Chapter VI (3)

The _Gazette_ of to-day is to contain the fate of the first Drawing-room. I have heard it is to be without hoops and without men—a face without nose and without eyes—but the changes of mind at the Great House are so rapid that impatient gossip toils after them in vain. Lady C. says that ladies shall walk at the Coronation, ministers say they shall not; and these two resolves are changed night and morning. We are amazingly like the Court of France in the later days of Louis the Fourteenth. There is the same extensive influence of favour in all directions; the same universal and avowed cupidity, the same delight in luxury, the same dangers and the same blindness, and the same public display of devotion.

I went yesterday to Newgate, to see Mrs. Fry’s performance. I by no means wish to underrate her merits by the phrase. The same lips which said, ‘Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,’ have also said, ‘Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick;’ leaving the heart at liberty to follow either precept, as it conscientiously judges one or other most useful at the time; thus proving in this instance, as in so many others, that the Gospel is ‘the law of liberty.’

Miss Hewitt, Lady Jane Peel, and I, set out at ten for Newgate; where a stonework of fetter over the door told us we had arrived after a twenty minutes’ drive. Two fat and jolly men received us in a sort of office, and civilly consigned us to a maid-servant, who led us up two narrow and steep flights of stairs to a small homely room, in the middle of which, her back to the door, Mrs. Fry sat at a table, with books and papers before her. The female convicts, I suppose about sixty in number, faced her on rows of benches, raised as in the gallery of a theatre. Opposite to these were two or three rows for the visitors, and a single row on each side, all as full as possible. As we entered, we were slightly named to her, and slightly acknowledged. The smell was oppressive, and the heat unpleasant, but this was instantly forgotten in the interest of the scene. The convicts first drew my attention. They were of decent appearance and deportment, habited like the lowest class of servants. They were singularly plain, but most of them in the prime or vigour of life, not one very old woman; and two had children, whom they nursed. Among the visitors I saw a few of my acquaintance, and some persons of note.

After a short silence Mrs. Fry read, in a soft, low, silvery tone the fourth chapter of the Ephesians, with perfect intelligence and expressive sweetness. She then paused, and explained what she thought wanted elucidation in a few simple well-chosen words. Two men of the Society of Friends spoke a few words of exhortation. She then read a Psalm, and, I think, did not say anything in explanation; but she knelt down and commenced a prayer for comfort to the unhappy convicts, and spiritual blessings for them, for us, and for all. This prayer was chanted in a way, I am told, peculiar to the Society of Friends. I did not like it, with all the advantages of Mrs. Fry’s sweet voice and musical skill. It is not a regular tune; the words rise a few notes in the scale in regular progression, and fall again to the same place, but never descend lower or change their order. Many words, of course, sometimes are given to one note, and the long-drawn emphasis sometimes laid on ‘and,’ and other equally insignificant words, was disagreeable to my ear. On the whole, it affected my nerves unpleasantly, and wanted the solemn unction of the human speaking voice. Music ought to be very fine when we address the Deity; even then it seems more suitable for repeating, or dwelling on, our petitions, or for praise and gratitude, than for humble, deep, deprecatory prayer.

The convicts now left the room. A subscription followed; and Mrs. Fry offered to show us the jail. I went part of the way; but as we seemed to walk through narrow, dark, and winding passages cut out of the cold rock, my courage failed. Thought dwelt intensely on those that went in that way, never to return but to death or banishment, and I felt that I was exposing myself perhaps to illness, when uncalled on by any duty. I prevailed on a good, kind Quaker friend to be my Orpheus, and was very glad to see the light of day once more.

It was a fine lesson of humility and gratitude. The doubt whether in similar circumstances one might not have been more guilty than the worst of these women, the reflection how deeply they might have been assailed by the temptations of want, added to every other infirmity of our nature, and how bitterly they might expiate in this world the offences of which they had repented, all pressed on the mind at once.

_June 13._ Mrs. Fry and all the remarkables have faded like stars at sunrise. The Queen, the Queen alone fills up the London show-box, and frights our Court from its propriety. _Figurez-vous_, a woman still handsome, fresh and vigorous as at fifteen, attended but by an alderman, a female friend, a page, and half a dozen servants, causing the stoutest hearts to quail; making necessary nightly patrols of cavalry, and an increased military force in the capital; terrifying the Cabinet Ministers from their business in the House of Commons; occupying all tongues, all pens, all eyes, if they could but obtain a sight; keeping the King in check, and finally being the innocent cause of your mother’s windows being broken by the mob, as a little epilogue to their more serious performance at Lady Hertford’s.

* * * * *

_May 26, 1820._—Mr. Grattan has taken leave of all his friends, and resigned himself to that departure from his life and his fame which he is aware must shortly take place, in the due course of a painful complaint. He is perfectly simple, affectionate, and sublime. On the confines of another world, he still enjoys the best this can give—in the company and cares of his wife and his four children, all warm-hearted, loving, and intellectual. But he has not lain down on a sofa to close his eyes in apathy, and indolently attend the stroke of fate. He feels a desire of dying in his vocation, and employing his last breath in pleading the cause of his Roman Catholic countrymen. His great mind still connects itself with earth by the link of patriotism, though all other ties are dissolving or dissolved.

* * * * *

_June 23._—Heard the tumultuous shouting of a well-dressed and exulting crowd on a glimpse of the Queen, who appeared once on her balcony on her return from an airing. There was pleasure and triumph in the sound; but it was not unmingled with a stern consciousness of power. It filled me with mournful anticipations. The King, his ministers, his courtiers, and the whole phalanx of the supporters of Administration are on one side, and the Queen and people on the other. In these shouts I heard the voice of a lion; pleased, but still a lion—the murmurs of the sea; gentle, but so are the precursors of a storm. Some say dislike to the King creates the greatest part of the interest in favour of the Queen. I do not think so ill of the English character. I believe it proceeds from the immutable sense of justice.

TO MRS. WILLIAM TRENCH.

July, 1820.

I send you, as you desire, a few of the _Monodies_,[63] and am delighted that you do not think me so weak as to look on the criticism of a friend as a _mishap_. What you say is perfectly true. It _is_ very inferior to the four beautiful lines quoted in _The Morning Chronicle_, of course very inferior to the subject; and it is even inferior to the author; as I have never written anything on so good a theme with so little originality or effect. However, had it been much worse, I should have wished to strew on the grave of our patriot a weed from the desert, if I could not procure a flower; a pebble, if I could not bring a gem; and I was foolish enough to limit myself in time, being desirous to finish it immediately, after the thought occurred that it might be printed for the day of the funeral.

I should write much better if I had ever been criticized. The heaths, and many other flowers, require wind (not merely air, but blasts of wind) as well as sunshine; and it would have been both a stimulus and an improvement, if I had ever heard the voice of truth. But alas! that was impossible; and my little attempts _can_ have no merit but that of showing to those who love me, what I might have done, had I not been deprived of the advantages of classical learning; had I not been flattered in my youth, as one to whom mental acquirements were unnecessary; had I not been the fond mother of nine children, and the troublesome wife of one whom I do not much like to have out of my sight;—four very unfavourable circumstances to the cultivation of any art or science whatever. I have said more on this subject than it is worth; but when I write to those I love or esteem, I am naturally diffuse; beware, therefore, of beginning a correspondence with

Your affectionate sister.

* * * * *

I do not know whether the two following stanzas were intended
to form part of a larger whole, or are complete in themselves.
They are, to my mind, the highest which the writer accomplished
in verse; at all events, the highest which has come under my
eye.

Their eyes have met. The irrevocable glance
Stamped on the fantasy of each a face,
That neither weal nor woe, nor meddling chance,
Shall ever pluck from its warm resting-place:
There it shall live, and keep its youthful grace;
Time shall not soil a single glossy tress,
Nor lightest wrinkle on that surface trace;
In life, in death, remains the deep impress,
Through all eternity endures to curse or bless—

Eternity! sweet word to lover’s ear,
For love alone unfolds a sudden view
Of thy long vista and immortal year;
All other passions do some end pursue,
And in fruition die—to live anew,
And seek the food that kills. Love’s finer frame
Turns all to aliment and honey-dew;
Of past, of future, hardly knows the name,
Exists self-poised, and wishes all its days the same.

* * * * *

_Aug. 31, 1820, Tunbridge Wells._—Safe at the Sussex Hotel, after going down such hills! The road most beautiful from luxuriance of vegetation and display of the finest trees, chiefly elms, with all their varieties of wreathed roots, mossy or shining stems, and picturesque forms. All around shines with neatness, high finish, and an air of prosperity. Orchard gardens and hop-grounds meet us at every step, yet not so as to detract from the general air of freedom and nature in the landscape.

* * * * *

_Sept. 5._—This pretty spot is just as I left it, except that formerly all strove to meet, and now all seek to avoid each other. Refinement, an increasing taste for domestic life, purer morals, poverty, may all have some share in this change. It is no matter of regret to me, whose highest pleasures are within my own dear family circle. Yes, I forget another novelty, a clean, square, creditable brick-built Methodist chapel, where I heard a sermon last night that in point of matter was not unworthy of any pulpit in Great Britain. The manner was less pleasing, yet there was an air of sincerity which secured sympathy and attention. The extemporaneous prayers and singing were also good. On the whole, there was not a peg whereon to hang a fault; and I hope I do not derogate from Church of Englandism by saying I thought it a very suitable, rational, and pleasant way of passing an hour, and one calculated to awaken and confirm religious feelings.

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

Tunbridge Wells, Sept. 10, 1820.

On the day of our eclipse I was pleased at thinking that you were certainly looking on the same object, engaged in the same contemplations, as your mother. The weather was so fine here that we saw it to perfection. The diminution of light was apparent, and its quality seemed altered, every object assuming an appearance comparatively wan and sickly, the sky becoming of a colder blue, tending to a dull purple, and the leaves of the trees of a more yellowish green. I also thought they seemed to droop, though in a degree scarcely observable, except to a very close attention. The thermometer sunk from 78 to 73. Pray what were the peculiar appearances you observed? I should like the opinion of one who is so good a judge of colours, and of the _savans_ of Sweden.

What papers do you take at present? The Queen’s trial was a wonderful harvest for the newspapers. I despair of giving you any idea how much England is occupied and agitated by this trial. The feeling it excites beats like a pulse through the whole kingdom. I cannot help thinking it is possible the Lords may throw out the Bill. This supposition is contrary to all common calculations, founded on the usual march of self-interest. But these are no common times; and the extraordinarily strong expression of feeling out of doors, the character of the witnesses, so exceedingly low, the improbable nature of their evidence, some touch of the immutable principles of justice, the divisions in the Cabinet, and many other working causes, may possibly effect this.

_Sept. 14, Brentford._ This letter was begun four days ago, and I am so far on my way to town. I have been amused, while I sat alone in the small, dull, square drawing-room of this inn, how many bookish associations this town excites. First, enter the Two Kings of Brentford, smelling to one nosegay; and Prince Prettyman, dressed in one boot, attended by their whole party, ushered in by Bayes and his friends. Next comes Pope with his imitation of Shenstone; and, lastly, the venerable Mrs. Trimmer, with all her numerous productions, domestic and literary, followed by a troop of children whom she has saved from tears and punishment by her elementary books, and bearing in her hand that sacred Volume, she so well explained, and so diligently observed. With all this good company I could well bear to wait for dinner, even if I had not the great pleasure of writing to you with that freedom from interruption one can never enjoy so fully as at an inn.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Chessel, Oct., 1820.

I am happy here, but I have to reproach myself with talking too much, and also with taking possession too much of the Reverend John Owen, and sometimes even _differing from him_—supposed to be the author of _The World without Souls_, attributed to Cunningham, and Secretary from the commencement of the Bible Society—orator, poet, musician, singer—father-in-law of young Wilberforce, friend of Porteus and old Wilberforce—and the very best talker of religion I have yet heard. I do not mean that he is not a doer also, but he has the happiest power of introducing religious topics without gloom and without affectation. I mean to endeavour to renew his acquaintance, and extend it to his wife and daughter.

* * * * *

_Nov. 7, 1820._—I have just finished Southey’s _Life of Wesley_, a book one cannot read without some religious improvement; but what a trimmer poor Southey is, bowing to right and left! I have looked into Croker’s translation of Fontaine’s _Fables_. I grieve to see my dear old French friend in a masquerade Court dress, a Windsor uniform. It is a coarse and bad translation. He leaves out the sweetness, _finesse_, and simplicity of his author, and substitutes a vulgar jollity of phrase, quite intolerable on comparison with the original.

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

Elm Lodge, Dec. 20, 1820.

Having just sent an excuse to Mrs. F., who annually collects her neighbours on the shortest day of the year, I am inclined to criticize the habit of keeping in villas and small country houses all festivities for Christmas, _because_ the very wealthy, who have immense houses, and whose large parties remain under the same roof during that foggy period, fix on it for their amusements. It is a misfortune when they who are neither wealthy nor great ape the habits of our Crœsuses and grandees. There is then no proportion nor keeping, and little friendly society, in their proceedings.

Lord —— is in the same state; but enjoys his existence more than one would think possible. Yet he loves not reading, and is debarred most of the pleasures of a good dinner, being forbidden meat and wine. His wife, his children, his garden, his wheelchair, his newspaper—and his loyalty, evinced in hating the Queen, the Radicals, the press, the parish paupers, and the Whigs, fill up his day; as snip-snap-snorum does his evening.

You have heard of the burning of Wootton, the _paterno nido_ of Lady Carysfort, just fitted up for Lord and Lady Temple; nothing saved but her jewels. Lady —— tells me that the poor people of the neighbourhood, after making the most extraordinary efforts to save the house, which was completely burned in three hours, actually sat down and cried over the ruins. Her sweet mind is fully convinced of this, and, indeed, so was I, till I began to write it. But putting a thing on paper is a sort of test of its probability; and now I begin to doubt a little so feudal a proof of attachment on this side of the water. Pass but the Channel or the Tweed, and it would be more probable.

TO JOHN BULLAR, ESQ., SOUTHAMPTON.

Elm Lodge, Jan., 1821.

Accept my best thanks for your valuable little volume. I read the greatest part of it to my family circle last night. My four boys were interested, and my nephew took the book the moment I laid it down, in order to become better acquainted with the whole of its contents. It gives a most pleasing view of the power of religion, and is the more valuable from the incidental lights it throws on various points of our faith.

If I might, unblamed, be permitted to use the phrase on so serious a subject, I should confess I was very much gratified by its being written in such _exquisite good taste_ that neither the scoffer, nor the sceptic, nor the most fastidious man of the world, could find aught to ridicule. This may seem absurd, but I know too well the power of ridicule in obstructing the path of truth, not to rejoice when I see every door shut against so dangerous an intruder; and we must acknowledge this is not always the case in narratives drawn up with the best intentions.

... I am pleased at finding that so admirable a person as Isaac Watts was born in this neighbourhood, which I consider as my adopted home; and I wish you would, on a second edition, interweave a few more anecdotes of his private life. No one scarcely in these tempestuous and exciting times will read the biography of Isaac Watts as a single work; but a little more knowledge of him would be acceptable to all, since his hymns are equally prized by all gradations of intellect, and are repeated equally in the palace and the cottage.

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

Elm Lodge, Jan. 20, 1821.

Did you not think very differently on the subject which still occupies all England, when you first mentioned it to me, from what you now conceive? You perceive the reports on which you and many other sensible and impartial people founded their opinion, were _raised_ by those who afterwards affected to inquire into them. Some of them were so exquisitely and ridiculously improbable, that it shows how ill those who speak untruth most intrepidly know how to manage their falsehoods; and one begins to believe Mad. de Genlis, who says a person very little used to deception will carry it on with ten times the skill of a hackneyed deceiver. The former is more cautious, and weaves both a finer and a stronger web. When I was told _she_ had danced, entirely disrobed, on the top of a house in Italy, I _did_ say, to the astonishment of a circle of women, that I could not have believed it had I seen it. I should more easily have supposed some one had been hired to personate _her_; for there would have been temptation for an odious and disagreeable and vile act; while in her case all the temptation was on the other side.

You will be pleased to hear good accounts of my health. Meanwhile, the trapdoor is opening on all sides.... If we did not sometimes see it open thus suddenly, we should quite forget it was ever to unclose for ourselves. But these are private losses. The good, the benevolent, the expansive-hearted William Parnell is gone—the friend of Ireland, the friend of the poor. I have seldom regretted so much any one of whom I knew so little; but that little was always interesting. I first saw him in attendance on a sick sister at Shrewsbury, resisting all the efforts made to induce him to relax in his care of her, though eagerly sought for by all whose acquaintance was thought desirable. I then met him, the friend of Mrs. Fry, the advocate of education, the earnest endeavourer to ameliorate the fate of Ireland; and I trust he will have his reward. In general, I avoid making my letter an obituary. Am I right? am I wrong?

TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.

Elm Lodge, Feb. 26, 1821.

My —— is come to the second mother-loving age. About eight or nine, when they wish to go everywhere, and when dogs and ponies, &c. &c., engage a part of their affections, their tenderness diminishes for a mother, whose fears lead her frequently to oppose their pleasure. But about fifteen, when the mind makes a rapid expansion, and independence of her alarms is pretty nearly established, they become as fond of her as ever, until about twenty, when _other creatures_ disturb them, and again lessen the force of early attachments.

_The Abbot_ tired me. Why did Walter Scott try to pourtray female pertness and violence in the four seasons of life? The young lady is a flippant miss; Mary Queen of Scots—in defiance of history—Mary, whose courtesy and sweetness won all hearts, and induced many who would have resisted her beauty to overlook her faults, is caustic, satirical, and full of repartee; the _ci-devant_ lady who is her guardian is as ill-tempered as any ill-received and faded toast of our own time; and the old nurse is full of vulgar violence. Perhaps I am not sufficiently indulgent; for I have ceased to be much amused by novels.

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

Elm Lodge, March, 1821.

Your last letter was so cheering I am living on it still. It left a glow in spite of its description of nights two-and-twenty hours in length, and of the pleasures of sliding on ice, and the necessity of being furred up to the tip of the nose; and this warmth will last, I hope, till the arrival of your next. I cannot help wishing that in your next interval of leisure you would give us a little volume. A tale, of which the scene was laid in Sweden, would have novelty for us—a courtship in a _traîneau_—ministers tumbling in the hay—and then the delights of your polar day—

‘The snow-clad offspring of the sun,
A polar day that knows no night,
Nor sunset, till its summer’s gone,
Its sleepless summer of long light.’

Do you receive the novels of the day? _Il faut que ceux qui veulent écrire des romans se dépêchent._ Only Walter Scott’s, and those written by persons distinguished some other way, are read; and these are read more in the spirit of criticism and cavil than admiration. While Belzoni is descending into the catacombs, and Parry is penetrating to the pole, while history wears all the attributes of romance, and chemistry all the brilliancy of fiction, few people have patience to follow the adventures of beauties, robbers, and outlaws.

My black seal is for Lady D——. Her cards were out for an assembly, when she died, with very little suffering of mind or body. I am sure the Bath ladies who lost her party, think themselves most to be pitied, and somewhat ill-used.... Ladies are seldom kind to their _dames de compagnie_. Why is it that, except in motherly and sisterly connexion, women appear so much to dislike each other? As Lady D. seemed disposed to live for ever, being eighty-four, without infirmity, and enjoying all the amusements of youth, in Bath, that Paradise of female longevity, I am sure I wish for my sake she had. I shall miss her kind and laudatory manner to me and mine, her approving peep through her spy-glass, and all her cheerful, good-humoured, civil ways.

TO MRS. —— (a god-daughter).

April, 1821.

Excuse me for not having sooner expressed the pleasure I felt in hearing of your being well, and mother of a fine little boy. This is the most delightful period of our existence; and when one forgets the little anxieties about a baby’s health, and the transient sufferings attendant on their birth, often does one look back on those hours when infants were blossoming around one, with regret at their having so swiftly glided away. I believe it is the happiest time of every woman’s life, who has affectionate feelings, and is blessed with healthy and well-disposed children. I know, at least, that neither the gaieties and boundless hopes of early life, nor the more grave pursuits and deeper affections of later years, are by any means comparable in my recollections with the serene yet lively pleasure of seeing my children—my beautiful, affectionate, and sprightly children—playing on the grass, enjoying their little temperate supper, or repeating ‘with holy look’ their simple prayers, and undressing for bed, growing prettier for every part of their dress they took off, and at last lying down, all freshness and love, in complete happiness, and an amicable contest for mamma’s last kiss.

* * * * *

_May 16, 1821._—Saw the Exhibition.

_Guess my name_ (Wilkie)—interior of a cottage—a woman in a cloak, with a charming sweetness and cordial hilarity of countenance, such as reminded one of Mrs. Jordan, has placed her hands over the eyes of a peasant seated at a table, and is _seen_ to utter these words; an old man at the door, who seems to have followed her, enjoys the incident, as do three or four other spectators. It is a sweet picture, and awakens kindly unsophisticated affections.

A charming _Eastern Landscape_, by Daniel, with beautiful figures—water still and transparent—a house on a hill, catching every hope of a breeze—scattered palm-trees and sufficient vegetation to refresh the imagination under the evident heat of the atmosphere—some lovely young women of the labouring class, undepressed by its effects, engaged in light occupation on the brink of the river.

A lovely miniature in enamel of the late Dowager Duchess of Leinster, reading.

A head of Walter Scott, with a smile of the most playful humour. Another of Wordsworth, a fine pensive face, but nothing of the lackadaisical manner report has attributed to the lake poet—both by Chantrey.

_Belshazzar’s Feast_ (Martin). It speaks strongly to the imagination, and is a powerful creation of light, and a new language in painting. The idea is fine, and I augur much from Martin, who seems to have a powerful fancy and a noble daring.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

London, June 2, 1821.

I have always avoided making my letters bulletins, as I wish neither to give pain nor to excite _ennui_; but I cannot conceal from you the opinion of Sir Henry Halford, justified by the success of his prescriptions, that I shall completely recover my health. My size is undiminished; it makes me very uncourtly in appearance, and is the despair of some of my refined friends; but is the less alarming, as it is not the fulness of relaxation, but such as would do honour to a dairy-maid or farmer’s wife; and is convenient in one respect, for it serves, without the odium of singularity, as an apology for my being far behind my cotemporaries in variety of dress and quantity of trimmings. When gently reproved on that subject, I always say, ‘Oh, you know my size;’ and the decorated lecturer gives a pitying glance at _me_, an approving one at _herself_, and becomes silently absorbed in the contemplation of her flounces. The necessity of pleasing _him_ is sometimes hinted at on these occasions. Poor souls! they know not how secure I am. You must know that in this town _time_ brings no relaxation to the vigour of dress. On the contrary, while some of the young have good taste enough to trust to their charms for a few years, and are distinguished by their simplicity, scarcely any of their mothers resign, or cease accumulating, ornaments, till they exchange them for the winding-sheet. An awful instance of this passion occurred in my neighbourhood. A person whose beauty had raised her from the rank of milliner to that of wealthy widow, in her last will ordered that she should be dressed for the grave in all her laces and diamonds, which should be buried with her. This is ‘the ruling passion strong in death’ beyond what fiction would have ventured to describe.

TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.

London, July, 1821.

All silly persons talk of nothing now but the Coronation, so you may guess how much one hears of it. Such numbers have put on their fool’s-caps about it, and are jangling them in one’s ears, that it is quite deafening.

_HE_ says, that no dowager may walk at it. ‘I will have no dowagers;’ L’INGRAT!!

Lord —— is in alternate paroxysms of delight that he and his wife may walk at it, and of terror at the expense. She jingles her bells more quietly. He was shocked at my repeating, though I said I did not believe it, that each dress would cost £800. The love of money and show are usually united.

I have just skimmed _The Monastery_, and am angry with the author for appropriating our Irish Banshee, and making so little of her, for she was originally a poetical creature. He degrades her to something between a ghost and a fairy, who comes popping up in all places on the most trivial occasions, and then melts away like a lump of sugar, till she is called again. Fleury’s account of Buonaparte’s last short reign,[64] is by far the cleverest of the new books I have read, and, to all but military men, more amusing than Napoleon’s own _Memoirs_.

If I were not ashamed of the length of this letter, I should ask if you had seen Mrs. Delany’s _Letters_.[65] They are too much alike, and, short as is the volume, it might be shortened with advantage; but some of them give a most pleasing and minute picture of the interior of Windsor Castle in the happiest days of our late Sovereigns. They are valuable historically, as a faithful, though slight sketch of that branch of history, detailing the private life of the great, of which the French have too much, and we too little. We are now reading Cottu, _On the Administration of Criminal Justice in England_. He takes, also, a rapid and entertaining view of our social life, our elections, &c. &c., and is a very pleasant writer, particularly as he finds us all perfection. It is gratifying to see oneself in so becoming a glass.

TO THE SAME.

London, Aug., 1821.

I know you will be pleased to hear that the tickets, for which we were so much obliged, did all that tickets could do. The place was excellent, particularly for me, who lived half the time in the air, which enabled me to bear fifteen hours’ attendance, and some carriage and other difficulties, without injury. I opened my eyes on a hair-dresser at a quarter before four, was _en route_ in a white satin dress-gown and court plume at five; at six, was seated in the Hall, after various difficulties occasioned by the dulness of doorkeepers, and some danger from the circumstance of my being within a few yards of the gate at the very instant the guards were called out to oppose the Queen. Tired to death at having been sent backwards and forwards by doorkeepers, I was at last near the right entrance, when I heard loud shouts, a few faint hisses, and a cry of ‘Close the doors.’ The Guards are called out; the Battle-axes rushed in, and absolutely carried me in amongst them, and with wonderful alarm was the door closed against a woman—and a Queen.

The show was all that Oriental pomp, feudal ceremonial, and British wealth could unite. The processions in _The Curse of Kehama_, and in _Rimini_, with the painting of _Belshazzar’s Feast_, were continually recalled to my memory. The conflict of the _two lights_ from the blaze of artificial day mixing with a splendid sunshine, the position of the King’s table, the pomp of the banquet, with its vessels of gold and silver, the richness of the dresses, and a thousand other particulars, rendered the resemblance so perfect, it seemed as if the Feast had been in some degree copied from the picture. Thus does art seem to contain the germ of all that is developed in life.

Our loyalty was noisy, and I think our roarings might have been dispensed with; for we roared not once, nor thrice, but at least a dozen times. We had great desire to roar for the horses also; but an energetic _hush_ from those who conducted the ceremonial silenced us with difficulty, as we attempted it repeatedly.

The Archbishop of York, in his coronation sermon, assured us that, ‘judging of the future by the past, we had reason to expect a reign of extraordinary virtue.’ The Abbey, when looked down upon from one of the upper pews, appeared like a Turkey carpet continually changing its pattern.

* * * * *

_Aug. 8, 1821._—The Queen died yesterday evening at half-past ten. Deep compassion and unaccountable regret filled my mind on hearing this news, mixed with something like shame that a foreign Princess should have been made so unhappy by her connexion with this country.

* * * * *

_Aug. 11._—Lady Fanny Proby having offered me places in Lord Buckingham’s private box, I saw that splendid pageant, the Coronation, at Drury Lane. A crowded audience, packed as close as art could place them, except in the private boxes, sat with ineffable complacency to witness the mimic coronation of one whom they applauded each time he was named, and whom this time last year an audience of similar materials would scarcely hear mentioned without hissing and contumely; while they bestowed not a thought on one who lies yet unburied, on one of whom this ceremony was calculated to remind them, on one who is said to have died of grief in consequence of the wrongs she received from him they now applaud, on one whom this time last year they idolized; to whom the most distant allusion set the theatre in a roar—not of laughter, but of wild and tumultuous and enthusiastic applause.

Popular applause! popular attachment! intoxicating draught, misleading _ignis fatuus_;—how often will they lead us to the edge of a precipice—and leave us there.

* * * * *

_Sept. 23, Roehampton._—On arriving here on the 16th, found my dear Miss Agar in her bed, and after an anxious and miserable week of trembling anxiety, received her last sigh at nine o’clock this morning. One of my earliest, and for many years my dearest, friend—the kind, the generous, the steady, the pious, the cheerful, the pleasant, the wise. Farewell, my Emily!

* * * * *

_Oct. 1._—Left Lord Clifden’s—oh! how much poorer than when I arrived; one of the treasures of my heart, after my husband and children by far the dearest, taken out of the small but precious circle.

TO THE COUNTESS OF CARYSFORT.

London, Oct. 4, 1821.

My health, of which you are so good as to inquire, continues unimpaired, though I feel much of that listlessness of sorrow which succeeds to the first energies of grief. My loss is irreparable. The friend of early youth, whom I always found equally partial, tender, efficient, and sincere—who never lost an opportunity of giving pleasure, and whose affection transformed my very faults into so many perfections, must, by her departure, leave a chasm never to be filled; and I know not whether it does not increase my regret, that the very unpretending simplicity, which was a charm in her character, in some measure concealed the powers of her understanding, and the virtues of her heart, from all but her closest intimates. I know no one who gave so much in proportion to their means, and not only to the very poor, but to those of a higher class, who are more rarely recollected or assisted. She refused no one, till she tried whether it was possible, by her purse or her influence, to serve them. Every year of her life ripened her piety, her charity, her faith. At the head of a large establishment, to which she contributed a movement of the most beautiful tranquillity and order, she made all around her happy; and, not content with feeding and clothing the poor, used to send her maid to discover whether want existed in the cottages; and to reproach herself, in spite of a state of health and routine of avocations and duties that rendered it impracticable, for not going in person. She was an early riser, and free from all effeminacy and personal indulgence. She set her mind for the day by reading at least two chapters in the Bible and a portion of the Psalms, before she appeared at breakfast, and she was regular in her studies of a few of the best books on religious subjects. It was some effort to go last Sunday to the church, where I had never been but with her. But her own composure seems to have spread itself around her, and to have remained among her friends without the smallest diminution of the depth, and with a great addition to the tenderness, of their regrets. On the 25th, I again saw her dear remains, wrapped in white satin, and reposing on a white satin mattrass and pillows, in her last quiet bed; for though all was conducted with the privacy she desired, it was mingled with the respectful state suitable to her condition. On the evening of the 27th, I prayed by her _closed_ coffin—a solemn, not a gloomy, object. It lay in the midst of one of the largest rooms, which was fully lighted, and in its sombre magnificence this her last dwelling left a serious impression, but inflicted no additional pang. She reposes by the side of the mother she so much loved.

* * * * *

I gaze upon thy vacant chair,
And almost see thine image there;
I view the slowly-opening door,
And scarce believe that never more
Thy step of lightness there shall tend
With cordial smile to greet thy friend,
My Emily.

Thy gentle care was ever nigh,
When sorrow heaved the secret sigh;
Thy bounty fell like evening dew,
Refreshing those who never knew
Whose tender hand their pillow smoothed,
And hours of anguish sweetly soothed,
My Emily.

Ennobled was thy closing strife;
Thou didst not fondly cling to life,
But the pale monarch’s call obeyed
Without surprise and undismayed,
In wedding garments, purely bright,
With well-trimmed lamp of steady light,
My Emily.

I saw thee in thine hour of prime,
I saw thee gently touched by time,
I saw thee as thy spirit fled,
I’ve seen thee since, beside my bed,
A placid dream, pure, soft, and fair,
A soul of love, a form of air,
My Emily.

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Roehampton, Sept. 29, 1821.

I reproach myself for having permitted you to learn by the public papers the misfortune I have suffered in losing my invaluable friend Miss Agar, as I know your kind heart will form a thousand apprehensions as to the effect of such a disruption on my health and spirits. Believe me, my dear friend, that her composure, fortitude, and Christian resignation, have left with her friends the priceless legacy of an example which forbids every undue murmur, every selfish indulgence of grief. ‘Our little life _is rounded_ with a sleep;’ and till that last sleep our character cannot be perfectly understood or completely finished. Hers has stood this test, and her departure reflects back a light on all her preceding days.

* * * * *

_Oct. 8._—Lord Clifden feels, and bears, his loss as he ought—a second self, affectionate as a wife, clearsighted to his interests, temporal and eternal, as a sister, observant as a daughter, the tenderest nurse to him in sickness, the most admirable regulator of a family, which moved with the silence, order, and harmony of the spheres—a pleasing, cheerful, and entertaining companion, and as grateful to him for his liberality to her of this world’s goods, as if she had not been deserving of all he could bestow.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

London, Oct. 15, 1821.

Besides ‘that which cometh upon me daily,’ I have been visiting a lovely little being, a soul on the wing, one of —— ——’s nieces, who adorns a death-bed of poverty and privation with the sweetest and most endearing Christian graces. Oh! how his bosom ought to be wrung in comparing her present situation with that she might have been in, had he behaved with common honesty; but wickedness brings its own balm.

Lord Waldegrave’s _Memoirs_[66] are worth reading, and show an accomplished mind, so habituated to courtly restraint in expressing its thoughts, that attention is needful to find the full meaning of the writer, in the low and gentle tones by which it is communicated.

—— has a delightful voice—not a single defect to be removed; whatever he has to do will be merely progress, which is given to about one person in five hundred. He even opens his mouth smilingly and horizontally, like an Italian, instead of dolorously and perpendicularly, like a native of England.

* * * * *

_Nov. 7, 1821._—I left Mr. Sloane’s to-day with regret, and the happy, orderly, and dignified tranquillity of his hospitable habitation. Such kindliness in the master, such affectionate respect in the servants, but with that perfect love which casteth out fear—such a good library, so frankly communicated—such perfect comfort, which would slide into state, if it did not make an effort against it—such magnificent oaks, and the whole park scenery thrown into the house by large plate-glass windows!

TO MRS. LEADBEATER.

Nov. 20, 1821.

I am grateful for your daughter’s kindness, and for the depth of feeling with which she has entered into my deprivation. Although this misfortune was at the time softened by every favourable circumstance, and that I constantly reflect with satisfaction on my dear companion’s having escaped the various ills which might have pressed upon her latter days, and which seem to lie in wait for the most prosperous, yet her loss is in some degree a growing sorrow, as circumstances permitted us to be very much together, and we were on terms so confidential that I want her advice or assistance, or miss her company or her letters, every day of my life. Sometimes I hear a humorous anecdote, which my first impulse, before ‘I waken with a start’ to the reality, is to treasure up for her. Sometimes I have some little charitable scheme, which she would have moulded into form, or some little family dilemma, in which her reason, religion, knowledge of the world, and of _me_, would have enabled her to guide me. When I was in retirement, her amusing letters brought a thousand interesting public topics under my eyes, giving me the opinions of many sensible and some eminent men, condensed into small compass. When my husband went to Ireland, she did all in her power to make amends for his absence, and never thought it possible to see me half enough. In her heart I read as clearly as in my own.