Part 13

He might venerate, but the harmony he can never imitate.

Early on ye 19th I set off and crossed the Po at Lagoscuro, and from thence got to Rovigo, a dreadful road and two bad _barques_, one over the canal Bianco, and the other across the Adigio. Rovigo, the birthplace of Manfredini, a wretched, straggling town. We reached Padua at night. I have been there before, but I possess a very faint remembrance of the place. I have just heard that the unhappy phantom of royalty, Louis XVIII., has been compelled to quit the Venetian territory. I remained at Padua several days. Miss Bowdler and Lady Herries lodged in the same hotel. Ld. Holland overtook me from Florence.

We went to the monastery of Praia, a rich Benedictine order. The heat of the weather and badness of the road had fatigued us, and we asked permission to enter the sacristy and refresh ourselves. The lay brother, who is the porter, repulsed us with harshness, and refused us admission within the walls, adding that water was the only hospitality afforded by the monks. On my return to Padua I wrote a letter of complaint to the Abbot, who answered it with civility, and promised to reprimand the insolence of the porter.

I went the next evening to see the Villa Quirini, remarkable for possessing some of the oldest Egyptian monuments in Europe if not coeval with the Pyramids at least so Dancarville, the learned antiquary, assured me. He pretends to be so much _au fait_ of them, that he even shows a mark made by a soldier of the army of Cambyses; but the reveries of antiquaries are absurd. The French have broken into the plain of Piémont by way of Nice, and have gained a great victory over the Austrians. Buonaparti [_sic_] is the French commander.

They left Padua on April 24, and took the road to Trieste.

From Trieste we went through Carniola, Carinthia, Styria, by way of Laibach, Marburg, Gratz, and Bruck to Vienna. I stayed a few days only at Vienna, dined at Sir Morton Eden’s,[154] and saw some of my old acquaintances. Met Clairfait,[155] who seems a mild, gentlemanlike man. From Vienna I went to Znaym, Iglau, across the famous field of battle at Kolin, to Prague; from thence to Dresden. The two posts at Aussig and Peterwald were just as bad as they were the last time I went. I met Lady Plymouth at Dresden, and dined with ye Duchess of Cumberland.

From Dresden I went to Berlin; tiresome deep road through sands and thin forests of pines. At Berlin I came in time to see a review. I dined with Ld. Elgin,[156] and at his house I saw the celebrated Pitt diamond,[157] brought from Paris upon sale. Hugh Elliot insisted upon bearing me company to Hamburg. Great difficulty of accommodation at Hamburg: the town so filled with emigrants. Went to see General Dumouriez. I was afraid of crossing the Elbe to Harburg, so went up where it was narrow. Went through Harburg and Stade to Cuxhaven: detained there some days on account of contrary winds.

The 4th of June I quitted Hamburg. Crossed from Cuxhaven to Yarmouth in six days and half. Came straight to London.

An interval of a year here takes place in the Journal, which Lady Holland, to use her new name, again resumes in July 1797.

[Sidenote: HER MARRIAGE]

My wretched marriage was annulled by Parliament on the 4th July. On the fifth I signed a deed by which I made over my whole fortune to Sir G. W., for our joint lives, for the insignificant sum of 800_l._ Every mean device, every paltry chicane that could extort money from us was had recourse to.

I was married at Rickmansworth Church by Rev. Mr. Morris to Lord Holland, on July 6th, 1797. Sir Gilbert Affleck,[158] my father-in-law, gave me away. As soon as the ceremony was over we went to Richmond, where I found my mother and my son Henry. They came to this house the next day and stayed a week. I was twenty-six years old. Ld. H. was twenty-three. The difference in age is, alas! two years and eight months--a horrid disparity. All his family behaved to me with the utmost kindness; they came, those in town, and those in the country wrote to me. I went to Bowood in July, where I met with his two aunts, Misses Vernon, and his sister, Miss Fox; they were kind and cordial. In the autumn I went to Margate.

Having a very bad memory, and many odd irregular half-hours, it has occurred to me to assist the one and occupy the others by writing down any events, conversations, anecdotes, etc., that may interest me at the moment; and though my nature is too lazy to allow me to hope that I can act up to anything like a systematic pursuit, yet whilst the fit is upon me to be so employed, I will yield. As I care too little about politics to talk of them, I certainly shall refrain from discussing them upon paper, nevertheless this moment is critical and anxious even to my indifference. The second negotiation is just broken off;[159] hostilities beginning in Italy; Mr. Fox decidedly seceded from Parliament, and the session on the point of opening; fresh taxes, discontents, and the Dutch fleet destroyed.[160] My own individual happiness is so perfect, that I can scarcely figure to myself a blessing that I do not possess--indeed, the having such a companion as I have is, in itself, everything without the accessories of other advantages.

The 14th October (1797), Mr. Fox, D. of Bedford, etc., dined here, and it was then finally concluded among them that none of the shattered remains of their party should attend the meeting of Parliament. As to the measure of secession there are many different opinions as to its expediency; but all their discussions end in the loss of time and temper, for Opposition are too unpopular to have anything left to hope for, and the system of party is obsolete. It seems astonishing to me that amidst the number of very able men who still rally round the standard of Whiggism, not one should have discovered that the temper of the country requires another species of resistance to Administration than the old scheme of a regular Opposition with a Cavendish or a Russell at its head. There is a bigotry in their adherence to their ineffectual principles that borders upon infatuation.

[Sidenote: MR. FOX]

Mr. Fox appears sincerely to rejoice at the prospect of being able to give himself up to those pursuits that amuse and, notwithstanding his powers as a statesman, occupy him most. Literature, and especially the metaphysics of grammar, and the cultivation of his plants, are objects that engage the wonderful activity of his mind. He has lately revived his Greek, and daily gets by heart a given number of lines in Homer. Having seen so little of him, my opinion of him is chiefly taken from public report and the very partial picture drawn by his nephew; however, his very enemies admit that he possesses more estimable qualities as an individual than falls to the share of scarcely any other. Perhaps to a harsh observer his facility might be termed a weakness and his good nature an indolent foible, but if extremes are bad his bent is on the most amiable side. One cannot but regret that such a man is lost to society, for so may his retirement at St. Anne’s be called, and the habits of his life when there. Mrs. Armstead,[161] I understand, possesses still those merits which, when united to the attractions of youth, a degree of beauty, and much celebrity, placed her above her competitors for the glory of ruining and seducing the giddy youth of the day. She has mildness and little rapacity, but those negative merits, when bereft of the other advantages, constitute but an insipid resource in solitude. Besides, as she still retains the immoderate love of expense which her former life led her into, she may almost be called a pernicious connection, as disadvantageous for his comfort as for his reputation; for after all that has passed, fresh pecuniary embarrassments will be discreditable to him. But I have often remarked that very superior men are easier satisfied with respect to the talents of those they live with than men of inferior abilities. Whether it springs from a movement of vanity, that they despair of meeting an equal and are therefore contented with gentle accommodation, or that they are conscious that they have little to learn, I cannot determine, but the fact is certain.

[Sidenote: GENERAL DUMOURIEZ]

I do not mean to compare Dumouriez to Mr. Fox, but nevertheless I was astonished to find, in a visit I made him (last June, ’96), that the partner of his solitude was much the most trifling, insignificant personage I had ever beheld. He was living in a wretched Westphalian hovel or barn near Hamburg, with little money and less estimation, and yet, contrary to what might have been imagined from his inordinate ambition and vanity, happier (I believe) there surrounded by his brood of well-disciplined ducklings than after the battle of Jemappes. I never saw him but once, and that in a way that might have offended a man less vain. Hearing from his relation, Chateauneuf, a bookseller at Hamburg, that he lived in the neighbourhood, I proposed making him a visit, that I might have the satisfaction of seeing one of the most conspicuous characters that had flourished in the Revolution. The motive excused the intrusion, and he was flattered. He is short and fat, and in person very unlike a Frenchman, but the deficiency in figure to prove him one is amply made up the moment he speaks. He is full of vivacity, _esprit_, and _agrément_, expressing himself pointedly and even energetically; and he may be very justly placed among the best specimens that remain of the genuine character of a Frenchman under the Monarchy. His pecuniary circumstances are very narrow--he is going to publish a 4th edition of his works, from which he hopes to obtain a maintenance. I believe he heartily repents the unlucky adherence to the Constitution that causes him to be out of his country, and prevents his rivalling Hoche and Buonaparte, for he could not conceal the envy excited by their glories. He is a man of an enterprising genius and undaunted courage, and would never incur the satire of Mr. Burke’s application of the story of the two generals, one of whom used to say upon a service of danger, ‘Allez, mes amis,’ and the other, ‘Allons, mes amis.’ He would always be for the latter.

The unfortunate La Fayette and his family are just liberated from the dungeons of Olmutz, and mean to embark at Hamburg for that country from whence he imbibed those principles that have since deluged his country with a sea of blood.[162] Whatever his errors might have been by risking such a revolution merely to distinguish himself from the common crowd of courtiers, or to try to practise the theory of virtue and patriotism, his cruel captivity has extinguished rancour even in the breasts of his bitterest enemies. M. de Bouillé,[163] in his Memoirs just published, mentions his intentions as pernicious and his conduct as weak, but never represents him as meaning evil; and upon the whole the impression given is more that of pity than any other. Poor man! his faults are expiated in his sufferings. His character is that of a phlegmatic, cold-hearted man, with much vanity and slender abilities.

His cousin Bouillé is of a very different turn: he is quite the _tête chaude_ of the Royalists, full of that _fougue_ and courage peculiar to his nation. Misfortunes have softened his mind, and he allows his reason to conquer his passion; he is candid and impartial to others and himself. I believe him to be very zealous and honest. I first became acquainted with him amidst the noise and tumult of a camp. In ’93, returning from Italy to spend a few weeks in England, I went from Bruxelles to see Valenciennes, which had just fallen, and in that tour I made a visit to the Duke of York, who was then besieging Dunkirk.[164] After dining at headquarters I attended the funeral of General Dalton, who had been killed the day before on the very spot over which I passed. The melancholy scene and the noise of the artillery discharged upon those occasions quite overcame me, and I declined attending the funeral that followed, of Col. Elde. The D. of York very politely excused himself from returning to headquarters with me, on account of his duty requiring his presence, but gave me to the care of the Marquis de Bouillé, who accompanied me to the Duke’s tent. Our conversation naturally fell upon those events in France in which he had had the greatest share, and he gave me a very interesting narrative of the King’s flight to Varennes, and the whole scheme as conceived by him which he describes in his Memoirs. He finished with tears, showing me his _cordon bleu_, which was part of his ill-fated Sovereign’s wardrobe that had reached Luxembourg, and had been received by the Marquis. He said it was the last and only relic he had of a master from whom he had received favours that demanded his eternal gratitude and tenderness.

[Sidenote: M. DE BOUILLÉ]

I saw him once afterwards at the Drawing-room, and upon my asking him the name of a tall, gaunt, figure in the circle, he smiled at the singularity of a foreigner showing to a native the Prime Minister of the country: for the person was no less than Mr. Pitt himself. There was afterwards a scheme in the city among the West India planters and merchants for giving him a pension on account of his noble behaviour in the islands during the last war. My poor father promised to subscribe, but I left England, and by hearing no more of it I presume the affair dropped.

Just before the departure of Lord M. from Lisle,[165] the Trevors, my old friends, or rather intimate acquaintances, came through France. He is in a sort of way driven from his post of Minister at Turin, as that Court exhibited a curious jumble of bigotry and Jacobinism, which must make a residence there awkward to a punctilious courtier like Trevor. It was rather whimsical that the morning she visited me was the precise one chosen by Mr. Fox to come from St. Anne’s, so the first object that presented itself to her view upon entering the gallery was her old admirer. Save a little blushing and stammering the old lovers conducted themselves very ably. The malicious say _nous autres femmes_ get out of a scrape of that sort with great ease; this instance confirmed the calumny, as she possessed the greatest portion of the _sang froid_ of the two.

Mrs. Trevor’s life has been singularly passed, and the latter part judiciously, circumstanced as she was. She was the daughter of a rich canon, and was married partly for her beauty and a little for her wealth. Soon after her marriage she conceived a most insurmountable disgust towards her husband. She was admired by Mr. F., and, flattered by his preference, allowed great scandal. She detained him one night at Ranelagh, whilst the House was assembled and waiting for him to speak upon a motion he had made: this gave an _éclat_ which perhaps she did not dislike. But the moment came that was to separate her from the fashion of London. Trevor’s foreign missions drew her upon the Continent, where she has remained mostly for these last eighteen years. The first thing she did was to live apart from him, and keep up a love correspondence with him; hence to the world they appeared enamoured of one another. She is a little mad, and parsimony is her chief turn. She is good-natured, and a little clever. Trevor has no judgment and slender talents. His foibles are very harmless, and his whole life has been insipidly good. His _ridicules_ are a love of dress coats, _volantes_, and always speaking French. _Au reste_, he is very like other people, only better.

[Sidenote: LADY HAMPDEN]

His sister-in-law, Lady Hampden,[166] is a woman of a most extraordinary character, and a melancholy proof of how much we depend upon others even for our virtues. Her father was the man who first mentioned the present Queen to Lord Bute, and was employed by him afterwards to arrange the business, and he was, by-the-bye, neglected by the upstart Majesty merely because he knew the obscurity and poverty of her native Court. Ly. H. was his only child, and was extremely young and beautiful when first married. For ten years their marriage was perfectly happy--the old Lord was living; they lived in retirement and were poor. His death gave them riches, and the fond, domestic husband was lost in the dissipated gambler. His house was amongst the first where a faro bank was kept. Unfortunately this has become prevalent, and many hold a share at those houses where every allurement is held out to attract and seduce. It was in this country that a man first dared to deal at faro without a mask, so infamous did they esteem the office upon the Continent.

It would be a curious subject to investigate and write a book upon, to trace back the little points and hazards upon which the fate of the world, its manners and opinions, have depended. Had Carthage triumphed, and Hannibal been a second Alexander, how different in all probability would have been the genius and customs of the world! Commerce would have stifled the glory of arms, and crushed the taste for the fine arts. Their industry would have spread civilisation into the heart of Africa, and that extent of country, now only a barbarous land, might have satisfied the wants of society, and these miserable Northern latitudes might still have been left to their Odins, their Druids, their fogs, and their frosts. What a blessing to have been confined to go no farther north than the Pyrenees! I may be justified in this wish, whilst at the moment of making it I am wrapped up in flannels, and roasting by a fire, to keep my blood in sufficient circulation to carry on the economy of animal life. Another epoch that would have operated even more powerfully upon the character of mankind and their usages was the chance of the battle in France between the Saracens and the Christians.[167] What would have been the effect had the former succeeded? One good would have been certain, the human mind would not have been priest-ridden as it is, and the fear of death would have been checked and not encouraged. The worst part of the Christian dispensation is the terror it inculcates upon a deathbed. The wisest dread it; no person who is strictly brought up in the principles of Christianity can ever thoroughly shake off the fear of dying. The Catholics supply instances of this every day; from infancy to manhood their minds are debased by superstition in every terrific shape. When capable of reflecting they shake off their shackles, and become from bigots atheists. So they live, but in fact the evil is but suspended; a fit of illness throws them back into the bosom of credulity, and like Gresset[168] they die in sackcloth.

The claims of the Romish Church are stronger upon the imagination than those of the more purified sects of Protestants. The priests found it so much to their interests to pervert the understanding, that the love of power made them hold their empire beyond the grave--hence their Purgatory.

[Sidenote: EFFECT OF RELIGIOUS WARS]

The Christian priests, with all their subtlety and policy, from vanity gave the staff out of their own hands. Proud of the praise centred upon them for being the preservers of learning, they weakly taught the laity the valuable treasures they had preserved, and by enlightening them the progress has been such as we see. Had they, like the priests of Egypt, confined all knowledge to their own body, society would still have been dependent upon them, and whilst there was no contention, they might have been a harmless theocracy. Certainly during the middle ages they were serviceable even to the cause of humanity, for those very Crusades eventually benefited Europe. They drew forth many turbulent spirits, who, had they remained at home, would have fallen into intestine broils, and kept up the feudal governments. Whereas, though two-thirds of the vast armies that issued out never returned, yet the one-third that did introduced a taste for foreign productions to which commerce became the consequence, and the manners of every country in Europe by degrees softened and civilised. Yet this good they did was severely bought by the horrors of the religious wars after the Reformation in Germany when Gustavus Adolphus was called in. That embraces a horrid period in the annals of history: it was an awful struggle between reason and bigotry. Fortunately for the advantage (perhaps) of mankind the former conquered to a degree, and but for the absurd excesses which have disgraced morality in this French Revolution, the cause of common sense would have completely succeeded. But we are nearer a relapse into old errors than a reformation.

Had the Saracens been masters of Europe the lot of womankind would have been but indifferent, for it is a very remarkable circumstance that all the institutions in Southern countries are very degrading to the sex. Morally and physically we are treated as beings of an inferior class, and though it is not quite demonstrable that we are supposed to be without a claim to immortality of soul, yet the reward is but trivial, and we are excluded the Paradise of men. On the contrary, the natives of the North hold even the feminine gender in respect, so great is their veneration for us: they fought with us by their sides as tutelary angels, and submitted to the government of a female chief. They called the Sun the greatest luminary, to honour it with a feminine name, and the moon, which is inferior, by a masculine one. This spirit melted into chivalry, and it is to the _preux chevaliers_, the Arthurs, the Orlandos, and the Round Table, that we owe our present situation in society. However, the Saracens were a great and enlightened people, and till lately literature and science have never fairly been grateful for what they owe them, and half the world to this day even confound them with those savages, the Turks. It is true that at first they fought with the sword in one hand and the Alkoran in the other, but once conquerors they cultivated the milder virtues. Where is there a better government than that under the Caliphs in Spain? The University of Granada educated our first _literati_, Friar Bacon, etc. It would be endless to enter into their merits: Andrès,[169] a Spanish Jesuit who lives at Mantua, has written an excellent book in Italian about them.

[Sidenote: HER EDUCATION]