Chapter VI (1)

1817-1821.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, Jan. 7, 1817.

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

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

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

London, Jan. 12, 1817.

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bath, Feb., 1817.

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

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

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

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

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Roehampton, Feb. 21, 1817.

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

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Roehampton, March 3, 1817.

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

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

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

London, March 23, 1817.

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

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

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, March 27, 1817.

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

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

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

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

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

_March, 1817._

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

TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

London, April, 1817.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

June 24, 1817.

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

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

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

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, June 30, 1817.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 20, 1817.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

Bursledon Lodge, Nov. 25, 1817.

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

TO THE SAME.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 18, 1817.

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

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

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec., 1817.

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

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

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

TO MRS. TUITE.

London, Feb., 1818.

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

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

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Roehampton, March 24, 1818.

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

TO THE SAME.

Bath, May 18, 1818.

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

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

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

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

London, May 25, 1818.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

TO A FRIEND.

Bursledon Lodge, July 21, 1818.

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

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

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, July 23, 1818.

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

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

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bursledon Lodge, Aug. 21, 1818.

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

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

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 15, 1818.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1818.

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

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

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

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

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

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bursledon Lodge, Nov., 1818.

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

* * * * *

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

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

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 1, 1818.