Chapter V (1)

1813-1816.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Feb. 7, 1813.

I am very happy to find you once more exerting your powers for our instruction and amusement. The second part of the _Cottage Dialogues_ appears to me worthy of its predecessor; less humorous, perhaps, and less marked by a certain undescribable _naïveté_, but often pathetic, and always inculcating the purest morality. I could have wished the dialogue on Seduction, and the subsequent death of Thady’s victim, omitted, as it makes the volume less fit for children, to whom it might in so many respects be useful. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it appears to me that it is safest to keep all such events, with whatever purity they may be described, out of the view and the thoughts of children and very young people: and on this principle perhaps _Pamela_ and _Clarissa_ may be considered as highly dangerous works. How the former could ever have been mistaken for a novel of a _moral_ tendency (though I fully believe the author intended it as such), is very surprising. As to _Clarissa_, a judicious selection from it, with slight alterations, would be a valuable present to the rising generation; one that should wholly conceal the blackest part of Lovelace’s conduct, and make her death proceed from remorse for her elopement, and grief for the implacability of her father, the sorrows of her mother, and the hastiness of her choice,—as she might be supposed to have discovered Lovelace to be unworthy of her in a variety of ways. In this _Clarissa for Young Women_, as it might be called, all the objectionable details should be omitted; and those parts of her character preserved, which are so well calculated to excite an enthusiastic sense of duty to parents, of charity, of religion, and _particularly_ of the value of time. But all this is idle prate; and perhaps it is best the ‘Young Women’ should never open the book.

I could not but smile at the graceful _naïveté_ and enthusiasm of friendship which sent one of my letters to Mr. Wilkinson, in order to be placed amongst those of ‘eminent persons.’ I feel obliged to make poor Mr. Wilkinson some amends for your thus imposing on him, however unintentionally on your part. I therefore asked Mrs. Barnard, who happened to be present when your letter arrived, to procure me one of _the_ Mr. Windham’s; and I send you for him an Italian sonnet, in the fairy penmanship of Miss Ponsonby, of Llangollen. I believe the sonnet is unpublished.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bath, March 12, 1813.

I have not passed four evenings from home since we parted. The false animation of acquaintances pretending to be friends, the slight gaiety of an assembly, and the satisfaction of hearing I look wonderfully well _for my time_, have done their duty, and divert me no more. My sweet children are my only real pleasures. —— has a depth of feeling very extraordinary. He began to question me upon _one_ whom you and I speak of no more; and was very anxious to know why no other since that time had made me _quite_ so happy. At last he said, as if he was satisfied at having found out the cause, and conceived it not to disparage my present love for him—‘I believe it is because he _did_ die,’ with a certain solemnity of accent which I cannot describe. How much he must have felt and observed to arrive at this conclusion.

—— thought Miss K. handsome on the report of _two_ or _three_ people, but _four_ or _five_ have found her coarse, slouchy, red-armed, and somewhat like a housemaid; you know how much ‘love’s arrows go by hearsay.’ Moreover, she _splashed_ through a _bolero_ at an assembly where no one else danced but her and her partner; and with her large figure and strong countenance looked as if she was going _to box_. _That_ is an improvement on the general expression of the dance, which always seems to say, ‘My name is Temptation; Touch me not.’ This ingenious dance is, you know, contrived to show how great a degree of assurance and _airs de dragon_ can be united to pretty music and measured steps. Its gaiety and boldness will always recommend it to the majority; but there cannot be worse taste than making _young ladies_ the performers.

M—— has written a kind letter to inform me of his intended marriage. I am delighted that people who love should marry; but when I know not the other party, and that it is _my friend_ that has the worst of the worldly part of the contract, it is mere affectation and deceit to pretend to be quite satisfied, until one arrives at being a saint.

* * * * *

_June 14, 1813._—The variations of the English climate may assist to increase the sensibility of the English character. Yesterday the sun shone resplendent on a country covered with the softest, deepest verdure, blushing with roses, and perfumed with honeysuckle; while a few fleecy clouds added pomp and richness and variety to the bright blue sky. The mind, enlivened by the scenery, expatiated on scenes of love and life and joy. To-day the whole horizon is enveloped in a thick fog; a chilling air distracts our thoughts by a slight sense of suffering from the objects around us, which, shrouded in mist, have lost half their beauty. The heart which but yesterday was filled with ideas of pleasure, is turned to-day to thoughts of privation, of fading glory, of decaying nature. In what variety of lights do these sudden changes present the same object, and what food do they furnish for meditation!

* * * * *

_June 24._—The collection of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ pictures now offered to the public eye, is perhaps _unique_ in its kind, as composed of more fine works by a single artist than have ever yet been seen together. They derive peculiar interest from this circumstance. The collection seems to be animated by one soul—the emanation of one powerful mind. Ugolino is probably the most pathetic picture extant, as exhibiting the highest degree of moral and physical suffering inflicted on those whose countenances bespeak exquisite sensibility, and accompanied with the utter extinction of hope—each individual agonizing at once by his own pains, and by the sufferings of those who are dearest to him. It is like a tragedy of Shakespeare on canvas.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

London, June 27, 1813.

I got a Director’s ticket for Sir Joshua Reynolds’ on Friday evening. They were in great request, being no more in number than the three rooms would conveniently hold, and were bespoke for weeks before. The evening exhibitions, which were only once a week, closed that evening, and only the Directors had tickets. It is the order of the day to call these meetings ‘the best assembly in town.’ They began at nine, and ended nominally at eleven, but the Duchess of York did not come in till past eleven. What a ridiculous freak of fashion to be anxious to see pictures by candlelight, merely because money will not admit one, when people can admire them so much better by daylight on any morning they please to go; or was it set on foot by the superannuated beauties, who do themselves justice, and know they are not fit to be seen by daylight?

Ugolino is the most pathetic picture I ever saw (N.B. I went in the morning also)—unutterable, hopeless anguish, moral and physical, suffered in one’s own person, and in the persons of the dearest objects of one’s love—a suffering to which all human beings are exposed, and which none can ridicule as romantic, or despise as ignoble. If it was as old as the Laocoon, it would be as much, perhaps more, admired. It is delightful to see at once, transferred into so many works, the whole soul and genius of an artist so elevated as Sir Joshua.

Tell me about the babes; I long for their sweet musical clamour, and to see them circling me like the spheres, all in harmonious, beautiful, and perpetual motion.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, July 31, 1813.

The great object of curiosity now in London, is Mad. de Staël. The envy she excites in her own sex is painfully disclosed by their continual remarks on her total want of grace and beauty, in short, on her being a large, coarse, and homely woman. One is tempted to say—‘_Who_ ever inquires what is the plumage of the nightingale?’ Mrs. Jones, a lively friend of mine, put an end to a discussion of the kind in three words, ‘In short, she is most _consolingly_ ugly,’ thus by one happy phrase criticizing the critics with a light yet sharp touch. These critics would inveigh with more justice against the tiresome uses she often makes of her powers. One hates to see a drawing-room turned into a fencing school. I always wish somebody would say with Richard III.,

‘but, gentle lady,
_To leave_ this keen encounter of our wits.’

She has been received with all the honours due to her genius, sought for in every society; and the Prince Regent, with more appearance of taste than he _now_ often displays, went to Lady Heathcote’s one evening purposely that she might be presented to him previously to her appearance at his _fête_, where she could not have gone without being introduced before it.

I suppose you know that Tommy Moore has lost all his prospects of advancement by publishing _The Twopenny Post Bag_;—Lord Moira refusing on this account to take him to India, where he had intended to provide for him. He has gained in fame what he has lost in profit; as, although his former works had many admirers, some disliked, and some despised them, how justly I will not pretend to say; but all acknowledge the wit and humour of this last production. It is not free from blemishes, but perhaps as much so as any work we know, entirely and professedly satirical.

* * * * *

_Aug. 4, 1813._—Met Lord Lauderdale at dinner at Lady Lansdowne’s.—“I once saw Sheridan and Mad. de Staël together. She praised his morality, while he extolled her beauty. I sold a book at the highest price ever paid in England, Fox’s work.[49] Two booksellers offered me £4000; I told them it was impossible to decide between them. One refused to add to his first offer, the other offered £500 more. He lost by it. Robertson’s _Charles the Fifth_ sold for £5000. The size of the book considered, it was not so much. No other has ever sold at so great a price. Mad. de Staël has received here £1500 for her work on Germany, suppressed at Paris. She publishes it with notes, marking the passages she supposes to have been obnoxious to the French Government.” He should have said to ‘Buonaparte,’ for despotism is an unit, and ‘Government’ to English ears implies plurality.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

August 14, 1813.

Mr. Marsh dined here yesterday, supposed to be the author of the admired letters that appeared this year in the _Times_ under the name of _Vetus_.[50] He did not talk so much or so well as usual, for we had a _petrifying_ coxcomb of the party. He mentioned that Mad. de Staël, who was always clumsy, and had a peculiarly large foot, once exhibiting herself on a pedestal as an antique figure, one of the spectators whispered, ‘_Voilà un vilain pied de Staël_,’ a _bon mot_, though an ill-natured one. We had music in the evening. Miss M—— is a fine thundering player of the new Beethoven school; and Lady A——’s sweet little robin red-breast finger made a pretty contrast, pleasing to me who can admire merit in various styles. Indeed, I believe the less exclusive is one’s taste, and the more one can extend its limits, so as to like what is good in every direction, the more one will naturally enjoy, and perhaps animate, social life. Adieu. Honour me not with needless envelopes. ‘_Ce petit garçon oublie que je suis dévote_,’ said a _ci-devant_ mistress of Louis XIV., when a servant offered her a glass of liqueur; so you sometimes forget that I have arrived at thinking all waste is blameable.

* * * * *

_Oct., 1813._—_The Giaour_ is a trial of skill how far picturesque, animated, and eloquent description will please, without dignity or delicacy of character, novelty of scene or manners, interesting narrative, or elevated sentiments. Events similar to those recorded in this tale have not only been thrice told, but three hundred times; and, in point of manners, every one who has read a book of _Travels in Turkey_, knows too well all of which he is here reminded, not to feel a certain disappointment at being carried so far and shown nothing new. When St. Pierre in _Paul and Virginia_ leads us to the Isle of France, another world is opened to our view; a refreshing, invigorating clime enchants our senses, where we see the pure and simple sources of human happiness, the sparkling, living fountains of innocence, and love, and joy. It is an earthly paradise, worthy to succeed that where Milton has placed our first parents; and assimilated to our tenderest feelings by ties more numerous, if singly less powerful. The East also may have its ‘fresh fields and pasture new,’ but Lord Byron has not introduced us to them.

The story of _The Giaour_ could hardly be comprehended by human ingenuity, if it did not turn on circumstances the most commonplace, as we are only presented with unconnected fragments from the lips of two nameless narrators, who ask a variety of questions, and whom we should be glad to question a little in our turn. Fragments of this uninteresting story are tricked out in gaudy colouring, and amidst a greater proportion of indifferent lines than are fairly admissible in so short a production, we meet occasional proofs of originality and genius. Still _The Giaour_ ranks far below any former production of the same author. It contributes, as far as its mite goes, to injure the taste of the age, by reducing poetry merely to an amusement for a vacant hour, instead of employing it to elevate our minds, soften our hearts, and refine our pleasures. Whether these effects are produced by sentiments, by characters, by imagery, is immaterial. When they are not produced, when poetry addresses herself chiefly through the ear to the eye, she must be on the decline; and this decline works like _The Giaour_ at once accelerate and proclaim.

* * * * *

_Nov. 22._—How rapid is the fall of this ‘Lucifer, son of the morning,’ whose portentous splendour so long dazzled and misguided the nations of the earth. England, that citadel of the world, that guardian of civilization, the asylum of fallen royalty, of persecuted genius, and of proscribed virtue, now begins to reap the harvest of her generous toils.

* * * * *

_Nov. 23._—Overcome to-day with joy at the intoxicating rapidity of our successes. I felt a throb of exultation and gratitude only to be tranquillized by raising one’s heart and one’s tearful eyes to Heaven. I am glad I left my retirement and am amongst a multitude on this occasion. The joy that is shared with numbers seems purified and exalted. I found Bath to-day in an effervescence of joy;—the waggoners and chimney-sweeps decorated with laurel in honour of Lord Wellington’s victories, and the hope that Holland will break her chains. It is pleasing to see the pulse of public feeling beat in the very extremities. I met Mrs. Bonnefée, the Dowager Lady Ely’s mother, also wearing her sprig of laurel—at eighty-four.

* * * * *

_Nov. 24._—Je lis Mad. de Staël sur l’Allemagne. Il me paroit qu’un peintre d’un génie supérieur me montre les desseins qu’il a faits sur des lieux qui m’interessoient vivement, et que je ne reverrai plus. Elle donne une idée précise de cette philosophie de Kant que mon amie, la Comtesse Münster m’a tant pressée d’étudier.[51] C’est la morale du Christianisme dépourvue de l’amour, et de l’espoir, et mélée d’une espèce de stoicisme moins imposante que celui des anciens. Il est beau de voir que les recherches métaphysiques les plus sévères nous conduisent au même but moral que le Christianisme, quoique c’est par un chemin aride, loin des sources d’eau vivante—ou, dans les paroles de David, ‘dans un désert sec et stérile où l’eau ne coule pas.’

* * * * *

_Dec. 3._—Saw the Indian Jugglers. They act on a small slightly elevated stage, surrounded by a blaze of lamps. Two are men between twenty and thirty, the other a youth of sixteen. Dressed in white, with turbans, the ease of their attitudes, and serenity of their countenances, where light and evanescent shades of melancholy and gaiety alone break the predominant expression of repose, strike a European eye as novel and pleasing. Deep thought has never contracted those brows; strong feeling has never quivered on those lips; that face is a waveless lake, sometimes gently swelling, sometimes sparkling in the sun, but never agitated with tempests, or chafing against its bounds.

In the tricks of jugglers I have small delight. I see without interest the ball under the cup, though I may have had reason to suppose it in the juggler’s hand; or the beads strung with his tongue, or the entire thread so adroitly substituted for that which has been reduced to fragments that my senses are completely deceived. I view with pain those exhibitions where skill is ever on the verge of danger; and I have a sensation of mingled disgust and horror when I see a man actually sheath in his throat a bar of steel twenty-two inches long, a quarter of an inch thick, and one broad. The prettiest part of the exhibition was a sportive manner of throwing about in all directions, with ease, grace, and skill, four bright brazen balls. It seemed like the coruscations of a firework, or as if a fallen spirit amused himself by flinging stars and meteors in the air.

All was accompanied by songs from the youngest performer, somewhat monotonous, but not unpleasing, and expressive of a sort of melancholy gaiety, if the expression may be tolerated.

TO WILLIAM LEFANU, ESQ.[52]

Dec. 15, 1813.

I have many apologies to offer for my long silence, having been occupied by arrangements relative to my son’s departure for the Hague. You know the dreary vacuity which succeeds the departure of one we love. It is rendered still more striking by the preceding bustle of preparation, and is a faint shadow of

‘That first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,’

which most of us have already experienced.

I have received no reply from the Duchess of Dorset. Retirement sadly clips one’s wings as to any power of being useful. For that purpose they certainly grow best ‘in the various bustle of resort.’ I had more influence when I less knew how to make a reasonable use of it.

Your idea that a considerable portion of eternal happiness may arise from seeing the full blow and ripe fruits of any good seed sown in this life, is extremely natural. The converse has presented itself to my imagination more than once as a just representation of ‘the worm that never dies.’

You did me the honour to ask what I thought of Kean. I saw him but once, and imperfectly, being shut up, like a mouse in a telescope, in one of the wretched private boxes, which savour more of self-denial, penance, and privation, than any views of pride or pleasure. The diminutive oval aperture at the end of our long and doleful den gave me no opportunity of seeing him well, as we were a large party, and I was too distant to judge of his countenance. Yet he delighted me in _Richard the Third_. He carries one’s views forwards and backwards as to the character, instead of confining them, like other actors, within the limits of the present hour; and he gives a breadth of colouring to his part that strongly excites the imagination. He showed me that Richard possessed a mine of humour and pleasantry, with all the grace of high breeding grafted on strong and brilliant intellect. He gave probability to the drama by throwing this favourable light on the character, particularly in the scene with Lady Anne; and he made it more consistent with the varied lot of ‘poor humanity.’ He reminded me constantly of Buonaparte—that restless quickness, that Catiline inquietude, that fearful somewhat resembling the impatience of a lion in his cage. Though I am not a lover of the drama (will you despise me for the avowal?), I could willingly have heard him repeat his part that same evening.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 15, 1813.

Both your letters reached me this evening on our return from a journey to Bath and London, which absorbed about a fortnight. I feel for the mother’s grief in losing her little blossom. ’Tis a more serious calamity than any one, except a mother, can imagine—I should have said, a _parent_, for I do believe with you, that a father often suffers quite as much. Do you remember Mrs. Grant’s stanza on the loss of her husband? What you say recalled it to my memory:—

‘I have sighed o’er the bud, I have wept o’er the blossom,
And beauty full grown ’twas my lot to deplore;
But the voice which was wont to speak peace to my bosom
Shall whisper compassion’s soft accents no more.’

There is something to me inexpressibly affecting in these lines. Pray tell me soon that your daughter continues to recover. Unless under very peculiar circumstances, the loss of an infant is much less injurious to a youthful mother than the sight of its sufferings. I cannot bear, however, to hear any one too decisive on what _may_ or _may not_ deeply wound the bosom of another. Mad. de Staël justly says, ‘_Nul a le droit de contester à un autre sa douleur_.’ There is much implied in this short sentence.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 20, 1813.

What meanness of mind it shows to fasten upon the plain person of a woman of genius, the imprudence of a wit, or the dulness of a beauty. I am very much displeased with the constant remarks on Mad. de Staël’s exterior. However, it consoles many for the thought that she will be admired when we are all forgotten. As to Canning’s conversation giving her more emotion than pleasure, it is easiest to be understood by supposing her to like him in some _nuance_ of loverly feeling. In this light there is great honesty in the confession. All eloquence creates emotion, but that emotion is pleasure; while the emotion created by the conversation of a lover may be of every shade from Stygian darkness to the most dazzling brilliancy. I am surprised that Mad. de Staël, herself the wife of a diplomat, and having lived in good company at Paris, should have _questioned_ the Regent. As you say, it is a breach of royal prerogative. But I think royalty itself readily forgives failures in etiquette, though its satellites are most indignant on the occasion. When poor Mel walked out before all the princesses of the German Empire, it almost threw some of the _vieux routiers_ into convulsions; but the persons concerned looked on it as it was, a pardonable forgetfulness, and distinguished her just as kindly after as before.

I passed a pleasant day at Mrs. ——’s. We were nearly a female party; and the only blot on the conversation was the little, mean, detracting gossip against Lady —— (who has taken Mr. Baring’s for the honeymoon) and Mrs. ——, a _ci-devant_ London _belle_ come to settle for a time at Southampton. They do not forgive the former for having a ducal coronet in prospect, nor the latter her fading advantages of person and manner, and her grown-up daughters, fine girls whom she has brought to the overstocked balls at Southampton. Lady R—— is ‘_very sorry for Miss_ B——,’ and says so as if she could Roast her. She cannot yet bring herself to call her Lady ——. It appears they were intimates at Bath.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Dec. 23, 1813.

I am a little angry with the lady who might have introduced me to your friends at Bath; but do you know I am _the less surprised_ in proportion to the years I have passed in the world; for generally speaking, people have a strange dislike to introducing their friends to each other. This is very common, and, according to Hannah More, ‘much too common to be right.’ I suspect it proceeds from the consciousness of endeavouring to be, not in the best sense of the words, ‘all things to all men,’ of acting somewhat a part, and of appearing to different friends rather what the actor thinks will please, than what he really is.... All this is pitiful: how different is my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, who is uneasy till all her friends know and like each other. What a gem is simplicity of character, and how careful in educating ought we to be to weed out all _finesse_ and management. I know children _so_ educated will often fail in politeness, till their knowledge of what gives pain or pleasure becomes extensive; but their sincerity is often amusing, even when at the expense of civility. ‘——, my dear, pray read _to yourself_.’ ‘Yes, mamma, and I wish you would _sing to yourself_.’ There are many whom I hear, to whom I should make use of this phrase, if I were not restrained by feelings _he_ cannot understand.

* * * * *

The following poems certainly do not belong to the later period
of the writer’s life, and I therefore insert them here.

How quickly life forgets the dead!
To soothe the fleeting shade
A few fond tears at first are shed,
A few slight honours paid:

The fading leaf in dim decay
Awhile we thus deplore;
But whirled by autumn’s breath away,
We think of it no more.

The parting bark thus leaves a line,
Where friends are sailing on,
A moment sees it rippling shine,
A moment sees it gone.

That heartless lesson—to forget—
Then all around us preach;
Whate’er the tie—whate’er the debt—
Oblivion they would teach.

Ye who this chilling draught infuse,
From me the cup remove;
Nor let me be condemned to lose
The memory of Love.

* * * * *

Not one who bears the name he graced,
Not one endeared by early ties,
A brother soldier here has placed
A stone to mark where Frederick lies.

Oh light of heart, of spirit free,
Consummate courage, mild, resigned,
A form and face were given to thee,
Well suited to so bright a mind.

Obedient to thy country’s call,
’Twas thine for her to yield thy breath,
Though not in battle didst thou fall,
But thine a soldier’s lingering death.

* * * * *

There is a grief that knows no end,
A sorrow time can never quell,
Barbed arrow which remorse can send
For ever in the heart to dwell:

And each offence to those we love,
How slight soe’er in others’ eye,
The never-dying worm will prove
When in the silent tomb they lie.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 3, 1814.

I am now reading Mad. de Staël’s _Allemagne_: I find it amusing to skim, but not to read attentively. The eternal comparison between France and Germany becomes tiresome, when pursued through three large octavos; and she is often unintelligible to me. Her being so, the Edinburgh Reviewers state to proceed from her superiority to her readers, alone. Dangerous doctrine for the guardians of literature to promulgate! I retain a strong prejudice in favour of those who write to be understood, as well as to be admired; and all who have stood the test of time unite clearness with eloquence. Fine writing may possess deep and refined beauties, only to be felt by superior minds, but in the same passages there is ever a plain meaning obvious to all who are fully acquainted with the language. In this it somewhat resembles true religion and the style of the sacred Volume.

Mad. de Staël’s well-bred determination never to see any but the beauties of the German authors whose works she describes, who are mostly cotemporaries, is graceful, conciliatory, and prudent; but lessens the value and interest of her discussions. The merits of an author are best understood and felt when contrasted with his defects. When his beauties alone are displayed, we have a Chinese picture, painted without shade, gaudy and obtrusive, without the softness of nature, or the mellowness of the best style of art.

TO THE SAME.

Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 16, 1814.

_Zadig_ entertained me when I read it; but I know not any author who less improves or animates than Voltaire. And I have never known any man rise above mediocrity who habitually sought amusement from that voluminous but monotonous writer; for monotonous he is, except in his tragedies. He presents only the same trite and discouraging ideas in a variety of dress. The sauce is _piquante_, but the meat detestable. ‘_Il a plus que tout le monde l’esprit que tout le monde a_,’ describes his style very exactly; nothing original, but the general pleasantry and wit of Parisian society and _Belles Lettres_ and _Esprits Forts_, concentrated and made up into packets of all sizes—compact little doses of poison in vendible and attractive forms.

I am reading Miss Seward’s _Letters_. Walter Scott, in reducing to six octavos the _twelve folio volumes_ of her own _Letters_, which she left for publication,[53] has cruelly lopped her eloquent panegyric of your mother, who is dismissed with the laconic phrase of ‘lovely and accomplished.’ So there are no further hopes of immortality from that quarter.

TO THE SAME.

Bursledon Lodge, Jan. 29, 1814.

We are still snow-bound; and if we had been a quarrelsome pair, we have had a fine opportunity, as the bad weather found us _tête-à-tête_, and after its commencement all hopes of relief were at an end. We have nothing to do but wait patiently for its close, which, after near a month, seems rapidly approaching. _Feb. 2._—The above was written a few days since. The snow is now nearly thawed, and I was delighted to see this beautiful country throw off its glaring white mask, and give us once more its own charming, varied, and expressive features.

As all the external changes of my life consist now in the books I read, I must talk to you of them. We have been amused by Colton’s _Hypocrisy_. It is a witty, entertaining production—a country cousin to _The Pursuits of Literature_—less courtly, less eloquent, less conversant with capitals and fine people, but still showing a strong family likeness.

Je relis actuellement Mad. de Sévigné, et La Fontaine. Je veux dire ses _Fables_; car on dit que ses _Contes_ ne sont pas faits pour les yeux d’une femme. Pour Mad. de Sévigné, le reproche qu’on lui fait de montrer plus d’amour pour sa fille qu’elle n’en ressentait, ou que le cœur humain n’en pouvait ressentir, me paroit très ridicule, quand j’examine mes sentiments pour vous. Ecrivez-moi promptement, je vous prie; parlez-moi, premièrement, de _vous_, en second, et en troisième lieu, de _vous_, et de _vous_. Ainsi vous êtes sûr de me faire plaisir. Avez-vous dansé, chanté, dessiné? Enfin, comment vont les beaux arts? Avez-vous fait des vers? Patinez-vous? Avez-vous fait une course en traineau? et comment trouvez-vous cet amusement? Je n’ai été en traineau qu’une fois, à Brunswick. Il m’a paru fort agréable; mais dans tout ce qui se lie avec mes souvenirs de l’Allemagne, je me soupçonne d’un peu de prévention. Il est sûr que la langue n’est pas douce, et, malgré cela, quand je l’entends par hazard et subitement, elle me fait toujours l’effet d’une musique touchante et inattendue. Je suis fâchée de vous dire, malgré cela, que, faute d’étude, je l’ai presque oubliée. J’en ai eu la preuve l’autre jour, en cherchant à retrouver dans _Werther_ une idée exprimée par Mad. de Staël.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, June 13, 1814.

Business has brought us to London; and the difficulty of procuring good apartments while the Great People were there, detained us till after their departure. My curiosity is not lively, and I made no effort to see them, except going one morning to Portsmouth to witness the _entrée_ of Alexander; which enabled me to say I had seen the _outside_ of a shabby coach containing an Emperor within. This is the ‘head and front’ of my knowledge of this last truly brilliant and heroic _spectacle_. I should have been pleased to see the King of Prussia, from my gratitude for the peculiar kindness with which I was distinguished by his charming Queen. She was the means of my taking a near view of so much Court parade as has entirely satiated my curiosity or interest on that subject.

* * * * *

_June, 1814._—Lord Nelson’s _Letters to Lady Hamilton_, though disgraceful to his principles of morality on one subject, do not appear to me, as they do to most others, degrading to his understanding. They are pretty much what every man, deeply entangled, will express, when he supposes but one pair of fine eyes will read his letters: and his sentiments on subjects unconnected with his fatal attachment are elevated—looking to his hearth and his home for future happiness; liberal, charitable, candid, affectionate, indifferent to the common objects of pursuit, and clearsighted in his general view of politics and life.

* * * * *

_July 3._—Saw the Duke of Wellington received at the opera with rapturous applause. Every eye beamed on him with delight, and cold must have been the heart which did not throb with an accelerated movement. The unanimous expression of that noble sentiment, admiration of great actions, is extremely affecting; and those indefinite sounds of exultation and applause used by men to express feelings for which words are inadequate, form part of that universal language more impressive than the speech of any individual nation.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

Bursledon Lodge, July 12, 1814.

I have just passed a pleasant fortnight in London, and went to say my prayers at St. Paul’s on the day of the Thanksgiving, where certainly the assemblage of nearly all that was dignified by rank or station in England, collected for a solemn purpose in a magnificent building, formed a fine and imposing spectacle. I met an old friend, Sir J—— D——, on the steps of the cathedral, and was surprised to see him grown old, with grey hair, red face, and a large stomach. He must have seen greater changes in me; but I always think I am to find people where I left them. However, for what _he_ has lost in the gifts of nature, there was some little compensation in those of fortune, for he was splendidly decorated with stars, ribbons, &c., and attended by smiling aide-de-camps and fierce grenadiers. He was really very glad to see me. I also met on the same spot Lady Frances Beresford, whom I had not seen since she was nearly as young as the daughter who then hung on her arm; and her I did not recollect, nor she me, till I spoke; and then we began to stare and wonder at each other. How few have honesty to say that such meetings are at first unpleasant.

Had you received my former letters, you would have known that your adding German to the list of your acquirements gives me great pleasure. En apprenant les langues on exerce et on fortifie son esprit. On élargit le cercle de ses idées, et on les rend plus nettes et plus précises. Rien n’est plus faux que l’opinion banale qu’en étudiant les langues on ne s’occupe que des mots. C’est une des phrases, inventée par l’envie, et mise en crédit par la paresse. D’ailleurs il y a des trésors dans la littérature allemande; et le peu que nous en connaissons en Angleterre, n’est précisément que ce qu’il faut pour nous en donner une idée très injuste.

Enfin vous avez vu l’Empereur. Rien dans les personnages impériaux et royaux qui nous ont visités, n’était si extraordinaire, que la curiosité qu’a témoignée toute l’Angleterre de les voir, de leur parler, de les _toucher_. Comme Shakespeare dans _The Tempest_ a bien remarqué ce trait national! Cherchez le passage. L’Empereur a été, ou a paru, charmé de tout le monde, et tout le monde charmé de lui. Il s’est plu particulièrement dans la société de quelques membres de l’Opposition, et il a dit, ‘Ils sont les meilleurs hommes du monde, et _je veux avoir une Opposition_ aussi, quand je serai de retour en Russie.’ J’aime bien cette phrase d’un Autocrat. C’est vraiment comique. Au reste, il s’est bien laissé voir, entendre, et toucher. Il a embrassé une trentaine de dames à Portsmouth, qui se promenaient la nuit pour voir les illuminations; j’ai vu le mari d’une de ces personnes favorisées, qui était aussi le frère de deux autres également distinguées, et il a dit:—‘Indeed, it was very condescending of the Emperor and the Regent. I am sure it was a thing we never could have expected.’ Au reste, le Régent est charmé de leur départ.

TO THE SAME.

Bursledon Lodge, July 28, 1814.

Votre dernière lettre m’a fait rire et pleurer. Il y a peu de personnes dans le monde qui possèdent le don d’exciter _ou_ les ris _ou_ les pleurs; encore moins qui ont le double talent que vous avez montré. Votre dessein d’étudier le Français dans toutes ses nuances me fait plaisir, et comme nous oublions rarement les fautes que nous avons commises nous-mêmes contre le génie d’une langue, si quelqu’un les relève, je vais chercher votre dernière lettre (qui est déjà serrée parmi les _bijoux_ les plus précieux de Cornélie) pour voir si je puis en découvrir.

... To perfect yourself in French, I would advise you to read Bruyère and Mad. de Sévigné with great attention; because their style has something of life and vivacity; which fastens itself on the mind, and forces one in some measure to become intimate with the idioms of the language. It does more good to meditate a page of a good close writer than to run over a volume of an indifferent one. The common opinion is against me. Many think the more _words_ they read in a given time, the more they will advance in a language; but I believe in this as in every other study, it is not the quantity, but the quality of what we read, and that meditation by which we make it our own, that improves. I am now skimming Mason’s _Life of Gray_; for you know late rising, the children, natural indolence, and the inclination for family chat, leave me no leisure for aught but skimming. I was pleased with Gray’s opinion of Rousseau’s _Emile_. It confirms my own, and gives me in one condensed paragraph the result of the opinions I had long formed on the subject of this singular book.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Aug. 3, 1814.

We are again alone, living like those ‘in the world before the flood’—gardening, admiring the flowers and the clouds, conversing, singing, playing with our children, hiding from the visits of our neighbours, and devising excuses to avoid their hot, ceremonious, long, and fine dinners, surrounded by people dressed out as for an assembly;—‘for, my dear ma’am, this is _a delightful_ neighbourhood; we never dine at home except with company;’—something equivalent to this eulogium I have often heard pronounced here.

I am very far from despising either the fine arts or their effects in awakening the dormant seeds of genius; and I believe _The Society of Friends_ profit in their manners and enjoyments by the insensible and general atmosphere of those arts they contemn. But I am sure, as individuals, your self-denial in this matter causes your expenses to flow in streams more conducive to the comfort and advantage of yourselves and others than ours do. In comparison with the greater number, _we_ are peculiarly reasonable on this subject (am I not like the Pharisee?), yet I am often surprised to see how much we sacrifice at the shrine of frivolity, fancied pleasures, and _beaux arts_.

I saw not Mad. de Staël, who has left an unpleasing impression in London,—except on a few, worth all the rest. People expected her to be well dressed, well-looking, soft-mannered, refined; making no allowance for the effects of study, composition, energy, anxiety, and all the disturbances which must affect a woman whose life has been employed in the pursuit of literary fame.

TO CHARLES M. ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

Bursledon Lodge, Aug., 1814.

I believe my Baron Breteuil’s maxim is just for common minds, ‘_il faut savoir s’ennuyer_.’ This is necessary to them, because if they do not _ennuyer_ themselves, they will often do worse. But it is, like most of his maxims, quite unfit for the uses of a superior character. Such ought not to _ennuyer_ themselves. If they really find their resources fail, they should be satisfied something is wrong in them or the life they have adopted, and should struggle to release themselves from a state so foreign to their well-being. You possess a love of study, and the four golden keys which will introduce you to the most brilliant assembly of the dead—_Greek_, _Latin_, _English_, _French_. The first introduces you to those who have instructed, the next, to those who have conquered, mankind; the third, to her who has been the depository of true religion, pure morality, refined taste; and the fourth, to one who, among many striking advantages, may consider it as her proudest boast, that she is entitled in some things to be the rival of England herself.

I knew Lord Wellington in my youth; that is to say, he has often dined with me in Henrietta-street and at the Park, but I was so reserved at that time that we never exchanged six words, as he was also reserved, except to those who made the first advances. However, as he has passed some time as my guest in the country besides these casual meetings, I should not feel the least reluctance at any time in writing a letter of introduction for you to him.

I go on Tuesday next to Cheltenham. How much I shall miss you, and I shall often think of our lost friend, Mrs. ——, whom I could not but like, spite of the pains many people took to prove to me my liking was not built on a good foundation. How foolish, by the bye, are all such pains! There are two ways of considering everything and everybody (if we lay aside the grand questions of religion and morality). Even your friend, whom you have lately described as _faisant les délices de la société_ by his musical talents and other accomplishments, I have just heard described as a most ridiculous, frivolous, tiresome coxcomb; _ainsi va le monde_. The mania for going to France is spreading rapidly. You know you have infected me by a touch of the pen. Has the last novel of Lady Morgan (_née_ Miss Owenson) reached the Hague? Mr. Lefanu saw a letter from Miss Edgeworth to her ladyship, in which she says it is _glorious_ for Ireland to have produced such a work. Strong language when applied to a novel. I should have thought it too forcible if addressed even to Fielding or Richardson.

I am very grateful to the Duchess of Brunswick for her recollection, and can never forget the kindness with which she honoured me at Brunswick. Tell her so, if a proper opportunity should offer. Her character and abilities rendered her kindness a real distinction. The more you see of her, the more you will value her _esprit_, and her natural, easy, and pleasing manners.

We are reading Miss Edgeworth’s diffuse and wire-drawn novel, called _Patronage_, which is much below her ability and literary place, but has been hurried off from a good family motive—that of assisting to provide for the fatherless infants of her late brother—such, at least, is the report.

* * * * *

The letter which follows is the first in date of a very few
copies which I possess of letters, or parts of letters,
addressed by my Mother to Miss Agar, sister of the late Lord
Clifden, one of her oldest, and, beyond the circle of her own
family, by far her dearest friend. Their correspondence, which
was constant, had begun some twenty years earlier. The half of
the correspondence which is of no service to me I possess; but
the other half, I fear, has long since perished.

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

Cheltenham, Sept. 1, 1814.

We are packed into Pine Cottage. It abuses the cottage privilege of being small and simple. One says at first, ‘Dear, what a charming little spot,’ and enjoys one’s own good sense in being easily pleased. One remarks with how little space the real wants of man are contented, and one is tempted to criticize palaces. But in a few hours the philosophical fit subsides, and one wants more space and more convenience.

I think with you it was a cruel _persiflage_ in Lord Byron to produce _Jacky_ as an attendant foot-page on his lofty and vigorous production. The reviewers once placed him and Rogers on a level. This must have been his motive. ‘It was the smile that withered to a sneer.’ You have probably observed that one of the leading features in this tale seems suggested by Falkland’s revenge on one who had insulted him, and whom he suffered not to live to tell the tale. Lara’s merciless desire to wreak his _cruelty_ (for he has not even the poor excuse of _revenge_) on a fallen enemy, ranks him in the worst class of bad men. It is extraordinary that Lord Byron should so often waste his admirable powers in celebrating the unnatural, and, thank Heaven, the unfrequent, union of guilt and genius; and should forget that the province of poetry is to elevate, soothe, or amend the heart.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Cheltenham, Sept. 8, 1814.

Your account of the resigned and ancient pair, who have borne affliction with so good a grace, is one of those tonics which strengthen the mind, and assist in repelling the contagious air of general society, where one of the great objects aimed at is the exclusion of all that can remind us of ‘the changes and chances of this mortal life.’

You are kind in wishing us in Ireland. A superior education for our children, the power of enjoying all the innocent pleasures of life without injuring _their_ future prospects by expense, and my own health, all conspire to detain us here. We leave no gap, and interrupt no course of duty. No deserted mansion claims us within its ruined walls; no ancient followers look in vain for our protection. Had my husband been an elder brother, our case would have been different. As it is, we have acted from serious, and I hope conscientious, motives. Setting our own case aside, nothing has been more mistaken by the friends of Ireland than the effects of the occasional residence of some of her children in the sister country. Who are most anxious for her prosperity? With some brilliant exceptions, we must say, Those who have mixed with English society, who have visited England, witnessed the humanity of her landlords, the prosperity of her peasantry, the smiling neatness of her cottages. To improve a country by forbidding her inhabitants to know by experience what is done in those foremost in the race of virtue and civilization, is a solecism. Already has much been done by the infusion of English society. All seem aware of the benefits arising from the interchange of the militia. Is it amongst the lower ranks alone that acquaintance with a superior tone of morals, manners, and knowledge is to prove beneficial? Allowing that absentees are truants, will _lecturing_ bring them home? All prudent wives know the inefficacy of the prescription. This does not apply to your kind wishes. You never lectured any one, yet I believe you have made many converts.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ., THE HAGUE.

Cheltenham, Sept. 8, 1814.

This place is as full as possible—crowds of independent men, who seem to keep aloof from the women—of old ladies who, after a life of gallantry, come here to lose themselves in a crowd; and of young ones, many of whom seem eager in the pursuit of matrimony. You do not tell me whether you sing, draw, or write verses. I am idleness itself, in spite of my early rising, as to everything but books; and though I do not _study_, I contrive to _read_ some hours every day. I have just read _A World without Souls_. The idea is well conceived, but the work is but indifferently executed; and contains an attack on the principles of the useful and venerable Paley, which I could wish spared. I have also read Montgomery’s _World before the Flood_, in which are some beautiful passages; but the dead weight of a dull and heavy story will, I fear, sink the whole into oblivion, in spite of the charms of the poetry. Lord Byron’s _Lara_, an interesting _vaurien_, and Mr. Rogers’s _Jaqueline_, an insipid shepherdess, who is bound up and introduced to the public with this discordant mate, have also formed part of my studies, relieved by the agreeable flippancy of Lady Morgan’s _O’Donnell_. Byron certainly persuaded Rogers to allow their poems to see the light together, in order to prove the immense distance between a pair whom the reviewers had lately bracketed together.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Bursledon Lodge, Sept. 29, 1814.

Your kind letter found me reposing at home after a pleasant visit of three weeks to Cheltenham—that delightful spot which unites all an invalid can desire, in pure air, beautiful scenery, fine climate, easy habits; and is ornamented by the most pleasing style of villa architecture, cheerful, light, and airy, something between the cottage and the _maisonnette_, sprinkled in all directions through one continued garden.

In our way home we passed a day at Gloucester, and heard a morning concert of sacred music, given for a charitable purpose, in the beautiful cathedral. These music meetings are the most thoroughly national amusement we have. Polished, pure, and dignified, they owe nothing to the glare of tapers, the false spirits of the evening hour, the splendour of ornaments, or any theatric illusion. Handel’s _Dead March in Saul_ was singularly affecting. The soft sounds of wind instruments floating through the lofty roof with the most plaintive sweetness, interrupted at intervals by the double-drum, echoing, reverberating, and dying away along the aisles, like cannon among distant hills, were at once awful and pathetic. Braham’s performance of _Jephtha’s Lamentation_ is one of the finest pieces of tragic singing in our time, and combines every excellency music can possess.

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

Bursledon Lodge, Oct., 1814.

If I did not speedily reply to a letter so full of anxiety for my good spirits, I should be a most _undutiful_ mother. Some may contest the propriety of the epithet, but I maintain it. There is nothing for which I feel more obliged than a desire that I should enjoy that prime blessing, cheerfulness, so interwoven with my original character, that, when deprived of it, I appear in the eyes of those who love me to be not myself. Many friends are desirous we should enjoy the physical goods of life. It is only real affection and superior intelligence that look to one’s feelings; or, indeed, are fully aware of the _spirit_ of Mrs. Sullen’s reply, when her husband reproaches her for being discontented amidst all the goods of fortune—‘What, sir, do you take me for a charity child, to sit down contented with meat, drink, and clothes? There are certain pretty things called pleasures.’ Mrs. Sullen not being a very correct person, we must reject her idea of pleasure, and adopt one more refined.

Do not you underrate _The Corsair_ in not admiring the description it gives of strong and tender feelings? Except in _Paradise Lost_ and _Gertrude of Wyoming_, I know not where conjugal affection is more beautifully described than in the character of the Corsair; and his sufferings in the dungeon are a most spirited Salvator Rosa sketch.

Pray have you ever read _Nugæ Antiquæ_, some preserved, others written, by Sir John Harrington, a godson and favourite of Queen Elizabeth’s? Much amusement may be culled from the second and third volumes. With your views and intentions you should read original papers, as well relative to the private characters as the remarkable actions of those who make a prominent appearance in history. The details respecting Queen Elizabeth are particularly amusing; and Harrington’s wit and humour throw considerable _agrément_ on every subject. When you meet Mrs. More’s _Hints for the Education of a Princess_, read the _Historical Reflections_. Those respecting princes who have obtained the title of Great, are admirable. Voltaire throws so much glare on the character of Louis the Fourteenth, that it refreshes one’s sight to look at him through the spectacles of sober morality.