Part 1

[Illustration:

_J.X.Fabre. pinx._ _Emery Walker Ptr.sc._

_Henry Richard, third Lord Holland_

_1796_]

THE JOURNAL

OF

ELIZABETH LADY HOLLAND

(1791–1811)

EDITED BY THE EARL OF ILCHESTER

_WITH PORTRAITS_

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II. 1799–1811

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 1908

All rights reserved

LIST OF PLATES

TO VOLUME II.

HENRY RICHARD, THIRD LORD HOLLAND, 1796 _Frontispiece_ _From a painting by F. X. Fabre._

HENRIETTA, THIRD COUNTESS OF BESSBOROUGH _To face p._ 96 _From a painting by Louis Gauffier._

JOHN, VISCOUNT BORINGDON (AFTERWARDS EARL OF MORLEY), 1798 „ 190 _From a painting by J. Hoppner._

JOURNAL OF ELIZABETH

LADY HOLLAND

_26th July, 1799._--Left H. H. this morning to make a tour into Wales and the west of England. Ld. H. went to dine at St. Anne’s, and Drew, Charles, and myself came to this place (General Fitzpatrick’s, Sunninghill) to meet him. On Saturday, ye 27th, we arrived to dinner at Oxford. Close by the General’s, upon Ascot Heath, there is a camp. The cavalry were watered whilst we went on the road, a pretty incident; their brilliant coats contrasted with the dusky brown of the heath, and produced a very lively effect. A cross road to Henley; just as we entered the town we passed under Park Place, a late purchase of Ld. Malmesbury’s. Somewhere near Henley is the highest ground south of Trent. On ye 28th went from Oxford, by Chapel House, to Warwick. I could not help laughing at the _event_ of our going, because the subject of seeing the Castle without being obliged by urgent solicitations to make a long visit there (as Ld. H. was sure we should be very much pressed) had occupied his thoughts for many hours. Ld. H. had written letters to Ly. W. and Mrs. Smith, so calculated as to make a refusal of the pressing invitations (which he dreaded having) quite civil; but we need not have been embarrassed. So far from being solicited to stay, the whole family flew to their fortresses in some battlemented towers, gave out that they were walking, and shunned us. It was a most fortunate escape to me, tho’ I believe Ld. H. was vexed at the impertinence of the proceeding. The Castle is magnificent, decorated with ornaments appropriate to the building, and in the very best taste possible. His taste in virtu is better than in breeding, as he manifested a gross deficiency of that quality to us.

From thence we went across a very moderate road to Kenilworth; by the remains of the castle it appears to have far exceeded Warwick in splendour and extent.

On ye 29th we went through Birmingham. Having seen it last year we did not stop, but went straight on to the Leasowes, a spot rendered celebrated by Shenstone; it is very unworthy of the praise he bestowed upon it, and is now fallen into decay. About three miles further is Hagley; the park is very beautiful, the house simple. The comfortless taste prevalent in England of placing the house in a lawn where sheep and cattle feed close to the windows, instead of ornamental gardens, gives rather a disconsolate appearance to it; otherwise it is almost as desirable as a country residence (a bad thing at best) can be. It was built by the _good_ Ld. Lyttelton,[1] as he is generally called to distinguish him from his son, who, in contradistinction, is termed the _bad_. His much-loved wife, whom he celebrates under the name of Lucy, is buried in the church. It destroys the pathos excited by his elegy, if one recollects that within two years of her death he married a fat, vulgar, rich widow, for her wealth.

[Sidenote: IRON BRIDGES]

Went thro’ Bridgenorth, situated picturesquely upon the Severn, which, by-the-bye, is a yellow, muddy stream flowing with some rapidity, its only beauty. From thence we went to Coalbrookdale to sleep. There is the first iron bridge that was constructed; it is more curious from its novelty and use than beautiful. I deprecate their becoming general, as they are far inferior in point of beauty to those of stone; the dull black of the iron assorts ill with limpid streams and verdant banks, whereas on the contrary nothing can offer a more beautiful object than a stone bridge of well-turned arches. The inhabitants are chiefly quakers. During the American war they were offered a high gratification if they would cast cannon; they replied that they worked for the benefit of mankind, and not for their destruction, and peremptorily refused. It is an increasing place.

On Tuesday, 30th, got to Shrewsbury, a place for ever distinguished by the fall of the gallant Percy. One of the most admirable of Shakespeare’s plays commemorates this event. What can be better than the scene between the Triumvirate partitioning out the spoils of Britain, the impetuosity of Hotspur, and the arrogant credulity of Glendower? The crafty Worcester is a well-drawn character.

Passing Llanrwst, Conway, and Bangor they reached Carnarvon on August 3rd.

_4th August. Sunday._--We left Carnarvon to go to Welsh Pool. From that place to Tan y Bwlch the road is over a high mountain. Snowdon in sight to our left.

Before Tan y Bwlch we came to Pont y Aberglassen, a remarkable salmon leap; Ld. H. screamed with delight at the sight of the salmons leaping up. It is a pretty sight. Myself, I could have looked at them with delight for an hour or two. At Tan y Bwlch, a small solitary inn, we found every room occupied. The Judges were there. The civility of some gentlemen enabled us to be under cover in a decent room whilst we dined, but the house was so full that we were compelled to go on nineteen miles at half-past seven, a mountainous road and a stormy night, to Dolgelly; I wonder how we achieved it amidst the torrents and precipices safely. The weather was so bad the next day that we saw nothing.

_6th August._--This morning, set off from M----; such a deluge of rain that we saw nothing to our right or left. To-night we are at Welsh Pool, so disgusted with the roads and climate that we have some thoughts of giving up doing Aberystwith. The beauties of Wales are very inferior both to those of Scotland and Cumberland. The mts. are not so lofty, the torrents are small and noiseless, no cascades: in short, the old castles are alone worthy of notice. The country generally is thinly inhabited; the postillions are chiefly boys, their men being either in the army or employed in the navy. The Evil visibly afflicts a large portion of the people.

On ye 7th of August we had a day very unusual; it did not rain. We drove to Powys Castle, which is about a mile from Welsh Pool. It is finely situated upon an eminence that commands the country around; the place is neglected and the house is rambling and comfortless. In the park is a fathomless pool, which gives name to the adjacent town. We were obliged to stay the whole of the 7th, as horses were not to be had. In the eve. Ld. H. and I had a very snug walk again to the castle.

[Sidenote: WELSH SCENERY]

On the 8th we set off for Aberystwith, and as the same horses were to carry us great part of the way we stopped to dine at Newtown, the road to which was extremely pleasing. Round hills covered to their summits with thick wood, and a verdant vale with pretty rivers and cattle grazing; it might have made a good study for quiet home views. We crossed a rapid river without a bridge.

_Tuesday, 13th._--Left Aberystwith. We intended originally to have gone to Cardigan, Haverfordwest, etc., but the judges were upon that circuit, the roads bad, and the weather wretched. On that night we slept at Lampeter, close upon a rapid river in which Ld. H. fished. The eve. was tolerably fine. Drew and I walked about the environs.

_14th._--It had rained all night, and the rivers were so swelled that they were deep to pass through; we went thro’ several and arrived at Carmarthen to dine. Very heavy rain the whole day. Poor little Charles was unwell, and we decided upon giving up Tenby.

On 15th heavy rain. After crossing ye Towy we looked back upon the town, which appeared prettily situated, but the weather was so bad it was impossible to see any object. The inhabitants were not surprised at the infamy of the weather; they said it was nothing unusual.

Finding no horses at Neath, we were compelled to remain. We walked to see the ruins of a small castle; the castle is not remarkable except for the beauty of its situation, and probably was raised by some of those Norman Barons who followed the fortunes of Fitzhamon, the conqueror of Glamorganshire. The inn is kept by an Italian, who, tho’ he left the happy climate in which he was born at nine years old, yet retains enough of national _tournure_ to be known amongst a multitude of red-faced ale-drinkers as an alien. There is an archness, not to say roguery, which, such as it is, is a thousand times better than the stupidity and sulkiness and _dubious honesty_ of the British countenance in common life.

On ye 17th we passed thro’ Margam, a possession of Mr. Talbot’s. There in his park are the beautiful remains of the Priory, about which I must look in Grove and Camden. He pulled down the mansion, but has built a magnificent greenhouse for the preservation of some orange-trees which belonged to William III.[2] The architecture is Grecian, which, close to a fine Gothic edifice, denotes more his adherence to the fashion of the times than his judgment in conceiving an appropriate decoration, as the two styles clash and diminish the beauty of both. Not that I am an enthusiastic admirer of Grecian architecture in any way but in a temple. There, indeed, the fine column, its slim shaft, rich architrave, cornice, and volute, surmounted with a graceful pediment, create a species of beauty which no other can. Indeed the circular arch, as in the Pont de Garde, where they form a bridge and aqueduct by several tiers one above the other, is very grand; otherwise, in vast works, I like the Gothic architecture, which, to use an affected phrase, is more _impressive_ in lofty structures. Mr. Talbot married a cousin of Ld. H.’s, a daughter of Lord Ilchester’s.[3] It was a strange match, she about sixteen, he sixty; as yet, however, the disproportion has not affected their felicity. They live happily; a good deal in the country.

[Sidenote: CARDIFF]

Arrived at Cardiff after dark. Received a note from Ly. Plymouth[4] to tell me she was there; came the next morning, 18th, to breakfast. She is scampering upon a blood horse, followed by an attorney, over her son’s estates, settling his affairs. She complains of having found everybody formerly employed rogues, from whence one may presume she has fallen into the hands of some very great one. The Castle is very handsome; in the area Ld. Bute has built a modern castellated house, preserving in the centre one or two of the old towers.

_19th._--Fortunately, a fine day. Dear Charles was so unwell that Drew wished him to have a day’s rest. Went over a very rough road to Tintern Abbey, a delicious ruin, situated upon the banks of the Wye. The church is almost entire; all the external walls are up and one of the side aisles; roof off, of course. The architecture is not so light and pleasing as Fountains Abbey, and of the monastery there are scarcely any remains. They show a tomb and effigy of a warrior whom they call Strongbow, Earl of Clare, who married Eva, the daughter of an Irish King, and became himself King of Leinster, and obtained for Henry II. the sovereignty of Ireland. In the eve. we had a charming walk upon the Wye and saw the castle, a fine ruin, celebrated for holding out against Cromwell, defended by Kemyss and Morgan. The former was cut to pieces in the inner court. Upon the Restoration one of the regicides was confined for 25 years in a chamber we saw. Southey wrote some pretty lines enough on him.

The party reached Ross on the 20th, having come through Chepstow and Monmouth.

_21st._--Went to the churchyard, from whence there is a celebrated view, which, however, I think little of; the walk in it is shady and pretty. 21st, came through Hereford to Foxley. At Hereford D. of Norfolk insisted upon our giving him one day. 22nd, 23rd, stayed at Foxley. The General was there. 24th, went to Ld. Oxford’s[5] at Eywood. Charles unwell, and left at Foxley with Drew. 25th, stayed at Eywood. 26th, I returned alone to see Charles, and joined the whole party at Downton Castle, Mr. Knight’s,[6] in the eve. late. 27th, returned to Foxley. 28th, came to this place, Holme Court, the D. of Norfolk’s. Stayed yesterday, and go away to-day, 30th.

[Sidenote: LADY OXFORD]

Ly. O. has lost her vivacity and beauty. She is in a deplorable state of spirits, proceeding, I fancy, from an enthusiastic, romantic admiration of Sr. Francis’s ideal perfections. She fancies herself a victim of sensibility, and is really so drooping that I should scarcely be surprised if she perished from imagining grief. Mr. Knight encourages her in those _bursts_ of sensibility; he compares her tears to April showers that sprinkle and revive the freshness of the violet. Be the cause what it may, her beauty is impaired; her eyes, which were always full and prominent, now from thinness start out. It is also probable that her languor may arise from having lost the relish which the novelty gave of being a great lady. She appears from an affectation of _naïveté_ weaker than she is; in a whining, monotonous, childish tone she uses fine phrases for common conversation. She said to Ld. H. upon the Slave Trade, ‘I am always for justice and humanity, ar’n’t you?’ And to the General: ‘In case of a revolution, you, of course, would take the side of the people against the King, would not you?’ The house is comfortable, and they live with a degree of splendour they are unequal to, as he has ruined himself by his ostentation and her total ignorance of the value of money.

Mr. Knight wrote a famous work upon the traces still to be found in Italy of a primitive worship. He has assembled a large collection of these symbols in bronze, marble, etc. He is a passionate admirer of the ancients, and studies in nature antique forms and contours. Ly. Hamilton was his favourite; she absent, the admiration is transferred to Ly. O. He is a middle-aged man, and has a large fortune. His pursuits are classical even to pedantry. He has made a good house and fine grounds, and lives with a degree of luxurious _recherche_.

The Duke of Norfolk[7] is an extraordinary instance of the impossibility of _situation_ being sufficient to secure happiness: he, however, finds in his own good temper an antidote to all the vexations of his life. He has all that rank, dignity, and wealth can give; he married a beautiful woman whose person he liked, possessed of 15,000_l._ pr. anm. About eight years after she became mad, and from being intestate her immense possessions escheat to the Crown, there being no male heir to the Scudamores. It appears to be a hardship that the laws afford no relief to a person united to one insane, as no pretext can be more valid towards the dissolution of a marriage than an obstacle of that nature that impedes the fulfilling of every function belonging to the institution. He maintains with solid magnificence the splendour of his rank; everything about him bespeaks wealth and luxurious comfort. His servants are old domestics, fat, sleek, and happy; his table is profuse and exquisite. His taste is bad; he loves society, but has no selection, and swallows wine for quantity, not quality: he is gross in everything. The Dss.’s madness has taken a sombre, _farouche_ turn; she hates all mankind. The clergyman during a lucid interval advised her to read religious books, supplied her with some, and mingled his advice with pious exhortations. She acquiesced, and took the books. A few days after she returned them with scorn, saying, ‘I wish I could believe your d----d trumpery, as I should then be certain two-thirds of mankind would roast in H----! It was curious that in the Gospels she could find matter to gratify her malignity. The Duke behaves uncommonly well to her.

[Sidenote: DR. INGENHOUSZ]

Mrs. Clive, Ly. Plymouth’s sister, went there to meet me. She is a shrewd, sensible woman. Her husband is a Jacobin of the worst sort, envy actuating all his equalising principles.[8] Wm. Scott, Ly. O.’s brother, another Jacobin, was there: he is merry and good-humoured, and tho’ a zealous disciple of Horne Tooke’s a few good briefs to get him a _pied à terre_ will cure him of his democracy. I knew him many years ago at Nice. Capt. Morris,[9] the famous singer of his own witty songs, entertained us with some of them; he is drunken and dull, and since the death of a favourite son, has renounced singing any of his _light_ songs. He made a superstitious vow to God Almighty that he would not.

We slept at Gloucester on the 30th. On ye 31st passed through pretty Rodborough Vale, and Badminton Park, not a fine place, tho’ large, and arrived here, Bowood, 31st August, Saturday. Found Ld. Lansdown in high good humour and cordiality with me, and in very good health and spirits. The Smiths were just come from Warwick. Mr. Dumont is here, and two or three other indifferent people. Poor old Ingenhousz is dying rapidly. He is shrunk to a skeleton. Ld. L. with great humanity and feeling affords him an asylum, which his other friends were averse to, as the beholding of a dying man is a painful spectacle. He talks with intrepidity of death, but, _hélas!_ where can the courage come from? The subject is a painful one.

Dumont and I walked every morning, that is to say, the three I stayed, in ye garden: his conversation is always amusing and instructive. We talked over books that we each liked, especially Bonnet’s beautiful work, _Contemplation de la nature_, which contains many interesting expositions of the wonderful economy of nature in the structure of plants and animals. Had he not too frequently allowed his imagination to run off with him when he turns to the attributes of the divinity, he would tire less, but his apostrophes which aim at sublimity are generally incomprehensible and bombast.

Whilst I have been travelling I have not been idle in the way of reading; we have read already ye first seven volumes of Henry’s _History of England_. It is written upon a more extensive plan than that suggested by Voltaire and partly adopted by Hume.

Of public affairs the changes have been so varied and rapid that it is difficult to recollect the exact position of things. Bonaparte was repulsed from before Acre, and obliged to return with a diminished and dispirited army into Egypt. The circumstance the most humiliating is that his great name should be coupled with that of the bullying bluster of that charlatan, Sr. Sidney Smith, who has obtained the command of some marines and gun-boats against him in Syria. How fickle is the glory of a hero! That ‘... name at which mankind grew pale’ is now lost in obscurity, and the events in the East, which occupied and tortured the breast of every politician in Europe, are now so overlooked that barely are they discussed in the survey of politics at present.

[Sidenote: STATE OF NAPLES]

In Italy Suwarrow and ye Austrians have driven out the French; the Cis-Alpine district is returning to the dominion of its former possessors; dear, pretty Florence is restored to its mild sovereign. Lord Nelson has brought back the fugitive monarch to his capital, and Naples now exhibits a scene of revenge, more bloody than the Sicilian Vespers.[10] The hearts of Frenchmen are brought as trophies to a cruel people, who crouched in servile subjection whilst they were too abject to fight their own cause. Ly. Hamilton has not been remiss in adding her quota to the barbarity which enflames every breast. Rome is yet without its Pontiff, and for the happiness of a large portion of the natives of those happy climates it is to be hoped will for ever so remain, as no one can wish to see the restoration of a government founded upon the superstitions of mankind, and burthensome in itself.

An expedition into Holland for the restoration of the Stadtholder has just been undertaken.[11] It commenced ill; a fort was taken with the loss of some officers and five hundred men. Since that the Dutch fleet has surrendered, whether voluntarily or by the treachery of its officers is yet a secret. The Duke of York is to go and take the command. I don’t know how his presence will inspire courage to those troops he absconded with so hastily but a few years back. The expense is said to be so enormous that the income tax, which, by-ye-bye, has fallen short of the calculation, will go to take a fifth, instead of a tenth, of our incomes in future.

Left Bowood, Tuesday, ye 3rd; passed through a richly cultivated, well-built, and populous vale to Wincanton. Passed thro’ Longleat and Stourton; slept at the first town, and arrived here, Sherborne Castle, on Wednesday. It is an old Gothic mansion; the _corps de logis_ was built by Sir Walter Raleigh, who, if one may judge from oral tradition, seemed attached to the spot, as there is a venerable grove planted by his hand and honoured with his name. Upon his death his estates were confiscated, and granted by the narrow-minded pedant, who sacrificed to policy and intrigue his glorious life, to his infamous minion Somerset. Upon his fall they were bestowed upon the singular George Digby, Earl of Bristol,[12] whose adventures form some of the most diverting anecdotes in Clarendon’s history. It has since remained in the Digby family. On the opposite side of the lake are the ruins of the castle of Sherborne, held out by a lady of the family against the dismantling summons of Cromwell. The ground is classic; an eminence called Jerusalem Hill is crowned on the summit with a clump of firs planted by Pope. He was a frequent inmate, and the friend of an affectionate brother and sister, whose affection he has commemorated in an epitaph in Sherborne Church.

[Sidenote: LORD WESTMORELAND]

We found only Mr. Hoare with Ld. Digby, a brother of Sr. R. Hoare,[13] the owner of Stourhead, a handsome, gentlemanlike young man. The next day Ld. Westmoreland[14] came. He is coarse in mind, manners, and language. The first is overbearing and sanguinary; he appears to be one who thinks strong measures indicate a strong mind, and that vigour denotes intrepidity, whereas in my opinion the reverse is proved, for genuine fortitude inculcates clemency. His manners are those that spring from power engrafted upon a low education, and his language is a symbol of both. I do not wonder he is accused of having sowed the seeds of the late rebellion in Ireland; he seems of a character calculated to irritate wavering loyalty into rebellion. He spoke so brutally of some of the wretched prisoners who had escaped his fury, that my heart beat high with indignation, and even _I_ for a moment felt a movement in behalf of a nation I never liked.