaker, and his deaf and dumb pupil—an animated and pleasing specimen of this unfortunate class, whose vivacity, intelligence, kindliness, and piety, shine with a vivid lustre in his looks and words; for he writes well, and almost as rapidly as others speak. He was much interested by my family, probably he is so by the great family of the human race in a higher degree than those who have more distractions; and he asked me, by graceful and expressive signs, for my tallest boy, now above six feet, represented by waving his hands, progressively higher, over his head; and for ——, by first appearing to draw, and then to ride, having seen some horses of his drawing. He asked me on his slate the royal questions, How many children I had, and then, ‘What business is your husband employed in?’ This puzzled me. Mr. Humphries explained to him that we lived on the produce of property in land, which, I suppose, gave him an idea of the pleasures of agriculture, for on going away, he imitated the actions of digging, sowing, and whetting the scythe, making signs that he liked those occupations. It occurred in the course of conversation that I wrote on his slate, ‘Mrs. Leadbeater thinks me better than I am;’ and he made signs to his friend, expressive of a reply, in which piety was beautifully blended with kindliness.

His instructor observed, ‘They refer all things to a Supreme Being. Their piety is remarkable, and their complete renunciation of any opinion, when the authority of the Bible intervenes. They are industrious, and all wish to marry active, intelligent, talking women, who will leave to them the routine of their daily and peculiar employment, and take all other trouble upon themselves.’ The attitudes of this young man would have been a fine study for a painter, so simple, expressive, and decided. In Chantrey’s phrase, one may truly say, ‘he has never been corrupted by the dancing-master.’ One also sees he has never thought on the effect of his looks or motions.

* * * * *

_Jan. 7._—At last, after an interval of twenty-four years, which succeeded a tolerably intimate acquaintance of seven weeks, I saw Count Münster of Hanover again. We met like two ghosts that ought to have been laid long since. I witnessed the whole process of the difficulty of persuading him that I was I; and I thought him as much changed in his degree as he could have found me. When we conversed, all the persons we referred to were dead and gone; and our interview added another link in my mind to the chain of proofs that, after a very, very long interval, neither friends nor acquaintance ought to meet in this world. He was kindly anxious to renew our acquaintance, and visited me next day; but still it seemed as if seeing me had renewed some painful associations.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

April 8, 1825.

Mr. Haygarth is still in a very precarious state. I fear we shall not long retain him. One says that as if one was oneself immortal. Captain Wells is also threatened with a consumption, and forced to leave the house he enjoyed and embellished, from the impossibility of preserving his health, or even life, in the vicinity of the fens. When one is acquainted with _them_, one learns to respect their relations, the bogs. Only think of a puddle extending miles around, and reaching up to your hall door; of picking out your walk or ride over a quaking surface, where, if you err in your path, it is at the risk of your life; and being paid your rent in wild-ducks. Give me the turf, which blazes so cheerfully in your face as to bring its own apology.

* * * * *

_April 24, 1825, Brighton._—My dear ——’s health, which is not alarming, but threatening, has brought us here. None are left among the idlers who embellish a place of this kind, but those who are too sick or too poor to move; but this is bearable. Not a tree, not a shrub, not a flower, not a bud, mark the presence of spring; and the hot sun is reflected from the water, the chalk, the roads, the walks, the quarries, in most unqualified and blinding glare.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

London, May 6, 1825.

Your letter found me still inhaling the sea breezes at Brighton, and enjoying the coming in of the tide with its delicious plash, and its endless variety for the eye and for the ear; to please the latter constantly giving models of the fine choruses by Handel, which seem the very echo of its waves. Lord Byron loved not the sea more than I do, except in the degree of his more intimate acquaintance. I, alas! can neither swim nor be shipwrecked; but as far as my knowledge of the ocean goes, I will not yield to man or woman in the sum of my love for it; and I shall love it still more when it has given you a safe passage.

I went yesterday to your nursing-mother, dear Harrow, and heard speeches. We dined with Mrs. Leith, and were delighted with every flower in her pretty garden, and every tree in the hedges, after passing three weeks without knowing whether it was spring or autumn, summer or winter, by any other indication than the atmosphere and the almanack.

TO THE SAME.

London, May 26, 1825.

Chantrey is now engaged for eighty thousand pounds’ worth of sculpture; and if he accepted all the orders which are proposed to him, he would require the life of Methuselah to finish even the small portion of each accomplished by the master. He is now paid two thousand pounds for a single figure. Nothing can be more interesting than his studio. It is Anglo-Grecian; and thus unites what we love the best and what we admire the most. Now that Canova is dead, his reputation seems declining every day; I think the contrary will happen to Chantrey. I hear that the former was all vanity, and certainly the latter is all simplicity. I forget whether I told you of Carew, a rising genius in this line, from Waterford. He has finished a beautiful Arethusa, of considerable elegance, though I think she has the fault supposed peculiar to his countrywomen, and that her ankles are not finely turned. Lord Egremont is to pay six hundred guineas for it, and has offered him more, but from some private motive he will not accept a larger sum. In my eyes, however, this Arethusa resembles a colossal Diana I saw in the Louvre, too much to have claims to perfect originality.

* * * * *

_Sept. 8, 1825._—Ségur has given me many interesting hours. I know nothing like it in modern history. He is a poet in his descriptions, and the tale he has to tell possesses many of the essentials of an epic. There is one predominant and effective character, by whom the one great event is brought about; and a variety of subordinate characters shaded off and graduated, so as to give connexion and life to all parts of the narrative. The picture of the entrance into Moscow of the conquering army, who find nothing but the pale and squalid relics of a vanished population, when they expected the fervid hum of an immense city, and all the honours paid to strength and victory, is a fine exemplification of the truth that

‘Our wishes give us not our wish.’

* * * * *

_Sept. 28._—I am not capable of writing more to-day, having received from his brother an account of Mr. Haygarth’s hopeless state—a loss to all who have ever known him, irreparable in its degree, according to the measure of their intimacy, and their power of estimating his value. I opened a letter, which I thought was from him, deceived by the similarity of handwriting and the paper he commonly used. When I read, it was as if he had himself walked in with a hood, which, on being removed, showed me a death’s-head.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

Oct. 13, 1825.

I thank Heaven the cloud attendant on receiving the final account of our friend’s fate is clearing away, and our loss remains only as a subject of just regret. Were it not for that reference to another world by which his actions were, and ours ought to be, regulated, one might think his removal peculiarly unfortunate, since he possessed all the materials of present happiness, and many of the means of future fame. He had a noble nature—a fine mind—a striking and pleasing exterior—a distinguished figure—a head for sculpture—great attainments—great natural endowments—a fond father—an affectionate sister—the wife of his choice—lovely children—sufficient wealth, with the certainty, at no very distant period, of a great increase; and, though last, not least, an elevated, intellectual pursuit in the history he was writing of Rome, which was looked for in full anticipation of its merits, by those learned men who so much admired those essays on the subject where he seems to have tried his strength.

* * * * *

_Nov. 13, 1825._—Moore’s _Life of Sheridan_ lowers the biographer and the subject. He is a great motive-monger, and usually selects among a variety of probable motives, those which are least dignified and meritorious. He does not appear to love Sheridan; and he alters the complexion of facts in his domestic life, so as to make him appear blameable in a point where the plain truth would have been highly to his honour. That truth could not have been all told, but Moore ought not to have employed language which leads us to form an opposite conclusion.

* * * * *

_March 30, 1826._—Took my lesser pair to the British Gallery, and saw many new beauties in the Trial of Lord Russell. It grows on one’s admiration as much as Martin’s Deluge loses. I would rather have that picture to elevate my mind, the Garden scene from Scripture to animate my devotion, the Tired Fishermen to make me _feel_ with and for the children of labour, the Mistletoe to make me laugh, and the little Fisherman’s Head to give me added liking for the aged and industrious poor, than all the rest of the Gallery.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

London, April 1, 1826.

I dined, without fatigue, at the Bishop of Norwich’s on Thursday. The Bishop said on going down to dinner with the _prima donna_, ‘Lord John Russell, take Mrs. Trench.’ I felt much pleasure at the thought of sitting by the historian, the political economist, the successful author; and prepared to treasure up his sayings and doings, with that due degree of awe for his talents which is always a little unpleasant to me at first, though it soon subsides into a pleasant feeling of respect. Well, we sat down, and he talked of Harrow, and wished he had been at a private clergyman’s, saying that he should have read more there and been much happier; that at Harrow he had been subdued, and that he always had wanted encouragement. ‘How amiable!’ thought I; ‘how modest!’ He went on to say, ‘If I had been at a private clergyman’s, I should have been quite a different person.’ Still more modesty! ‘How can a person who is so lauded,’ thought I, ‘have so moderate an opinion of himself.’ Well, he drank his due proportion of wine with everybody, and watched their wants with a scrupulous attention; ‘how very attentive to all the little forms of society,’ thought I; ‘this is so pleasing in an author of eminence.’ In the evening he played cards, and I went into the music-room, and sang in quite another way from what I do when I am _afraid_ you are _anxious_ I should please. I came home and gave such an account of the author of _Memoirs of the Affairs of Europe from the Peace of Utrecht_, that all at home were dying to see him. ‘Not that he said much to mark him out,’ said I; ‘but you could see the possession of talent under the veil of simple and quiet manners it pleased him to assume.’

Well, the Bishop had mistaken the _name_, and I had been led down by one who passes for the greatest proser of his day, Lord John ——, and I had all my feelings of awe for nothing. So much for a _name_.

* * * * *

_May 24, 1826._—Read the criticism in the _Quarterly Review_ on the translations of Goethe. Its liberality and fair dealing are very satisfactory. It seems as if some one had awakened the _Quarterly_ from a long nap, and enabled it to look around and see that Goethe was not quite an imbecile, elderly gentleman, only known as the author of an improper novel called _Werther_, now out of date; that Shelley was not quite a mad rhymester, equally presumptuous and inane; and that there existed other modern poets in Europe besides the acknowledged _quintetto_, Scott, Byron, Southey, Rogers, and Campbell.

* * * * *

_June 30, 1826._—Returned to town, and there received a letter from Miss Shackleton, with the sad news of my beloved Mrs. Leadbeater’s death. Death how unexpected! I never thought of this word as connected with her. She was so serene, so happy, so active, leading a life so far from all that exposes to danger; she never had mentioned her illness but so slightly; she had so many benevolent and literary plans; she was so loved, and so sweetly loved again. Her instinctive fondness for me was a boon from Heaven which I valued not half enough while I possessed it. How little gratitude did I show for her unbounded kindness and partiality, not half so much as I felt! how many attentions to her were _to be_ performed, how long were they deferred! how often wholly forgotten. Alas! I thought I should have her always.

TO MRS. SHACKLETON.

Elm Lodge, Sept. 2, 1826.

I am much obliged by your letter, and hasten to assure you that I received both parts of my dear friend’s character, and entirely coincide in your opinion of it. It does _not_ touch upon many points which deserved a place in her portrait; such as her anxiety to improve herself and others; her delicate feelings, highly refined, yet never degenerating into susceptibility, or exacting from others those attentions which she never failed to bestow herself; her taste for everything that was admirable in nature and art; her polished mind and manner, that seemed instinctively to reject all that others are taught by rule to avoid; her quick sense of wit and humour; her own unaffected pleasantry; her entire absence of all self-comparison with any human being, which left her capable of doing complete justice to the merits of all; her rare suavity, and her uncommon talents. The writer of this character has also placed her ‘second’ in the delineation of Irish manners and language. She is _second_ to none in this. Others have taken a wider range; others have permitted themselves the free indulgence of humour on a greater variety of topics; but as far as she goes in her pictures, she is _second_ to none.

Pray do not dwell on the idea that her valuable life might have been saved. She once wrote thus to me: ‘There never was an event of this kind where one did not blame oneself, and blame others.’ She was right. Self-reproach is one of the shapes that sorrow loves to take; and one ought to protect one’s-self against it. I deeply reproached myself, and perhaps I was a little (though unjustly) hurt as to others; but this is certain, I deeply reproached myself for not having known her danger. I have been so long in a state of suffering that it seemed to me the most natural thing in the world to be ill; and though I heard your dear mother was so, the idea of danger never passed through my mind, and the intelligence was a sad surprise, upon which I shall not allow myself to dwell.

* * * * *

_Sept. 22 (Sunday), 1826._

Oh happy those whose Sabbaths seem to be ‘Linked each to each by natural piety,’ Smooth stepping-stones above the stream of life, Which chafes below in all its petty strife; Gems that recur upon the varied chain Of our existence, or in joy or pain; Green olive branches where the soul may rest, Like the tired dove that seeks her peaceful nest; Shake off the incumbrance of each worldly care, And for its last and longest flight prepare.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

Cheltenham, Nov. 9, 1826.

Yesterday I saw your cousin, Mansergh St. George’s second son. Oh what a rush of past times came with him. Your dear father’s introduction of me to his father all passed before my eyes. We were pacing up and down the beautiful little chapel at Dangan, which was illuminated to show it to me by night for the first time. The twilight was still struggling through the glass of the magnificent east window, and a hand unseen was skilfully touching the fine organ which did honour to the deep taste in music of Lord Wellesley’s father. At that moment Mansergh St. George was announced. Your dear father left me to meet him, and I saw those fine models of courtly grace, and of the grace of chivalry, walk together down a long gallery leading to the chapel. In Mansergh’s countenance, of which the effect was heightened by the black cap his wound obliged him to wear, were written those high thoughts, seated in a heart of courtesy, which so distinguished him among men; and as your father introduced me to my new relation with that air of proud pleasure which always accompanied his making me known for the first time, we became friends and for life.

When I saw young St. George, all this passed through my mind. Then the

## scene changed, and I saw the moment when I gave him back to his father,

a smiling child, whom he had brought down in his arms to bid me adieu at the carriage-door at Holyhead; where we parted, never to meet again—he to pass the remainder of his life in endeavouring to serve those very people by whom he was murdered like an Iroquois who falls into the hands of his fellow savages. What a spirit finely touched was there extinguished, what deep affection, what brilliant talents, what refined powers of pleasing!

* * * * *

_Jan. 30, 1827, Elm Lodge._—Worse headaches, and general health worse. No power of accepting the kind invitations pressed on me, though they are such as seldom occur to those who withdraw themselves from the world. The kindliness of this neighbourhood must never be forgotten by me, be the time long or short during which I may remember it here.

This last entry is made in a hand very different from the preceding. There is one more brief passage in the journal, relating to some advice given to a son on the choice of a profession. The remainder of the volume is blank. Very shortly after these lines were written, my Mother, who daily grew worse, removed to Cheltenham, presently exchanged this in the restlessness of suffering, and in the hope of some alleviation, for Malvern; and there, on the 27th of May, 1827, the end arrived. Water on the chest was the form her complaint took at the last. She left five sons, of whom one, the youngest, followed her in a few months to the grave.

As I have abstained through all this volume hitherto from any comment whatever, so I feel it will best become me to abstain to the end.

INDEX.

_Abbot_, Scott’s, 443

Absenteeism, Irish, 302

Adolphus, Prince (Duke of Cambridge), 37

—— letter from, 127

Agar, the Honᵇˡᵉ Miss, 300

—— her death and character, 453

Albert, Duke, 88

Alexander I., Emperor of Russia, 295, 343

_Allemagne, De l’_, Mad. de Staël’s, 280, 289

_Alphonsine_, Mad. de Genlis’, 156

‘Ancient Music,’ 419

_Andromaque_, Racine’s, 141

Angerstein Collection of Pictures, 487

Angeström, Mad., 118, 124

_Anti-Jacobin, The_, 394

_Ariosto_, Rose’s translation of, 486, 493, 506

Arnstein, Mad., 68

Augustus, Prince (Duke of Sussex), 55, 122

Automaton Chess-player, 399

_Avare, L’_, Molière’s, 385

Baden, 82

Bathurst, Dr., Bishop of Norwich, 507

Bellegarde, Field-Marshal, 67

Berlin, 52, 126

—— Porcelain Manufactory at, 120

Berthier, General, interview with, 177

Betty, Master, 253, 255

Beurnonville, 115, 117, 119

Billington, Mrs., 242

Boccaccio, 407

Bognor, 387

Bolero, the Spanish, 272

Brentford, 437

Breteuil, Baron, 32

_Bride of Lammermoor_, Scott’s, 411

Brighton, 510

Broadlands, 25

Brühl, Countess, 92

Brunswick, Duke of, 49

—— Duchess of, 44, 47, 300

—— Dowager Duchess of, 45, 49

—— Hereditary Prince of, 45

Buckingham, Lady, 26

Buonaparte, 146

Burleigh, 479

Buxton, _Enquiry into Prison Discipline_, 396

Byron, Lord, his separation from his Wife, 340

Cachet, Mad. de, 97

‘Calumny, the Birth of,’ an Allegory, 162

Campan, Mad. de, her _Memoirs_, 485

Canova, 488

Carew, his ‘Arethusa,’ 511

Caroline, Queen, her Trial, 436, 441

—— her Death, 452

Carter, Mrs., her _Letters_, 240

Carysfort, Earl of, 319, 408, 480

—— Countess of, 113, 319, 480

Catalani, Mad., 231, 325

Chantrey, Sir Francis, 511

Charlotte, Princess, her Death, 373

—— her Funeral, 375

Cheltenham, 304

Chenevix, Dr., Bishop of Waterford, 1, 9, 13

Chepstow, scenery near, 504

Chesterfield, Lord, 2

_Childe Harold_, Lord Byron’s, 380

Christmas Tree, 41

_Clarissa Harlowe_, Richardson’s, 270

Clarkson, Thomas, 214

Climate of England, effects of, on the English character, 273

_Cœlebs_, Hannah More’s, 235

_Corinne_, Mad. de Staël’s, 207

Coronation, George IV.’s, 449, 450

Coronation, Napoleon’s, 156

_Corsair_, Lord Byron’s, 306

Cottu, _On the Administration of Criminal Justice in England_, 450

Cox, Benjamin, 130

Cradock, Col. (Lord Howden), letter from, on the Invasion of France by the Duke of Brunswick, 21

Crotch, Dr., lecture on Music, 422

_Curse of Kehama_, Southey’s, 314

_Cymbeline_, Shakspeare’s, criticism on a Song in, 212

Dallas, George, 390, 411

Dangan, 13, 363

David, the French Painter, 143

Davy, Sir Humphry, his ‘Human Life,’ 494

Deaf and Dumb Young Man, Visit from a, 507

Delany, Mrs., her _Letters_, 450

Delille, the Abbé, 160

Demidoff, the Princess, robbery of her Jewels, 188

Détenus, English, in France, 147

Distress in England in 1817, 368, 371

Dolgorouki, the Princess, 93, 102

Dresden, 58

—— collection of China at, 104

Dryden, quotation from, 337

Duchesnois, Mˡˡᵉ, 142, 159, 188

Eclipse of the sun in 1820, 436

Elgin, Lord, 194

Elliot, Right Honᵇˡᵉ Hugh, 57, 97, 99

‘Envious Man, The,’ 250

Epinay, Mad. d’, 384

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_, Lord Byron’s, 231

Famine in Ireland in 1822, 466

Ferdinand, Prince, of Prussia, 113

_Fire Worshippers_, Moore’s, 369

Fitzherbert, Mrs., 264

Fontaine, La, Croker’s Translation of his _Fables_, 438

_Fortunes of Nigel_, Scott’s, 474

Foscolo, his _Lectures_, 473

Fox, his _Reign of James II._, 277

France, Invasion of, by the Duke of Brunswick, 21

—— Effects of the Revolution on the morals of, 145

—— Sunday in, 136

Francis I., Emperor of Austria, 69, 72

French, best method of studying, 296

Friends, the Society of, 297, 345, 359

Fry, Mrs., at Newgate, 428

Füger, the painter, 79

Gandersheim, Princess Abbess of, 50

Genlis, Mad. de, 259

Gentz, the publicist, 121

George, Mˡˡᵉ, 188

George III., 413, 414, 470

George IV., 316

Gérat, 195

Germany, travelling in, 33, 36, 57, 64

—— Court dinners, 48

—— society in, 65

_Gertrude of Wyoming_, Campbell’s, 232, 235

_Giaour_, Lord Byron’s, 278

_Gil Bias_, Le Sage’s, 260

Giovine, the Duchess of, 68, 70, 85

Gobelin Tapestry, 138

Good nature, 335

Goodwood, 227

Graff, the painter, 104

Grant, Mrs., her _Letters_, 224

Grattan, last days of, 431

_Gray, Life of_, Mason’s, 296

Gregory, Dr., 505

Gurney, Hudson, 30

Hamilton, Lady, 105-112

Hamilton, Sir William, 105, 331

_Harrington_, Miss Edgeworth’s, 371

Haygarth, William, 509, 512

Hayley, William, 387, 415, 491

Henry, Prince, of Prussia, 114

_Hesiod; or, the Rise of Woman_, Parnell’s, 338

Hesse Homburg, Princess of, her marriage, 381

_Hints for the Education of a Princess_, Hannah More’s, 306

Hogarth’s ‘Mariage à la Mode,’ 487

‘Holland House,’ 394

Holland, Lady, 98, 100

_Horaces, Les_, Cimarosa’s, 325

Hôtel des Invalides, 324

_Human Life_, Rogers’, 397

_Hungarian Brothers_, Miss Porter’s, 221

Hungarian Guard, 73

Hutchinson, Lady, 217

Hutchinson, Sir Francis, 210

_Hypocrisy_, Colton’s, 291

Indian Jugglers, 281

Irving, Edward, 474

Isabey, the French miniature painter, 173, 180

_Jaqueline_, Rogers’, 301, 304

Jekyll, Joseph, 306, 317, 378

Josephine, the Empress, 182

Kean, Edmund, 283, 368

Kemble, John, 471

Kielmansegge, Mad. de, 42

Kirke White, his _Remains_, 502

Kirwan, character of his preaching, 209

Knight, Miss Cornelia, 105

Lacy, Maréchal, 84

_Lalla Rookh_, Moore’s, 369

Lancaster, Joseph, 249

_Lara_, Lord Byron’s, 301, 304, 307

Lavalette, 63

Leadbeater, Mrs., extract from her _Annals of Ballitore_, 132

—— her Death, 516

—— her Character, 517

Lespinasse, Mˡˡᵉ, her _Letters_, 383

Letters, publication of posthumous, 245

Lifford, Lady, 6

Ligne, Prince de, 68

Lismore, 370

London, its attractions, 402

Londonderry, Lord, his death, 475

Lorraine, Princess of, 79

_Loves of the Angels_, Moore’s, 482

Mackintosh, Sir James, his speech on the Criminal Code, 473

_Madoc_, Southey’s, 234

_Mandeville_, Godwin’s, 376

Marchetti, 78

Marsh, Charles, 277, 364

Matignon, Mad. de, 32

Matilda, Queen of Denmark, 35

_Mazeppa_, Lord Byron’s, 402

Minto, Lord, 67

_Monastery_, Scott’s, 449

Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, her _Letters_, 347

Montagu, Mrs., her _Letters_, 241

Montmorenci, Mad. de, 157

Morgan, Mrs., 257

Münster, Count, 39, 509

—— Countess, 103

Needlework, its use and abuse, 240

Nelson, Lord, 105-112

—— his _Letters to Lady Hamilton_, 293

_Nugæ Antiquæ_, Sir John Harrington’s, 306

O’Connor, Arthur, 135

O’Neill, Miss, 309

Orloff, Alexis, 60

_Ormond_, Miss Edgeworth’s, 371

Orrery, Walker’s, 215

Owen, Rev. John, 437

_Pamela_, Richardson’s, 270

Paris, 145

—— in 1815, 322

Parnell, William, 442

_Patronage_, Miss Edgeworth’s, 300

_Paul et Virginie_, St. Pierre’s, 233, 278

Paul I., Emperor of Russia, 84, 97

Penshurst, 503

Petrarch, his sonnets on the death of Laura, 228

Picture Galleries visited: Count Lambert’s, 74 Count Truchsess’, 86 Prince Lichtenstein’s, 86 Dresden, 100, 102 Louvre, 140, 141 Exhibition at Paris, 186 Exhibition in London, 448

_Pilgrims of the Sun_, Hogg’s, 318

Piozzi, Mrs., 329

_Pizarro_, Sheridan’s, 28

_Plaideurs, Les_, Racine’s, 323

Poems by the Author: ‘Here wit and humour willing smiles excite,’ 231 ‘How quickly life forgets the dead,’ 287 ‘I am not envious; yet the sudden glance,’ 367 ‘I gaze upon thy vacant chair,’ 455 ‘I joined the crowd that from Vienna streamed,’ 76 ‘In reverent guise this ancient pile survey,’ 479 ‘In unconnected phrases, on that tongue,’ 360 ‘Not one who bears the name he graced,’ 288 ‘Oh, happy those whose Sabbaths seem to be,’ 518 ‘Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train,’ 205 ‘Quenched is thy light,’ 265 ‘She smiled and sparkled in my sight,’ 352 ‘Silent pleader! living flower,’ 267 ‘Their eyes have met. The irrevocable glance,’ 434 ‘There is a grief that knows no end,’ 288 ‘The sun forsakes thee; yet thou still art fair,’ 463 ‘This watch, uncouth to modern eyes,’ 225 ‘Thy useful labours, Hutchinson, are o’er,’ 210 ‘What dost thou here, white woman, say?’ 498 ‘While friends long loved, long tried, entwine,’ 43 ‘Who will shoe my little foot? who will glove my little hand?’ 481

Polish Women, 320

_Political Economy_, Mrs. Marcet’s, 349

Prague, 63

Prater at Vienna, 66, 315

Prussia, Louisa Queen of, 53, 123, 314

Queensberry, Duke of, 28, 190, 244

Raphael, his ‘St Sebastian,’ 59

—— ‘Transfiguration,’ 100

Raucourt, Mˡˡᵉ de, 153, 168

Rebellion, the Irish, 129

Récamier, Mad., 167

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, Exhibition of his Pictures, 274

Richmond, Duke of, 405

Righini, 118

_Rimini_, Leigh Hunt’s, 246

Ritz, Mad. de, 55

Rivarol, 121, 122

_Roderick, the Last of the Goths_, Southey’s, 318, 337

_Rodogune_, Corneille’s, 168

Roland, Mad., her _Memoirs_, 347

Rogers, Samuel, 378, 424, 426

Rubens, his ‘Descent from the Cross,’ 141

_Russell, Life of Lord_, Lord John Russell’s, 408

_Saul_, Sotheby’s, 249

Saxony, Elector and Electress of, 60

Ségur, Count, his _Histoire de la Grande Armée_, 512

Sévigné, Mad. de, 170, 260, 291, 341

Seward, Miss, 403

—— her _Letters_, 290, 404

_Sheridan, Life of_, Moore’s, 513

Sicard, the Abbé, 140, 143

Sickness, its moral uses, 335

Siddons, Mrs., 27, 470

Sloane, Col., 25

Southey, Robert, 373

_Spectator, The_, 461, 505

Steamboat, first sight of a, 500

St. George, Mansergh, 246, 518

St. James’ Chapel, service at, 388

St. Simon, his _Memoirs_, 161

Staël, Mad. de, 275, 277, 285, 289, 298

Steibelt, 65

Stierneld, Mad. de, 482, 496

Stoneham Park, 25

Suwarrow, 63

Talma, 142

_Télémaque_, Fénélon’s, 259

Töplitz, 93

Tour and Taxis, Prince of, 93

—— Princess of, 99

Tuileries, 137

Tunbridge Wells, 435

_Twopenny Post Bag_, Moore’s, 276

Vienna, 64, 311

—— Society at, 68, 71, 89

—— Procession of the _Fête Dieu_, 82

Voltaire, 290

Waldegrave, Earl, his _Memoirs_, 457

Wallmöden, Field-Marshal, 42

Watts, Isaac, 441

Wellington, Duke of, 293, 299, 362

_Werther_, Goethe’s, 151

_Wesley, Life of_, Southey’s, 438

West, criticism of a Picture by, 241

Whitworth, Lord, anecdote of, 78

Wilkie, Sir David, 488

Williams, Mrs., 254, 258

_World before the Flood_, Montgomery’s, 303

_World without Souls_, 303

Wynne, Lady Williams, 366

York, Duchess of, 248

Zell, 34

Zimmerman, Mad., 40

THE END.

ADDENDA ET CORRIGENDA.

Page 11, l. 13. For ‘pines’ read ‘figs.’

Page 16, l. 11. For ‘its’ read ‘their.’

Page 282. The letter to William Lefanu, Esq., should have been _two_ letters; one of the date there given; the other, containing the last paragraph, should have had the date Nov. 13, 1814. There would scarcely have been need of calling the reader’s attention to the matter; but, as it stands, the writer is made to give an account of one whom she could scarcely at that time have seen.

Page 383, l. 5. There is an interesting account of Mˡˡᵉ de Lespinasse and her ‘Letters’ in St. Beuve’s _Causéries du Lundi_, vol. ii. p. 99.

Page 323, last line but two. For ‘Pimbeche’ read ‘Pimbesche.’ A note might fitly have mentioned that she is one of the characters in _Les Plaideurs_.

FOOTNOTES

[1] These words were in the first edition very needlessly changed everywhere into ‘your son.’ Lord Stanhope, in the supplementary volume of Lord Chesterfield’s _Letters_, has made provision for a corrected text in the future, and also for the restoration of many hitherto omitted passages, by the aid of the original copies of these letters, which I was able to place in his hands.—ED.

[2] I know not what may have become of the pictures. The cup I have now in my possession.—ED.

[3] Lord Chesterfield’s letter, of date April 27, 1745, quite bears out this account. Dr. Chenevix was supposed, though erroneously, to have written political pamphlets against the administration, which made the King personally hostile to his appointment.—ED.

[4] See Lord Chesterfield’s letter of date Dec. 19, 1771.—ED.

[5] At the battle of Blenheim. He had quitted France on the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, had entered the English service, and was major of the 2nd Carabineers at the time when he fell.—ED.

[6] These exertions of the Bishop are several times alluded to in Lord Chesterfield’s letters to him. Thus, in one of date Nov. 21, 1769:—‘The Archbishop of Cashel tells me that by your indefatigable endeavours you have recovered near twenty thousand pounds for the several defrauded charities.’—ED.

[7] This journal does not exist among the papers which came into my hands.—ED.

[8] This was a name given among his friends to Edward Tighe, well known in Ireland for works of active beneficence, when they were not so common as they are now.—ED.

[9] Baron Breteuil, born in 1733, was employed by Louis XV. in important diplomatic services, in Russia and elsewhere; and at a later day was Minister of Home Affairs. He opposed the calling together of the States-General, and headed for a moment a reactionary ministry after the brief retirement of Neckar. He left France in 1790, and after residing in Hamburg for some years, was allowed to return in 1802. He died at Paris, in 1807.—ED.

[10] This passage, in inverted commas, is evidently an extract from a letter.—ED.

[11] Count Münster is well known in England, having been for many years, during the connexion between Hanover and England, the minister for Hanoverian affairs at the Court of London.—ED.

[12] I extract from some observations by my Mother on the Princess of Bayreuth’s _Memoirs_, a later portrait, from recollection, of the Dowager Duchess. ‘The Duchess of Brunswick was one of the most accomplished and brilliant women of her time. To a late period of life, beyond her eightieth year, she possessed an incomparable understanding, and the most amiable cheerfulness. Time had respected not only her faculties, but her exterior; and while it had worn her form to a sort of etherial transparency, had left her perfect symmetry, lively eyes, and an expressive delicate countenance. She appeared like a model of agreeable old age turned in ivory, and was said to be a softened resemblance of Frederic the Great, whose _agrémens_ of appearance and manner have been so well described by Mirabeau.’—ED.

[13] We now know pretty intimately the whole Court of Brunswick, as Lord Malmesbury found it on occasion of his mission to seek there a wife for the Prince of Wales, some five years before the above was written.—(See his _Diaries and Correspondence_, vol. iii.) I have been interested to observe the almost exact coincidence of his judgment in respect of all the persons who composed that Court with what is written here. It is true that, having actually to transact important business with the Duke, he saw the real weakness and vacillation of his character, as a woman with no such opportunities was not likely to do. But of the Duchess Dowager he writes, ‘Nothing can be so open, so frank, and so unreserved as her manner; nor so perfectly good-natured and unaffected’ (vol. iii. p. 155). In another place, ‘The Hereditary Prince and Princess vastly friendly; she a most admirable character, all sense and judgment; he little of either, but very harmless and good-natured’ (p. 188). The Princess Augusta, Abbess of Gandersheim, he describes as ‘clever in the Beatrix way’ (p. 159), ‘clever, artful, and rather _coming_’ (p. 165).—ED.

[14] As Countess Lichtenau. The whole curious story is to be found in Vehse, _Gesch. des Preuss. Hofs und Adel_, part 5, p. 67 sqq.

[15] The Right Hon. Hugh Elliot, brother to the first Lord Minto. A few years later he proceeded to India as Governor of Madras, and died in London in the year 1822.—ED.

[16] He and his two brothers, as is well known, strangled with their own hands Peter III., the husband of Catherine, and laid thus the foundations of their fortunes. But his name is branded with a crime of yet deeper dye, and of an almost incredible baseness. A young daughter of the Empress Elizabeth was living in extreme poverty and obscurity in Italy, whom Catherine, jealous of a possible pretender to the throne, desired to get within her power. Alexis Orloff found her out at Rome, married her, lured her away from her safe refuge in Italy, and delivered her to Catherine. She died in a Russian dungeon.—ED.

[17] Born 1756, died 1823. The _Conversations-Lexicon_ says, ‘Sein. Clavierspiel war glänzend; auch improvisirte er glücklich.’—ED.

[18] This is certainly a mistake. Field-Marshal Bellegarde was a very distinguished officer, who, whether serving under the Archduke Charles, as at Aspern, or holding independent military commands, which he often did, always acquitted himself excellently well; but there are not, I believe, the slightest grounds for the suggestion in the text.—ED.

[19] The Duchess of Giovine, though married to a Neapolitan nobleman, was a German by birth. In Goethe’s _Italiänische Reise_ (June 2, 1787), there is an interesting record of an evening spent at Naples with her. He rates her quite as highly as she is rated in the text; and, remarkably enough, he too notes the evident desire which she showed ‘_auf die Töchter der höehstens Standes zu wirken_.’—ED.

[20] Füger was born in 1751, and died at Vienna in 1818. German critics in art speak very highly of his genius, especially as manifested in the design and composition of his pictures. His illustrations of Klopstock’s _Messiah_, spoken of in the text, are always considered his greatest work.—ED.

[21] I am entirely perplexed who this Vendean heroine is. I can find no mention of her in any histories of the time. Nor is this the only perplexity. Louis the Sixteenth was born in 1754. This lady of about forty could scarcely have claimed him for her father; not to say that the purity of his domestic life would of itself have condemned her boast. Perhaps we should read ‘Fifteenth’ for ‘Sixteenth;’ but even then I cannot explain the entire silence of history about her. She may possibly have been an impostress, trading on the royalist sympathies of Germany.—ED.

[22] Graff, born in 1736, is said to have left behind him at his death, in 1813, more than eleven hundred portraits. His pictures are still held in high esteem, but more those of men than of women.—ED.

[23] _Dinarbas, a Continuation of Rasselas_, 1790.—ED.

[24] _Marcus Flaminius; or, Life of the Romans_, 1795.—ED.

[25] See Miss Cornelia Knight’s _Autobiography_, vol. i. p. 152, where one of these songs, beginning,

‘Britannia’s leader gives the dread command,’

is given.—ED.

[26] Miss Cornelia Knight (_Autobiography_, vol. i. p. 148) gives testimony here to the perfect accuracy with which these little details are set down. ‘Before landing at Leghorn the Queen presented Lord Nelson with a medallion, on one side of which was a fine miniature of the King, and on the other her own cipher, round which ran a wreath of laurel, and two anchors were represented supporting the crown of the Two Sicilies. This device was executed in large diamonds.’—ED.

[27] This account of Lady Hamilton has been considered by some readers to depreciate even her external advantages. It may be worth while to observe that Goethe’s judgment of her singing some fourteen years earlier (_Italiänische Reise_, May 27, 1787) quite agrees with that of the text: ‘Darf ich mir eine Bemerkung erlauben, die freilich ein wohlbehandelter Gast nicht wagen sollte, so muss ich gestehen dass mir unsere schöne Unterhaltende doch eigentlich als ein geistloses Wesen vorkommt, die wohl mit ihrer Gestalt bezahlen, aber durch keinen seelenvollen Ausdruck der Stimme, der Sprache sich geltend machen kann. Schon ihr Gesang ist nicht von zusagender Fülle.’—ED.

[28] Mr. Elliot must have been a little too easily satisfied with his information; which under the circumstances is not very much to be wondered at. When Lord Nelson reached Hamburg there was no frigate waiting for him there, and he had to wait, I think, several days before one arrived.—ED.

[29] It is sometimes curious and instructive to contrast the records of the same events. Here is the stately historical record of the sojourn at Dresden, as given in Pettigrew’s very serviceable _Memoirs of Lord Nelson_, vol. i. p. 388:—‘In two days he reached Dresden, where Mr. Elliot was British Minister. Prince Xavier, the brother of the Elector of Saxony, here visited Nelson. The celebrated Dresden Gallery was thrown open for his inspection and his friends’, and they remained eight days in the city, admiring its worthy beauties and receiving entertainments at the Court, and when they took their departure, gondolas magnificently fitted up were in readiness to convey them to Hamburg.’—ED.

[30] There are various scandalous memoirs, both in French and German, of Prince Henry’s life at Rheinsberg, which I know only by name; one, printed at Paris, ascribed, but falsely, to Mirabeau. On a visit to Paris, in 1784, he was present at a sitting of the French Academy, and was hailed there by Marmontel as ‘_la Vertu couronnée de gloire_.’—ED.

[31] Beurnonville, born in 1752, distinguished himself at Valmy and Gemappes. Being sent by the Convention to arrest Dumouriez, he, with the four Commissioners who accompanied him, was by him arrested and delivered to the Austrians. Recovering his liberty by an exchange, he was, in 1800, sent as Minister or Ambassador to Berlin. Having taken service with the Bourbons at the first Restoration, he adhered to them during the Hundred Days, and for this fidelity was largely rewarded. He died in 1817, a Marquis and a Marshal of France.

[32] Gentz’s able political writings in the early part of this century, and his discreditable connexion with Fanny Elssler in his old age, have made him too well known to need any notice here.—ED.

[33] Antony, Count Rivarol, was born in 1753, and made literature his profession. His discourse _On the Causes of the Universality of the French Language_ was crowned by the Berlin Academy in 1784, and still keeps its place as a valuable contribution to the history of the French language. He fled from the Revolution, first to Hamburg and then to Berlin, where he died rather suddenly in 1801, aged 47. A sketch of his life and character, by M. Berville, prefixed to his _Mémoires_, Paris, 1824, exactly bears out this account of him.—ED.

[34] Mary Leadbeater, a member of the Society of Friends, resided at Ballitore, a village in the county of Kildare, in great part a colony of Friends; and like so many other spots in Ireland where they dwelt in large numbers, a centre of order and civilization to all the county round. Zealous in all good works, and the mistress of a graceful and ready pen, she exerted herself to the best interest of the Irish people. Her _Cottage Dialogues_, the most useful and popular of her works, still maintain their place. She died in 1826, aged sixty-eight.—ED.

[35] _Annals of Ballitore_, referred to already, p. 132.—ED.

[36] Among a few memoranda made by my father during his detention in France, I have found one of a somewhat later date, expressing exactly the same conviction of the effects which the Revolution had exercised on the moral character of the people. ‘We have observed continually amongst the middle and lower orders of the French, that those who have been educated since the Revolution have a degree of illiberality in all their transactions, accompanied with an insatiable desire of _present_ gain, even at the expense of permanent advantage, and a want of urbanity in their manners, which are by no means to be found in those of a generation before. We have often seen the mother rebuked, at least in looks, when by a direct and honest answer she has cut short the hesitating, over-reaching prevarication of the daughter. I might make a similar observation on the difference between men and women; and I have so often smarted in addressing myself to youth and the female sex in their _magasins_, that I now, when I wish to avoid being cheated, apply to the men in preference to the women, and even to the old in preference to the young. “_La jeunesse veut gagner_,” or in other words, “_tromper_” seems to be their motto.’—ED.

[37] Born, 1756; died, 1815. There is a full and carefully-written account of her in the _Biographie Universelle_.—ED.

[38] This, no doubt, is Captain Wright, whose mysterious death in the Temple has never been cleared up.—ED.

[39] Delille was born in 1738. He must have been, therefore, nearly sixty-six at this time.—ED.

[40] I have found the passage in his poem, _L’Imagination_, chant 5. Not to be compared with Goethe’s portraiture of Ariosto in his _Torquato Tasso_, it yet possesses a merit of its own, such as is ascribed to it here.—ED.

[41] At this time only some wretchedly edited fragments of St. Simon’s great work had seen the light,—three volumes in 1788, and four somewhat later. It was not till 1829 that these memoirs were published with anything approaching to completeness.—ED.

[42] Isabey, born in 1770, a pupil of David’s, stands, and I believe deservedly, in the first rank of miniature painters. He lived in familiar intercourse with Napoleon; and some of the best portraits of the Emperor existing are by his hand.—ED.

[43] His _barber_ it should be.—ED.

[44] These must be, no doubt, Mrs. Grant of Laggan’s _Letters from the Mountains_.—ED.

[45] The only book of this name which I know is _The Microcosm_, by Gregory Griffin, Windsor, 1788, a collection of slight essays, very pale imitations of _The Spectator_.—ED.

[46] This letter was returned to the writer, with the seal unbroken. Mad. de la Gardie died before it reached her.—ED.

[47] John Woolman was a Quaker, who wrote _Serious Considerations on Various Subjects of Importance_, London, 1773, with other works. He did good service in his time in helping to awake the sleeping conscience of England to the iniquity of the slave trade and of slavery.—ED.

[48] Alluding to the sentiments of the wise and venerable Lady Hutchinson.

[49] _History of the Reign of James II._, by the Right Honᵇˡᵉ C. J. Fox. London. 1808.—ED.

[50] A mistake; these letters were by the late Edward Sterling, Esq.—ED.

[51] See p. 103.

[52] Mr. Lefanu was for many years the editor of _The Farmer’s Journal_, and in various ways actively engaged in promoting the moral and material prosperity of Ireland.—ED.

[53] The statement above is not perfectly accurate. Miss Seward bequeathed her _Poems_ to Sir Walter Scott, who published them, with only a few of her earlier letters, in 1810. The twelve volumes of her _Letters_ she left to Constable, and it was _he_ who reduced these to six, which he published in 1811.—ED.

[54] The two or three concluding words of this letter are lost.

[55] This same image reappears in a poem, too long to quote.

‘Yes, in the boundless hopes of dawning love A foretaste of eternal bliss we prove; Like him whose steps have gained an Alpine height; The lower world has faded from his sight. In gay confusion a bright veil of clouds Her towers, her temples, and her pomp enshrouds. He still advances to the illumined skies, And feels new hope, a new existence rise; Sublimely placed on his aërial throne, All earth beneath, above him heaven alone.’

[56] _Hesiod; or, The Rise of Woman_, is properly the name of this poem.—ED.

[57]

‘Verschmerzen werd’ ich diesen Schlag, das weiss ich; Denn was verschmerzte nicht der Mensch!’—ED.

[58] I quote concerning Mr. Marsh the following extract from Earl Stanhope’s _Historical Essays_, 1849, p. 242; and have permission to state that Sir Robert Peel was ‘the living statesman’ who made the observation, and who instanced Mr. Marsh in proof.—‘We have heard a most eminent living statesman observe how very erroneous an idea as to the comparative estimation of our public characters would be formed by a foreigner, who was unacquainted with our history, and who judged only from Hansard’s _Debates_. Who, for instance, now remembers the name of Mr. Charles Marsh? Yet one of the most pointed and vigorous philippics which we have read in any language stands in the name of Mr. Marsh, under the date of the 1st of July, 1813.’—ED.

[59] A pocket-book for 1819, in the title-page of which these words are written.—ED.

[60] The lines referred to are those beginning—

‘But man is born to suffer.’

In proof that not a word is said here more than was absolutely felt, I may quote a few sentences, apparently unfinished, and not meant I suppose for any eye, in which, three or four years later, the writer seeks to account for the somewhat cold reception a poem of such grace and beauty found. ‘Mr. Rogers’ little bark of _Human Life_, made for blue skies and light breezes, was launched in the moment most unfavourable for its prosperous voyage. The world was in a high state of effervescence, moral, physical, literary, political, and social. We were drinking deep of that intoxicating cup held out by _Childe Harold_, which at that time still sparkled to the brim. We had seen stars just rise above the horizon, awakening all the hope attendant on novelty, which have since disappeared. We were dazzled by the splendour of the Northern Lights, and we had not tasted the sedative waters of _St. Ronan’s Well_. The political world was full of commotion, and fear and hope have since subsided into certainty, which then perplexed not monarchs alone, but all who thought and felt. We were all craving for excitement, and the demand was indeed plentifully supplied. At that moment Mr. Rogers had the courage to produce a poem founded on the best and kindliest feelings of human nature—those feelings depicted with a truth and delicacy which can only be fully appreciated when there exists something corresponding to it in the mind of the reader.’—ED.

[61] This journal is one of the many which have never reached my hands.—ED.

[62] Marks indicate that a page had here been pinned into the journal; this, which no doubt contained the conclusion of this lecture, has dropt out and been lost.—ED.

[63] The _Monody_ referred to was on the death of Grattan. The lady to whom this letter is addressed was a relation of his.—ED.

[64] Fleury de Chaboulon, _Mémoires pour servir à l’Histoire de la Vie privée, du retour, et du règne de Napoléon en 1815_. London. 1819, 1820.—ED.

[65] _Letters of Mrs. Delany to Mrs. Frances Hamilton._ London. 1821.—ED.

[66] _Memoirs from 1754-1758._ London. 1821.—ED.

[67] This lady, wife of the Baron de Stierneld, Swedish Minister at the Court of London, was the daughter of Mad. Angeström, mentioned more than once in this volume, see pp. 118, 124. She died before the end of this year, see pp. 496, 497.—ED.

[68] Dr. Gregory was a physician at Edinburgh. He wrote _A Father’s Legacy to his Daughters_. Edinburgh, 1788.—ED.