The book of the boudoir, Volume 2 (of 2)

By Lady Sydney Morgan

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Title: The book of the boudoir, Volume 2 (of 2)

Author: Lady Morgan


        
Release date: August 15, 2026 [eBook #79368]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Henry Colburn, 1829

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF THE BOUDOIR, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) ***




                                    THE
                                   BOOK
                                  OF THE
                                 BOUDOIR.

                                    BY
                               LADY MORGAN.

                     “Je n’enseigne pas; je raconte.”
                                          MONTAIGNE.

                              IN TWO VOLUMES.

                                 VOL. II.

                                  LONDON:
                   HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
                                   1829.

                                  LONDON:
            SHACKELL AND BAYLIS, JOHNSON’S-COURT, FLEET-STREET.




CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.


                                              Page

    Religious Austerity                          1

    Liberal Illiberality                        18

    Poets’ Loves                                21

    Fans                                        24

    No one’s Enemy but his own                  31

    Vulgarity                                   32

    Human Parrots                               37

    Cats                                        38

    Trades, Professions and Sciences            44

    Mr. Owen’s Tunic                            60

    Odd Conjunctions                            65

    Princess Borghese                           67

    The Counsellor                              69

    Ridicule                                    74

    Legislative Literature                      87

    Vice Regal Progresses                       90

    Bad Books                                   96

    Drawing Characters                         113

    Picture Frames                             115

    Aristocracy                                119

    Temper                                     122

    Ignorance                                  124

    Beaux of Old                               125

    Methodism and Molière                      126

    The Flying-Fish                            127

    Toleration                                 130

    Old-Fashioned Friends                      131

    Irish Beggars                              133

    Obsoletisms                                138

    A Character                                149

    The Délaissé                               150

    Taverns      ib.

    Solemn Blockheads                          152

    Catholic Petitions                         153

    Laughing and Crying                        153

    Expectation                                155

    The Devotee                                156

    Helen Maria Williams                       158

    No Popery                                  174

    Martinus Scriblerus                        175

    Exercise      ib.

    Bombazeen                                  176

    Law                                        177

    Riches                                     178

    Truth                                      179

    Woman’s Love                               180

    Malthus                                    181

    Paternal Benedictions                      183

    Sentiment                                  184

    Presents                                   185

    Per Contra                                 187

    Education                                  189

    Temperament                                190

    Infant Baptism                             192

    Logic of Fine Writers                      193

    Philosophy                                 195

    Corregio and Johanna of Placentia          197

    The Cap of Liberty                         211

    Providence                                 213

    Taking a Shower Bath                       215

    Views of the Catholic Question             216

    Viragos                                    217

    Female Perseverance                        218

    Opinion                                    220

    Wives of Fools                             221

    Les Rochers de Mad. de Sévigné             223

    Strawberry Hill                            252

    Arts and Artists                           306

    “No one a Prophet in his own Country”      309

    Patrick’s Day                              316




THE BOOK OF THE BOUDOIR.




RELIGIOUS AUSTERITY.


It is quite deplorable to see how many rational creatures (or, at least,
who are thought so) mistake suffering for sanctity, and think a sad face
and a gloomy habit of mind, propitious offerings to that deity, whose
works are all light, and lustre, and harmony, and loveliness.

I have just had a visit from a pair of papistical pietists, in such
a state of attenuation, that they look as if they had escaped from a
besieged town after a month’s famine. They had been keeping _black lent_
(a fast, I believe, now peculiar to Ireland) which it would be difficult
to persuade a Roman cardinal to observe. I began to quote Swift’s well
known stanza—

    “Who can believe, with common sense,
    That bacon fried gives God offence?
    Or that a herring has a charm,
    Almighty anger to disarm?
    Wrapped up in majesty divine,
    Does he regard on what we dine?”

This was an impertinent interference; and they answered me very sensibly,
by alleging that a special providence is a dogma in all religions; and
that, at all events, they were bound to obey their church, or leave
it! They had made their election. As they took their leave, Mrs. ——
came in from early service, with her prayer book in her hand, and all
the anathemas of exclusive perfection in her sour face. Mrs. —— is a
high-church-evangelical protestant-ascendancy lady—once well known in
the caste of Dublin gaiety, though now no less distinguished in the
_album sanctorum_ of “the serious.” What a look she cast on my poor
little papists, as they passed her! Excommunication by bell, book, and
candle-light, and death without benefit of clergy, in every scowling
lineament.

“I did not know these little bigots visited you,” said the good Mrs. ——;
“you are such a notorious heretic, to say the least.”

“O! I assure you the Catholic saints are much more tolerant than you
Protestant saints. My attacks on Catholicism, as I found it restored in
Italy by the holy alliance, have not lost me a single Catholic friend in
Ireland.”

“Because, after all, the papists don’t care for their religion _as a
religion_. Theirs is a church without a religion, you know.”

“I don’t answer for their zeal,” (I said carelessly, for I hate religious
discussions) “but I do for their sincerity, which the appearance of those
poor girls attests; they are worn to shadows by this hard lent: they do
not even eat eggs or butter.”

“What absurdity!” said my petulant and well-fed evangelical; “I have no
patience with it.”

“But you rigid protestants fast sometimes, when your church bids you?”

“Oh! that is a different thing.”

“No further different, than that you fast only to draw down divine
vengeance on your political enemies, while they mortify their bodies for
the sake of their own souls. How Buonaparte’s victories must have raised
the price of salt fish! Do you remember what a number of general fasts
we had during the war? I have often thought that we owed our success at
Waterloo as much to dried ling, as to Wellington.”

“Oh! Lady M——! how can you joke on such solemn subjects?”

“Joke! why, if we are ordered to eat fish for the purpose of abating the
pride and assuaging the malice of our enemies, there must, I suppose,
be some efficacy in cockle sauce, and oyster _pâtés_—or why is meat
proscribed?”

“The intention of fasts is mortification, and we should abstain on such
occasions from everything that administers to our appetites.”

“Then you come back to the black fasts of my poor half starved little
friends, which you deem an absurdity.”

“But these Catholics,” said Mrs. —— with true lady’s logic, “abstain from
no pleasure that comes in their way, even on Sundays. I hear they attend
your Sunday evening parties.”

“I give no Sunday evening parties, my dear Mrs. ——; but when the duties
of the day are over, and every one has been at mass, church, or meeting,
as opinion may lead them, I surround myself with the members of my own
dear family; and if some kind and intimate friend drop in to enjoy a
pleasant, rational conversation, he is sure of a place at my cheerful
hearth amongst its affectionate _habitués_.”

“But the sabbath is appointed to be kept holy.”

“And is it not to keep the sabbath holy, to cultivate the kindliest
affections, and to encourage those genial sensations which lead us to
live in peace with all mankind? He, whose first divine manifestation was
at a wedding feast, and whose last was at the supper of the disciples he
loved, has left us this, not more as a precept than a command.”

“Aye, but what are your poor servants doing below stairs?”

“Precisely what their masters are doing above—enjoying innocently, and
soberly, round a good fire, the rest which the sabbath brings with
it—reaping the fruits of their industry in the comforts it provides them,
and neither driven to a sectarian meeting nor a public house, to pass
their Sunday evenings in making bile or drinking whisky.”

My saint sneered, and shook her head.

“I will not argue with _you_, Lady M——, but I will tell you what the
world says;” and so having proved to me that I was considered by all the
“really religious” people of Dublin as no better than one of the wicked,
she made her exit, with a new accession of gall circulating through her
system, and more than ever convinced, that to be happy is to be wicked!

It is strange that man, who suffers so severely from the violence of the
elements, “who hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery,”
should go so far out of his way to multiply uneasy sensations, and should
so often dash aside the enjoyment which reason sanctifies, to court the
privation which nature rejects. In strong defiance of animal instinct,
there has existed, at all times, a marked disposition to make a merit of
self-denial and mortification, and to consider it a virtue to outrage
those senses, and sadden that imagination, which were bestowed on man by
the Deity, for the promotion of his happiness.

This absurd and cruel fanaticism has succeeded in masking itself alike
beneath the cowl of religion, and the mantle of philosophy; and it has
allied itself, with equal plausibility, to the pride of the stoic, and to
the humility of the saint. After all that we talk of the march of mind,
the world has made but little progress in moral philosophy. In all ages
it has been “_par les mêmes propos le même jargon_;” and it is curious to
find, in Lucian’s treatise on dancing, (which is a defence of theatrical
exhibitions against some _sour-craut_ Prynne of the Porch,) precisely the
same war between pleasure and pride, between nature and opinion, as is at
this day waged in the conventicles of the sectarian zealots.

That the same practical errors, which proceeded from the self-abasement
of the ascetics in the desert, should have flowed also from the stoic’s
lofty conceptions of human nature, is, however, more startling than
unnatural. The fanaticism of honour and virtue is not less fanaticism,
than that of religion; it is not less exaggeration and irrationality. In
both alike, temperament is more influential than argument, feeling more
concerned than opinion; and both are alike founded on ignorance of the
real nature of man, his organization, and his destiny.

In the earlier epochs of civilization, when the aspect of nature is rude
and forbidding, and when social intercourse is replete with jealousies
and dissensions, the conservative principle of life—aroused by the rough
excitement to a proportionate resistance—arms itself with a corresponding
insensibility to the attacks of externals. Wherever suffering habitually
outweighs enjoyment, an effeminate susceptibility to trifling sensations
is destroyed by the frequency of heavier miseries: and necessity develops
in the mind a conscious superiority to fortune, founded on the pride
of opposition, and on an intimate conviction of its own energies. The
incessant warfare of savage life renders the contempt of pain and
death an indispensable virtue; and by a sophistry familiar under all
circumstances, the animal forms for himself a system of notions, which
strengthens him in the disposition congenial to the position of the
moment. The philosophy of savages is stern, as their religion is gloomy:
and education and example are both brought to bear upon this desired
case-hardening of the soul. The qualities which school-boys are taught to
admire in the heroes of Roman story, exist in greater intensity among the
red tribes of North America, than in the descendants of the wolf-suckled
Romulus.

In the history of a campaign in Canada, mention is made of a tribe,
called _The Devoted_, whose ultra-stoical notions would gain credit for
the story of a Scævola or a Regulus. One of this tribe, to prove to
the British officers his contempt for pain, cut a large piece from his
own flesh, and flung it to the dogs. Yet these men were in the lowest
condition of barbarism and social rudeness.

The external circumstances, which, by opposing man to natural evils,
elevate and exalt his character, produce a very contrary effect, when
they act through his misconceptions of their mysterious causes. Of
physical evil the senses can judge with precision; and the individual,
measuring his sufferings by his powers of resistance, acquires courage
through the conviction of internal strength. But between man, and the
intangible and inscrutable agents with which fear and ignorance people
the universe, to “ride the whirlwind and direct the storm,” there is no
measurement, no comparison. An intimate feeling of feebleness debases
and degrades him; and there is nothing so absurd and revolting that he
will not attempt, in the anguish of his despair, to appease the phantom
with which he cannot contend. Confidence in the wisdom and benevolence
of the Godhead is the slow growth of developed civilization, and
habitual security and ease. The divinities of barbarians are ever cruel,
vindictive, and capricious; and sanguinary and painful expiations, both
personal and vicarious, are adopted, to purchase from heaven a reluctant
abandonment of its threatened severity.[1] The religion of savages,
under whatever specious names it is covered, has ever been essentially
and practically a pure diabolism. The Scandinavians alone have been able
to ally the belief in powerful and malignant deities, with the courage
to oppose their wrath, by an heroic daring in acting and in suffering,
boundless as the power with which it ventured to dispute.

With an improvement in the destinies of the species, a change occurs
both in the philosophical and the religious sentiments of nations. Upon
the immense influx of wealth into Rome, which followed the conquest of
Greece and Asia, vast amelioration ensued in the social condition of
the people. The usurpation of Augustus was followed by a long period of
peace; and the sterner virtues became unfashionable, because they were no
longer compatible with external circumstances. A sudden revulsion took
place in popular feeling; and the Epicurean philosophy alone found favour
in the eyes of those who had the means and the leisure for enjoyment.
“Thessalian portents” ceased to alarm; the Augur laughed openly in the
face of his brother impostor; and the clumsy state deities gave place, in
the private creed of nobler spirits, to a speculative theism; while the
corrupt and the vicious (misunderstanding the language of Epicurus) were,
upon system, what the vicious and corrupt have been, and ever will be,
“upon instinct.”[2]

This connexion of cause and effect triumphs even over the permanence of
dogma: and a practical relaxation of morose and austere discipline has
uniformly attended the improvement of the social condition, even under
the prevalence of the most rigorous creeds. Christianity, emerging from
the deserts of the Thebaid, to take its place on the thrones of emperors,
was no more the same austere and forbidding rule, than it was the simple
Spencean democracy of its first Essenian proselytes; and the sturdy
Calvinist of the north, in our own times, is a “boon companion” and a
“good fellow,” in comparison with his fanatical ancestors of the third
generation.

The susceptibility of individuals to these external causes is, however,
exceedingly various. In the most relaxed, and even corrupt, periods
of moral sentiment and religious indifference, there have always been
found persons, whose organization of mind has alone been satisfied by an
indulgence of the most gloomy views of Nature and Providence. Fanaticism
is very frequently a constitutional disease. An unknown and undefined,
but a very sensible impediment in the play of the more intimate functions
of life, deprives the individual of that “pleased alacrity and cheer
of mind” which renders the bare state of existence delightful. There
is a general insusceptibility to the minor pleasures of sense; and the
imagination is less excited by the innocent and amiable enjoyments of
life. A mind thus constituted, ill at ease within itself, looks out on
the world for objects congenial with its own feelings. Fear and disgust
are its predominating sentiments; and while it fabricates its deity in
its own image, it is pained by the aspect of enjoyments in which it
cannot participate. The hopes of another world can alone compensate
for the miseries such beings inflict on themselves in this: and while
their speculative diabolism finds its account in self-tormenting, their
misanthropy is indulged by imposing a similar austerity of manners, under
the notion of strictness in religion, upon those who are more happily
framed by nature for cheerfulness and enjoyment.

In England and Germany the prevalent disposition in religion is to
gloom and mysticism; while no effort can inoculate the French with
a deep sentiment on the subject. The Irish differ, also, materially
from the English in this respect. Notwithstanding the strong influence
of political degradation, and the example of rigour exhibited by the
prevailing methodism of the Saxon population, the Irish catholics are,
for the most part, devoid of austerity of temper, though not always
indisposed to needless self-denial; and this circumstance doubtless
contributes to render the people more catholic, and to indispose them for
the reception of the gloomy, abstract idealism of the “new reformation.”

Temperament operates widely and decidedly in preventing an uniform
sentiment respecting the boundary between innocent and vicious
indulgence; and if that point were susceptible of a precise
determination, the naturally morose would still continue to make inroads
upon the liberty of their gayer compatriots, for no other reason than
because it is their will and pleasure to do so. The most rigorous
sectarians, indeed, are not consistent on this point, but are prone to
relaxation in behalf of their own favourite indulgences. Those among
them who are for “tenderness framed,” have a patient indulgence for
weaknesses, which are almost redeemed by the orthodoxy of their object;
and all excesses in the pleasures of the table, short of shameless
inebriety, are permitted to the elect: while the uncharitableness
preached in the pulpit does not the less find its way to the tea-table,
and calumny and invective against all uncongenial offences, are doled out
under the guise of zeal for uniformity of doctrine.

In England, the theoretical morality of the saints is so far above
concert pitch, that humanity cannot sustain it in practice: and the
result is, despair of acting up to duty, a consequent indifference to
slight aberrations, and a proneness to take refuge in the pre-eminence
of faith and the worthlessness and nothingness of all works.

An undue severity of life is much encouraged by the doctrine, that
the intellectual pleasures are alone conducive to happiness, and that
reason and religion alike require the submission and mortification of
the senses. The intellectual pleasures do not lie sufficiently within
the reach of all mankind, to render them a common object of ambition
and cultivation; and it is not fair in the educated and refined to
draw conclusions from their own conceptions, applicable to those of
their fellow-creatures who are less fortunately situated. To the mere
labouring classes, and to many who fill a higher part in the drama of
society, the pleasures of sense are the great resources against _ennui_;
and even the most fanciful sentimentalists, in enhancing the value of
intellectual delights, always _understand_ (as the grammarians phrase it)
an abundant table, warm clothing, and comfortable dwellings, which form
no inconsiderable part of those pleasures of sense, which they who preach
take care to enjoy.

However low mere sensations may rank in the scale of enjoyment, they are
important from their frequent recurrence, and it is only in a certain
sense that the rigorist despises them. The anchorite, who feeds on roots
and water, stipulates that the former should be well boiled, and the
latter pure; and few are prepared to imitate the monkish fanaticism of
mingling objects of disgust with their food, to mortify the senses.
The great error, then, in comparing the intellectual and the sensitive
pleasures, is the setting the use of the former against the abuse of
the latter. The true sensualist, or Epicurean, is as averse from excess
as the stoic; for he knows that excess is incompatible with health and
with happiness. The senses are the creation of the same power as the
intellect, and they are subservient to ends no less important in the
human economy. To forbid their exercise and enjoyment, is to oppose the
will and intention of Him, who made not man in his own image for the sole
purpose of suffering and privation.

An old Irish woman, walking with her naked feet over some flinty stones
instead of the green-sward, which offered itself to her acceptance, was
asked why she chose this painful path. She replied, “Och! sure, I’d do
more than that for sweet Jasus!” The world is full of such old women.




LIBERAL ILLIBERALITY.


I remarked, with pain, in many of my Italian friends, who have
distinguished themselves by every species of sacrifice in the cause
of liberality, an affected illiberality with respect to the arts. I
have seen them turn with apparent disgust from the finest works of the
greatest masters, when accompanying me to the Brera, the gallery at
Florence, or the Vatican. They used to say, “_There_ is the cause of
our ruin: we have preserved the elegant, at the expense of the useful.
Raphael and Michael Angelo keep us under the Austrian yoke! Had the
Russians loved the enfeebling arts, as we have done, they would never
have burned their Moscow! The Venus de Medicis alone would have saved the
Kremlin!”

Going one day to visit the now greatest sculptor of the age, Chantry, the
gallant and celebrated General P——, having accompanied me to the door,
made his bow, observing, “I have made a vow against the arts—the more
perfect they are, the more mischievous.”

British _utilitarianism_, like Italian patriotism, has sometimes taken
the alarm at the unproductiveness of the arts, and asserted that
they are not physically necessary to our existence. Yet if the arts
do not lessen positive evil, they at least augment the number of our
sensitive enjoyments; and after the first necessaries are supplied,
all improvements in manufactures go but to that. Bread and water will
support life—a hole in the earth will bid defiance to the elements—and a
seal-skin in winter, and a few cockatoo feathers in summer, supply the
coldest and the hottest regions with an adequate toilette. All beyond
this is luxury, or means adopted to increase the sphere of pleasurable
sensation, and to support a greater number of the species.

In this point of view, the fine arts are equally objects of statistic
value with the useful manufactures. Their moral influence is an
additional benefit. All declamation against the arts is folly, simply
because they belong to the organization of man—to his love of pleasure
and his tendency to imitation. He who produces a fine picture, still
produces; and under that utilitarian consideration, his labour is at
least as valuable as that of a goldsmith. These modern utilitarians are
the Calvinists of political economy, and they strip their doctrine of
so many graces, and render it such a “_Praise-God-Barebones_” sort of
thing, that they will soon leave their church without a female disciple:
and woe to the church, or the system, that is deserted by the women!
They who would legislate for the world, must live in the world; and the
best intentions, aided by the best talents, will be found inadequate to
serve the great cause of humanity, if its schemes, though perfect in the
abstract, are inapplicable in practice to the actual state of society.




POETS’ LOVES.


    “Never did poet touch a pen to write,
    Until his ink were tempered with love’s sighs.”

Poets seldom make good lovers, except on paper: there is no serving
God and mammon. The concentration of thought which goes to the higher
flights of composition, allows the feeling but little play. There has
been much dispute, whether great actors are the dupes of their own art;
but the great actors themselves have honestly avowed that they owe their
successes to their coolness and self possession; and the poets, if they
were equally candid, would own themselves in the same predicament. They
are not, however, often inclined to make the confession. Horace says, “we
must weep ourselves, before we can make our readers weep;” and Pope’s,
“He best can paint them, who shall feel them most,” goes very nearly to
the same tune.

Passion, though eloquent, is not descriptive; and delights not in those
details which make the essence of impressive writing. Dr. Johnson, who
loved, or fancied he loved, _his_ she-bear, and was, therefore, (good
bruin!) the better authority on the subject, has said, that “he who woos
his mistress in verse, deserves to lose her;” and there is no woman of
sense, who would not come to the same conclusion. I have heard an odd,
paradoxical person assign a physiological reason for this. When one great
organ, he says, is much and permanently excited, the development is at
the expense of all the other functions. Head workers in particular, have
uniformly bad digestions; and how can a man be heroically in love with
a feeble stomach? I, who am no physiologist, can only appeal to facts.
Pope, Dryden, Swift, Racine, Boileau, La Fontaine, were none of them
famous as lovers; they had no ‘great passion,’ and excited none; some
of them were absolutely insensible to female charms, and were sceptics
to their influence. _La Fontaine_, with all his _naïveté_ (which is
generally so indicative of passion) was as cold as an icicle. “_Je
doute_,” says Ninon, his friend, “_qu’il y ait un filtre amoureux pour
La Fontaine. Il n’a guère aimé les femmes._” I have some doubts of the
sensibility even of the divine Petrarch, notwithstanding his thousand
and one sonnets, which made so little impression on Laura. As to Ovid,
his conceits are the antipodes of passion and feeling; and Anacreon was
so mere a _roué_, that I should as soon take Don Juan for a martyr to
the _belle passion_, as he. Cowley, who wrote so much upon love, was an
anchorite. Prior, who wrote so freely on it, was a rake; and Rousseau, a
poet in prose, wrote “Julie,” and lived with Thérèse, who, besides being
an _imbécille_, was neither chaste nor sober, and was “all for love,
and a little for the bottle.” When Doctor de Pruli chided Rousseau, a
few days before his death, for exposing himself, in his weak health,
by going to the cellar, Rousseau, pointing to Thérèse, observed, “_Que
voulez-vous? quand elle y va, elle y reste._”[3]

À propos to St. Preux and his Julie: nobody thought of visiting
Switzerland for its picturesque scenery, till Rousseau brought it into
fashion. Now every body goes to drop a sentimental tear at his “rochers
de Meillerie,” and to visit Mont Blanc. It is well for _les rochers_ that
this lachrymal humour has not the properties of Hannibal’s vinegar! What
would our magazines do but for these visitors to the mountains! I never
see an article headed “Journey to Mont Blanc,” without being tempted to
wish, that its author had done as Thérèse did by the wine cellar.




FANS.


Madame de Genlis, whose general information it would be uncandid to
dispute, (though it be so frequently perverted to substantiate her
favourite doctrine of the optimism of the past), has attributed the
invention of that pretty bauble, the fan, to the excessive modesty of the
French ladies before the revolution! In the happy times which preceded
that terrible event, the times of Agnes Sorrel, Diana of Poitiers,
Montespan, Pompadour, and Du Barry, the fan, it seems, was an object
of solute necessity to screen the blushes of the timid and bashful
innocents who used them. “In times when the ladies often blushed, and
desired to hide their embarrassment and timidity, they carried large
fans. They were at once a veil and a _countenance_.[4] By agitating the
fan the female concealed herself. In the present times ladies blush
but little, and are not at all timid; they have no desire whatever to
conceal themselves, and they carry only invisible fans, (_des éventails
imperceptibles_).”

What a falling off since the times of the Palais Royal, and of the
_petits soupers_ at Monceaux, when the king’s mistresses displaced his
ministers, and made out plans of campaigns with their rouge, and patches
for field marshals; when the de Boufflers and the Luxembourghs, the
highest rank and oldest blood in France, were candidates on the list
of royal concubinage; when nothing was natural but the children, and
nothing moral but that which was past the power of sin. These were the
times, the only times, when Frenchwomen blushed, and used fans: and well
they might! Let Madame de Genlis compare the Orleans family in the time
of Louis the Fourteenth, when the duke poisoned his wife; in the time
of the regency, as reported by the Dowager Duchess of Orleans herself;
in the time of the husband or lover of her aunt, Madame de Montesson,
and in the time of her own friend _Egalité_; and let her compare these
Orleans with the Orleans of the present times, the model of husbands,
fathers, citizens, and princes—schooled, not by the lessons given in
the cloisters of _Belle Chasse_, but by those of the world and of the
circumstances in which he has lived—and then talk of anti-revolutionary
modesty and timidity, and the origin of fans! The fan, like every thing
else, applicable to human use, has its origin in necessity. It is purely
an oriental fashion, and was invented for personal relief and convenience
in those ardent climates, where such portable ventilators and shades
were indispensable. A Chinese dandy would no more be seen without his
fan, than a Chinese belle; and the fan of the Rajah serves far better
purposes, than concealing the blushes and embarrassment of his wives. The
fans of the east are made of feathers. The domestic fans of Spain are
suspended from the ceiling of the apartments over the tables, from which,
during dinner, they keep off insects.

The fan was early introduced into the Roman church,—when the christians
removed from the “cool grots and mossy cells,” in which their pure and
persecuted sect was obliged to celebrate its devotions, to those superb
temples, where the consecrated fans of infallibility, borne before the
pope, still shew that even infallibility is no proof against heat.

The fan, likewise, makes a part of the ceremonies of the Greek church;
and is placed in the hands of the deacon, on the day of his consecration,
in allusion to his office of keeping off the flies from the priests,
while they officiate. This must be a sinecure in Russia; but the form
survives the want; and woe to the infidel, who, in that region of ice,
would propose a _chaufferette_, to replace the fan established by the
church and state, at some glorious and immortal epoch.

Fans came into England, with other eastern objects of use, ornament, or
curiosity. The fan with which Queen Elizabeth is said to have graciously
tapped an Irish lord lieutenant, (Sir J. Perrot,) would knock down a
modern courtier. In the time of Charles the Second a French fan was a
fatal gift. That which saved the modesty of Madame de Genlis’s Dianas,
purchased too often the honour of the Maid of Honour of the English
court. The Duchess of Portsmouth, of course, brought over her own fan
from the Palais Royal; from which she was despatched by the Duchess of
Orleans, to rule over the heart and councils of the king of England: and,
above all, to secure the king’s salvation, by enabling him to live and
die “_ferme catholique_” which he did.[5] The zeal and the views are the
same: the form only differs. Other times—other modes.

The fan, however, was not the great rampart thrown up before the citadel
of English modesty, under the Stuarts. The modesty of those times had
a strange habit of going to see plays so immodest, that it was deemed
necessary to cover the face “_pour dissimuler son embarras_;” and the
mask was resorted to, while the fan was simply retained, then, and for a
century afterwards, for the only and innocent purpose of

    “Giving coolness to the matchless dame—
    To every other breast, a flame.”

The tactics and manœuvres, necessary for the operating of these double
purposes, produced the well known “exercise of the fan,” so delightfully
detailed, for the benefit of posterity, in that treasure of a work, the
Spectator.

At last, in the decadence of manners, (historically marked in the
memoirs of a fan, and its philosophy, as clearly as in the decline and
fall of empires,) this elegant little implement of the coquetry of our
ancestresses fell to be an article of mere utility—returning, as all
things must, to its origin.

Our mothers and aunts appeared, during summer, with a good housewife-like
green fan, to keep off the sun: for “_l’affaire du parasol_,” for
which Louis the Fifteenth was obliged to issue a decree, had not yet
travelled into Great Britain; and the fan of “_ma tante Aurore_” was
the only fan known to our aunt Tabithas. French philosophy, and a
total abandonment of the constitution of 1688, at length banished this
instrument as an indispensable part of the toilette. The parasol was
found more convenient; and the fan, only employed to “_cool the matchless
dame_” after a walk through a quadrille, or a lounge through a waltz,
was reduced to that fairy size to which Madame de Genlis gives the
reproachful title of _éventail imperceptible_. “The history of fashions
is not so frivolous as has been imagined; it is, in fact, the history of
manners,”—and so far, _je suis d’accord_, with the venerable, but not
very veracious, historian of the “_Fan_.”




NO ONE’S ENEMY BUT HIS OWN.


“No man’s enemy but his own” happens generally to be the enemy of every
body with whom he is in relation. The leading quality that goes to make
this character, is a reckless imprudence, and a selfish pursuit of
selfish enjoyments, independent of all consequences. “No one’s enemy
but his own” runs rapidly through his means; calls, in a friendly way,
on his friends, for bonds, bail, and securities; involves his nearest
kin; leaves his wife a beggar; and quarters his orphans upon the public;
and, after having enjoyed himself to his last guinea, entails a life of
dependance on his progeny, and dies in the odour of that ill-understood
reputation of harmless folly, which is more injurious to society, than
some positive crimes. The social chain is so nicely and delicately
constructed, that not a link snaps, rusts, or refuses its proper play,
without the shock being felt like an electric vibration to its utmost
limits.




VULGARITY.


There is nothing so hopeless as vulgarity—genuine vulgarity, arising
from presumption and want of tact, united to the peculiar demonstrative
habits of humble life. The strongest illustration of this species of
vulgarity will be found in Ireland, where the national vanity forces
all qualities into evidence. It is often accompanied by the conscious
possession of some moderate talent, or some serviceable qualification,
which carries the possessor out of his natural orbit, into higher
circles, where he is adopted either as an available agent, or an amusing
ridicule. In this position, vulgarity comes out in its strongest relief;
and if it be not utterly disgusting, by being excessively obtrusive,
it is often very humorous and very absurd. This is the vulgarity which
furnishes mystification to society, and character for novels; supplying
the Lord Charleses with vastly good fun, and such writers as the authors
of “The Absentee” and the “O’Briens,” with their Sir Phelims and
their Captain O’Mealys. Easy assurance; a presuming familiarity, on
the slightest grounds, with persons of superior rank; obtrusiveness,
without reference to time, place, or persons; a clipped but not mitigated
brogue, gesticulation, and a sort of posture-master’s attitude; frequent
reference to “honour,” and “credit;” the dropping of titles when speaking
of the qualified, and an affected condescension when speaking to equals,
are among the generic signs of the incorrigibly vulgar of that country,
where it is the ambition of all to be supremely genteel.

In England, the classes and degrees of society are defined by such strong
lines of demarcation, that there is less play given for pretension to
exhibit its absurdities; and even the vulgarity of cockneyism is less
striking and less humorous, than the vulgarity of the social _parvenus_
of Irish circles. In either instance, confine the patient within the
limits of his own proper and natural sphere, and the vulgarity that
disgusts, or amuses when displaced, loses its sharpness, as engravers
say, for the true and abundant source of all vulgarity is pretension.

Nobody is struck by an apparent vulgarity in the smart young shopman, who
officiates behind the counter of one of the great “_houses_” (formerly
shops) in Waterloo Place or Oxford Street, and who, simply labouring in
his vocation, is as much what he ought to be, as “_comme il faut_,” as
the duchess, who tosses over his crêpes, cachemirs, and merinos, as if
the looms of France, Spain, and India were mounted and worked “solely for
her use.” But take this Dick, the apprentice of Grafton House, or of the
Magazine of Fashion, in his opera hat, at a ball at the Crown and Anchor,
or “playing the fine” at a “great to do” at Mrs. Mango’s, and you have
the delightful Magnus Apollo of Snow Hill,—the “sprightly young man” of
the Miss Brancton’s first floor.

Besides this highest and most dramatic order of vulgarity, in which
temperament and circumstances alike combine, there is a sort of
conventional vulgarity, found occasionally in all ranks and classes, and
which is only termed vulgarity, because it does not submit to be wound up
and set, by the great regulator of fashion. This species of vulgarity,
which is in fact no vulgarity at all, though it be a dereliction from the
standard manner of a particular circle, is generally the result of early
associations, and of great animal spirits overleaping the boundaries
prescribed by cold, quiet, still-life _bon ton_; for that style of
manners which has become a doctrine, is but the result of a phlegmatic
temperament, inherited with the old blood of ancient descent.

Pope, with a sort of physiological poetry, has applied the term “creep,”
to the languid circulation of “ancient but ignoble blood.” To be what
is called “_trop prononcé_,” (for the dogmas of modern fashion, like
the old English laws, are all given in French) is a misprision of
vulgarity, frequently detected even in the very highest classes; and no
coronet, however knobbed, can save its wearer from the imputation, if
she is once convicted of the high crime and misdemeanour of being too
“_démonstratif_” of her feelings, prepossessions, humours, or opinions.

I remember hearing one duchess say of another, “She is amusing, but she
is insufferably vulgar.” Both their graces were equally influential at
the head of their respective and particular circles: the more elegant
duchess was by temperament, and by British aristocratic breeding, endowed
“with all her sex’s softness,” and with all that quiet assumption of
dignity, which “comes but by the aid of use.” The more _demonstrative_
grace, with a highland temperament, and spirits bright and elevated as
the region that produced them, was perpetually bounding over the lines
of circumvallation drawn by the _bon ton_ against the inroads of nature.
Betrayed frequently into coarseness, she was still never vulgar—for
assumption, and not pretension, was the failing of the clever, brilliant,
but _trop prononcée_ Duchess of G——.




HUMAN PARROTS.


There are persons deficient in the stuff which makes intellect, just as
there are individuals born without some particular sense. Incapable of
originating ideas, because impenetrable to the impressions whence ideas
come, they have memories instead of minds. They retain words: and, in
giving them utterance, depend upon accident for the justice of their
application.

One of these human parrots was present the other day, when Mr. C—— said,
“Such an one cannot last; his physical force is quite gone.” A few days
afterwards, the parrot, in quoting the observation, remarked, “C. says he
cannot live much longer, for his physic is out.”

It is truly astonishing how little talent suffices to get on in the
world. The instinctive cunning observable in children and animals,
is equal to the wants and desires of the individual; and the unideal
babble and animal vivacity of the parrot, pass for information and
agreeableness: while genius and feeling, obstructed at every step by
dulness and prejudice, or revolted at the meanness and littleness which
thwart them, stop short in the first stage of their route, and recoiling
on themselves, too often live unknown and unbenefited by the world they
enlighten and amuse.




CATS.


In old family portraits, the ladies are painted with birds or animals as
the accessories of the picture. Such playthings were, in fact, the great
resources of our female ancestors, whose uneducated minds, and unsocial
position (when there were neither books nor assemblies) threw them upon
dogs, monkeys, parrots, and cats, as a refuge from _ennui_. Fondness for
animals arises out of the idleness of barbarism, as the tolerance of the
various nuisances they occasion does from its coarseness. It is not,
however, the less true, that the playful kitten, with its pretty little
tigerish gambles, is infinitely more amusing than half the people one is
obliged to live with in the world.

I have observed, that all domestic animals are more amiable and
intelligent on the continent, than with us: it may be they are better
treated; for nothing tames like kindness. The fine breed of Angola cats,
so common in the South of Italy, is a proof of the assertion; they are
much caressed and attended to, and are as intelligent and as attachable
as dogs. The first day we had the honour of dining at the palace of the
Archbishop of Taranto, at Naples, he said to me, “You must pardon my
passion for cats (_la mia passions gattesca_), but I never exclude them
from my dining-room, and you will find they make excellent company.”

Between the first and second course, the door opened, and several
enormously large and beautiful cats were introduced, by the names of
Pantalone, Desdemona, Otello, and other dramatic _cognomina_. They took
their places on chairs near the table, and were as silent, as quiet, as
motionless and as well behaved, as the most _bon-ton_ table in London
could require. On the bishop requesting one of the chaplains to help the
Signora Desdemona to something, the butler stept up to his lordship and
observed, “Desdemona will prefer waiting for the roasts.” After dinner
they were sent to walk on the terrace, and I had the honour of assisting
at their _coucher_, for which a number of comfortable cushions were
prepared in the bishop’s dressing-room. The Archbishop of Taranto, so
well known through Italy as the author of many clever works, has also
produced one on cats, full of ingenuity and pleasantry.

On my return from Naples, and during our second happy residence in Milan
(the remembrance of which is now clouded and embittered by the horrible
fate of those superior beings, who were the cause of that return and
that residence), I happened to mention my observation on the sensible
character of the animals of the south of Italy, and of the _douceur_ and
intelligence of the archbishop’s beautiful Desdemona; when the young
and gifted author of “Francesca da Rimini” (who now lies buried in his
living tomb—an Austrian _carcere duro_), related to me the story of a
“_passione gattesca_,” which had recently occurred in a neighbouring
village, perfectly illustrative of my hypothesis—here it is:—

“_Il Gatto del Cimitero._”

THE CAT OF THE CEMETERY.

A beautiful peasant girl of the village of Monte-orsano, in the Brianza,
had obtained a sort of melancholy celebrity by an infliction, which
frequently struck her down to the earth, in the midst of the village
festival, or church ceremony, where her beauty and piety were the
boast and the edification of her village friends. Every physician in
Lombardy, every saint in the calendar, had been applied to, on behalf
of _Clementina_; and vows and offerings had been made in vain, to cure,
what was incurable, a confirmed epilepsy. If the saints, however, were
negligent, Clementina had one friend, whose vigilance never slumbered.
It was her cat; which not only shared her bed and her _polenta_, but
followed her in her walks and devotions, from the vineyard to the altar.

The first time that _Mina_ saw her young mistress fall in a fit, and
wound herself against a tomb in the village cemetery, she exhibited the
most extraordinary emotion. She soon acquired the habit, from a frequent
recurrence of the infirmity, of watching its approach; and at last
seemed to have obtained such a knowledge of the change of countenance
and colour, which preceded the attack, that she was wont, on the first
symptom, to run to the parents of Clementina, and, by dragging their
clothes, scratching at their persons, or mewing in the most melancholy
manner, (“_Miagolando in tuono mesto ed affannoso_,”) she succeeded in
awakening their attention, and trotted out before them, mewing them on to
the spot, where her young mistress lay lifeless. Mina at last obtained
such confidence for her warnings, that, on the first cry of the faithful
cat, the friends of Clementina flew to her assistance before she incurred
any injury from her sudden fall.

At fifteen, the malady of the beautiful Clementina brought her to the
tomb. Her cat walked after her bier, on which she was exposed, (as is the
custom in Italy), and covered with flowers. During the funeral service,
she sat at the head of the bier, gazing with an intent look on the
lifeless features of her young mistress; and when the grave was filling,
she made a vain endeavour to jump in, but was withheld by the bystanders,
who carried home this chief mourner after the melancholy ceremony. Mina,
however, was seen the next morning stretched upon the new made grave,
which she continued to visit daily, until she visited it for the last
time, a few months after her friend’s death; when she was found dead upon
the green mound that covered her remains.

The celebrity of the “_Gatto del Cimitero_,” has not yet passed away
from the village of Monte-orsano. I dedicate this little history of the
faithful _Mina_, to my young friend _Ina_; whose “_passione gattesca_,”
entitles her to the distinction. Kindness to animals is but a form
of sensibility, and in youth is always the harbinger of higher and
deeper-seated feelings. It should not be confounded with the misplaced
instinct of maternity in childless old maids, or the capricious fondness
of adults for the brute creation, which is unaccompanied by any touch of
kindness for their biped dependants, or any manifestation of sympathy for
human misfortune.




TRADES, PROFESSIONS AND SCIENCES.


Trades, professions, manufactures, even the sciences, the divine sciences
themselves, come in and go out of fashion with times and circumstances;
and to talk of permanency, of stopping short at particular epochs
and eras (always so sacred with dullness and ignorance), is to speak
a language utterly inapplicable to truth, nature, and society. Many
of the trades which were in vogue so recently as the time of the two
first Georges, are passed and gone. Fifty years ago, London and Paris
abounded with fan painters. Some of the most noted artists among the
contemporaries of Sir Joshua Reynolds began life in this department of
their profession; and they made more money by sprawling shepherdesses in
bell-hoops, upon banks of roses, attended by squinting shepherds with
bag-wigs and bouquets, than some scores of young painters can now acquire
by copying the works of Titian, or catching the beauties of Raphael.
Then there was the coach-pannel painter, belonging to times when the
visiting chariot of a lady of fashion bore her device and cognizance on
her carriage, like the knight of old on his shield and target: when the
loves and the graces, with turtles, trophies, and wreaths of roses, were
sported in the park and the ring, to the admiration of the pedestrian
multitude, and the substantial comfort of the unambitious and unknown
artist.

I remember having seen one of these antiquated teams of taste of the
good old times, creeping along a cross road in Picardy, on my first
visit to France. How different from a modern “drag” of dash, shaped and
coloured like a mail coach, as strong and as ungainly, and decorated
with pointers and race-horses! It enshrined a dowager anti-revolutionary
beauty, much more freshly painted than her _voiture_ _coupée_, and almost
in as many colours. She bore in her hand a fan _to match_, that was an
historical picture of the court of Louis the XVth; and her hair was
dressed with a _tête_, surmounted by a _petite cornette, qui ne laissait
rien à désirer_, in the eyes of the true virtuoso of highly preserved
antiquities. The carriage, the fan, the _coiffure_, were all alike the
production of arts long now gone by. Oh! how I should have liked to seize
upon the whole set-out, and place it under a glass case!

I have a family on the list of my visiting book, scarcely less curious in
their way, than these Picardy relics; fit for the cabinet, and worthy to
be preserved as dried specimens of a phasis of society which history will
never record.

The painted carriage was unknown in the time of Henry the IVth of France,
who tells Sully that he cannot visit him on a certain occasion, because
his wife had “_mon carrosse_,” the only carriage belonging to the royal
establishment. The fashion of splendidly decorating coaches, began in the
middle of Louis the XIVth’s reign, and it ended, in England, in the reign
of George the Ist. The most gorgeous carriage on record, was that which
the ingenious sycophancy of Bernini painted for Christina of Sweden, on
the occasion of her visit to Pope Alexander the VIIth, when she went to
Rome, to make a public abjuration of Lutheranism. “She was received,”
says a curious old work I picked up on a stall in the Piazza Navona in
Rome, “with unspeakable applause;” and among other “_regali_” presented
her by the Pope, were a coach, a litter, a sedan chair, and a hackney.
The description of these articles is curious, and belongs to times and
trades now no more.[6]

Some traces of the expense and magnificence of coach decorations still
remain in the state carriage of the Lord Mayor of London, which has
survived many more important monuments of the taste and the judgment
of our ancestors. Whether the painting of pictures on coach panels was
driven out by heraldic pride, or fell merely by the caprice of fashion, I
cannot say. It is most probable that the custom was itself an innovation
upon armorial bearings, to which it in turn gave place. In the early
period of the revolution, when the emblazoning of arms was forbidden,
some of the bolder members replaced their escutcheon on their carriages,
by the representation of the sun behind a cloud, with the motto—“_ça
reparoîtra_.”

Almost in our times, great has been the downfal of wig-makers, who, for
more than a century, engrossed so large a portion of the public money. In
the time of Queen Anne, thirty guineas was the price of a full fledged
perriwig, an enormous sum for those days. As the beaux laid down false
hair, the women seem to have adopted its use. Under the names of systems
and _têtes_, these filthy appendages maintained their ground in Ireland
to a late period. The last “system, _tête_, and peruke-maker,” I saw, was
in my childhood, in Connaught, and so I handed him over to the Miss Mac
Taafs, for their city of Craiggellan, where he figures in the person of
Gil-Duff O’Kirwan. The “system” was a high cushion of horse-hair. I saw
it worn by an itinerant schoolmistress, brought into my father’s house,
to teach me my letters, and to work a sampler, when I was about four
years old. Her figure and system got such a hold of my imagination, that,
“not on the book my eyes were fixed, but her.” “That fairy form,” (which
was six feet high,) “I have ne’er forgot”—.

The system was a most complicated affair. Men served an apprenticeship to
learn its architecture. The cushion was but a scaffolding, on which the
superstructure was supported, which rose by the foot; while curls, “_en
canon_” massy as rolling stones, were piled on each other, till they made
“Ossa like a wart.”

These adscititious monstrosities were beginning to disappear, when
Mr. Pitt, by the hair-powder tax, gave a death blow to the trade of
hair-dressing. It has been said, I know not with what truth, that the
idea of this tax originated with Lewis the actor, and that he was
handsomely rewarded for the invention. At this period, the Brutus head,
and the close-cropped _tête à la victime_, were adopted as tests of
republicanism in France; as the round head was made a mark of covenantism
in the English revolution; and this fashion aided and abetted the
destruction of the loquacious tribe of tale-bearers.

It is one of the blessed effects of the diffusion of knowledge, to render
men less dependent on others; and society seems to have rejoiced in its
emancipation from the tyranny of hair-dressing. Formerly the barber’s
knock was as well known, and as punctual as the postman’s. His important
visage, sagacious look, and his bag of apparatus, belonged as much to
the objects of daily vision, as the place in which he was received.
There, for one mortal hour at least, and that at the most precious and
active period of the day, sat the victim of fashion with its minister,
bound tightly up in a white cloth, like a baby in swaddling-clothes,
sometimes pulled by the nose, sometimes scored on the cheek, and often
in danger of an unlucky cut across the throat;—then again, smoked and
smothered with the vapours reeking from the curling iron, which dragged
up his hair by the roots; while his drawn-in breath, clenched hands,
closed lips, and puffed cheeks, spoke all the torture of his voluntary
suffocation. The whole sad scene terminated in a dense cloud of musty
powder, discharged from the notable puffing machine into every exposed
orifice, filling the ears, ascending the nostrils, and blinding the eyes
of the sufferer. Yet the wisdom of our ancestors looked upon this daily
martyrdom and perpetual disfiguration as indispensable to the appearance
of a gentleman. Even tradesmen gave up their time and persons to this
voluntary immolation; and assisted to people the good old times with
monsters, and to support trades, which, making no return, diverted
industry from more profitable channels.

Franklin, when ambassador to France during the American war, frequently
expressed his regret that the _corps de friseurs_ was not placed at
his disposition, to fight the English; and that the money expended on
hair-powder was not devoted to powder of more inflammable and explosive
properties. The use of hair-powder, however, encouraged the landed
interest,—a saving virtue; and if it raised the price of bread, there
was, as the French king has it, the charity of the nation to supply the
deficiencies of the poor—a right royal specimen of political economy.

Hair-dressing, moreover, had its indirect advantages, by encouraging
literary propensities; many worthy persons took the opportunity of lining
the inside of their heads, while the barber decorated its outward parts,
who would never otherwise have found leisure for “improving the mind.”
In those days, a play-book or a pamphlet was sure to be whitened, in
every third page, by the contents of the powder-puff. Hairdressers were
also serviceable to their species, by maintaining and diffusing a taste
for anecdote. Even ministers of state were occasionally indebted to the
_coiffeur_ for their principal knowledge of human nature, and for the
better part of their wit.

The ministerial influence of barbers has ever been considerable. The
grand sultan’s barber is, to this day, the pivot of affairs, the focus
of revolutions, the ladder of rising fortunes, and the Tarpeian rock of
functionaries on the wane. Under Louis the Fourteenth, the _coiffeurs_,
male and female, were important personages; and they figure largely in
the memoirs of that day. Martin la Vienne, and Mademoiselle la Borde,
have become historical characters, as much as the heroes and beauties
they dressed; and the “_coiffure à la paysanne_,” and “_les boucles de
Montgobert_,” form epochs in the history of nations. Under the regency,
an “_Encyclopédie Perruquière_” appeared, illustrating the mysteries
of the craft by one hundred and twenty engravings of different orders
of _perruques_, which gave the idea, some years afterwards, of a work
on the same plan, by _Le Sieur le Gros_, _coiffeur_ to the court of
Louis the Fifteenth. The solemn importance attached to this volume by
its author, who announced it to the great Catherine of Russia, is an
admirable satire on the frivolity of the day; the title was “_Livre
d’Estampes de l’Art de la Coiffure des Dames Françaises, gravés sur les
dessins originaux d’après mes accommodates, avec le Traité en abrégé
d’entretenir et de conserver les Cheveux naturels_.”[7]—And yet Madame de
Genlis says, “_Il y a quarante-cinq ans que les femmes auroient trouver
de l’indécence à se faire coiffer par des hommes._”[8] M. Le Gros gave a
still further dignity to the art, by opening an academy, which he divided
into the same number of classes as the academy of sciences at Paris; and
actually furnished it with thirty models, that were not exactly “_d’après
l’antique_.”

Under Louis the Sixteenth, the hair-dressers are said to have been
accompanied by _les physiognomistes_, who pronounced on the style to
be adopted on each head, according to the nature of the countenance.
One of these Lavaters of the toilet entering, with his employer, into
the dressing-room of a new patient, fresh arrived from England, threw
him into no small consternation by the earnestness of his scrutinizing
regard. Full of John Bullish notions, of French tyranny, _lettres de
cachet_, and, of course, of his own importance in the eyes of the
government, the Englishman saw nothing in the penetrating looks of the
artist, but _espionnage_ and “_à cul de basse fosse_:”—he was actually
preparing for a knock-down blow, and a run, when the solemn figure
relieved him from his fright, and left the room, exclaiming, “_Figure de
marron, marronnez Monsieur._”

The revolution came, and kings and _coiffeurs_ fell together.—Nature
vindicated her rights—hair-dressers lost theirs—and beauty and purity
resumed their privileges under the name of Greek costume.

The enameller was also, in former times, a profession of much profit and
occupation: not such enamellers as the Bones and Bates of the present
day, nor as the Petitots of the past; but good tradesman-like artists,
who kept shops well stored with enamelled snuff, patch, and rouge boxes,
and every article of domestic usage, to which they could apply their art.
Who, that ever rummaged her mother’s drawers, and found the watch-chains
of her grandmother, ponderous as jack-chains, and fastened with hooks
massy as flesh-forks, does not remember the enamelled trinkets suspended
from it—eggs, anchors, bird-cages, and watch-boxes, with bottles for
bergamotte, and beetles filled with thieves’ vinegar, (the _eau de
cypre_, and the _mille-fleurs_ of the _belles_ of the last century, who
always smelled like a pot of pomatum, or a pickled cucumber)?—the least
prized of the senses has its march of intellect, _tout comme un autre_,
and the strength of perfumes is no bad indication of the state of society.

But, alas, for the sciences! that they too should “bear but the perfume
and suppliance of a moment;” and be brought in and out of fashion, like a
_beret_ of Herbault, or a _robe_ of Victorine. Yet so it is, and was, and
ever will be, as the wants and exigencies of society have occasion for
the aid of different pursuits.

Towards the end of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, and the beginning
of that of Louis the Fifteenth, (including the regency,) astronomy,
taking the place of polemics, raged like an epidemic. Men, women, and
children, leaving this world to take care of itself, got into “other
and better worlds;” and wits, lost on earth, were all to be found, like
Orlando’s, in the moon. Women’s eyes were no longer the only lights that
helped poets to similes. Celestial bodies succeeded to terrestrial; Love,
no longer blind, never appeared without a telescope; rendezvous were
given in _bosquets_ and on terraces, to gaze on the “chaste cold moon;”
hearts and planets disappeared together; and ladies were so intently
engaged in studying the principles of Newton, that they forgot their own;
and gave practical demonstration that, in going astray, women’s “stars
are more in fault than they.”

But when Newton had ceased to act upon the imagination, by fresh
discoveries of striking and impressive import, the astronomers became
_mauvais ton_; and the Parisian women of fashion took to pet geometers,
as the _pendants_ for their pet monkeys. D’Alembert became the Coryphæus
of the French boudoirs; and the Tencins, and the Du Deffands fought for
the possession of the least gallant man and the first geometrician of his
age; who, in his turn, made way for chemistry and Lavoisier.

The English, who have been called a nation of shopkeepers, and who
mingle trade even with their love of science, took to chemistry with an
enthusiasm proportioned to its utility in the arts; much in the same way
as the kings and nobles of a former age had brought alchemy into vogue,
as an instrument of their avarice. Although natural history entered the
lists with its experimental rival, and canvassed for vogue in the library
of Sir Joseph Bankes, oxygen and hydrogen carried the field; and Sir
Humphry Davy, with his class of aristocratic beauties in the west, was as
much revered as the “_premier baron de la Judée_” is in the east.

Chemistry, however, has had its day; and the Ricardos and Malthuses have
succeeded, to turn the heads of those, whom nature intended only to
turn the heads of others—to be succeeded in the next generation by—God
knows what. In France, the once popular electricity of Franklin, and
the cognate study of the magnet, have given birth to the reigning folly
of Mesmerism; and in England, the popular labours of the Hunters have
terminated in the current vogue of craniology. Who can answer for it,
that the necessities of no-popery may not revive the witchcraft of King
James, and call to its aid the penal _dicta_ of some new Matthew Hale,
for the better putting down of dangerous papists?

Even the divine arts, which are of all ages, have experienced the full
versatility of human affairs. Protestantism made war upon the successors
of the Raphaels; and great pictures went out, with great cathedrals
and great palaces. Pitt dealt a severe back-handed blow to engraving;
while wealth, snugness, and personal vanity, combined to give currency
to portraits of gentlemen and ladies. Now, we have lithography opening
a new career to genius and industry; and every day teems with fresh
discoveries, all, more or less, influencing the destiny of the imitative
arts.

Neither are the learned professions built upon a more solid foundation.
Theology, notwithstanding the fashionable sanctity, is obsolete; law
is at a considerable discount, and physicians are set on one side, to
give place for the triumphal car of surgery. The fact is, that society,
like nature, bent on its own great purposes, steadily pursues the course
of its interests; and it sustains, for the moment, those pursuits, and
those only, for which it has an immediate and pressing occasion. It
is in vain that we look for the architectural skill which raised the
ponderous temples of Egypt, or the more graceful, but less substantial,
edifices of Greece. Mortar and Roman cement have substituted the Nashes
and the Wyatvilles, for the _protégés_ of the Ptolemys and Pericles; and
the reign of George the Fourth cannot, in physical possibility, become
the age of Augustus. The house of brick, will never become the house of
marble.




MR. OWEN’S TUNIC.


Talking the other day of small rooms and glaring lights, where all is
in evidence, I made them my excuse for indulging in a tendency to make
up my coterie of pleasant men and pretty women, and to keep out the
twaddles of both sexes, for which I am much abused. It is not long since
a philosophical friend of mine, one always deeply occupied in promoting
the highest and best interests of society, by perfecting science in its
most sublime and useful directions, called on me, and found me most
frivolously, but earnestly, employed in filling up cards for a very
small party. “I am come,” he said, “to ask a favour.” I started: for,
delighted as at all times I am to improve my society by enlisting him
amongst its members, I was yet terribly afraid he was going to ask leave
to bring with him some of those young disciples, who flock to his class
from all parts of Europe, but who (unless one could _ticket_ them) do
not answer quite so well for a fashionable party, as for a laboratory or
a dissecting room. I was really, therefore, never more relieved, than
when I found it was not a card for my _soirée_ he wanted, but only my
head, literally and truly my head;—that is, be it understood, when the
commodity should no longer be of use to its owner. I readily gave him a
_post-obit_ on the only productive estate I ever possessed, delighted to
save my “at home” even at so capital an expense.

It would, however, be a mistake, to accuse me of aristocratical leanings
with respect to society. Something I must have—worth, wit, rank, fashion,
beauty, notoriety, or an old friend. I will take even a diamond necklace,
or an hussar suit of regimentals, value one hundred pounds, with, or
without the wearer: but I do not want what musical cognoscenti call
“_perruque_;” because I have no spare space to fill up, no corners to
cram, like people who have large houses.

_À propos_ to an untenanted uniform and an unappropriated necklace—by way
of lion, I once hung up on the divisions of my bookcase a little tunic;
and it made the _frais_ of my party, by giving rise to an infinity
of fun, and some philosophical, though humorous, conversation. On the
previous morning, the most benevolent, amiable, and sanguine of all
philanthropists called on me, with a countenance full of some new scheme
of beneficence and utility. It was Mr. Owen, of New Lanark, whose visits
are always welcome in Kildare-street, though so “few and far between.”

As soon as we had sunk into our arm-chairs, and put our feet on the
fender, and before we had got on the usual topics of parallelograms and
perfectibility, New Lanark and a new social system, he began,

“My dear Lady Morgan, you are to have a party to-night.”

“To be sure, my dear Mr. Owen, and one made expressly for yourself. You
are my lion: I hope you don’t mean to jilt me.”

“By no means; but I have brought you a better lion than I could prove.”

“I doubt that; but who is he? where is he?”

“In my pocket.”

“You don’t say so: is it alive?”

“Here it is,” said Mr. Owen, smiling; and drawing forth a little parcel,
he unfolded and held up a canvas tunic, or chemise, trimmed with red tape.

“I want you,” he added, “to assist me in bringing into fashion this true
costume of nature’s dictation, the only one that man should wear.”

“But woman, my dear Mr. Owen?”

“Or woman either, my dear Lady.”

“Consider, Mr. Owen, the climate!”

“Your face does not suffer from it.”

“But then again, the decencies?”

“The _decencies_, as you call them, Lady M——, are conventional—they were
not thought of some years ago, when you were all dressed in the adhesive
draperies of antiquity, like that beautiful group on your chimney-piece.
You see there the children of Niobe wore no more voluminous garments than
my tunic;—that lovely child, for instance, which Niobe is endeavouring to
save from the shafts of Apollo. And yet none of your fine gentlemen or
ladies are shocked by the definition of forms, which have ever been the
inspiration of art. I assure you I have already got several ladies to
try this tunic on—”

“Oh! Mr. Owen!!!”

“On their little _boys_, Lady Morgan; and if I could only induce you to
try it—”

“Me, my dear Mr. Owen! You surely cannot suppose—”

“I don’t ask you to _wear_ it, Lady M——: all I beg for the present,
is, that you will give it a trial, by showing it off at your party
to-night—recommend it, puff it off!”

_Quitte pour la peur_, I promised to do so, to the utmost of my
appraising abilities; and so we suspended the little chemise from the
centre of my bookcase, under a bust of the Apollo.

“There!” said Mr. Owen, looking rapturously at the little model dress of
future perfectibility, “there it is worthily placed! Such were the free
vestments, that, leaving the limbs of the Greek athlete unrestrained,
produced those noble forms, which supplied models for the Apollo of
Belvedere.”

“It is certainly placed to great advantage, Mr. Owen,” I replied with a
sigh, “but it gives my pretty library very much the look of Rag-fair, or
a back parlour in Monmouth-street.”

“My dear Madam,” he replied, emphatically, “where the human race is to be
benefitted, no sacrifice is too great.” And this sentiment, which is the
governing principle of Mr. Owen’s life, may serve for his epigraph.

The little tunic, however, had a great success, and merited the
well-known eulogium of Tam O’Shanter to a similar garment—

    “Weil loup’d, cutty sark.”




ODD CONJUNCTIONS.


The accidents and incidents of travelling sometimes produce very odd
conjunctions. When I arrived in Rome, I was in all the first bloom of
proscription, brought upon me by my work on France, “_Femme à pendre,
livre à brûler_;” and my introduction to the Buonaparte family, set the
seal on my transgression in the eyes of their deputed persecutor, the
Comte de Blacas, ambassador of France. Even the secretary’s secretary of
the representative of his most Christian Majesty, was afraid to turn his
diplomatic eyes to the side of the room where I stood, lest he should
happen to _se compromettre_ in a furtive glance. On the occasion of one
of the many splendid parties given by the Countess of C——, by which the
hospitality of Ireland was maintained in the ancient capital of the
Cæsars, his Excellency the Count de Blacas and myself got so wedged
together in the crush at the drawing-room door, that the Italian groom of
the chambers, in the breathless haste of his rapid annunciation, cried
out _de haute voix_, “_Son Excellence l’Ambassadeur de France, et Lady
Morgan._” “Holy St. Francis! what a _tête-à-tête_ was there!” The whole
room was in a titter.




PRINCESS BORGHESE.


I was seated at breakfast one bright Roman-winter morning with the
Princess Borghese, at her villa Paolina, near the Porta Pia, and within
view of the ruins of the Prætorian barracks, when letters from the
post were brought in. The Princess turned to the Chevalier ——, her
agent and chamberlain, and requested him to read and answer one of them
immediately; adding, “You know precisely what I ought to say, and will
say it better than I can.”—“The Chevalier,” I said, as he retreated to an
adjoining room, “appears to be an excellent person. It must be a great
advantage, in your Highness’s present position, to have so tried an
adherent of your family, to assist you with his experience and advice.”

“_Oui_,” she replied, “_c’est l’homme du monde le plus respectable.
C’étoit le Chancelier pour mon Duché, car mon frère ne m’a pas donné de
Royaume._”[9]

What a trait! How super-exquisite; but oh! for the careless _nonchalante_
air with which in the intervals of two sips of chocolate, “my brother did
not give me a kingdom,” was uttered!

                      “Do this, and this,
    Take in that kingdom, and enfranchize that.”

I give this dialogue, exactly as it was uttered. A veracious recital of
the most ordinary conversation, goes beyond the effort of fiction; and
there is nothing in the doctrine of possibilities, however extravagant,
which is not equalled or surpassed by fact.




THE COUNSELLOR.


I was talking yesterday to a gentleman of the birth, parentage, and
education, of Mr. Canning; all of which have been for ever misrepresented
by the political enemies of that eminent man. “He was the grandson,” said
my informant, “of the well known Counsellor Canning of Garva, who, as an
Irishman, of ancient birth, large possessions, and as a member of the
Irish legislature, was a person of the very highest consideration.”

“Then why do you call him counsellor, as a title of distinction.”

“Because in Counsellor Canning’s day, it was a distinction. A papist
might have a noble descent, a large property, and an historical name, but
he could not be a counsellor.”

Whatever marked the distinctive privileges of the Protestant ascendancy,
was a grade in itself, a dignity guarded by the laws of the land,
and an assurance of personal gentility. Up to the middle of the last
century, all the liberal professions were closed against the Catholic
gentry of Ireland; but it was a dignity to belong to the bar, even among
protestants; for the candidate for its honours was obliged to study in
London, which at that time was an affair of no inconsiderable enterprize
and effort. The uncertain sea voyage, and long land journey, were
attended with a heavy expense, some risk, and considerable labour. Wales
being then inaccessible to carriages, that part of the journey was made
on hired horses; and not less than three weeks were occasionally passed
in the transit from Dublin to London. To be a counsellor, therefore, was
in itself the mark of a certain considerable wealth and respectability.

“Counsellor,” is still prefixed as a title of distinction by the common
people, and by all the second-rate Catholics, to the names of barristers;
and even the feudal cognomen of “_the_ O’Connell” loses nothing by the
professional dignity of counsellor, which the Kerry clients of that
gentleman, the ex-subjects of his dynasty, never fail to give him.

A short time before the death of Grattan, “our husband and ourself”
drove from the house of our old friend General C——, to pay a visit at
Tenahinch. We had taken a wrong road, within a mile or two of that
beautiful spot; and we stopped to inquire our way of an old woman, who
sat spinning at a cabin door. “Pray, which is the road to Mr. Grattan’s?”

“Misther Grattan! Och, sorrow know myself knows, no, in troth, Mar’m.”

“What! not know where Tenahinch is?”

“Tinnyhinch, agrah! Och, it’s the counsellor’s yez are looking for;
well, turn here, just to the right, and any body will tell yez where the
counsellor’s is; just a stone’s throw from the Dargle. Sorrow one in the
country but knows the counsellor’s.”

The counsellor, then, was the distinctive epithet by which the poor
neighbours of Tenahinch best knew “the father of his country.” It was the
title of his ascendancy; and power is always uppermost in the Irish mind.

How deeply has the iron of oppression entered into the soul of the Irish
nation, and how much has a long misrule deteriorated the national
intellect; substituting the conventional for the true, and rendering
moral dignity and honesty of conduct almost physically impossible.
Aristides himself, to say nothing of St. Anthony, could scarcely resist
the temptations to corruption which arise from a divided population,
and which are unknown in the worst governments of the continent. The
protestant ascendancy, from the peer to the coal porter, form the true
aristocracy of the land, and all else are serfs. The protestants are
in Ireland, what the Normans were in England; only they have not seen
the policy of a social fusion, which the more genial temperament of the
French conquerors submitted to, in their intercourse with the Saxons. Oh!
with how many warm Irish hearts and ardent Irish spirits I began life,
who have since yielded to the baneful influence of this state of things,
and cooled down to a more prudent consideration of their country’s
wrongs, in relation to their own private interests. Yielding to a paltry
and ephemeral ambition, they have looked down from the height of their
official dignities upon the romance of patriotism, and condemned the
expression of feelings, which it was once their pride to avow. How many
who once shared such illusions, have afterwards shunned my sight, lest
they should involve their interests in the proscription of one who loved
their country, “not wisely but too well.” This is one of the severest
penalties of life: death itself inflicts none so bitter. The penalties
of nature bring their solace in their necessity: but what consoles for
the terrible conviction of the frailty, and falling off from principle,
of genius and sensibility; for perceiving, ere half our course is run,
or, while we are maintaining ourselves a direct course, “steering right
onward,”

    “Each wave that we danced on at morning, glide from us,
    And leave us at eve on the bleak shore alone.”




RIDICULE.


    “Yes, I am proud—I must be proud to see
    Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me.”

I envy Pope the burst of honest triumph that produced these lines!

How long was he lashed, tortured, reviled, calumniated, and
misrepresented in character, feeling, religion, person, and in all his
ties and all his affections, before the author of Windsor Forest and the
Universal Prayer produced his Satires and his Dunciad! Ridicule is an arm
furnished by nature to wit, to defend it against the envy, hatred, and
malice of vain, pretending, mediocrity; and the severity of its blows,
has no doubt mainly contributed to the outcry against its legitimacy
in the warfare of opinion. Dulness commenced its denunciation, and
self-interest set the seal of reprobation upon it, by rendering it penal.

The validity of the legal objection against ridicule, seems to me wholly
untenable; being founded on one of those “subterfuges,” in which Lord
Kames tells us, that “lawyers delight.” The assumption that ridicule is
no test of truth, has been received without examination, principally on
account of its application to the detection of political and religious
error. Notwithstanding the universal dislike to be shewn up, no one has
dared directly to question the morality of satire as a corrective of
manners, or to object to the poet’s magnificent boast of

    “Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne.
    Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone.”

In criticism also, ridicule is allowed, notwithstanding the supposed
proximity of the sublime to the ridiculous. Even the murderous parody
of “Oh! Jemmy Thomson, Jemmy Thomson, oh!” has escaped the imputation
of injustice, and of leading to false conclusions, on the merit of the
original. But above all, a great deal of the logic of Euclid consists
in the _reductio ad absurdum_, which differs from the ridiculous, only
because there is nothing very humorous in the disparity discoverable in
a man’s notions concerning angles and lines.

In strictness of speech, there is no test of truth, save the evidence of
the senses; but whatever tends to bring our conceptions in comparison
with realities, may be so called; and that ridicule may be so applied
to this purpose is indisputable. It is indeed the especial merit of
ridicule, that it addresses itself to the senses, or at least to those
ideas which are the most closely connected with sensitive impressions.
The ridicule of persons is purely demonstrative. It is an enumeration
of accidents and qualities, more or less exaggerated for the sake of
humorous effect, but, for the rest, substantially true, or believed to be
so: otherwise the ridicule fails. To tax a man with absurdities of which
he is not guilty, is not ridicule, but calumny. Ridicule of opinions can
only consist in such a juxta-position of ideas, as makes their disparity
ludicrously self-evident. That which is consistent and true, cannot be
ridiculed.

Ridicule derives its efficacy from the responsive sympathies of the
audience addressed. The ridicule of unknown persons excites no emotion.
The ridicule of a known person, for qualities which he notoriously does
not possess, is equally impotent. When Hone represented the British
constitution by an inverted pyramid, resting on the crown at its
apex, and supported by bayonets, the sensible image of instability he
presented, found a prompt reflection in the public mind. He advanced,
however, no novel statement. If a conviction had not pre-existed in
public opinion of “something rotten in the state of Denmark,” his humour
would not have told. Had he supported the tottering edifice with a
printing press, instead of a bayonet, the misrepresentation would have
been rejected with scorn.

Ridicule stands precisely on the same ground as graver arguments, being
either the statement of a fact, or an inference drawn from one; and it
is liable to the same abuses, and no more. Nothing is more common than
for ridicule to address itself to vulgar prejudices; but what is there
singular in this? Aristophanes (it is said) assisted in forwarding the
judicial murder of Socrates, by personifying in his drama the false
notions which were current in Athens respecting that philosopher. But
Melytus and Anitus did precisely the same thing, and were equally
successful through the employment of grave discussion; yet no one dreams
of proscribing rhetoric and logic, because they were thus employed to
make the worse appear the better cause. The common villainy in both
cases was the falsehood of the matter objected. Had Socrates really
spent his time in the pursuit of childish subtleties, the flea’s leap
would have been no more than a fair exaggeration, as illustrative as it
was pleasant. Just so, had he really corrupted the youth of the city,
the sober, serious invective of his public accusers would have been
equitable: the fault, in both instances, was not in the form, but in the
_fond_.

There is, however, this essential difference in favour of ridicule, that
the graver lie might be the entire fabrication of the accuser, and yet
produce its effect; whereas the efficacy of the satire depends altogether
on the pre-existing prejudices of the public, which it only illustrates.
Ridicule, it is true, may lead to error, by the misapplication of
acknowledged truths; as when trifling absurdities are employed to render
virtue contemptible. A bishop’s wig is no ornament to the “human face
divine,” but it would be eminently unfair to conjure up the ridiculous
image, in mockery of the pious individual who may be compelled to adopt
the costume; still more unjust would it be, if an inference were drawn
against the religious system which flourishes beneath the shadow of that
hairy portent. Such false inductions are not, however, less familiar to
the most serious argumentations; and they are then, by so much the more
dangerous, as the bad reasoning is less obvious to detection.

The general rejection of ridicule in dispute, rests upon the most flimsy
of sophisms—the argument from abuse to use. But there are many persons
who direct their objections against it in its application to religious
subjects, on account of the weight and dignity of the theme.[10] This
is a frank begging of the question. Dugald Stewart, in speaking of the
Provincial Letters of Pascal, observes, that there are some truths
in which ridicule is more powerful and convincing than reason. “The
mischievous absurdities,” he says, “which it was Pascal’s aim to correct,
scarcely admitted the gravity of logical discussion, requiring only the
extirpation or the prevention of those early prejudices which choke the
growth of common sense and conscience.”[11] Having, in his quality of a
good protestant, a previous conviction or prejudice that the system of
the Jesuits was false, Stewart readily admitted that the use of ridicule
against it is fair. He would likewise have allowed, in all probability,
a joke against Mahomet’s pigeon, or the miracle of his suspended coffin;
but he would not, I suspect, have approved of the ludicrous exaggeration
of Voltaire’s drama on David, or have suffered it to pass muster as a
proof of the disparity between the facts of that king’s life and his
pretensions to the character of the man after God’s own heart. Certain I
am, my Lord Chief Justice would not let such a work go unpunished. The
ideas illustrated in this sarcastic attack, are of the commonest order
of moral conceptions; and Voltaire might have thought himself as much
justified as Pascal, in “extirpating a prejudice which scarcely required
the gravity of logical discussion,” by a ridiculous travestie: the
offence then, if offence there be, lies in the mind of the judge, and in
his conviction as to what is, or is not, sacred.

But the law in permitting grave discussion, permits the right of judgment
on this presumed sacredness. The accused, therefore, cannot in equity
be bound to the judge’s prejudice in the matter. If we are permitted to
entertain a doubt of the truth of any proposition, we should in reason
be allowed to put forth those arguments which we deem most convincing
against it; and if we think a proposition beneath the gravity of logical
discussion, there is no reason why we should be forced to confine
ourselves to that mode of argument. The judge, however, takes the whole
point at issue into his own hands. The ideas to be overturned, he asserts
are not early prejudices, not contrary to common sense, and therefore
they are too respectable to be confuted in any other way, than in Barbara
or in Baralipton. In other words, he declares, that ridicule is a good
instrument to extirpate all errors, except those which he cherishes
himself; and that it is available against all the world, but the dogmas
which are “pack and parcel” of his law, and are incontrovertibly
established on its authority.

On this point, the Catholics and Protestants would be much at issue. Many
a grave Protestant divine has chuckled over Erasmus’s jest concerning the
“real presence” of the horse, he forgot to return to its owner.[12]

To a Catholic, convinced of the truth of the doctrine of
transubstantiation, it would appear an indecent levity, and misapplied
ridicule: “flat blasphemy.” Why then should this argument be lawful as
levelled against transubstantiation, and yet be unfair as applied against
the miraculous conception? Simply because he who is the strongest happens
to be a Protestant, without being also an Unitarian.

Ridicule is, in reality, a species of argument very peculiarly applicable
to test religious dogmas. The propositions which constitute the elements
of a religious faith relate to “things not seen.” There are no sensible
types with which to compare them; and it is only by comparing the ideas
with each other, and detecting their incongruities, that error can be
demonstrated. This is the especial province of ridicule. When Alexander
set up for a god, the ludicrous decree of the Lacedemonian senate
betrayed the absurdity of his pretensions better than the most studied
argument. The ridicule of the pagan theology scattered through the works
of Lucian is a perpetual demonstration of the incongruity of abstract
propositions, by means of sensible images. Yet persecuting, narrow
sectarians have not thought it beneath their dignity to claim this writer
as a believer, and to use his arguments against their opponents, though
they bitterly execrate Swift and Voltaire for treading in his steps.

It is this peculiar efficacy of ridicule, that has made its use so
objectionable to partizans and exclusionists. The happiness of its
illustration renders truths popular, which would remain the exclusive
property of the learned, as long as the error to which they are opposed
was involved in the intricacy of an abstract argument. The sensible
image is a stepping-stone to the judgment of those, who, unused to
dialectics, cannot thread the labyrinth of involuted ideas. Those who
are interested in the credit of any particular doctrine are, in general,
ready enough to compound for the dissent of the cultivated few: and they
can bear with patience an argument, which, being beyond the calibre of
the vulgar, is not likely to make many proselytes: but ridicule, being
within the scope of all, brings absurdity home to the conviction of the
meanest understanding. This is the secret of that hostility which the law
manifests in the midst of its seeming candour, against certain attacks
on the establishment. They are intelligible to all the world; and it is
feared that their influence may be proportionate.

Whatever is incongruous and absurd, cannot emanate from a being
pre-eminently wise and good. The internal evidence of such incongruity,
is decisive against the pretensions of any religious system, in which
it exists. Ridicule, therefore, goes to the fountain head of all false
pretensions; and as one religion alone can be a real revelation from
Heaven, it follows, that the partisans of all the others, have an
immediate interest in putting down the use of a ready instrument for
measuring their several errors. What is the sum of their argument? You
may put forth cogent and conclusive reason as long as you please; but
beware of ridicule; for that proves nothing. This excess of candour and
forbearance is not entitled to the slightest credit. It may, perhaps,
be objected, that ridiculous no-proofs will pass current with the lower
classes for valid argument. To this I reply, first, that the lower
classes are not so innocent and helpless: or if they are, let them be
better taught: and secondly, that they are much more frequently the dupes
of grave and plausible no-proofs, than of humorous misrepresentation; and
that the argument, if good for any thing, goes against all discussion
whatever.

The defenders of absurdity and error are not always in the same story:
for they always cry out against the argument which happens to press them
the most closely. The counsel of Geneva censured Rousseau’s gravity in
attacking their religious notions; and asserted, in the teeth of the
English law-maxim, that, “books, only written to turn into ridicule,
are not, _by a great deal_, so reprehensible, as those which, without
stepping on one side, go at once to the attack by dry reasoning.”[13] So
much for the honesty of state dogmatists!

In advocating the lawfulness of ridicule, it is not necessary to advocate
every instance in which it is employed. It is bad taste and buffoonery to
put forward ludicrous ideas, out of season; and it is both bad feeling
and bad policy, to insult the believer by a profane jest. A man is not,
however, to be committed to Newgate on a point of taste, or treated like
a felon for not having read the institutes of Quintilian. Those who would
thus proscribe ridicule in their opponents, are by no means slow in using
it against them. Not only ridicule, but scurrility and invective, are
daily lavished against those who are objects of religious rancour. What
was reprehensible in Voltaire becomes laudable in Piron; what was wrong
in Swift was right in Rennell. A protestant bishop may crack a joke upon
two non-ascendant religions with a single antithesis; but woe betide the
man who is facetious upon the thirty-nine articles.

Within this sophism the lawyers have entrenched themselves, upon
being driven, by public opinion, from an open and barefaced defence
of persecution. By its assistance they are still enabled to fine or
imprison, any one who presumes to question the truth of law-established
dogma. It has taken some centuries to storm the outwork; how many will it
take to capture the citadel!




LEGISLATIVE LITERATURE.


Lord C—f—n was very amusing to-day: every thing he said was cleverly
said; full of information, and abounding in curious historic anecdote.
I observe, that the elders of the English aristocracy have an amazing
mass of historical knowledge. History is the mirror of aristocratical
_amour-propre_. How I should read history if I were a Howard, or a
Stanley, or a Russel! The knowledge of history is, besides, a part of
the qualifications for an hereditary legislator; and, of necessity, it
engages the attention of those nobles, who are not above, or beneath, all
sense of duty and propriety. The mischief of it is, that their tastes and
education lead them rather to anecdote, than to philosophy; and their
knowledge consists more in facts, than in deductions. The ecclesiastical
education of our English universities is at war with philosophy; and
the great reject all philosophy that is not genteel and within bounds,
like Paley’s. Dugald Stewart is their _ne plus ultra_. Of physiological
philosophy, the philosophy of fact, they are usually ignorant. A single
page of De Tracy would scare the whole House of Lords. Though they may
very generally read the Heloise, they do not the less reject Rousseau’s
other works, as too philosophical,—Rousseau, the least philosophical of
thinkers, and as vehement a hater of philosophers, as the author of the
Metromanie himself! “If,” said Lord L——, to his old friend, General C——,
who wanted him to purchase a duplicate set of Voltaire’s works—“if I were
to let your Voltaire into my house, I should expect the roof to fall and
crush me.” Another lord, to compare great things with small, actually
burned my France, having first called his whole household to witness
the solemnity. From the beginning of time this flaming argument has
been the favourite _court moyen_ with the powers that be. In this they
do but follow the natural instinct which leads us to fear whatever we
do not understand. Philosophy is, in truth, but a democratical piece of
business: it knows nothing of castes and privileges: its object is only
the happiness of mankind at large; and it mounts not to the sublimity of
vested rights, the transcendentals of politics. But anecdotes, facts,
and dates, the sayings and doings of our ancestors, are so useful, so
imposing, so applicable to every thing and to nothing, they are so
ornamental in discourse, and they so set off a debate!! What a figure
they made in the discussions on the catholic question—the arguments of
the E.’s, and the eloquence of the W.’s.




VICE REGAL PROGRESSES.


    “Les ambassadeurs envoyés en France par les princes étrangers,
    faisoient à Paris une entrée pompeuse et solemnelle. Cet usage
    a subsisté jusque vers le milieu du dernier siècle: on ignore
    pourquoi il a été aboli.”[14]

                           _Dict. des Etiquettes, par M. de Genlis._

I think however one may guess! The age of pompous and solemn ceremonies,
like the age of chivalry, is over, and for ever; both belonged to times
of ignorance and barbarism: and long before the great explosion from the
revolutionary crater took place, public opinion and private comfort were
undermining that mass of cumbrous forms, which weighed upon the feelings,
tastes and enjoyments of the victims whose rank obliged them to submit
to their galling infliction. If any now submit to the _gêne_ of gorgeous
state, it must be in the irremediable dulness which produces the lowest
order of pride, and which is more gratified by figuring in a procession,
than in the page of history, to illustrate the records of their country.

The Irish Lord Lieutenants of the olden times were subjected to all the
pageantry, privation and display which then distinguished the majesty
they represented. From the very starting post of official initiation,
they were called on to abandon all the personal ease and independence
of private life. They left England, and returned to it, according to
certain rules and forms, which it would have been _leze-majesté_ to have
neglected. The interval of the commonwealth, had caused some of the forms
of the vice-regal progress to be forgotten; yet in Charles the Second’s
time, we find Lord Essex writing to a friend, to find out, if he is to
return in the same state with which he departed, and to prepare him a
black suit trimmed with black ribbons, to make his grand entry into
London; even though he returned in a sort of disgrace. Sir John Perrot’s
departure for the Lord Deputyship, as described by his quaint biographer,
is a scene for a melodrame! He had received the queen’s orders to sail
with, and command the fleet, sent to intercept the Spanish invaders
directed against the Irish coasts, and “to interrupt the King of Spayne,
and his Navie.”

“Then did Sir John Perrot prepare for that voiage, (to Ireland, by
Waterford), with all convenient speede. He had with him fiftie men
in orange tawny cloaks,” (think of that, ye _Brunswickers_; a Lord
Lieutenant arriving in Ireland with fifty men in orange!!) “whereof
divers were gentlemen of good birth and qualitie. Also he had a _Noyce_
of musicians with hym, being his own servants. He was served all in
silver plate, with all things else suitable; and soe being royally
furnished in all respects, he departed from London, about August,
and going from thence, by barge, he had with him divers noblemen and
gentlemen, who did accompany hym unto the shipps. As they lay in this
barge, against Greenwich, where the Queene kept her court, Sir John
Perrot sent one of his gentlemen on shore, with a diamond, in a token
unto Mistres Blanche Parry, willing hym to tell her, that a diamond
coming unlooked for, did alwais bring goode looke along with it: which
the Queene hearing of, sent Sir John Perrot a fair jewell, hanged by a
white cypresse; signifying withall that as longe as he wore that for her
sake, she did believe, with God’s healpe, he should have no harme; which
message and jewell Sir John Perrot received joyfully; and he returned
answer to the Queene, that he would weare that for his soveraigne’s sake;
and doubted not, with God’s favour, to returne her shipps in safetie;
and either to bring the Spaniards if they came in his way, as prisoners,
or else to sink them in the sea. Soe as Sir John Perrot passed bye in
his barge, the Queen looking out at the window, shaked her fan, and put
out her hand towards him; who making a low obeysance, put the scarfe
and jewell about his necke, which the queen sent him. Being arrived at
Gyllingham, where the queen’s shipps rode, Sir John feasted on shipboard
such noblemen and gentlemen, as came with him thither.”

After enduring every misery and vicissitude, and “storms and contrary
winds,” that the tyranny and caprice of the elements could inflict, after
being obliged to put in by stress of weather, at Falmouth, Plymouth, and
“soe sett sea to Ireland, and touched at Baltimore, and Waterford, and
thereabouts, upon the Irish coast;” and having missed the Spanish ships,
encountered pirates and chased corsairs “to the Coste of Flaunders,” and
his ship striking ground on the Kentish Knocks, and being all but lost,
the unhappy Lord Deputy found himself, one fine day, driven near Harwich,
and so sailed back into the Thames, after a three months unprosperous
voyage.

His second descent upon Ireland, though more successful, was scarcely
less tedious. Contrast this vice-regal progress, when the wisdom of our
ancestors was wisest, with the progress of a Lord Lieutenant in these
degenerate times, when setting aside all precedents, and discarding all
time-honoured authorities, the new viceroy steps into his carriage for
Ireland, as if he were stepping into his chaise for a visit to Kew,
skims along the macadamized roads at ten miles an hour, and mounting
his steam-boat, crosses St. George’s Channel, without touching at
Falmouth, Plymouth, Baltimore, or Waterford; and instead of finding
himself at the end of three months in the mouth of the Thames, is in six
hours comfortably seated at dinner in Dublin Castle, in an easy chair,
cushioned with eider or iron, as the innovations of the day, for which
our ancestors were wise in vain, may suggest.

I do not defend this levelling principle of accommodation and comfort,
that spares so many risks of life, of health, and of time, incurred
when men on leaving Dublin for London, made their will, and invoked the
prayers of the church in crossing to Park Gate. I do not presume to doubt
the superiority of the times, which Madame de Genlis so fondly regrets: I
merely state the fact of the vice-regal progress in the older and wiser
times, as compared with the same journey at the present epoch, when we
have fallen upon evil men who make good roads, and upon evil times,
which have produced steam engines, and steam boats, without reference or
respect to the immutable order of things established either at, or before
1688.




BAD BOOKS.


    “Je ferai quelque jour une apologie dans les formes, des plats
    et mauvais livres. Ils sont sans prix pour un bon esprit.”[15]

                                          GRIMM, p. 1. T. 3. p. 107.

    “Il y a autant d’invention à s’enrichir par un sot livre, qu’il
    y a de sottise à l’acheter. C’est ignorer le goût du peuple que
    de ne pas hasarder quelquefois, de grandes fadaises.”[16]

                                                         LA BRUYÈRE.

I have just risen from perusing a tolerably accurate, but dull and
unphilosophical censure of our modern literature. No more Miltons, no
more Shakspeares, no more Bacons, and Jeremy Taylors!! One might as well
lament that there were no more knights-errant and battering rams. Every
age knows its own wants, and provides for them; and Milton would not
probably succeed much better, were he to reappear in this nineteenth
century, with a new Paradise Lost, than the Laureate, Robert Southey,
Esq. has done with his Vision of Judgment. It must, indeed, be admitted,
that if La Bruyère is right, our English booksellers are very inventive
personages; for they produce more bad books than the rest of Europe
put together. But there is also abundance of excellence afloat—of that
precise excellence which society requires; and as the overflowing
fertility of literature has generated a tact, prompt and accurate as
an instinct, for discovering what books are to be bought and studied,
what may be read, and what cast aside, the putting forth of nonsense and
villainy is much less mischievous than is supposed. In fact, a man is
drawn by a sort of elective attraction to the works which harmonize with
his intellectual peculiarities, assort with his feelings, and dovetail
with his wit, just as animals are drawn by nature to their appropriate
bodily nourishment; and the frequency of bad books proves only that fools
and knaves now employ their leisure in reading, instead of the more
dangerous and brutal pastimes which occupied their predecessors.

This evil of bad books is no novelty. Whoever runs his eye over the
catalogue lying on his library table, will be convinced, that in any
age, the number of really useful and valuable works bore no very large
proportion to the entire mass of literature. Men are apt to imagine, that
Ovid, and Virgil, and Horace, had the field to themselves; but the “mad,
melting, reciters of August” were, no doubt, as abundant in their day, as
in the silver age of latinity, which so rapidly followed. The unrolling
of the manuscripts of Pompeii has proved that “trash” preceded the
invention of reviews, and belongs to an elder antiquity than that of “the
Row:” and it may be questioned, whether, at the burning of the library
at Alexandria, there were an hundred volumes utterly lost to the world,
which were not more serviceable as fuel for the baths, than as food for
the mind.

The first efforts of the press were expended in disseminating the
accumulated errors of a thousand years, which had previously been in
the exclusive possession of the few; and since then, each successive
generation has pretty equally divided its time between refuting the
mistakes of its predecessors, and popularizing and accrediting others
of its own. Ignorance, pedantry, and bad taste, infect the earlier
writers, notwithstanding their eloquence and energy. Their alchymy, their
astrology, their witchcraft, were scarcely less mischievous, than their
false morality and silly politics. Of theology it is dangerous to speak;
but as every one will admit that whatever has been written without the
pale of his own narrow sect, is pernicious error; and as what every body
says must be true, the reader may draw his own consequence. Medicine,
to this very day, continues a tissue of ill-understood facts, a chaos
of false inferences and incongruous systems. The science of law is a
nullity; and each particular code a standing monument of the barbarity
and perversity of the species: and as for philosophy, why the less that
is said on the subject the better. Of all the works of imagination,
with which the press teemed during the last two centuries, how very few
live and are read! History has ever been a record of errors, of party
misrepresentation, and of mistaken views, passed through the cullender of
the historian’s fancy: while, as to essentials, it is the play of Hamlet,
with the part of the Prince of Denmark omitted by particular desire.
Each generation, again, has had its harvest of pamphlets, embodying the
corrupt interests and false views of the moment, which have fretted
their little hour on the stage, and then have been consigned to the
trunk-makers, pastry-cooks, and bibliomaniacs.

We are told that literature having become a matter of mercantile
speculation, and authorship having acquired much pecuniary value, men
are in haste to realize; so that, among the multitude of competitors, an
author dreads to be anticipated; and hurries his crude thoughts before
the public, lest, while he is digesting them, the market should change,
and all chance of reward be cut off for ever. But if authors do not now
“keep their piece nine years,” something must be attributed also to the
quickened movements of intellect: writing, aye, and thinking also, are
more easily performed than formerly; and a work is not always the worse
for being thrown off at a heat.

Another cause for the multiplication of flimsy books, is the universality
of authorship; and this fashion for writing is, at least, as good a
fashion as that of driving coaches and beating the watch. When all sorts
and conditions of persons publish, all sorts and conditions of persons
must read; and the annual quality of publications, is less an exponent
of the talent in the market, than of the _minimum_ of wit, sense and
utility, beyond which the public will not buy. Let there arise a demand
for any species of nonsense and absurdity, and there will be found a
corresponding supply.

The last generation ran very much upon literary cobblers and poetic
milk-maids. The present goes principally upon lords and honourables;
and low as the “collective wisdom” may rate in the estimation of some
persons, M. P. in a title page, is worth at least an extra hundred
pounds. Amateur writing, like amateur fiddling, need not be of the very
best. Those who are placed beyond the reach of great interests, have
rarely strong passions; and if they trifle agreeably, they have done all
that can reasonably be expected from them. The “degenerate race to come,”
will, perhaps, read nothing but the works of those who put their mark to
their MS., who write by deputy, and publish by dictation: or, perhaps,
Mr. Babbage, improving on his calculating machine, will apply it to the
purposes of general literature; and then authors, like coach-horses, may
be displaced by steam engines; and “the trade,” emigrating to Manchester
or Birmingham, may send opinions into the market _per_ sample, and
manufacture doctrines of every shade and pattern, “as bespoke.” For this
change we are not wholly unprepared. Already the study is converted into
a counting-house; the ledger has become the true _primum mobile_ of
intellect; and the rapid sale of a work is the signal for multiplying
it, in all possible varieties, and in all sorts of spurious imitation.
To-day, satirical poems are the vogue, to-morrow, _ottava rima_; the next
day, books of the church, and the day after, the lives of demireps of
both sexes. The Scotch robber so lately “your only wear,” is now falling
into “the sere and yellow leaf;” and Heaven knows what embryo original is
about to start a new idea, for the benefit of the writing community.

Another order of writers, peculiar to our age, are speculating tradesmen,
who, treading on the heels of physicians, write books to puff their
wares, and make their title page an advertisement of their shop. Cooks
and confectioners recommend the lightness of their pastry by that of
their style; and put forward the flavour of their wit, as a specimen of
that of their ragouts. Shakspeare speaks of “cutler’s poetry;” but we
boast of anthologies of razor-strop manufacturers, venders of lottery
tickets, and composers of French wines.

To return, however, from the starting point, where is the vast evil
of this teeming multiplicity, and its consequent mediocrity of books?
The reviewers have set the fashion of obloquy and vituperation, as if
blockheads and dolts were not their best friends, and as necessary to
their trade as the evil spirit is said to be to that of the clergy, or
thieves and rogues to my Lord Chief Justice. If none but good books
appeared, what would become of their essays on “every thing in the
world, and all that sort of thing,” which form the “striking article”
of their quarterly numbers. Reviewers should know that bad books make
good reviews, exactly as “_de mauvais vin on fait de bon vinaigre_.”[17]
Without the necessary supply, adieu the opportunity for being witty in
print, and of shewing forth your own superiority, and enlivening the
town at the small expence of an author’s feelings.

It is something very unreasonable and selfish in the wise and the learned
to desire that nothing should be published but what suits themselves. The
woollen manufacturer is not restricted to superfine articles, nor the
Glasgow weaver to fine muslins. If the whole community must be clothed,
even though all cannot afford to dress like gentlemen, by parity of
reasoning, the whole should be amused, although all cannot afford to be
wits and philosophers. We tolerate the fabrication of Tunbridge toys
and glass beads, and boggle about the printing of somniferous essays
for aldermen after dinner, of vapid novels for ladies’ maids, and of
sentimental mysticism for blue-stocking peeresses. It is no more than
fair that such persons should be supplied with their favourite articles,
and—

    “Porque como las paga el volgo, es justo
    Hablar le en necio, para darle gusto.”[18]

                                  LOPEZ DE VEGA.

As for the cant of bad books debasing the intellect and corrupting the
morals of the public, the fact is quite the other way: it is the public
who debauch the _littérateur_. None read silly and wicked books, but the
silly and the wicked: and the charge is a mere confounding of cause and
effect. But, were things otherwise, have not the public their taverns and
gaming-houses, under the sanction of the highest authorities?

Books are, or ought to be, pictures of the human mind; and if the witty
and the wise alone found a reflection of themselves in the productions
of the press, the literary world would be as oddly constituted as the
political. The virtual representation of the commons would be but a cold
type of the general disfranchisement of the reading public. We have no
need here of parliamentary returns to prove the fact. No bookseller,
who knows what he is about, will have any thing to do with an original
thinker, a man of science, a philosopher, or in general with any one
whose matter exceeds “two handsome volumes in octavo.” Such works may
be excellent, may confer lasting benefits on the species, and entitle
their authors to immortal fame; but they don’t sell; or, at best, they
make but a slow return of capital. “_Quis leget hæc?_” Mr. Colburn or Mr.
Murray would ask; and the answer comes pat, “_vel duo vel nemo, turpe et
miserabile._” “Sir, let me see you and your works no more.”

As an article of trade, we may say of books, that bad is the best. The
nauseous absurdities of “cheap and nasty” tract societies, the spawn
of delirious fanaticism or canting hypocrisy, “go off” better than the
soundest works of a judicious churchman, and infinitely exceed the sale
of the most popular political economy.

The human intellect, like the livery of London, must be addressed by its
own recorder, and he who writes too deeply for his age, might as well
write in a foreign language. If you will but write down to the level of
the general understanding, shock no prejudice, startle no man’s faith,
break no new ground, give none the trouble of thinking, expose no mystery
of the human breast, but “amuse the eyes” without “grieving the heart,”
you will, if not positively as dull as an oyster, be sure of a third
edition, and a place at half the tea-tables of London. The mediocre, the
foolish, and the common-place, are the publisher’s best customers; and
to deprive them of their appropriate reading, would be as politically
unjust, as it is economically impolitic. In literature, as in all things,
we want a free trade: no embargoes on stupidity, no protecting duties
on right opinions. Why should the harmless literature of nations, and
the innocent amusement of the mass, be eclipsed or trampled under foot
by an arrogant censorship? ’Twere worse than the three-piled sanctity
of a judaical sabbath, or the anti-cake-and-ale virtue stolen from the
puritans of the great rebellion.

But the evil of restraint would not stop here. The wisest and the best
are sometimes glad to take refuge in a bad book, and to find relief from
the dulness of their own thoughts in the absurdities of another’s. It is
a rich literary year that produces three first-rate novels, the supply to
a moderate consumer, of barely ten days! How then are the public to get
through a long summer’s course of watering-places, without the aid of the
secondary Scotch novelists, and the third-rate imitators of Lord N. and
Lady C. B.? In the long vacation, the chancellor himself might be reduced
to the Minerva press, or be compelled to a second perusal of Almacks.
Your hungry reader is not nice, or at worst he eats, like Pistol,
his unsavoury leek, and grumbles. In this respect dulness has great
privileges. Genius never writes in folio, and if it ventures in quarto,
the bulk is as much owing to the publisher, as a dandy’s to Stultz’s
buckram. Besides, there is a metaphysical length in a bad book, valuable
to the literary glutton beyond expression. A volume of S.’s polemics is
matter for a week, and a surfeit of all desire for reading for a month
afterwards. In short, dulness is in literature, what bread is to a good
dinner—it prevents the cayenne and _coulis_ from palsying the palate,
and spoiling the digestion. It is the bitter olive to good port, or a
Cheshire cheese in a wine merchant’s cellar. Certain philosophers have
explained the existence of moral evil, as a necessary point of comparison
for relishing the blessings of life; and if so, why may not bad books
be tolerated, as contributing to the delight with which we enjoy the few
that are worth reading?

The same argument applies equally to error. Truth is “caviare to the
general,” and if given undiluted, the scandal would be intolerable.
Literature is the food, not the physic of the mind; and till we see the
opulent contented with roots and water, we must allow them the luxury of
conventional nonsense. Without literary rogues and false prophets, also,
there would be no controversy. Truth and error are too unfairly matched
if both must have a fair hearing; but when one error is pitted against
another, the quarrel is “a very pretty quarrel,” and may afford good
sport to the bye-stander. The controversialist puts not up Ajax’s prayer
for light; but, like Æneas, is concealed in his cloud, and lives and
triumphs in the friendly darkness.

If it be the great defect of Catholicism that it closes the door
against all inquiry, pure and unadulterated truth is equally liable to
the imputation. Men are better engaged in bowling down each other’s
prejudices, than in not thinking at all. If error were not recorded in
print, it would not be canvassed, and “_on doit savoir gré à ceux qui
osent établir les paradoxes. Si la raison reçue se trouve vraie, on a
l’avantage de croire par raison, ce qu’on croyait par habitude; si elle
est fausse, on est délivré d’une erreur._”[19] (Condorcet.)

Few, if any books, are so totally worthless as not to contribute
sometimes to the reader’s ideas; and what they do not communicate, they
may suggest. There are likewise degrees of comparison in absurdity; and
as one nail drives out another, a mitigated piece of nonsense is a good
cure for that which is more aggravated. One man’s opinion may be true,
as it respects another’s, though false to the nature of things. Such
opinions are stages on the journey of knowledge; and they may serve the
ignorant, though the philosopher despises them.

I have but one more consideration to urge, and that is the value of
bad books as an instrument of commerce. What multitudes are supported
by the mere manufacture! What type founders, ink makers, painters,
engravers, paper makers, and pressmen! what folders, and stitchers, and
distributers, tanners, leather-sellers, and binders, find an industrious
and honest subsistence out of the small class of writers alone, who print
for their own amusement, and whose circulation extends not beyond the
presentation copies! How many live by “parsons much bemused in beer,”
by visitation charges, _libretti_ for the opera, proceedings of learned
societies, experiences of hypochondriacal old gentlemen, and hysterically
evangelical ladies; religious novels by persons of quality, and novels
of high life by persons who live in low! But enumeration is useless. All
the good books in existence would not supply six months’ matter for the
London press. It is by the printing of nonsense alone, that booksellers
ride in their coaches, that the revenue is supported, and a countless
host of sooty artizans maintained in comfort and independence.

I should not feel, therefore, any great qualms of conscience in adding
another volume to the mass, even at the risk of its being dull or
foolish. A heavy volume is not worse than a heavy visiter, and the book
may be laid down without rudeness; while the bore must be endured, until
“_il s’ennuye nous d’ennuyer_.” If the purchaser finds, too late, that he
has bought folly or impertinence, let him put it in handsome binding; for
if gold and frippery will pass such qualities current when incarnated in
a coxcomb, they will perhaps do as much for them when embodied in print.
At all events the volume will fill a shelf as well as better books; and
this, after a time, becomes the destiny of the gravest authors, in the
most select libraries. Not, however, that one should write expressly
“_afin d’embobiliner les pauvres gens_,” but with a loyal intent to be
as little stale, flat, and unprofitable as possible. Of this, however,
authors are unfortunately not always the best judges; and moreover there
is so much danger in the imputation of setting the Thames on fire, that,
what between reviewers, attornies general, and hypocritical readers, they
have no great encouragement in putting forth their best wares.




DRAWING CHARACTERS.


    “Each cried, that is levell’d at me.”

Molière was accused of putting living characters into his exquisite
comedies. The ridicules of society were then so graphic, the Hôtel
Rambouillet, the Jesuits, and the Court, all furnished such abundant
materials to truth and satire, that the temptation to give to fiction the
interest of fact, must have been irresistible. “_C’est une chose étrange
qu’on imprime les gens malgré eux_,”[20] observes the immortal author of
the “_Précieuses Ridicules_,” in allusion to the accusations made against
him. But Molière in drawing characters from the particular species and
genus, avoided all personal allusion. Nobody’s history was told,—nobody’s
secret was revealed; but his enemies made his fine delineations of life
and character, a subject of misrepresentation and persecution, from which
the power of the king only could protect him. It was Louis the XIVth,
who sheltered him from the wrath of the Tartuffes, and supplied him, from
his own observations, with some of the most striking characters in his
works; for kings like to be amused, even at the expense of their dearest
friends: and, provided their own characters, and conduct, and measures,
are held sacred, for the rest, “_Sauve qui peut_.”

Party spirit, which, from a decree of imperial proscription, to a column
in the lowest organ of purchaseable ribaldry, stops at no means of
blackening its opponent, frequently avails itself of this instrument for
bringing the self-love of the gullible to its side: and the legitimate
satire on a prevailing vice or folly, is affixed to some particular
individual, presumed to have been “put into the book” of the author,
who is to be run down at the expence of truth, honesty, and honour. But
between the ruffianism that attacks character for the gratifications of
base, vindictive, and sordid passions, and that honest and courageous
delineator of the peculiar vices or follies of the day, which comes under
the head of what Molière calls “_La Satire honnête et permise_,” there
is the same difference, as between the hired assassin who way-lays and
murders for a stated price, and the gallant soldier, who goes forth in
the broad day to combat the enemy of public safety and public rights.




PICTURE FRAMES.


I am a great amateur of old picture frames. Cardinal Fesch, who
is considered, even in Italy, very high up in the scale of the
cognoscenti, told me some very curious anecdotes concerning them. I
think it was his Eminence who pointed out to me the most interesting
frame extant. It enshrines a superb picture by Raphael, of a female
saint, (I believe St. Eleanora.) It is in white and gold, exquisitely
designed and carved by Benvenuto Cellini, who was sent by Pope Clement
the VIIth, with the picture and frame to the great personage on whom
the Pope bestowed it!—What a present!—and what persons!—Clement the
VIIth!—Raphael!—Cellini!—This Pope Clement was a true Medici, in his
passionate love for the arts. In passing to mass every morning, through
the beautiful Salon of the Belvidere, he always paused and made an
offering at the shrine of its divine Apollo. It was he who employed Fra
Giovagnolo Montorsoli, to restore the hand of that unrivalled statue;
and he was wont to converse with the sculptor while he worked. When his
ingenious task was finished, Clement made the artist a Canonico.

The oldest frames are I believe the _Cancelli_, so called, from the
skreen work which shuts out the choir from the body of the church,
and which they imitated. These frames are divided into compartments,
(generally into three,) and the pictures are set in each compartment.
They are frequently made with doors; and were used as altarpieces, in
private oratories.[21]

The great painters of Italy not only drew the designs for their own
frames, but occasionally worked at them. The goldsmith’s art was then in
great request: and many eminent painters of the sixteenth century, began
life as working goldsmiths. Among these was Francesco Salviati, who had
been also a velvet weaver. Some of the finest frames, embossed in silver,
and studded with gems, were executed by these artist goldsmiths, who
worked at them in the intervals of their more serious occupations: for at
that epoch of the triumph of the arts, even the recreations of the artist
were sought in the lighter branches of his divine profession. Vasari
describes himself, Salviati, and other young artists, as employing their
holiday hours in drawing from the best models in Florence; and again
re-united in the workshop of the immortal Bacio Bandinelli, where they
worked with renovated ambition, and exhaustless zeal; enduring miracles
of privation and self-denial, such as it is supposed that the zeal of
religion can alone support. At Rome, they continued the same laborious
pursuit, animated by the same enthusiasm.[22]

Not all the academic prizes, royal premiums and public exhibitions, could
effect thus much for the arts. Founded by power, these institutions
belong to mediocrity: the da Vincis, the Michel Angelos, the Raphaels,
were beyond them! There are designs for picture frames, by the artists
who preceded the epoch of academies, more beautiful in their drawing and
execution, than any member of the modern academy of Rome could produce. I
have the drawing of one now lying on my table, of the greatest possible
beauty in design and workmanship. It combines fruit, birds, and flowers,
the heads of animals, trophies, masks, and foliage, in the most perfect
drawing; and all so happily blended, as to present nothing incongruous:
the perfection of what is called the Arabesque. The art of picture frames
fell with all the other arts; wood and plaister of the rudest form,
badly gilt, succeeded to the exquisite carving, designs, and precious
materials, which were lavished on the frames of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. Nothing so paltry, so mean, or tasteless, as the
modern frame.




ARISTOCRACY.


The notion of an hereditary aristocracy being serviceable to the people
by curbing the monarch, is opposed to all fact. The aristocracy is a
class constituted, as it were, expressly for servitude. The extravagance
of a single individual will lay a noble family for generations at the
feet of a minister; and, if this be wanting, the necessity of providing
for younger children, at the public expense, works the same consequence.
Tacitus tells us, that on the decline of the republic, the consular,
patrician, and equestrian orders, rushed headlong into servitude; and
he adds, “the more illustrious the family, the more corrupt and eager
were the individuals.” In Spain, the aristocracy is entirely gangrened
and worthless. In France, before and since the revolution, the highest
nobility grasped at personal servitude in the household of the monarch.
The indirect good this order has effected in England, may be explained
by the homely proverb, that declares the circumstance under which honest
men come by their own. Kings granted concessions to the people to oppose
them with more effect to the nobility; and the nobility made the people a
pretext for opposing the sovereign; but both fought for themselves,—that
is, for the power of ruling the state to their own exclusive advantage.

The brightest page in the history of aristocracies, is that which relates
the events of the revolution of 1688. Yet, what a tissue of heartless
intrigue, corruption, and tergiversation! what underhand correspondencies
with the excluded family! what promptitude to overturn the work of their
own hands, are displayed in the lives of the great men of that day! Since
the revolution, the aristocracy have been the remora of civilization,—a
feather-bed between the walls of despotism, and the battery of public
opinion. A surplus wheel in the machinery of the state, they would long
since have stopped the movements of government, if their subserviency did
not adapt them to every impulse from the crown; while, by means of their
representatives in the House of Commons, they modify the proceedings
of that body. At the moment in which I write, the influence of the
aristocracy, in defeating a liberal ministry, in making the corn laws an
affair of their peculiar “order,” in opposing a necessary retrenchment of
corrupt expenditure, prove to demonstration the futility of the received
theory. Should public opinion, however, triumph in the lower house, the
aristocracy must submit to reform, or be crushed. An enlightened people,
and an anti-national aristocracy, cannot long co-exist.[23]




TEMPER.


There is a sort of fitful gaiety very peculiar to the ill tempered. I
have known the most sullen and morose women light up with bursts of
brilliant vivacity, which to me, who was aware of the real state of the
atmosphere, loaded as it was with thunder and storm, appeared very awful.
It was like the precursive lightnings, which manifest to the eye the
density and blackness of the coming desolation.

The secret, the charm, the spell, that “makes to-morrow cheerful as
to-day,” is the even, spring-like sunshine of the mind, which, though
sometimes veiled by the vapour of a passing melancholy, is still seen,
pure and bright, through the shadowy medium. This is worth all the
explosions of hysterical gaiety in the world. Between the sadness of
sensibility and the gloom of morosity, what a difference! But the worst
of it is, that, in both instances, the _morale_ goes for so little, and
the _physique_ for so much, that the drop or the drachm more or less, in
the prescribed dose, makes the surly gay, and the gay sombre.

“There are individuals,” says the unrivalled Madame de Staël
(Mademoiselle de Launey,) “whose good and bad humour are equally
unbearable.” This was applied to her royal mistress and patroness, the
Duchesse de Maine; but it is applicable to half the fine ladies and
spoiled children of fashion and fortune, all the world over. There was
nothing I dreaded half so much as getting into high favour with Lady
——, when she got into high spirits. Her epilepsy of good humour was
insupportable; such tyranny of kindness, such vociferation of gaiety!
Running up the great stairs of —— one day, I came against a friend, who
was going down. “What are you flying from, in such haste?” he asked.

“From Lady ——’s good humour,” said I.

He told my _mot_, and I lost my friend. How often does indiscretion
pass for ingratitude! Yet the indiscreet are never ungrateful, for they
are uncalculating; and ingratitude, coming from insensibility, cannot
act upon impulse. Strong impulses come of strong feelings; and strong
feelings are the source of all that is great and good, not, alas! of all
that is wise: and so end my inferences.




IGNORANCE.


Pythagoras, we are told, invented the term philosopher, or “lover of
wisdom,” because he could not conscientiously assume the appellation of
“soph,” or wise man; and the greatest philosophers, and most knowing,
have had the strongest conviction of the uncertainty of science: so
that soph and sophism have become terms of contempt. Yet, how obstinate
and stiff-necked is the bridling importance of genuine ignorance. How
it looks conscious superiority over all! and gives out its oracular
nonsense, and trite dogmas, as if they were the dicta of divine
inspiration. “When I ope my lips, let no dog bark.”

“The conceit of knowledge,” says Montaigne, “is the plague of man.”
What, then, is it of women? A self-supposed infallible woman, with her
organic feebleness backing her ignorance, is to be feared and shunned a
thousand times more than the wit, and the blue-stocking. I tremble in
her presence; and, making my best courtesy, get out of her way as fast
as I can. Besides, such women have all (God bless the mark!) a natural
antipathy to me; and, without vanity, I may say, “_pour cause_.”




BEAUX OF OLD.


What funny fellows the dandies of the beginning of the last century were!
A fine man, then, was like Sir Harry Wildair—“the joy of the playhouse,
the life of the park!” Think of one of the fine men of the present day
being a joy any where, or the life of any place!

No gentleman, then, walked out (when he did walk, for we find even
Squire Western going to visit in a chair,) without a footman after him.
Dependence and ostentation are the characteristics of semi-civilization!
They are also infallible proofs of mediocrity in individuals, in all
times and ages.




METHODISM AND MOLIÈRE.


“It is good to be merry and wise.” It is difficult to be wise and not
to be merry. A few years back, when, in Dublin, it was a rage to be
“serious,” some very foolish things took place, which, as they belong to
the _Chronique Scandaleuse_, shall find no room here. It was then the
fashion to give tea and tract-parties, to the exclusion of gay faces and
pleasant conversation. I remember, on the same night Mrs. Fry preached
at a party at Mrs. ——’s in Merrion-square, La Porte read out a comedy of
Molière’s at my _soirée_ in Kildare-street. We both gave “_Les Précieuses
Ridicules_,” in our several ways; but my guests went away laughing,
and hers yawning. _L’un portant l’autre_, mine had the best of it; and
Molière _versus_ Methodism, won the cause.




THE FLYING-FISH.


Naturalists have said that the power of the flying-fish has been given to
it for the purpose of avoiding its powerful enemies of the deep. What,
then, have the poor herrings done, that they should not fly? for they,
too, have their enemies, no less intent upon “swallowing them quick,”
than Buonaparte was the bishops, who prayed so fervently against the
voracious propensities “of the great leviathan.” But this is not the
worst of it; for after all, the gift bestowed, (or said to be given)
as a special mark of good, on the flying-fish, was only a _mauvaise
plaisanterie_: for he no sooner pops his head above water, than he
encounters a new enemy, in certain sea-birds, equally Catholic in their
fish-eating devotion; which force the wretched victim back to his native
element, leaving it only the choice between becoming a constituent
portion of a shark or an albatross. This is a distressing image, and
the new-light doctrine is a relief to the fancy, which teaches that the
flying-fish launches into the air in pursuit of pleasure, and is led only
by an exuberance of temperament to sport in the sunshine, and sparkle in
the waters, in all the happy wantonness of a joyous existence.

Who has not felt this buoyancy of spirit, this disposition to fly,
when under the strong excitement of health and spirits? “_Portez-vous
bien_,” says that true philosopher, St. Evremont, “_voilà à quoi tout
doit aboutir_.” “Be well: that is the end to which all things should
be directed:” but to this _end_ how many of the elements of life must
mingle. It is curious to observe the rapid changes which take place in
our existence quite independently of external circumstance,—the light
boundings of the spirit, the high beatings of the heart, unassignable
to any foreign cause; and then the depressing laboured respiration, and
sinking of the soul, though unconscious of a real sorrow. Even our dreams
are under the influence of these inexplicable conditions. The aged and
the hypochondriac never dream of flying; and even the young and the happy
awaken sometimes under the influence of impressions, more painful to
feel than easy to account for.

The temperament of genius is peculiarly susceptible to these alterations
of organic elasticity and depression. It is a true flying-fish of moral
life, sporting in the sunshine, and shrinking under the cloud. Even
philosophy itself takes its colour from the constitution. Optimism is
the mere creation of a “pleased alacrity and cheer of mind;” and the
Epicurean is but another word for a man who digests well; while the
Cynic is only to be argued with by calomel. This may appear all very
fanciful; but it has a practical corollary of undoubted certainty; and
that is,—when you feel misanthropy and disgust creeping on you, instead
of penning a diatribe against the nature of things, take a long walk.
Air and exercise—a flying-fish excursion into the sunshine, are worth a
whole army of syllogisms for harmonizing the pulses of thought. Nature is
the poet’s true book of reference. It was Shakspeare’s. The _nature_ of
the French poets, even in their Augustine age, was _Versailles_, and the
coteries, literary and gallant, _de la cour et la ville_.




TOLERATION.


Du Clos has some admirable things in his excellent memoir of Louis XIV.
Here is one:— “_Nulle persécution, beaucoup d’indifférence, et d’oubli,
c’est la mort de toutes les sectes._”[24]

Madame D’Epinay, in her _Shew up Book_ of the Church and State society of
France, before the Revolution, draws a picture of this author, _peint en
charge_. Still he was an admirable writer, and appears to have been an
honest man.




OLD-FASHIONED FRIENDS.


What a horrible thing it is to be ashamed of one’s old friends, merely
because they are old-fashioned. The other day some “_English epicures_,”
top-sawyers of London ton, dined with us, when a dropper-in, from
Connaught, took a place (left vacant by a late apology). I had dined with
my provincial guest many years back, and thought it the greatest possible
honour to be asked to his Castle Rackrent. He then appeared to me a very
fine person, and his table a very fine table. But, horror of horrors!
what were my feelings when, uncovering the _entrée_ next him, before
the soup was removed, he asked one of the most noted Amphitryons of the
day, if he should help him to some of the savories; and when, after
calling _bouilli_, bully-beef! _petits-pâtés_, mutton-pies! soup, broth!
_crême-au-pistache_, “_raspberry crame!_” and _fondue_, “_podden!_” he
ended by sending back his glass of ale, not because he “never touched
malt,” but, because, as he told the servant, “he preferred his porther
out of a _pewther pot_, after the ould fashion.” French cookery has
made but slow progress among the “mere Irish,” in the remote provinces;
and “the _jug-day_” at Bogmore (far below the original from which it
was copied) is still to be found in nearly all its details among the
hospitable festivities of the genuine and unmixed descendants of Milesius.

The science of cookery is the science of civilization; and considering
the effect which the material, raw or cooked, has upon the digestion, and
the digestion on the brain, it is a science of quite as much importance,
as any other in the great scale of utility and consideration. When Lord
Byron took to vegetable diet, he used to say to one, from whom I had
the anecdote, “When you eat beef-steaks, a’n’t you afraid of committing
murder?”




IRISH BEGGARS.


“_Souhaiter les bonnes fêtes_” was thought provincial and old fashioned,
even in the time of Louis the Fourteenth: in Ireland the custom is as
fresh as ever. “Many happy Christmas’s, Easters, and Patrick’s days,”
is the wish of the lower orders, and particularly of the mendicity of
Dublin. The Irish beggars are perpetual calendars of days appointed by
the church to be kept holy. The resources of their eloquence are indeed
infinite, and their keen sense of the influence of pathos and humour on
the feelings, (beyond the power of words or even facts to express,) is
among the many proofs of the shrewdness and innate perceptions of the
people, even in the very lowest state of human degradation for what, on
the scale of human wretchedness and prostration, is so low as the Irish
beggar!

A book might be written on the mendicity of Dublin; which, like the
history of the country, would be at once tragical and farcical. The
prevalence of a religion which makes charity (uncalculated charity, the
most mistaken and frequently the most selfish virtue,) a leading dogma,
combines with the poverty of the people, to render beggary an _order_,
almost as much tolerated and respected in Ireland as in India. Every
quarter, and every street of the capital, had, some twenty years back,
its established and privileged female beggar; who, known to the great,
and maintained by their servants (for services given), was permitted to
exercise the immunity of the court fools of old, and to address their
superiors on the occasions of their ingress and egress, with a sort of
servile familiarity, often seasoned by humour or tinctured by sarcasm.
Generally half mad, and always more than half drunk, their folly or
their inebriety was deemed an excuse for their impertinence. Lady
M—n—rs, descending the steps of her house to get into her carriage, was
addressed by a well known beggar of her neighbourhood in the usual tone
of supplication.

“Go away,” said her ladyship, “I will give you nothing.”

“Och! then long life to your ladyship; and it’s often you gave us that,
God bless you!” was the reply, in the same tone of imploring misery, as
the charity was asked.

The beggar, who frequents Kildare-street, loitering about the portico of
its club house, at two or three in the morning, observed the Rev. Mr. ——
reel forth, and, before she could lend him her assistance, find his level
in the kennel. In that state herself, in which “ladies wish to be who
love their” glass, and unable to extricate the reverend gentleman, who—

    “All inspired lay beside a sink,
    And to mere mortals seemed a priest in drink,”

she sat herself in the mud beside him, and began to “_keen_” over him
thus:

“Jemmy ——, Jemmy ——; there you lie, machrée, this blessed morning in the
gutter, an honour to your cloth and calling; and where are yez all, now,
that has’nt left the likes of yez behind, only the Reverend Jemmy in the
gutter here. God be wid yez, Denis Bowes! and Charley Ormesby! and rest
your souls! for it’s little the likes of you, now, we’ll see again!”
Thus sung the modern Bragela!

“The mighty are dispersed at Temora! there is none in Cormac’s hall.
Bragela will not hope for your return. She has the arms of him who is no
more.”

This sort of apostrophe to old friendships or connexions, is a very
common art in the eloquence of Irish mendicity: to awaken your feelings,
to seize on your imagination by a sudden reference to some friend, once
the daily visitant of your house, or known partizan of your opinions, is
a mode of influence frequently resorted to. It was so the other day in my
own instance, and by the very Bragela of the Rev. Jemmy.

“Ye have nothing for me the day, my lady? Well, sure you won’t be so,
plaze God; and God be with poor Counsellor B——.[25] He took the _could_
(cold) out of my heart and gave me charity on the steps of this very
door: and its little the likes of him will ever darken your threshold,
lady dear, again, anyhow—rest his sowl! Well, success to Hamilton Rowan,
and Counsellor Shiel. Shure there’s life in a muscle, and luck before us
yet.—Hurrah for ould Ireland!”

Old friends gone for ever! with Shiel and Hamilton Rowan and ould
Ireland! These were well worth the trifle they extorted: and, thus
invoked, patriotism “gave, ere charity began!”




OBSOLETISMS.


    “Words that wise Raleigh and sage Bacon spake.”

The late Bishop of Ossory (Dr. Kearney), so distinguished by his
literary attainments, who, though a bishop, was not ashamed to express
his enthusiastic admiration of Shakspeare, frequently told me, that he
thought the best commentators on that immortal genius would be found in
the upper gallery of an Irish theatre. How many words, that have puzzled
the learned for the last century, could find a ready explanation among
the catholic gentry, and even lower orders in Connaught and Munster!
Language in Ireland stopped short, with every other improvement, at the
revolution; and the penal statutes had an equal effect on the liberties
and the philology of the people.

Speaking of Anthony (in Anthony and Cleopatra), Philo says,

                        “His captain’s heart,
    Which in the scuffles of great fight hath burst
    The bucklers on his breast, reneges all temper.”

The word “_renege_,” a _poser_ to the English reader, is used nightly
at every catholic card table in the Irish provinces; where at the old
fashioned Irish game of five and forty, an old lady “_reneges_” a card
(imprudently played) by the licence of the game. In Queen Elizabeth’s
time every one wrote _hir_ for _her_; in Ireland it is still pronounced
so. Not a phrase, not an idiom, is now in use among the common Irish down
to the lowest classes, that may not be found in the most classic authors
of Elizabeth’s and James the first’s day.

“Plaze your honour,” an address of courtesy now confined to the Irish
spalpeen or cottier, after having passed through the hands of the upper
servants and tradesmen of fifty years back, was once an address of
respect from lord keepers to lord chamberlains, and from noble to noble,
down to the time of Charles the First. The Earl of Middlesex begins all
his letters to the Duke of Buckingham (James the First’s favourite) with
“My most honoured Lord.” Lord Chancellor Bacon addresses with “If it may
please your lordship,” and even in colloquial familiarity, “your honour”
was a phrase of courtesy, addressed to both sexes. But obsoletisms are
constantly mistaken for vulgarisms. In as much, indeed, as they are
exploded forms, which have fallen to the exclusive use of the vulgar,
they are so: for the vulgar of all ages are those who stand still, and
make no progress either in language or in its source, ideas. The vulgar
tongue, is the tongue spoken by the people. Dante and Petrarch were said
to write in the vulgar tongue; it is now erudition to be able to read and
understand them.

To begin letters with a long, formal, and ceremonious address, was the
fashion in England up to the time of Charles the Second, whose court
introduced the more refined simplicity of French forms and manners.
“Right honourable!” “My singular good lord!” “My right worthy!” and “May
it please your grace,” “honour,” “worship,” or “lordship,” were all
swept away with stiff stays and cumbrous fardingales; and the letters
from “yours, faithfully, Charles Rex,” to Harry Bennet, on the serious
subject of Courants, Sarabands, and “small fiddlers that do not play
ill on the fiddle,” exhibit a very different formula, from the letters
of the discreet and well affected persons of quality of the preceding
reign. They, in fact, have all the ease, familiarity, and equality of the
charming letters of the Sévigné’s, Coulanges, and De Retz, if not their
wit, elegance, or good taste.

I have frequently observed, in the late Marquis of A—— and many of his
noble contemporaries, a tendency to pronounce after the old manner, as
“_hull_,” for whole; “_marchant_,” for merchant; “_cheney_,” for china;
“_showlder_,” for shoulder; “_buzzoms_,” for bosoms, &c.; and this
pronunciation answers to the orthography of the great lords and ladies
of Whitehall after the restoration, who being “_un peu brouillés avec
l’alphabet_,” endeavoured to spell as near to the sounds of words as they
could. The Duchess of Cleveland, writing to the king, says, “_I never
was so surprized in my hulle life_,” &c. &c. &c. Jonathan Wild quizzes
the ordinary of Newgate for falling into this jacobite pronunciation, by
spelling _whole_, _hull_.

Many forms of courtesy, rites of hospitality, and traits of habits,
manners, and customs, to be found in the old comedies, from the time of
Elizabeth to Anne, are still observable in the remote parts of Ireland;
a country which, like an old coffer in the country mansion of an old
fashioned family, is the exchequer of all the odds and ends and relics of
modes long passed, and exploded in modern life.

I remember, in my childhood, dining at the country house of an old
catholic family, where, after the chaplain had pronounced an interminable
grace, the lady of the mansion rose, and bowing round graciously to her
company, pronounced, “much good may it do ye,” which was always followed,
at the end of the dinner, by the observation that none of her guests had
eaten any thing; indicating the delicacy of their appetites, and the
unworthiness of her table.

A few months back, having stopped to change horses at a road-side inn,
and the horses having to be sent for to the field, we alighted, and
found the family at dinner in the reception room, which was also the
kitchen. A wretched man, begging his way to Dublin, half-naked, and half
starved, and so faint from want, cold, and exhaustion, as to be scarcely
articulate, paused at the threshold, and moving the crown of a leafless
hat, said, “Much good may it do ye, genteels!” This form of courtesy, in
practice among the gentry not many years back, has now fallen to the very
lowest classes of society; and this is the history of manners, as well as
of phraseology. In Shakspeare’s time the salutation of the modern Irish
beggar to the peasant, was deemed a trait of royal courtesy.

The modern house-maid, who accompanies her lover, the footman, to the
upper gallery, flushes at the coarseness of the fine ladies of Wycherley,
Vanbrugh, and Farquhar; and feels her own superiority in modesty and
gentility to the lovely Lady Lurewell, or even to the prudent Angelica of
Sir Harry Wildair.

Tales, novels, and dramas, are the true sources from which the philosophy
of manners can best be drawn, and are illustrative of the progress of
society at various and successive epochs. History does nothing in this
respect; and modern historians, in this point of view, are infinitely
less valuable and useful, than the dryest chronicler of the middle ages.
A page of Froissart is worth a volume of Hume, (who, as an historian,
by the by, is daily losing ground in public estimation). The literary
fiction, which gives cotemporary manners, modes, and prevailing
phraseology, has a fair chance of surviving the tale which, placed in a
remote epoch, creates a manner and a dialect neither illustrative of the
times of which it treats, nor the times in which it is written. This is
the fault of the beautiful romance of Ivanhoe, which is written with all
the colouring and dialect of Queen Elizabeth’s day, copied, even to set
idioms and phrases, from Shakspeare and the play-writers of his time.

English was not spoken in the time of King John; the people spoke Saxon,
the upper classes Norman-French. When Shakspeare wrote his play of King
John, he did not affect to go back to the style and language of Henry the
Fifth, because he could not employ that which was in use when his scene
was supposed to take place. He therefore wrote in the language of his own
times; and among the many admirable qualities of his inspired authorship,
not the least admirable is, that he has given in his dramas, the very
tone, accent, idioms, and manner of colloquial communication, from the
court to the peasant’s hut.

To know how exactly Shakspeare has copied existing forms, and to account
for the rapidity with which he wrote, it is only necessary to read some
of the memoirs and chronicles of Henry the Eighth’s and Elizabeth’s
day, where dialogues on every state affair, carried on by ministers,
secretaries, and Irish Lords Lieutenant, are given verbatim,—all ready
to go upon the stage, and to pass for a scene of Shakspeare’s or Ben
Jonson’s,—just as a group at the Hague or Cologne, still exhibits a high
toned picture of Vandervelt or Rembrandt.

I open at random a volume from the shelf of the bookcase of the
dressing-room in which I write, and copy literally a scene and dialogue,
meant only to be a simple narrative. It is taken from Campion’s _Historie
of Ireland_, written 1571;—the scene is a room at court,—several lords
sitting in commission on Gerald Fitzgerald, Earle of Kildare, “a
gentleman valiant and well spoken, yet in his latter time overtaken
with vehement suspicion of sundrie treasons.” The Cardinal Chancellor
Wolsey is his inveterate enemy and chief accuser. It requires no great
effort of imagination to conceive the place and persons of this veracious
drama. The gloomy gothic chamber, the ponderous costume of the lords,
many of whom have been made familiar to posterity by the pencil of
Vandyke, the sober splendour of Wolsey’s habit, his scarlet hat, and
glittering crucifix, the picturesque habit, and more picturesque person
of the Geraldine,—his gigantic form, and stern, bold bearing, waiting
in indignant silence for the accusations to be made against him, by a
powerful and interested enemy. After a solemn pause, the lords “being
diversly affectioned,” the Cardinal Chancellor broke forth in these words:

“I wot well, my lord, that I am not the meetest man at this board to
charge you with these treasons; because it hath pleased some of your
pew-fellows to report that I am a professed enemy of the Geraldines. I
must have leave, notwithstanding your stale slander, to be the mouth of
these honourable persons at this time, and to trumpe your treasons in
your way, howsoever you take me.

“First, You remember how the lewde Earle, your kinsman, who passeth not
whom he serve, might he change his master, sent his confederates with
letters of credence to Francis the French king. How many letters?—what
precepts?—what threats have been sent you to apprehend him?—and yet not
done; why so?—Forsooth, I could not catch him. Nay, nay, Earle, forsooth
you would not nighly watch him. If he be justly suspected, why are you
partial in so great a charge? If not, why are you fearful to have him
tryed? Surely, this juggling and false play little became either an
honest man called to such honour, or a nobleman put in such trust. Had
you lossed but a cow or a garron of your owne, two hundred kyrneghis
(kirns) would have come at your whistle, to rescue the prey from the
uttermost edge of Ulster. All the Irish in Ireland must have given you
way. But in persuing so weighty a matter as this, merciful God, how nice,
how dangerous, how wayward have you bin? I wis, my lord, there be shrewde
bogges in the borders, for the Earle of Kildare to fear.”

Whilst the Cardinal was speaking, the Earl chafed and changed colour,
and sundry proffers made to answer every sentence as it came. At last he
broke out, and interrupted them thus—

“My Lord Chancellor,—I beseech you pardon me. I am short witted, and
you, I perceive, intend a long tale. If you proceede in this order,
half my purgation wil be loste for lack of carryage. I have no schoole
tricks, nor art of memory: except you hear me, while I remember your
words, your second process will hammer out the former. What my cousin
Desmond hath compassed, as I know not, so I beshrew his naked heart for
holding out so long. Cannot the Earle of Desmond shift, but I must be
of counsell?—Cannot hee bee hid, except I winke?—If hee bee close, am I
his mate?—If hee bee friended, am I a traytour? This is a doughty kind
of accusation which they urge against me, wherein they are stabled and
mirde, at my first deniall. ‘You would not see him,’ say they;—‘who made
them so familiar with mine eye-sight?—As touching my kingdom, my lord, I
would that you and I had exchanged kingdoms, but for one moneth, I would
trust to gather up more crummes in that space than twice the revenues
of my poor earldome. But you are well and warm, and so hold you; and
upbraide not me with such an odious storme. I sleep in a cabin, when
you lie soft on a bed of downe. I serve under the cope of heaven, when
you are served under a canopy. I drink water out of a scull, when you
drinke out of golden cuppes. My courser is trained to the field, when
your jennet is taught to amble. When you are begraced, and belorded,
and crouched and kneeled unto, then I find small grace with our Irish
borderers, except I cut them off by the knees.’”




A CHARACTER.


Mr. —— is that sort of man, who has all the faults that help to please,
and forbid to serve. His character is a study; his great talent is his
power of assimilation. He is never displaced, never out of keeping with
times, persons, or circumstances. He dovetails with all opinions and all
orders of intellect—a perfect Aristippus. He is like mustard-seed: fling
him where you will, he takes root on the surface and flourishes. Sow him
in a hot-bed, in a flannel cap, in a lady’s beau-pot, or in a potatoe
ridge, _c’est égal_.




THE DÉLAISSÉ.


The most dissipated man, who has once known the distinction of being
loved by a woman capable of the intense devotedness which springs from
passionate feelings and strong intellect, must feel a dreadful void
when he is loved no longer. Deserting, or deserted, he will feel it
with remorse, or with mortification. The passing fancy of the light and
the foolish leaves no scar behind; the wound closes rapidly, and all is
forgotten.




TAVERNS.


“You may be wise in your study in the morning,” (says brow-beating
Johnson, to his gape-mouthed admirer Boswell,) “and gay in company at a
tavern in the evening.” What a trait of manners! Fancy a man of fashion,
or a man of letters, or any man, in the rank of a gentleman, setting
forth after dinner, to be “gay at a tavern in an evening.”

The tavern life has now fallen to the lowest classes of society. In the
time of Charles, and James the Second, princes of the blood, and the
proudest of the peerage, frequented the tavern. In Louis the Fourteenth’s
day, men of fashion resorted to places of the same description in France;
and ladies of rank, by way of a frolic, sometimes accompanied them to
some fashionable auberge in the suburbs, or the Boulevards. In another
half century, there will be nothing between the common chop-house, and
a magnificent club—between Crockford’s, and “the cheap and nasty.” The
improvements of social and domestic life are filling up the intervals.
The improvements in female education are also giving a charm to home,
which it wanted in those times, when the women were treated as slaves or
sultanas in one class; and were deemed in others creatures only fit

    “To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.”




SOLEMN BLOCKHEADS.


    “Eh! qui ne connoit pas la gravité des sots.”

                                        CHENIER.

Last night I met Mr. —— at Lord A——’s. What a solemn blockhead! Unluckily
for him, he has precisely that sort of learning, which draws out fools
from their obscurity, and drives them from the secure asylum of their
insignificance, to a public exhibition of their inefficiency. Still, such
men get on! and, under the present system, make their way to place, and
power, and endowment.

For the last twenty years, there was scarcely an instance of a man of
very superior genius, or of great intellectual strength, being employed
in the public offices of the greatest nation of the earth. A few shrewd,
acute clerks worked their way into the subordinate places in the state;
but the moment they were found to be too shrewd for their masters, they
were got rid of.

There is nothing so fearful as a nation becoming more enlightened than
its government. Of such elements was the French revolution composed.




CATHOLIC PETITIONS.


The earliest petition I know of, on behalf of the Roman Catholics is
that addressed to James the First, beginning, “Most Puissant Prince, and
Orient Monarch!” In this petition the sufferers class their persecutors
as being Protestants, Puritans, and atheists, or politicians: a meddler
in politics, in the days of the absolute Stuarts, was set down as an
atheist.




LAUGHING AND CRYING.


This morning, in describing a scene of distress I had witnessed a few
days back, the tears dropped fast from M——’s eyes; and yet I know few
firmer intellects; but the finest metals dissolve the easiest. It is
extremely difficult to draw tears from blockheads, except when muddled;
and then they talk of themselves, and are pathetic. It is easier to
make “butchers weep,” than to move the self-sufficient coxcomb who is
wrapt up exclusively in his own importance, to the exclusion of all human
sympathy. But, after all, I doubt if the gift of laughing heartily be not
an equal proof of feeling. Alas! for those who neither laugh nor weep!
and doubly alas! for those who are obliged to live with them! There is an
immense variety and character in laughs. I have often heard it said of
the Countess of C——, that her laugh is even more beautiful than her face.
One could write chapters upon this subject; and perhaps I shall do so
some of these days, even at the risk of being laughed at for my pedantry,
for there really are a great many odd things to be said on the subject.
Somebody has written a catalogue of persons who died laughing.




EXPECTATION.


It is pleasant to expect; at least it is so in youth, when temperament
and inexperience combine to paint life _en beau_. Expectation is hope
coloured by fancy. It is a proof of abundant vitality; and even when
disappointment falls over it, like a shadow, it is still worth its
purchase.

    “Ah! que ne puis-je encore l’attendre.
    Dût-il encore ne pas venir.”[26]

This is perfectly in nature. The old seldom expect. It is among
the terrible inflictions of age, when humanity loses so many of
its attributes, that the heart sends forth none of those shoots of
expectation which fill up the intervals of actual enjoyment. The sap is
dried, and the trunk is shrivelled—shrunk in its dimensions, and seared
on its surface; and the branch, and the flower, and the fruit have
withered and dropped. “The spring shall return with its blossoms; but of
me not a leaf shall arise,” says Ossian. Alas for the beauty, the truth,
and the sadness of this image!




THE DEVOTEE.


Under the old regime in France, the first symptom of a woman’s intending
to “give herself to God” (_se donner à Dieu_, as the phrase ran) was her
giving up rouge; so that paint and piety became inseparably connected
in the minds of the demi-saints, and demireps, of the profligate reign
of Louis XIV. “La Princesse d’Harcourt,” says Madame de Coulanges, in
one of her letters, “has appeared at court, without rouge. This is a
circumstance which, for the present, absorbs every other: one may add,
that it is a great sacrifice.”

This outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace, this
toilette baptism of regeneration, is not peculiar to Catholics. The
sacrifice of rouge is but the grey gown and little bonnet of an English
Methodist; and the rigorous proscription of gay colours of the
Protestant sectarian is but the counterpart of what appears so ridiculous
in the French penitent, “_qui se jette dans la dévotion_,”—who gives
herself up to Heaven when nobody else will have her. On this subject,
Madame du Deffand, the blind and aged enamorata of Horace Walpole, is
singularly pleasant. When she was young and pretty, and the enamorata
of the President d’Hainhault, she took a sudden fit of devotion; and
her director stipulated for the usual sacrifices. Fasts, prayers, &c.
&c. were promised at the first word; but when it came to love, and the
toilette, she cut him short at once, with “_pour ce qui est du rouge, et
du président, je ne leur ferai pas l’honneur de les quitter_.”[27]




HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.


“We dined at Mr. H.’s,” says Bozzy, in his delightful book of twaddle,
which has proved such an evidence of the world’s love of idle gossip—“We
dined at Mr. H.’s (Dr. Johnson and myself), and Mr. H. expected Miss
Helen Maria Williams. He gave her Ode on Peace to Dr. Johnson; and
when this amiable, elegant, and accomplished young lady entered, he
(Dr. J.) took her hand in the most courteous manner, and repeated the
finest stanza of her poem. He complained of ill health, and said to Miss
Williams, ‘I am very ill, when you are near me; what should I be if you
were at a distance?’”

Young, amiable, elegant, and a poetess! Sylphs, nymphs, and muses, how ye
glided before me when, at sixteen, I read this passage in a green arbour
at B—— Castle! Then, to think of Dr. Cerberus growling gallantries:
hearts of stone! what were your callosity under the influence of Helen
Maria’s eyes! I immediately wrote an ode to Helen Maria Williams, with
all the rhymes borrowed from Pope’s Essay on Man, and all the spirit from
Anna Matilda’s Farewell to Della Crusca (my constant study). My ode was
quite as good as the poetry of rhyming young ladies of sixteen generally
is. There was not an original thought in it; but then there were such
pretty sounding words! and it began, too, I remember, with “Oh! thou.”
I was most desirous to send my ode to Miss Williams without knowing any
thing of her “whereabouts,” partly for her sake, and very much for my
own; for I really thought the composition Sapphic, and when my volume
of poems was published immediately after, (my _début_ in authorship, of
which nobody ever heard,) I was no less anxious to print it. But I did
not. Still, however, my imagination was full of its fair subject, of
whom I only knew what Bozzy had told me; and the lapse of time which had
intervened since he wrote, never suggested itself.

I was then in the commencement of my intimacy with Mrs. Le Fanu, the
presiding priestess of the muses in Dublin; and I wrote to her on the
subject, and received the following pleasant and sensible letter, which
I have just tossed out of my portfolio, and which has brought the long
forgotten subject to my recollection, in all its original freshness. The
whole letter is so fair a specimen of the style of the literary ladies
of the old school, so like the charming conversation of the writer, and
so good a lesson to young ladies who write odes, and who read and write
sentimental novels, (besides its coming from a Sheridan,) that I will
transcribe it at large.

    “Imagine to yourself, _ma belle amie_, how very _gay_ I must
    feel, when I tell you I have had a confinement of near five
    weeks. I caught a feverish cold and sore throat, and, at the
    end of a fortnight, supposing myself in a manner well, I went
    out to take the air, or rather the damp, (for nothing else was
    to be had;) and I came home with rheumatic pains, first in
    my lungs, which removed to my right shoulder and arm, which
    confined me to my bed, where I was as agreeably as St. Laurence
    on his gridiron. Thank God I am better, and hope revives,
    though the season be cheerless; but every day brings us nearer
    the spring, and as Madame de Sévigné observes, no one stops
    short in the midst of a month, or a bad road, for want of
    power to get through it. So _vive la patience_, best friend in
    sickness or sorrow. You recollect, no doubt, Mason’s beautiful
    personification of it, in Elfrida. ‘Patience here, her meek
    hands folded on her modest breast, in mute submission lifts the
    adoring eye, even to the storm that wrecks her.’ The following
    is (I think) no bad invocation to the temperate goddess:—

        ‘Oh! Patience, heavenly power, hear!
        Be ever to thy suppliant near,
          Nor let one murmur rise;
        Since still some mighty joys are given,
        Dear to her soul, the gift of heaven,
          The sweet domestic ties.’

    You are precisely at the age; you are exactly of the character
    of mind to admire more the splendid than the useful virtues.
    They ever attract and still deceive. How many have lulled
    themselves into perfect self-satisfaction upon the strength of
    quick feelings, tender emotions, and easily excited sympathies,
    who have never practised the every-day qualities that come
    perpetually into play, and are essential to human happiness.
    Good humour, according to Johnson’s definition, endurance
    of the follies and absurdities of others, appear qualities
    of such easy attainment, that they are neglected as vulgar.
    What a mistake—how fatal in its consequences! Talents extort
    admiration; but genuine and habitual affectionate feelings
    alone beget love. Well has Rousseau insisted so much upon the
    ‘_cœur aimant_’ of Julie. I know two women, both highly gifted,
    the one of very striking and generally admired talents, the
    other possessing taste and powers of conversation in a very
    high degree, yet neither of them can boast the possession
    of one friend even in their own families. For, ‘proud with
    opinion of superior merit,’ it tinctures their manners, it
    renders even their condescension offensive. And à propos to
    remarkable women, Helen Maria Williams’s history is briefly
    as follows:—I believe it is many years since she first came
    forward as a literary character. The novel of Julia was, I
    think, her first publication: it has merit, but certainly a
    very bad tendency—some of the poetry in it is, I think, very
    beautiful. She was soon known to Dr. Johnson and other literary
    characters. She was at that time not more than twenty. The
    year after the French revolution, she was in Paris, and was
    present at a meeting of the National Assembly, of which she
    gives a very lively picture. In Paris she met a Mr. Stone, a
    married man; but with a noble disdain of every opinion we are
    bound by the laws of God and man to respect, she chose this
    gentleman for her companion in a tour to Switzerland. Perhaps
    you will think me harsh in my judgment, but certainly a woman
    possessing those talents that necessarily imply strong and
    delicate feelings, more justly incurs blame than another, when
    she sacrifices to passion the respectability of her character,
    and voluntarily incurs contempt when she might command respect
    and admiration. She becomes useless when she might highly
    benefit her fellow-creatures.[28]

    “As I have not been out, I gave your two commissions to Tom.
    Archer has not yet received the English edition of St. Clair.
    He also called at Power’s music shop, who lays the fault upon
    Stevenson that Castle Hyde has not yet come out. He has had it,
    I know not what time, to put basses to it.

    “I have just been reading St. Clair for the third time, and
    was more pleased with it than at first, but I think the hero
    and heroine very dangerous people. You will tell me that
    the catastrophe would prevent any mischief arising from the
    witchery of such characters. I do not think so, for we all know
    that people are not punished in this world because they are
    vicious; and (as Horatio has it) ‘to be good’ is not always ‘to
    be happy.’ Moralists lead you into errors, and often throw you
    into despair, when they tell you so; for if _you are_ good to
    the best of your lights and means, and the events of your life
    are disastrous, you will certainly not feel _happy_, though you
    may be resigned; and you will then, like Burgher’s Leonora,
    either be tempted to arraign Providence, or reject altogether
    doctrines, of which you have found the fallacy.”

Time passed: and it became my turn to receive odes from young ladies
in the country, beginning “Oh thou,” quite as good and as poetical as
my own. Yet oh! how many successive idols of admiration had my fancy
erected in the interval. There was Miss Edgeworth, and Madame de Staël,
and Madame Cottin, and Miss Baillie, and a long _et cetera_ of literary
females, to each and all of whom I felt the sincerest gratitude for the
amusement and instruction they afforded me, though I did not write them
odes to tell them so.

On my arrival in Paris in 1816, I found that I also had my _petit bout
de réputation_, such as it was; that my letters of recommendation were
letters of supererogation, and that I had nothing to do, but sit quiet
(no very easy task by the by for me), and to see and receive all that
was best worth seeing and receiving in France. On looking over a list
of visitors, one day, presented by Pierre, the porter of the Hôtel
d’Orléans, I read the immortal name of Humboldt, and under it, Helen
Maria Williams, Rue de Bondi. A visit from Humboldt was always an epoch;
and a visit from Helen Maria, the amiable and elegant, the subject of my
first ode, was no vulgar event. I made my inquiries as to the present
position of the admired of Dr. Johnson, and the adored of Bozzy; and
learned that for the last quarter of a century she had lived in literary
retirement, in the neighbourhood of the Sévignés, and the Ninons; that
she was much beloved and esteemed, surrounded by a circle of sober,
sedate, literary friends, and much _liée_ with the enlightened Protestant
party in France, and their excellent chief, who (with the name of the
protestant Pope, given him by Napoleon) was respectable and influential
with all parties. I immediately returned her visit, wrote my name at her
door, and shortly after received an invitation to a _soirée_, which I
accepted.

I happened to be asked, for this very same evening, to a ball at Lord
H——k’s; and was accordingly obliged to go to Miss Williams’s sober and
learned party in all the _tulle_ and tiffany of a _robe purée_. We were
ushered into just such a room as that, in which one might suppose Mad.
du Deffand received her coterie. A few wax lights dimly discovered its
gloomy vastness; and “in the haze of distance,” a row of large, dark
bonnets, was visible, which, on a nearer approach, obviously gave shelter
to as many intelligent, but not very blooming countenances. Small groups
of men recalling the _hommes de lettres_ of old France, were scattered,
in earnest conversation; and tea and refreshments were serving round by a
servant, who looked as wise, and literary as the rest of the party.

My celebrated hostess rose to receive me from her ponderous chair,
which formed the centre of her circle, with as much graciousness and
cordiality as can well be conceived. Every look was a welcome, every
word an eulogium, and every tone as musical and as modulated as the most
fastidious ear could desire. But oh! Sylphs, nymphs, and Muses, and
you, bright image of my youthful dreams, young, elegant, and amiable,
Helen Maria Williams, did I at last find you in the bulky, formless,
and faded old lady, who now stood before me! Although I ought to have
expected this, I was not prepared for it. In spite of Mrs. Le Fanu’s
letters, written years before, I had not got a step farther than Bozzy’s
description: and when the high bred Miss Williams handed me, with true
French ceremony, to the _bergère_ at her right, and thus incorporated
me with the learned ladies of her society, it required some minutes to
recover from the shock of my disappointment. My frippery appearance, too,
was such an anomaly in this demure and sober circle. What I would have
given for a _douillette bien ouattée_, or a coal-box bonnet to cover
my bare head; (the identical head with which I had appeared at Lady
Cork’s a few years before, and which I have worn, for divers reasons of
convenience and economy, down to this very winter, 1828, when I find
it more decent, though not quite so economical, to shelter it under
the shade of a hat or a _beret_, _afin de prendre mon parti_). Let me
add, that it is easier to take arms against twenty Popes, and Emperors
of Austria, and stand the attacks of fifty Quarterlies, with the new
reinforcement of Mr. L—— to boot, than to stare the first symptom of a
furrow in the face, and announce such an epoch without shrinking: thus
then I fairly announce myself to be no longer what the _Journal des
Débats_ once so pleasantly called me, “_Cette jeune dame, qui a été jeune
si long-tems_.”[29]

As neither wit, learning, nor age, exempts a French woman from the
interests of the toilette, (and Madame Dacier herself was, I have no
doubt, a _petite maîtresse_,) we had scarcely warmed into intimacy over
the subject of Madame de Staël’s new work on the Revolution (which, by
the by, drew forth some very entertaining and characteristic anecdotes
of that lady’s recent residence in Paris, and her admiration for the
Emperor of Russia, and the Duke of Wellington), when one of the ladies
complimented me on my dress; it was said to be _à la rigueur_, for the
season, and supposed to be from the fabrique of Le Roi. When I said that
I made all my own dresses myself, exclamations from all sides poured
in! Did ever any body make a dress, that did not serve her time to the
mysteries of the craft; but, above all, a literary lady—an authoress—a
_femme savante_, working at the needle! I soon set them right as to my
learning, by the assurance, that, except a very little bog Latin picked
up from a hedge schoolmaster in the wilds of Ireland, I knew nothing
of any learning whatever; that my authorship had originated in dire
necessity; that being obliged to read and write books for many hours per
day, I never talked of them; and that above all, “_Mon métier à moi,
c’êtait d’étre femme_;” and so the conversation took a very _enjouée_
turn.

The amiable protestant Pope, and others of the gentlemen, enlarged our
circle; and the hours passed away so lightly, that it was late when I
left the dim rooms and clever circle of Helen Maria Williams, for the
splendid and brilliant salon of our ex-Irish lady lieutenant, in the
Faubourg St. Honoré, (by the by, one of the few vice-queens who have
left behind them an indelible remembrance of virtues, that threw a
lustre upon her high position, and of accomplishments that render it the
fashion to be gifted, even in that land, where talent is but another
word for proscription!) I cannot better close these recollections of my
acquaintance with Miss Williams, than by giving one, or two, of the many
notes with which she honoured me, as being extremely illustrative of a
certain pretty tone of _cajolerie_, which always flattered its object,
without degrading the writer. “_Vous me flattez, coquin, mais n’importe;
flattez toujours._”[30]

    “What poetical fictions did I indulge myself in, when I
    believed all Lady Morgan’s kind promises, repeated with all
    her graces and enchantments, of returning soon to the _Rue
    de Bondi_. I feel quite disposed to _bouder_; and yet Lady
    Morgan can instantly make her peace with me, by consenting to
    come with Sir Charles on Sunday next. I shall be extremely
    flattered, if I am not refused. _Milles tendres complimens._

                                                   “H. M. WILLIAMS.”

    “_Thursday, Rue de Bondi._”

    “Miss H. M. Williams, lest she should not be so fortunate as
    to find Lady Morgan at home, writes this note to express her
    regret, and almost even to _complain_ that her ladyship has
    only found time to bestow upon her one transient visit, since
    her arrival at Paris. Lady Morgan is not one of those passing
    travellers, whom having seen once, one can easily be resigned
    to see no more. H. M. W. is therefore extremely flattered to
    hear from her friend Mr. Warden, that Lady Morgan had expressed
    something like a kind purpose of returning. Will she do H. M.
    W. the honour of passing an hour with her on Sunday evening
    next, with Sir Charles, to whom she begs her particular
    compliments. H. M. W. wishes it the more, as she expects a
    friend on Sunday, who has the greatest desire to be presented
    to Lady Morgan, whom he has long admired at a distance.”

    “_Friday, July 5th, Rue de Bondi._”

Oh! dear! I am ready to _pamer_ over this allusion to my “graces and
enchantments,” after being called an Irish she wolf, in Blackwood’s, and
indexed in the Quarterly for “my unwomanly brutality.” Since I wrote
the above, in great _gaieté de cœur_, I received a letter from a mutual
friend of Miss Williams and myself, inclosing the following paragraph
from a French paper.

                   “DEATH OF HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

    “We ought to devote a few lines to the memory of a literary
    lady, whose name is dear to the friends of public liberty. Mrs.
    Helen Maria Williams, the author of a vast number of political
    and poetical works, lately died at Paris, after a long illness.
    This lady left England for France, to assist in the important
    events of the Revolution. Since 1790, she has constantly
    resided at Paris. She contracted an intimate acquaintance with
    the most ardent and most disinterested patriots. She was the
    friend of Madame Roland, and the Girondins. Since that period,
    she has related the different events of our Revolution in a
    series of works published at London, and which have served to
    direct the opinion of England and the United States to the
    facts of the French Revolution. To these literary claims, she
    joined qualities of mind equally affectionate and intelligent.
    She was always the patron of the poor; and frequently, in the
    class of unfortunate literary men, her kindness was extended
    to that independent merit, which is ashamed to solicit. She
    published her ‘_Souvenirs de la Révolution_,’ the analysis of
    which was suppressed by the Censorship. The last wishes of this
    distinguished woman were in favour of the heroes who overcame
    barbarity at Navarin. Her death has plunged her family and
    numerous friends in the bitterest grief.”—_Constitutionnel._




NO POPERY.


The Duchess of Marlborough, when ill of an ague, refused to take the
cinchona, because it was called at that time, Jesuit’s bark. The clergy
at the reformation were wiser, inasmuch as they did not refuse to take
the papistical tithes: for all the rest, our no-popery legislators are
pretty much on an intellectual par with poor Sarah.




MARTINUS SCRIBLERUS.


The comparison of logic to matrimony, one of the most diverting passages
in Martinus Scriblerus, is copied from the Nuptiæ Peripateticæ of Caspar
Burlæus.




EXERCISE.


“When I consider the physical structure of man,” said Frederick the
Great, “it appears to me, as if nature had formed us rather to be
postilions, than sedentary men of letters.” There is some exaggeration
in this. We hear a good deal of the diseases of literary men, because
literary men are most interested in their own afflictions; and they
hold the pen in their own hands; but the diseases peculiar to excessive
exertion are not less numerous, nor severe, than those of excessive
repose. Besides, half the so called desk diseases arise from the
combination of excessive nourishment, with sedentary habits. Like all
other machines, the human frame wears out the most rapidly, in those
parts, where there is the greatest friction and strain. Continued
exercise of the brain is very exhausting, and occasions a demand for
nourishment and for stimulation, greater than is consonant with health.
Most literary men are _tant soit peu gourmands_; and they pay the penalty
of their indulgence the more, because they neglect a regular and gentle
exercise. That nature did not intend us for postilions, is evident in
the abridged lives, and diseased, deformed, and premature old age of the
working population.




BOMBAZEEN.


This article of dress should be written bombycine. It is a texture of
worsted and of silk, the latter substance being the produce of the animal
termed bombyx.




LAW.


Truth is the last object of legal research. Under most arbitrary
governments, the law seems calculated to condemn the innocent: so
anxious are the lawgivers to prevent the escape of the guilty. The
English criminal procedure appears as directly aimed at screening
offenders, under a false notion of protecting the innocent. Which is
the most mischievous, it would be difficult to determine. The great
object of investigating the truth, at once protects the public, and the
lawful interests of individuals; while the business of the advocate is
professedly to serve his client to the uttermost, and to lay aside all
considerations of justice in his favour. In this he far exceeds the
egotism of the parties themselves, who, if they pleaded their own cause,
would be checked in their misrepresentations and quibbles, by some sense
of shame, by some fear of the prejudice which detected falsehood would
excite against them. Whereas the lawyer glories in his sophistical
ingenuity; and if baffled in his effort, bears the whole blame for the
bad spirit in which he has acted. Thus it happens most frequently that
we do not try the accused, but the indictment; the overt act is lost in
the accidents; the innocent are acquitted without the re-establishment of
character, and the guilty are let loose, to renew their aggressions on
society. Yet the law is the perfection of human reason!!




RICHES.


La Bruyère observes, “_Il se croit des talens et de l’esprit; il est
riche._” This is the counter error to that of men of merit who complain
that they have not attained wealth. The acquisition of large fortunes,
in as far as it is not altogether a matter of accident, requires the
exercise of far other faculties than wit and intellect: and it would be
as reasonable to complain that this species of merit will not ensure
health, as that it will not procure money.




TRUTH.


The love which most men have for truth, arises from the desire to make
their own falsehood available. If falsehood were general in society, no
man would be believed, and deceit would be impossible. It was a keen
remark, that Fielding has, I believe, placed in the mouth of Jonathan
Wild, that a lie is too precious a thing to be wasted. Truth is the first
interest of society; more harm is done by falsehood in an hour, than by
violence in a year: yet have all nations paid dearly for establishments,
calculated for the express purpose of confining inquiry in one exclusive
direction, and shutting out all other avenues of light but their own.




WOMAN’S LOVE.


What a gift, or rather what a fatal necessity is the temperament which
leads to the living out of one’s self, and becoming bound up in the
existence of another, over whose will, passions, and conduct, one has no
controul! This faculty of devotedness is, I suspect, peculiar to females.
It is quite possible that a woman, to whom honour and reputation are
dearer than life, should risk them a thousand times for the man she loves
(particularly if he be her husband), to save his life and honour. The
attachment of a man, however strong and tender, would not reach this. We
women love the person beyond all abstract principle; and the error (for
it is an error in morals) is seated in the organization which makes us
wives and mothers. Men love principles, and even prejudices, more than
the persons they love best; that is, they love themselves best of all,
and love themselves in that point of honour on which the world’s opinion
depends.

    “I could not love thee, dear, so well,
    Loved I not honour more.”

Ah! this “_honour more_!”

Every woman has not the “_cœur aimant_” of Julie: women of gallantry
never,—coquettes and prudes rarely. Still, woman may be defined a loving
animal, and _tant pis pour elle_.




MALTHUS.


Cobbett and the Irish reformers look with detestation on Malthus and his
doctrines: and many “right thinking” persons, as they call themselves,
fancy that they have discovered a valuable ally in him. The same error
is common to both. If Malthus’s position be true, (and no naturalist
can doubt it,) it follows as a matter of demonstration, that there is
a greater necessity for political freedom. The greater the obstacles
nature opposes to man’s comfortable existence, the greater efforts
are required to overcome them, and the greater is the necessity that
all his powers should be developed to the uttermost. Hitherto the
animal has been fully equal to the task of self-subsistence, wherever
bad governments have not interfered with the natural distribution of
the products of industry, and quartered noble indigence upon plebeian
activity. Civilization confers an increased power over the elements, and
a corresponding facility in manufacturing food; but unjust governments
weigh down the labourer, and avail themselves of every improvement to
increase the lion’s share of the product. Malthus, properly understood,
is a powerful radical reformer.




PATERNAL BENEDICTIONS.


Madame de Genlis regrets the abandonment of the nightly ceremony of
paternal benedictions (Dict. des Etiquettes). The mere repetition,
however, must destroy any efficacy it might be supposed to possess, in
forcing good conduct. A benediction is at first valued as a reward of
virtue, or a symbol of pardon for repented error: but it inevitably
becomes a thing of course; and is desired for its own sake alone, or as
a pledge of the favourable prepossession of a doating old man who has
something to leave.

If a benediction be supposed to possess efficacy in procuring good to its
object, so also must a curse be potent in evil; and by the prevalence of
this notion, the delirious ravings of disappointed ambition may become
the cause of misery to the innocent. Thus considered, the benediction
enters into the category of spells and enchantments; and the formulary
once recited, the omnipotence of heaven is enchained to the performance
of its conditions. This is a most degrading superstition; and, like all
similar errors, it cannot in the long run be serviceable to the species.
Its obvious ill effect is to make the will of others, and not the
morality of things, the standard of action.




SENTIMENT.


Sentiment is at best an invention of vanity to mask the infirmities of
mind and body: no wonder that it so easily lapses into affectation.
Joseph Surface is but a cynical display of what passes in the mind of the
great majority of the species; and of what the hypocrite is as anxious to
hide from himself as from the rest of the world. Marriage is the grave of
sentimentality; because the parties are like Cicero’s Augurs; they cannot
carry on the farce, and keep their countenance.




PRESENTS.


The great are fond of presents; but they are superlatively ungrateful.
Little people, in their need of protection, instinctively apply to the
great, with a bribe in their hand: and they do so wisely. Flattered
self-love yields what justice or benevolence alone might deny. It
is, however, by a succession of trifling gifts that the experienced
toad-eater makes way with a patron. Women (_par parenthèse_) enter into
the details of toad-eating much better than men.

An ignoramus offers something valuable, something above his means to
afford; and he “takes nothing by the motion;” for neither money, nor
money’s worth is valued by those whose wants are supplied as soon as they
arise. Such persons receive without compunction or consideration; and are
neither obliged, nor disposed to return in kind. It is courtesy, and not
pecuniary value they want; and it enters not into their conception that
the value, which is nothing to them, may be an inconvenient sacrifice to
the donor. Valuable presents must be rare; while it is unceasing homage
that wins. The spooneys alone are taken in, and strive to astonish by
the splendour of their gifts. The “able-bodied” toadies “win with honest
trifles to betray to deepest consequences.”

Kings, however, like substantial presents; but they will take anything,
even from the poorest of their subjects. When George the Third went to
return thanksgivings at St. Paul’s, on the recovery of his health, a
picture was made by Dayes of the ceremony in the interior of the church.
This picture was bought by an engraver, and a print executed from it;
and an application was made for the king’s permission to dedicate the
work to him. The permission was graciously granted by that patron of the
arts; with a stipulation that the original picture should be consigned to
himself: a proposition with which the spirited engraver refused to comply.

Courtiers laud the liberality of kings; and, in the eyes of poets
laureate, regal munificence is the first of virtues: but a
present-taking king is less mischievous than he, whom a silly vanity and
ignorance of the value of money, betrays into wasting the treasure which
is not his own. Besides, a greedy monarch is further excusable, inasmuch
as the cupidity of those who surround him, may be supposed to give an
intelligible lesson: he has only to profit by the example.




PER CONTRA.


If the great are fond of presents, the little make their gifts in the
same spirit, in which the farmer commits the seed to the earth. M——,
in reading Lucian this morning at breakfast, hit upon this curious
question: whether, on occasion of some general assembly of the gods,
the divinities should take precedence according to the respective value
of their materials, as images, or according to the merit of their
sculpture. The more weighty consideration very properly carried the
day; for the gods, both of this world and the other, are honoured
only as they have something to bestow. The reverence for mere wealth,
which is the besetting sin of the English character, is a sad mark of
moral degradation; but it is at least wiser than a stupid admiration of
the oppressors and destroyers of mankind, or an adoration of titles,
ribbons, and the accident of noble birth. It is a mistake to suppose
that the homage paid to riches is an homage to the folly or roguery of
the possessor: it is to his merit and utility as a conduit pipe, for
distributing that, of which every one is desirous, that the worship
is offered. The honors paid to mere aristocracy are like a pompous
inscription over a dry pump; compared with which, Rothschildolatry is a
return to simple nature.




EDUCATION.


The great error of all systems of education is, that they are
systems;—schemes built upon moral theories, instead of developments
of physiological facts; they are the result of a neglect of elements
which are indestructible, in the attempt to establish doctrines which
are hypothetical. Even Pestalozzi’s system has this radical defect. His
doctrine of “_la foi et l’amour_,” which he has taken for its basis, or
“that which children feel for their parents,” is to me unintelligible;
for schoolmasters are not, and cannot be, parents; and his rejection
of emulation, as a germ of dangerous passions,[31] is utterly
unphilosophical. Until Nature ceases to give passions, man must use them.
The lever of all action is motive.




TEMPERAMENT.


All character, and much of conduct, is a mere affair of temperament.
Early association will do something in forming opinions; precepts may
modify, and example influence; but nothing will give sensibility, where
nature has denied it. Something may be effected by the friend or the
physician; and caution and calomel may tell, in the long run. Nero,
perhaps, might have been bled down to a maudlin methodist; but returning
health would have raised him to the zeal of a St. Dominick; and on a
perfect convalescence, he would have ceased to cant, and began to burn.
In General Count P. de Ségur’s beautiful work, in which the story of a
campaign is given, with all the charm of a romance, and all the dignity
of an epic, the author accounts for the Russian war, and the headlong
precipitation with which it was conducted, on the simple principle of
a latent malady “in the world’s great master,” which sharpened his
passions, and urged him to his ruin; “an acrid humour which reigned in
his blood, which he considered as the cause of his irascibility, but
without which,” said Napoleon himself, “there is no gaining battles.”
“Which of us,” adds the author, “has penetrated sufficiently into the
human organization to affirm, that this hidden vice was not one of the
causes of that restless activity, which hurried on events, and occasioned
at once his grandeur and his fall?”

How these French soldiers write! Bred in the “tented field,” where
have they acquired the style so finely fitted to their subject, and
the philosophy that belongs to their age? Who are the historians of
the last thirty years, of the greatest events that ever shook the
governments of the earth to their centre?—not the “_hommes de lettres_”
of France,—not her _académiciens_,—nor her ex-ministers and statesmen,
“_rompus et corrompus_,”—nor her professed authors;—they are the gallant
soldiers who witnessed the events they so eloquently describe, and who
call on cotemporary testimony to corroborate their statements. Ségur,
Rovigo, Foi, Rapp, Dumas, Montholon, De Rocca, &c. &c.—these are the
historiographers of modern France, and well worth Racine, and all the
other bland and laudatory chroniclers of church and state, who wrote
under the _surveillance_ of the Maintenons, the Montespans, and their
complaisant ministers, or influential valets and _femmes de chambre_.




INFANT BAPTISM.


Many suppose that the practice of infant baptism is derived from a Hebrew
rite; but the oriental Christians, by whom baptism was first adopted,
confined that ceremony to adults. It seems probable that the modern usage
was introduced into the western church, in imitation of the lustration of
the Romans; a ceremony performed, according to Macrobius, on the ninth
day after birth with males, and on the eighth with females.[32]




LOGIC OF FINE WRITERS.


    “Chateaubriand, speaking of the variety and extent of modern
    discoveries, observes ‘Le Génie de l’homme est véritablement
    trop grand pour sa petite habitation; il faut en conclure qu’il
    est destiné à une plus haute demeure.’”[33]

                                  _Voyage en Italie et en Amérique_.

This is a good specimen of the logic of “fine writing,” “plenty of
eloquence, and little wisdom.” What a sweeping conclusion from one little
word (_trop_)! Man is _too_ great for this world, and therefore he
belongs to another! Never was an oratorical exaggeration worse applied.
Amidst all the magnificent results of human ingenuity, which have thus
powerfully excited the susceptible imagination of the French academician,
want, and disease, and ignorance, are still the especial characteristics
of the species. No where are the essentials of good government generally
understood; still less so the art of maintaining public liberty, when
once acquired. No where is morality independent of the executioner,—no
where is life maintained by the great bulk of the community at a
less expence, than that of constant unremitting labour. Look at that
half-starved moving mass of rags, by courtesy called an Irish peasant;
reflect upon his helpless incapacity, his physical destitution, his moral
annihilation! Yet is he the subject of an empire, in which all the powers
of the species are carried to the highest point of development, to which
man has ever reached. Might we not equally conclude, from this spectacle,
that the human animal is so ill adapted to his mundane existence,
that he must be intended for another? Stripped of all exaggeration,
the adaptation of our intellectual powers to our necessities, though
exceedingly imperfect, is still abundantly sufficient to carry
conviction, that the earth is the sojourn of man’s especial destiny:
whether, with Chateaubriand, we are to jump to a conclusion, and say,
“_therefore_ he is destined to no other,” I leave to the consideration of
those who have no better argument for determining their faith.




PHILOSOPHY.


    “Donner à l’oubli le passé,
      Le présent à l’indifférence,
    Et, pour vivre débarrassé,
      L’avenir à la Providence.”[34]

What excellent advice, if it were in every one’s power to adopt it:
but the colour of a man’s philosophy is, after all, no more at his own
disposal, than the colour of his eyebrows. Both depend upon the same
cause, the temperament of the subject. The stoics and the epicureans
have been thought to differ only in words; and, as far as mere reason is
concerned, an accurate definition would force agreement between them.
But till the stoic can be cured of his bile, and his habitually uneasy
sensations, or the constitutional indolence of the epicurean can be
broken down by disease and misfortunes, a real unity of sentiment is
impossible. There is nothing, concerning which a man is more positive
than his own sensations: and these determine the point of view from which
every one regards the nature of things. The same landscape is before us
all: but we see it through Claude Lorraine glasses—one man _couleur de
rose_, another _du plus beau noir_: and then we fall to quarrel, like the
knights, concerning the gold and silver shield! It is nearly the same
thing with religion.




CORREGIO AND JOHANNA OF PLACENTIA.


When I was at Parma (1820) the cognoscenti of the place were still
talking of the wonderful discovery of the “_piu insigne pitture_” of the
great Antonio Allegri detto il Corregio, which, after the lapse of nearly
three centuries, had been found to exist in the monastery of St. Paul,
belonging to the Benedictine sisters. The authenticity of the paintings,
and the certainty of their immortal author, were questions long set at
rest. But nothing grows old in Italy, and every thing in which the arts
are concerned serves as a thesis of disputation, to those ardent but
suppressed minds, to which all subjects of discussion are forbidden,
save such as have no intimate connexion with human interests and human
happiness. While the empty shops and silent streets of Parma exhibit
the hopeless and torpid uncertainty of its pauper inhabitants (a city
once the mart of bustling commerce), it is not unusual to see learned
disputants holding forth, with great zeal and energy, on the merits of
some rival “_maestro_,” or disputing the date or authenticity of some
picture of Mazzuolo, or Corregio, as if the emancipation of wretched
Italy, from the Austrian tyranny, depended upon the settling of the
question.

I was one morning whiling away a listless half-hour, previous to our
departure, in the noble church of San Giovanni Evangelista, from whose
aisles the fume of the morning service was not yet dispersed, when I was
attracted by the loud voices (loud for such a place) of two persons, who
were arguing with violent gesticulations before the splendid picture
of St. Paul destroying the statue of Diana of Ephesus. The one was in
a laical dress, but covered with the dust of the closet; there was no
mistaking him; he was evidently a professor of _virtù_. The other was in
the monkish habit of St. Benedict. The virtuoso seemed anxious to prove
that Diana of Ephesus was a certain Giovanna di Piacenza, abbess of
the neighbouring convent of Benedictines, two centuries back, and the
patroness of Corregio’s early efforts. The other (the monk) was denying
the allegory insinuated by the lay virtuoso—that Jane of Placentia had
been persecuted for her too liberal spirit, or that the mysterious
fresco, discovered in the long closed chamber of the neighbouring
convent, could have been painted as a fit subject for the chaste nuns of
St. Paul, and their holy mother to gaze on. The apartment so painted,
he insisted, had originally made a part of the palace of a Parmesan
noble,—and, with other neighbouring houses, had been gradually annexed to
the monastery, during the last century, when the community had become too
numerous for the original building.

I could not stop to hear the argument out, as we were on the point of
starting for Bologna, and our carriage was literally in waiting. But I
left the porch of San Giovanni Evangelista with my imagination so full
of Giovanna of Piacenza, abbess of the monastery of St. Paul, of whom
the lay virtuoso had let drop some curious anecdotes, that long before
we had reached Modena, I had made her character and patronage of the
arts, the subject of an Italian romance; giving it all the colouring
of the scenery through which I was passing—and taking down particulars,
features, and sites between Parma and Reggio (the birthplace of her
immortal protégé), which, in my veteran knowledge of novel writing, I
knew would _work up_ well.

At Bologna, where we remained much longer than we intended, and where
we lived much with the learned and the ingenious, I could only learn of
my interesting abbess, that she was a “_grande dame de par l’église_;”
but the forty languages of Mezzofanti, and the profound erudition of the
excellent Costa, could tell me nothing more. Santa Caterina, too, was
just then beginning to roll her eyes in the church of “Our Ladies of St.
Catherine,” at Bologna; and she so occupied public attention, that it
was impossible to extort a word on the subject of any other saint in the
calendar. Still, as often as I sat listening to Crescentini singing his
delicious cavatina, in the frescoed _salone_ of the beautiful Martinetti,
the idea of my Jane of Placentia came upon my mind; for whatever I have
best conceived (and even mediocrity has its degree of excellence);
whatever I have written most successfully, has all been done under the
influence of music; the whole of Salvator Rosa was composed (and composed
_à trait de plume_) in my drawing-room, in Dublin, while listening to the
master-compositions of Rossini.

It was at Florence I first obtained more precise information concerning
my charming abbess; for charming I was determined she should be. During
our delightful residence in that pleasantest of all Italian cities, I had
the good fortune to make the acquaintance of Signior Giuseppe Michali,
whose very erudite work, “_L’Italia avanti il dominio dei Romani_,” is a
monument of learned industry. The true Italian feeling of this gentleman
had led him to devote his time and attention not only to the subjects
connected with the ancient glories of the country, but to whatever
illustrates those divine arts of which it is the mother. At the very time
of my making his acquaintance, he was occupied with the subject that had
got hold of my imagination; and his account of the long-concealed and
celebrated abbess is as follows:—

A vague tradition that there existed, in the monastery of the
Benedictine sisters, at Parma, a chamber painted in fresco, by the
immortal Corregio, had got gradually into public circulation. At first
it was deemed to be nothing more than the malicious gossip of some
neighbouring convents, which represented the fresco as a most unholy
exhibition, reflecting on the memory of a certain abbess, who flourished
in the sixteenth century, and whose history had been traditionally
preserved in the district over which she had exercised considerable
sway. The fresco chamber had remained shut up for nearly two hundred and
eighty years: or, if open to the nuns, its splendid pictures were but ill
appreciated by the victims of bigotry, whose suppressed sensibility left
them incapable or unwilling to receive those fine impressions which the
works of genius are sure to impart to the cultivated and tasteful.

By degrees, however, this painted chamber began to excite the attention
of the curious; and, at an epoch when the works of Corregio had reached
their highest estimation, the celebrated Mengs, with some difficulty,
obtained permission to visit the interior of the convent, a sanctuary
usually closed against “unblessed soles.” In 1780, he published a letter
on the subject, declaring the frescoes to be amongst those _capi d’opera_
of Corregio which had secured his immortality. To this opinion Antonio
Bresciani, professor in the academy of Parma, and Batti, of Geneva, who
had obtained a similar permission, bore ample testimony. But when the
posthumous works of Mengs appeared, all reference to the frescoes was
omitted in the pages devoted to an analysis of the works of the painter
of the Graces.

The world of _virtù_ was again thrown into a vortex of doubt; and one
must have lived in Italy, and seen how bad institutions can confine the
mind to trivial subjects, to understand the commotion into which a whole
community can be thrown by such a doubt.

Tiraboschi came forward on behalf of Corregio, to claim those splendid
works, (of which the Italian public heard so much and had seen so little)
as new triumphs of his genius. He endeavoured to reconcile the silence
of Mengs with the declarations of Bresciani and Batti, by supposing that
the former had not spoken of the frescoes, because he had found them in
a state of decay and partial obliteration. Signior Michali, with more
probability, supposes that the silence of Mengs arose from the melancholy
event of his death, which occurred immediately on his return from Parma
to Rome, and which might have prevented those additions to his simple
notices of the frescoes of St. Paul, which would have set the question at
rest. But the question, so important to half the academicians and all the
virtuosi of Italy, was not set at rest until the summer of 1795, when a
commission of four artists of eminence was formed to visit the convent,
with permission of the order, and to examine the frescoes, and pronounce
a judgment by which the world of taste was resolved to abide.

From the judgment of the commission of artists there was no appeal—the
frescoes were assigned to Corregio. But their subjects—the most profane
though eminently classical subjects,—who had chosen them? Vasari declared
that Corregio had never studied at Rome—that he was ignorant of the
sublime models furnished by the genius of antiquity! and that the humble
and unfortunate disciple of the dry school of the rude Mantegna, drew
his first and only inspiration from the sight of that work of Raphael,
which extorted the celebrated exclamation of “_E sono pittore anche
io_!” Still the works of Albano are not more classical, more poetically
ideal, and more purely modelled on the antique, than those frescoes
painted by Corregio in his early youth, which were doomed to the oblivion
of two hundred and eighty years. There is one of the subjects, more
particularly, which appeared to have been more freshly drawn, from the
pages of Homer. It represents a female suspended by a cord, her arms tied
above her head, and two anvils of gold hung from her feet. This was the
punishment inflicted by Jupiter on Juno in the presence of all the gods.

It was thought that some _arrière pensée_ lurked in this representation
of the summary punishment inflicted by the old church of the antique
world upon its refractory daughters, and that it was meant to hit on the
severity with which the rebellious mothers of the Christian church, the
powerful abbesses of the fifteenth century, were occasionally treated by
the Jupiter of the Vatican. All the subjects of these pictures, indeed,
were so at variance with those usually selected by Corregio, or deemed
admissible into such holy retreats as the convent of St. Paul’s, that the
whole appeared an inexplicable mystery. The laborious efforts of Italian
_virtù_, however, at last discovered that the inspirer of the young and
ardent Corregio was Giovanna of Piacenza, whose early encouragement and
direction of a genius vainly struggling against penury, identified her
name with the history of the arts, and probably gave to Italy the most
brilliant of her artists.

At the period alluded to, the abbesses of the great and highly endowed
Italian monasteries were powerful princesses of the church, commensurate
in wealth and influence with the great lords of the conclave themselves.
Chosen for life, they not only administered the immense revenues of
their convent uncontrolled, but lived with a splendour and luxury, which
occasionally degenerated into absolute licentiousness and boundless
extravagance. The spiritual authority with which they were endowed, the
jurisdiction they possessed over the persons submitted to their rule,
extending even to life and death, the many privileges they received
during the fifteenth and sixteenth century, enabled them to take part in
all the political factions and civil feuds of the day, and to decide the
most important contests; though, like true women, they often attached
themselves to the least powerful party, and abandoned the magnificence of
their convent to share the exile of their friends and partizans. Enjoying
the greatest credit, by the talents, graces, and high birth which led
to their monastic elevation, making head against their bishops, in the
struggle for jurisdiction, resisting all attempts to subject them _à
la clôture_, availing themselves of the sanction of the convent, yet
participating in all the pleasures and passions of society, courting
fame, and alive to glory, they sought to illustrate their conventual
reign by such enterprises as were calculated to give their names to
posterity.

Among these priestesses of Catholicism, Giovanna di Piacenza was
conspicuous for taste, talent, and magnificence. Elected in the flower
of her youth and beauty to the abbess’s chair at Parma, she began her
reign by erecting a sanctuary, worthy of Cnidus, among the rude cloisters
of her monastic seclusion. For the purpose of decorating an apartment
dedicated to her own exclusive use, and intended as a monument of her
refined taste and patronage of the arts, she invited some of the most
distinguished artists of Parma and Modena, but she chose the young and
obscure Antonio Allegri of Reggio, called Il Corregio; and she herself
selected those subjects which he so beautifully executed, and which were
copied or imitated from the antique.

Here were no fearful exhibitions of human suffering, “for the love of
God,”—no martyrs broiled,—no saints agonized. Sacrifices indeed there
were; but they were innoxious sacrifices offered by young and beautiful
priestesses on the altars of Jupiter and Vesta.

Had the accomplished abbess confined the gratification of her tastes to
such representations of classical imagery, she might have been pardoned.
But she had borrowed more from the ancients than their tastes or their
arts;—she had drawn from their pages their love of liberty and noble
independence; and she had long resisted the attempts of the bishops and
pope to interfere with her jurisdiction.

After a long and noble struggle against the encroachment of the church
tyranny, she fell a victim to its resistless power. Her convent was
cloistered, and cut off from all human intercourse; and she survived her
living entombment but a short time. Her favourite apartment, the monument
of her taste, her learning, and her liberality, closed hermetically, even
against the sisters of the order, was at last forgotten. The oblivion
of near three centuries, concealed from the study and admiration of
successive generations those _chefs-d’œuvre_ which the enterprize of
modern _virtù_ finally discovered, for the benefit of a declining art,
that had long ceased to produce a Corregio.

While I resided at Rome, my head was still running on “Giovanna of
Piacenza,”—when two other subjects fell in my way, (for my work on Italy
wrote itself); one of these was Salvator Rosa, not as I have since given
it to the public, but as an Italian romance. The idea came into my head
as I was sauntering with Cardinal Fesch through the sumptuous rooms of
his superb palace, just after we had been looking at one of Salvator’s
pictures. On my return home I sketched out the first chapter of my
romance; but the genius, character, and literary works of Salvator
grew into such importance in my mind, “his times” appeared so full of
interest, that I threw aside my romance, and produced his life, one of
the most successful of all my trifling works.

Still, in the repertory of my imagination lay my Abbess of Parma, until
at last I found a niche for her, in “the O’Briens and O’Flahertys,” where
something of her character, and a literal description of her apartment,
in the monastery of St. Paul, is given; and there she figures away as the
Abbess of Moy Cullen.—“_Au reste_,” all that is said in that novel of the
foundress of the “holy heart,” is historically true: a young, clever, and
wealthy _religieuse_, acting by the agency of the Jesuits, did found that
mystic worship, which is still throughout Catholic Europe a sign and a
focus of jesuitism.




THE CAP OF LIBERTY.


The cap of liberty, which still adorned the milestones near the French
capital, in 1813, and which were to have been effaced, in order to make
way for Napoleon’s eagle, were supplanted at the restoration by the
_fleur de lis_. This is the history of the French revolution in a single
sentence.

Among the Romans, the presentation of a cap was part of the ceremony
observed in the manumission of slaves, and, therefore, perhaps, it was
adopted as an emblem of freedom. The custom is still preserved at the
investiture of a doctor in the university graduations. The circumstance
gives a strong meaning to a whimsical speech of Sir R. St. G., who, at
the celebrated Catholic dinner at the Black Abbey, at Kilkenny, got very
tipsy. During the process he had made several efforts to be as eloquent
as his neighbours, but was coughed down as often as he got on his legs.
In all the sulkiness of a fuddled man, he resolved to go away; but he
discovered that his hat had gone before him, and suddenly finding a pause
and a subject for his oratory, he exclaimed, “Gentlemen, I came here to
emancipate you, and, d—n you, you have stolen my hat.”

_À propos_ to university graduations: when the present Duke of
Gloucester took his degree, his father, who was at Cambridge to witness
the ceremony, was also complimented with an honorary doctorate. The
opportunity was seized upon by the professors to bring into the
speeches (in which they introduce their _children_, the new graduates)
an appropriate compliment to their illustrious guest. Of this the
royal visitor was duly warned; and as it was supposed that he might
not have recently “rubbed up his Latin,” as Queen Elizabeth phrased
it, he was directed to be upon the alert, and whenever he caught the
word “_principes_,” to infer a compliment and bow accordingly. With
the professors of divinity and of law, things passed as had been
pre-arranged, but Sir I. P., the Professor of Physic, was “ill at these
numbers,” and too indolent to compose a speech especially for the
occasion; so away he went with the old humdrum string of common-places,
touching the rise, progress, dignity, and importance of the art of
honestly committing manslaughter: he had not, however, travelled far,
before he arrived at a sentence beginning with “Hippocrates et Galen,
principes medicinæ,” and down went the head of the old duke, as if Galen
and Hippocrates had belonged to the House of Hanover.




PROVIDENCE.


Aristotle maintained that the barbarians were created expressly to become
slaves;—while La Fiteau, a jesuit, who wrote an history of the aboriginal
Americans, believed that none but an atheist would dare to say they were
creatures of God’s forming. In the same spirit, a modern judge had the
assurance to assert that slavery is not contrary to Christianity, because
bishops voted for it. Providence is, under all systems, the “_prête-nom_”
for the injustices of man.

Madame de Genlis (_Dictionnaire des Etiquettes_) says, “Providence has
instilled an irresistible love of the marvellous into the heart of man,
in order to predispose him for receiving without difficulty the celestial
lights of faith.” Unfortunately for the hypothesis, this capital
contrivance has been as much at the service of the “devilish darkness”
of a thousand-and-one false religions, as of the “celestial lights” of
catholicity. If Voltaire had uttered such a sentiment, it would have
been said, and with justice, that his object was to bring religion into
contempt, and to expose the roguery of priests, who trade upon the
weakness of human nature. Men love the marvellous, because they are
greedy of strong sensations; and, as this propensity hurries them into
false tastes, so it predisposes them to superstition and false creeds.
Protestantism has too little of the marvellous for the warm sensibilities
of the south; and even Madame de Genlis’s popery is not wonderful enough
for the good people of Spain and Portugal.




TAKING A SHOWER BATH.


A great senator and statesman of the “Irish nation,” being ordered a
shower-bath lately, sent to the physician, who had prescribed the remedy,
to know if he might soften the shock by wearing a brazen bason on his
head. Oh, Cruikshank! what a subject! Bath, bason, statesman, and all!!
And yet this being is a particle of the “collective wisdom” to which the
destiny of a great nation is confided. Institutions which provide for
human happiness can throw up no barricado to stem the influx of human
absurdity: that which is made for man, and by man, is inevitably exposed
to the imperfections both of the agent and object of all systems.




VIEWS OF THE CATHOLIC QUESTION.


“I suppose, my lord,” said the foreign valet of the Earl of P——, the
other day, “I suppose we shall have the opera and the theatres open in
England on Sundays, _comme ailleurs_, if the Catholic Bill passes?”

“I have not heard _that_,” replied his lordship, smiling; “and I should
rather think the contrary.”

“_Diantre_,” replied the French emancipator, grinding his teeth, “_Eh à
quoi bon donc leur émancipation? qu’est ce que ça fait?_”[35]

“Let me send you some turbot, L——,” said Mr. ——, the other day at dinner,
to a well known and respectable Irish catholic barrister.

“Turbot,” replied the papist counsellor, coldly, “O! I am emancipated—I
have done with fish!”

The Irish catholics hate fish; but are rigorous observers of fasts, and
of all forms and ordinances imposed by a church, to which, as much from
a point of honour as of faith, they rigidly submit. How many of the idle
forms of church discipline will fall into desuetude, with that feeling
of sympathy for the persecuted faith that imposed them! a feeling which
catholic emancipation will cool down, and obliterate.




VIRAGOS.


Women of strong tempers always govern their husbands; women of strong
minds influence them. A man’s sole refuge against an ill-tempered wife is
to run away from her, which he generally does when he can. The influence
of a clever woman lies in the power she has of hiding it. Still the
virago, I believe, has the best of it: for if the man, in affecting to
submit, very frequently only conceals, still he endures. The key to the
government of all men is their passions; and after these—but this is
shewing up the mystery of the craft;

    “Plague on it, that rogues can’t be true to themselves.”




FEMALE PERSEVERANCE.


    “Nous n’avons point de diable, assez diable, pour tenir tête à
    une méchante femme.”[36]

                                _La Descente de Mezzeten en Enfers._

Why are women so much more pertinacious than men? _Voyons un peu!_ A
woman is like a mastiff; once she seizes on an idea, she never lets go,
till she has fairly worried out her end. She has no physical strength; no
force of reason comparable with man’s; but she has a stronger volition.
The toughness of her will is a set-off against the fragility of her
means; and she substitutes perseverance for power. Man yields, after
a struggle, to her concentrated weakness, because he hates whatever
interferes with his enjoyment. Like Falstaff, he loves above all things,
“To take mine ease in mine inn;” and to avoid a domestic bore, will
assent to much, even when he does not approve. Man is essentially an
epicurean; and woman, from necessity, a stoic. In public affairs the
mere force of volition often supplies the place of talent and resources;
while its absence neutralizes and renders inefficient intellects of the
finest and highest quality. To this may be referred much of the success
of female intrigue, under the governments which have permitted its
operation. It was doubtless to the reiterated attacks of Madame du Barri,
that Louis the Fifteenth yielded, when he abandoned the most estimable
and enlightened of his ministers, _De Choiseul_; and a similar obstinacy
in the unfortunate _Marie Antoinette_ goaded her reluctant husband into
that course of duplicity and vacillation, which brought them both to a
scaffold.




OPINION.


Intolerance is the offspring of conceit: we push an opinion, because
it is our own, and resent contradiction as a personal insult. Very few
persons, however, have any lawful right of property in their own ideas.
The greatest number of our opinions are corporate, and belong to the age
and country in which we happen to be born. No inconsiderable quantity
belong to that venerable and respectable personage, our old nurse. Even
the few notions which strong thinkers develope for themselves, depend
very closely on habits of thought, impressed by tutors and parents,
modified by external circumstances, equally uncontrollable. If some
of our worthy anti-catholic, anti-reforming, corn-trade-fettering
aristocrats, could be made sensible of the very vulgar origin of
many of their favourite ideas, they would as soon shake hands with a
chimney-sweeper as entertain them.




WIVES OF FOOLS.


Oh! ye women, who have the good, or ill luck (_selon_) to be married
to fools, attempt not to reason with your dears—expect not to seduce,
and despair of persuading. Wit, grace, and understanding, are only
influential with men of feeling and intellect: to such arms the sensible
and the clever never fail to yield. But the fool “bears a charmed life.”
Remember the maxim of your great law-giver: “_On ne séduit pas un sot;
on le dompte._”[37] A fool is incapable of giving quarter, and unworthy
of receiving it. The worst of a fool is not that he _is_ a fool, but
that he is so self-sufficient and self-conceited; just as obscure people
become burthensome, when they imagine themselves important; and as those
who live out of the world are unmanageable, from a fancy that all the
world is occupied about them. Foolish husbands are always jealous of
their authority, and fearful of being supposed to be ruled; they oppose,
for the sake of asserting themselves, even when their inclinations are
neutral: and once launched into an opposition, they persevere, in spite
of conviction, because it does not become their dignity to be less wise
than a woman.




LES ROCHERS DE MAD. DE SÉVIGNÉ.


    “Travellers ne’er did lie, though fools at home condemn them.”

                                                      SHAKSPEARE.

It is no longer possible to exclaim with Madame de Sévigné, “c’est une
chose étrange, que les grands voyages!” _Les grands voyages_, on the
contrary, have become the most common and every-day events of life! A
“good traveller” has ceased to be “something at the latter end of a
dinner,” as La Feu has it: and to talk of the “Pyrenean and the river
Po,” would now incur for the prosing delinquent the character of a bore,
and the penalty of being once heard and ever after avoided. Travelling,
even to “Judah’s barren sands,” is no longer a distinction; and the
Traveller’s Club has so completely become every body’s club, that it has
been proposed, by way of something really exclusive, to start a _crocchio
ristretto_ of those who have never travelled at all. To talk of a visit
to Paris is as cockney as to prate of the lakes of Cumberland or to cite
their poets; to boast of having seen the Pope _pontificate_, is as pure
a John-Gilpinism, as to chatter of Fonthill; and to have “swum in a
gondola” is no more thought of, God save the mark! than a voyage in the
Richmond steamer. The Pacific Ocean and the British Channel have become
subjects equally common-place; and if another Peyrouse should disappear
from the world, it is odds but he would be picked up in a month by some
wandering dandy from Bond-street, or discovered on an _uninhabited
island_ by a roving detachment from the Yacht Club.

“How came you to alter your route last year? I thought to have met you at
Thebes!”

“Oh! I changed my mind, on hearing that half Bloomsbury were there before
me; and so cut off for the North Pole with Parry.”

“Did you meet any one there one knows?”

“No, that’s the charm of it. White bears excepted, one has the place to
one’s self. Whom did you have, by the by, at Athens last year?”

“Scarcely a soul; at least, scarcely a soul ‘above buttons.’ There were
a few third-rate English and first-rate Irish to be seen, sauntering
about the Acropolis, and making _goûtés_ in the Parthenon; but _pas âme
qui vive_—that one ever heard of before. The A.’s pushed on for the
Pyramids, the B.’s have been some time settled on the brow of Mount
Caucasus, C. left us in the spring for the Crimea, and D. joined his
eternal Pylades at Ispahan.”

“At Ispahan! what a fellow that D. is, with his eternal pretensions to
taste! Go to Ispahan! when one is sick of it, and its Hajji Babas of
Bond-street, and all that sort of thing. No one turns his horse’s head to
the South now, unless indeed it were in search of the _terra incognita_.
It is the merest _pont aux ânes_. One’s very tailor passes his _vacances_
at Smyrna (where mine, by the by, picked up some charming cachemirs, to
make cool coats for next winter); and you know the old story of Lady
Lydia’s maid and Monsieur Forbin, and the silk parasol, in the ruins of
Thebes. The North, Sir, the North is the only thing now, the Frozen sea,
or Kamtschatka, _via_ Moscow, that’s my _carte de voyage_ for the next
travelling season. Have you seen my Droshka?”

“No; but I have a Britska waiting for me at Petersburgh. I am going to
join Lord Frederick J——, who has the prettiest thing on the Sea of Azoff,
built by Potemkin. Will you be _des nôtres_?”

“With all my heart. Let us rendezvous at Novogorod, embark at Smolensko
on the Dnieper, and so proceed by Kerson and the steppes.”

“Exactly; and that will bring us within two verstes of Lord F.’s villa.”

It is thus that the home-bred youths “prate of their whereabouts.” Not
only _il n’y a plus de Pyrénées_, but the total annihilation of time and
place seems to have realized the poet’s rant, and to have turned the
nursery-dream of Peter Wilkins and his flying men to a “flat reality.”
While British travellers are thus illustrating the “march of mind,” by
marching off to all parts of the globe, and

    “When pleasure begins to grow dull in the East,
    Just order their wings and fly off to the West,”

there is a nation which keeps its ground with all that tenacity of a
toad on a tile[38]—a nation which, compared by some to tigers, by others
to monkeys, and by Voltaire to both, appears to have been the least
understood of any nation on earth. For while the North in hordes come
swarming, as of old, over the sunny regions of the South, and while the
south seems to change sides, hands across, down the middle and up again,
in a cosmopolitical country-dance with the natives of the frozen North,
the French, who stand between both, are sure to be always found at home.
For one French traveller, of either sex, to be met on the high roads
of Europe, one thousand, at least, of any, or every other nation, may
be seen scampering from the Tagus to the Neva, and from Thebes to the
Giant’s Causeway. The French are, in fact, the most grave, sedentary,
and immovable people of Europe. Even their women, so falsely accused
of vivacity and activity, expend their energies in perpetual movement
of mind and muscle. Under the old régime (when the women in France led
the lives of the sultanas in the harem, one particular only excepted),
all the institutions, both political and social, tended to encourage
habits of indolence, in which, in free states, and under happier moral
combinations, the sex can never indulge. The very forms and language
of high society were borrowed from the inveterate habits of a slavish,
idle, and sedentary existence. Did any affliction befal a lady of rank,
she forthwith went to bed, to receive the condolence of friends _dans la
ruelle_. If she went to drive, it was but to _promener en voiture_; and
even in modern Paris, a promenade extends but to a seat in the gardens of
the Tuileries, or a chair on the Boulevards.

I had a friend in Paris, some few years ago, who was the most charming
and most indolent creature in the world. She was one of the best remains
of the old régime of rank and fashion, who had survived the plebeian
bustle and democratic activity of the Revolution. Though she had nearly
reached her grand climacteric, she was, as she often assured me, still
“as active, vivacious, and locomotive as she had been in the flower
and bloom of her youth;” and, witty and indolent as Madame du Deffand
herself, she was a finely preserved specimen of a genus, now rapidly
disappearing, which philosophy might have contemplated with rapturous
curiosity. Madame de —— was a perfect impersonation of a lady of fashion
of the days of Marie Antoinette. Her _ruelle_ was her empire; her _chaise
longue_ her throne. She took her chocolate, and received visits in bed,
during the day; rose late, dined at the hour of the old French _souper_,
between eight and nine, and sat up half the night, surrounded by her
_habitués_, among whom were to be numbered all the _bel esprit_ of Paris.

I was as much with her as my health and our very opposed habits would
permit, for she was a perfect study; and I generally left her in the
midst of her _media noche_, in all the vigour of spirits which are
vulgarly supposed to belong to the early part of the day. As I made many
sacrifices to these habits of indolence, I occasionally required them in
turn; and I sometimes succeeded in digging her out of her hotel, where
she had for years been niched, motionless as the priestesses of the
temples of Pompeii, which modern _virtù_ excavates from their domicile
of centuries. I once routed her from her bed at mid-day; and had her
dressed and driving at Longchamp, just as the _beau monde_ were turning
their horses’ heads homeward. I also once produced her, to the amazement
of her friends, at the opera, before the ballet was half over; and I
actually had her at a _séance_ of the _Institut_ before the expected
_discours_ of the long-winded Mons. Quatremère de Quincy had quite
concluded.

My indolent and agreeable friend, notwithstanding this decided _vis
inertiæ_, talked in raptures of the country (like all French women), and
had a _campagne_ three leagues from Paris, about which she raved, and
from which her _jardinière_ was duly replenished with March violets,
April hyacinths, and _immortels_ all the year. Daily projects were made,
and as daily broken, for taking me to this “Délices;” and it was not till
after a thousand “Nous remettrons cela à un autre jour,” that the day at
last arrived, when, having myself made all the necessary preparations for
a formidable journey of three leagues, assisted at the _levée_, hurried
forward the toilette, and bribed over Félicie, her unfelicitous _femme
de chambre_, to unusual expedition, I at last got Madame de —— under
weigh, and absolutely transported her from her _dormeuse au coin du feu_,
to her _calèche_. With horses and a coachman as lazy as herself, it was
late in the evening when we arrived within view of the iron gates of the
_campagne_; and before we had reached the end of the straight avenue of
limes, it was so dark that we could scarcely discern the grim, grotesque
stone statues of Arlequin and Colombine, which guarded the flight of
marble steps, leading to the broad paved terrace on which the _maison de
campagne_ was perched.

Before we had reposed from the fatigues of the journey, and swallowed our
_goûté_, it was what is vulgarly called pitch-dark; and as the motive for
making this _course_ was to see the gardens, the _serres chaudes_, and
the luxuriant beds of hyacinths, then in all their “redolence of bloom,”
I could not help expressing my disappointment, with a captiousness which
afforded infinite amusement to Madame de ——, whose bursts of laughter
were interrupted with “Et tout cela pour une fleur! pour un promenade!
pour une fatigue manqué!”[39] My ill-humour, however, was at once
vanquished, on beholding the gardener enter the room with a lighted
lantern, and equipped with a nightcap under his hat, to conduct us to the
garden. We immediately followed our guide; and, accompanied by Félicie
picking her short steps over the dewy gravel, and her mistress’s fat dog,
Sylphide, waddling beside her, we actually saw the hyacinths, and noticed
the fine growth of the precocious _petits pois_, by candle-light.

With such inertness and hatred of all movement, it may readily be
imagined that a necessity, which soon afterwards occurred to Madame de
——, for visiting the remotest part of the remote province of Bretagne,
was an event full of difficulty and annoyance. A considerable property,
however, depended on her attendance on the _Cour d’Assise_ of Rennes, and
there was no alternative.

After procrastinating from day to day, and being half inclined to incur
the risk of absence, and to leave her _procès_ to take care of itself,
she at length decided to go on my offering to accompany her. I was
just then in a fit of _ennui_ at finding all London in Paris, and was
delighted by the hope of visiting a province that had the merit of being
free from the incursions of his Britannic Majesty’s somewhat tiresome
subjects. My proposition was accepted with a sort of incredulous joy;
for a sacrifice of such magnitude was not to be understood: so leaving
behind us _tous nos enfans et tous nos maris_, we started for Brittany,
on a brilliant April morning, in a style that recalled the travelling
of the days of Louis XIV. when the _carrosse d’un Grand Seigneur_ was
a moving house, and (from the number of persons to be stuffed into its
_portières_, its _sur le devant_, and other holes and corners) a house of
no inconsiderable dimensions.

Madame de —— travelled with her own four sleek horses, her own carriage,
and as many of her habitual comforts and _nécessaires_ as could be
stuffed into its seats, pockets, wells, and imperials. Félicie and
Sylphide occupied the back seats, as tenants in common with cushions,
pillows, walking-canes, parasols, _vitchouras_, and the _nécessaire de
toilette_. Madame de ——, wrapped up in her _douillette_ and cachemir,
with _eau de chipre_ in one hand, and her _bonbonnière_ in the other,
was obliged to have frequent recourse to both, in order to support her
through the fatigue of the day. The historical sites of Rambouillet and
Maintenon, on the contrary, kept me fully awake, till we arrived at the
old town of ——, one of Madame de Sévigné’s oft-cited stages, on her
way to Les Rochers. Here we alighted before the _porte-cochère_ of the
_Préfet_ (the uncle of Madame de ——, _à la mode de Bretagne_), whose
salon presented in miniature all that is ridiculous, pompous, grovelling,
and contemptible in the Court of the Tuileries. The _Préfet_ represented
_noblement et avec dignité_; and did the honours by his fair cousin,
before his country subjects, as if she were a princess visiting the court
of a brother prince; while Madame de ——, on her part, exhibited all
the superiority, which Parisian ladies never fail to show off in their
penitential pilgrimages to the provinces.

Amused for a time, but delighted to leave behind me the formality of
the little court of the Prefecture, it was with no faint pleasure I saw
my dilatory friend seated in her carriage at a reasonable hour on the
following morning. Being one of those who, like Boileau’s abbot, had
never seen the sun rise, the exertion soon overpowered her; and she fell
into a profound sleep, in which she was joined by Sylphide and Félicie;
while the novelty of all I beheld, kept me in that delightful excitement,
in which alone we truly feel the value of existence.

The old feudal dukedom of Bretagne, intact from the common places of
British travellers, untrodden by their restless steps, untraced by their
busy pens—is still the Bretagne of Louis XIV. The natives continue to
preserve their individuality, as in the days of their rude but heroic
_souverains_. Genuine and unmixed descendants of the ancient Britons (who
took refuge here when expelled from their own country), they remain to
this day as unlike the inhabitants of the southern and central provinces
of France, as if they still went _in puris naturalibus_, and painted
their bodies blue. We had scarcely passed the Loire, when I observed an
abrupt change in the physiognomy of the people. In the pure Armorican, or
Bas-Breton of the aubergiste of the ancient town of Laval, I was struck
by the rhythm and accent of my compatriots, the Celts,[40] and almost
fancied myself listening to some Mrs. O’Shaughnessy in Connaught, or to
the reading of a page from the Scotch novels. As we proceeded into the
department of _Ille et Vilaine_, the heart of the province, the scenery
became gradually less and less French. The dense and distant forests,
shading to the edge of the flat, extensive heaths, recalled all the
romantic desolation of northern dreariness; relieved by patches of rank
verdure and flowering orchards, much more picturesque than the vaunted
“vine-covered hills” of France.

Bretagne, only united to the French crown in 1532, by the marriage of
Francis the First with the grand-daughter of its last duke, was so
long governed in the true spirit of feudality by its petty but warlike
princes, that its political circumstances, combining with a remote and
insulated position, excluded it from all participation in the progressive
civilization of Europe. In the Revolution, it suffered much by the
Vendean wars, which threw it back nearly to what it was under Louis
XIV.; nor has the share which it had in the general reorganization of
France, materially changed its original physiognomy, either physically or
morally. Rude and remote, however, as it was, it still produced some of
the finest and most distinguished characters which illustrate the history
of France. The two rival and romantic Dukes, Charles de Blois, and John
de Montfort;[41] the heroic Jeanne la Boiteuse, Duchess of the province,
in whose right Charles de Blois held the sovereignty; the clever Olivier
de Clisson, constable of France; the gallant Tennegui du Chatel; and
that flower of chivalry, Bertrand du Guesclin “le franc et loyal,” are
characters which belong to the poetry of history, and almost redeem
those bold, bad times, which produced such human monsters as Charles
le Mauvais, and Pierre le Cruel. It is, perhaps, no false induction to
assert, that much of their soldierly frankness and noble simplicity arose
from an organization, nourished and preserved by the very localities of
the rude clime and wild scenery in which they received their existence.

With the history of Bertrand du Guesclin in my hand, which had been lent
me by my host of the Prefecture, (that history which Madame de Sévigné
had recommended to Madame de Grignan,) and with my head full of de
Montfort and de Blois, and _les grandes compagnies_, and the _maladrins_,
and the Black Prince, and Jean Chandos, and the other prominent
characters in the great melodrame enacted in Bretagne during the
fourteenth century, I was abruptly recalled to the dull realities of the
present moment, on the evening of the third day’s journey, by a shock, a
concussion, that awoke my sleeping partners, and extorted exclamations
from Madame de ——, screams from Félicie, and a loud, shrill, continuous
howl from Sylphide. These, with the crashing of _flacons_, and the pious
interjections of the coachman Baptiste, and the _gros juron_ of Hypolite
the laquais, “gave the world assurance” that we were “abîmés, plantés
pour la nuit,”—in one word, that the carriage was not only overturned,
but rendered wholly unserviceable, till it should have passed through the
renovating hands of a country smith.

To proceed farther was impossible; we were, by a mile or two, less than
half-way between Vitri (where we had dined, “à la tour de Sévigné,”)
and Rennes, our proposed halt for the night. Baptiste was a Bas-Breton;
and having assured us that he knew every step of the road, _comme
son bonnet de nuit_, he had turned into a narrow cross road, which
was to have shortened the distance by a league. It was this unlucky
pretension that produced the accident, which now left us, at sunset, in
a dreary by-road, with a broken-down vehicle, and no visible prospect
of aid, nearer than Vitri. While Madame de —— was exhausting herself
in inefficient complaint, while Félicie was scolding Baptiste from the
window, and Sylphide was accompanying both with a _basso continuo_ of
howl, I alighted to reconnoitre our position, and discover what chance
we had of assistance; and while Baptiste was showing me where the spring
was broken, a person approached with a book in his hand, from the gate
of a little orchard to the left. As he took off his hat and discovered
his tonsured head, he observed, that there was a forge belonging to
the château, the turrets of which were visible through the dark woods
which cover the whole plain between Vitri and Rennes; that immediate
assistance could be had, and the spring patched up, so as to bring us,
with careful driving, to Rennes before midnight. The person who gave us
this information was an elderly man, of interesting appearance, and in a
clerical habit, with a certain _air de prêtre_, which left us no doubt as
to his vocation.

“Et le château, Monsieur?” demanded Madame de ——; “what is its name? It
probably belongs to some of my friends; for I am connected with nearly
all the old noblesse of the province.”

“It is the Château des Rochers, Madame!”

“The Château des Rochers!” reiterated Madame de ——.

“The château of Madame de Sévigné!” I exclaimed, with almost breathless
delight.

The stranger bowed assent. “Eh, mon dieu! qui est donc le châtelain?
to what noble family has it descended? The Sévignés are extinct; and I
believe Les Rochers were bequeathed to the Duchesse de Simiane by her
illustrious grandmother.”

“Les Rochers have fallen into various hands within the last half-century,
Madame. It was sold, with other national property, at the Revolution. The
present proprietor is a rich gentleman of the province, Le Baron de ——.
He is at present in Paris; but there will be no difficulty in showing you
the château, which may amuse away the time till your carriage is set to
rights.”

Madame de ——, who had not heard the name of the present proprietor
of Les Rochers, whispered me, “Ah! ma belle, ce Monsieur le Baron
d’aujourd’hui est sans doute un de la Bande Noire,”[42] coldly declined
the proposition, and as rest, to her, was always enjoyment, she patiently
resigned herself to the agreeable infliction of remaining tranquilly
in the carriage; while Félicie, who descended to give Sylphide an
airing, immediately seated herself on a mossy bank by the road side; and
Hypolite, mounting one of the coach-horses, rode off for the smith, the
smoke of whose forge was visible at a short distance.

The idea of visiting Les Rochers, whence so many of the inimitable
letters of the most charming writer in the world were written, appeared
to me rather a pleasant dream, than a reality. I could scarcely credit
my luck. So taking the stranger’s offered arm, I promised Madame de
—— a speedy return, and proceeded to the shrine of “Notre Dame des
Rochers,” with as much devotional enthusiasm as ever carried a jubilee
pilgrim across the Pontine Marshes, from the Abruzzi to St. Peter’s.
Having cut across the little orchard, we were still involved in a woody
copse, which gave us only partial gleams of the white towers of the
château. “Envoyez-moi de la vue, et je vous enverrai des arbres,”[43]
writes Madame de Sévigné to Madame de Grignan: and the request is still
applicable to the site, which is covered with trees, to the total
exclusion of some charming views, which, with a little effort, might
be happily commanded from the building. The château and its mass of
antique towers stand upon an esplanade, after the manner of the feudal
edifices of France. _La cour du château_, spacious and gloomy, is shut
in by a ponderous iron gate, through which I gazed with a fluttering
heart, while the old porter, summoned by the stranger, went for his keys
to give us admission. Nothing could be more antique and picturesque
than the architecture, tinged and partially lighted, as it was, by a
brilliant sunset. The château is said to date its erection as far back as
the fourteenth century; and its high antiquity was verified by a spiral
flight of stairs, cut out of a tower in the _corps de logis_; which was
flanked by two other towers,—the whole bordered by grim Gothic heads, and
monstrous nondescript representations of animals, which incrusted the
upper part of the building, from the springing of the roof to its summit.
One little tower stood apart, built in the same grotesque style, except
that its roof resembled an extinguisher.

“That,” said my cicerone, “is a modern building. It is the chapel
mentioned in Madame de Sévigné’s letters, built by her for _le bien bon_,
the amiable and witty Abbé de Coulanges.”

The porter now gave us admittance; and as we paused before the
interesting edifice, which, with Turkish barbarity, had been recently
white-washed, he exclaimed, “It is another thing now, _pardie_, to what
it was before the Revolution, with its green and brown walls, and moss,
and ivy, and birds’ nests, and what not!—Mais nous avons changés tout
cela—nous avons reblanchi toutes ces vieilles masures, à la chaux; et
encore donné trois couches bien épaisses en dehors et en dedans.”[44]

The old porter then waddled on before us, and the stranger observed,
in a low voice, as if replying to the disgust my looks involuntarily
expressed, “Monsieur le Concierge, it seems, has never read the letters
of Madame de Sévigné. They have indeed changed this most interesting of
all sites into a grotesque _métairie_;” and pointing to a _lavoir_ and
stables decorated with Corinthian columns, the curé added, “And yet this
is not the worst!”

We were now in the hall of the château, and followed our cicerone
through the apartments not closed against the intrusion of strangers;
but all had been so recently and thoroughly changed to the modern
style of decoration, that there was scarcely any object left to recal
_la bellissima madre_, except her portrait by Mignard, which was
placed over _le poële_ in the dining-room. Dark, low, and narrow, this
apartment could not have been the room in which Madame de Sévigné so
often entertained the splendid governor of the province and his lady,
the high-bred Palatine, with the jovial, gay, and witty visitors, the
Coulanges, Pomenars, and others of rank and talents, whom the assembling
of the States General at Rennes brought to the château. Nothing now
remained as it had been even so recently as the year 1810.

“Every thing has been destroyed and effaced,” whispered the stranger:
“and even the _cabinet de lecture_ and the bedchambers of Madame de
Sévigné and Madame de Grignan (where the portrait of _la belle et fière
comtesse_ still hangs) have undergone a similar and equally barbarous
alteration.”

As these classical and historical apartments were locked up, and as
time pressed, and the sun was sinking, we hurried on to the gardens and
grounds, so often described by Madame de Sévigné. But still change,
barbarous, pitiless change prevailed. New walls, new terraces, new
orangeries destroyed all those precious associations so intimately
connected with the old. They had also recently cut down those _allées_,
planted and watched with such maternal tenderness by Madame de Sévigné;
and as their sites were pointed out to me, I could not avoid exclaiming,
“Helas! qu’est devenu ce bosquet enchanté?”

“Que voulez-vous, Madame?” asked the old gardener, pettishly. “We have
cut them down to make chicken-hatches for Madame.”

The stranger, to console me, exhibited the phenomenon of the echo, so
often cited to Madame de Grignan, and which, as it could not be turned to
any account for the hen-coops, still remains in all its original mystery.

“L’allée de ma fille still existed in 1810,” said my guide, as evident a
Sevignite as myself; “but there now remains not one of those venerable
witnesses, which so often shaded and sheltered in their promenades the
tenderest of mothers and the most adored of daughters. Not one old and
silent confidant exists of those _piquantes causeries_ between the witty
_maman beauté_, and that _trésor de folie_, her still wittier son,—of
the strange but humorous confessions, followed by such mild reprimands,
and such sarcastic pleasantries,—and of those aveux _naïfs de l’aimable
vaurien_, who in one night at Lansequenet _mangeait 500 gros chênes à
sa mère_, and who, brave as Condé, _spirituel_ as St. Evremont, had
entered the lists with Dacier, concerning Horace, had lived with Racine,
laughed with Molière, jilted Ninon, _se grisait par bon air_, committed
a thousand follies, confessed them all a thousand times to his _belle
maman_, and, always forgiven, continued to repent old pleasures at Les
Rochers, and to solicit new, on his return to Paris.”

I inquired in vain for those formal and venerable _allées_, ornamented
with so many pretty devices, and consecrated by such recollections;—all
had fallen victims to the axe of the terrible Baron Breton. Their names,
however, still survived; and I had the melancholy pleasure of walking
over the ground which was still known as “l’Allée Royale,” “l’Allée du
Point du Jour,” “l’Allée de Tremaine,” and “l’Allée de l’Infinie.” At the
farther extremity of the Allée Royale, a semi-circular seat of verdure,
commanding a delicious view of the _coteaux boisés_ of the immediate
neighbourhood, invited us to a momentary halt. This was the charming
spot, whence Madame de Sévigné wrote so many of her letters,—“la Place
de Madame.” It was decorated with a fine old orange-tree, which had been
removed from its vast green-house, in a wooden _caisse_, by the stranger
himself, in the absence of the baron. While we gazed on the rich and
lovely vista, the sunlight gradually faded from the summits of the
loftiest trees, the shadows deepened, and the necessity of returning was
acknowledged with regret, and obeyed with reluctance.

Having begged permission, therefore, to gather a little _bouquet_ from
the orange-tree which shaded “la Place de Madame,” I again accepted the
arm of the courteous cicerone. As we proceeded towards the carriage,
my thoughts were so completely transported to the days of the La
Rochefoucaulds, the Coulanges, and the La Moussés, that, forgetting the
lapse of a century, and of events that had doubled that interval, I
inquired if any of the family of the amusing Mademoiselle du Plessis,
the _bas bleu_ of Vitri, and the subject of Madame de Sévigné’s humorous
delineations, were still in the neighbourhood.[45] He replied, that of
the _dramatis personæ_ of Les Rochers, of all those who had played such
amusing and characteristic parts in the correspondence of Madame de
Sévigné, he knew but one name that had survived the lapse of time and the
general _bouleversement_. It was that of Pilois.

“What!” I said, “the favourite and venerable gardener of Madame
de Sévigné, who planted those very trees under whose shade we are
walking?[46] Do any of his descendants reside here?”

“His great grandson has the honour of addressing you,” he replied, bowing.

We were now within view of the carriage; and taking from my neck a little
cross of Irish bogwood, I requested him to accept of it, as a small token
of acknowledgment for the pleasure I had derived through his means, in
being permitted to visit the shrine of the goddess “of my idolatry,” and
to enjoy a conversation with the descendant of her faithful friend and
domestic, to whose character his illustrious lady had communicated a
classic and deathless interest. The good clergyman blushed, bowed, and
accepted my offering, with as much courtesy, and a feeling apparently
as deep, as if it had been of “one entire and perfect crysolite.” The
spring was now patched up, and pronounced capable of carrying us to
Rennes. We therefore bade a hasty adieu to our accidental acquaintance,
and soon lost sight of the ancient and memorable towers of Le Château des
Rochers.[47]




STRAWBERRY HILL.


    “Some cry up Gunnersbury,
      For Sion some declare,
    And some say that with Chiswick House
      No villa can compare;
    But ask the beaux of Middlesex,
      Who know the country well,
    If Strawberry Hill—if Strawberry Hill
      Don’t bear away the bell.”

                             _Earl of Bath’s Ballad on Strawberry Hill._

Lord Byron has somewhere observed, that it has long been the fashion
for the _canaille_ of literary criticism to vituperate Horace Walpole,
“because he was a gentleman.” An unfounded observation, which the
“Edinburgh Review” has successfully refuted,—and refuted upon the
testimony of a deeper experience, and more intimate knowledge of the
science of literary economy (if the phrase may be allowed,) than could
have been attained by one, whose high rank, and high genius, alike placed
him far beyond the dabblings of literary intrigue, or the possibility of
intellectual subserviency.

If ministers of state best know every man’s price in the political
market, if they are best acquainted with the inherent littleness of that
“poor human nature,” to the corruptibility of which they have the means
of applying such powerful stimulants, such resistless temptations,—the
editors of an influential party and periodical work best know of what
stuff those “Swiss of the press” are made, who deal out opinion according
“to the measure that is measured unto them” by their taskers,—of what
mixed metal the current coin of literary criticism is composed, which
ductile, though base, takes the mark of any dye impressed on it by the
master-worker of the mint. The Edinburgh Reviewers, therefore, told Lord
Byron, and told him truly, that, as a body, the periodical critics of the
day bore no malice against Lord Orford, because he was “a gentleman,”
and that, far from rank being injurious to literary fame, even _he_,
Lord Byron, _the star of the ascendant_, stood indebted for the lenity
with which the author of “Don Juan” was treated by the most orthodox
reviewers in England, at least as much to the elevation of his rank, as
to the loftiness of his genius—to his “gentle blood,” as to his splendid
talents. The fact is, that if

    “A saint in crape be twice a saint in lawn,”

an author in a coronet has _twice_ the chance of obtaining a favourable
judgment, that can be expected by mere plebeian talent, which has only
its original merits to plead for those “sins” which all literary “flesh
is heir to.”

With what indulgence has not the accomplished, but titled Author of
“Matilda” been treated by the reviewing hierarchy of the day, even
in spite of the little _faux-pas_ which forms the ground-work of
his catastrophe,—in spite of the _vertu de moins_ of his _bon-ton_
heroine,—in spite of a moral produced by a cold in the head (when a
more legitimate source of poetical justice was at hand, in the fate and
story of many fair contemporary _délaissées_ in real life and living
frailty)—nay, in spite even of his whiggism, his liberalism, and his
anti-Austrianism; and when rebuked, how gently and with what a _patte de
velours_ has this lordly author been treated by the great conservators
of public and literary morals. What honours indeed have not been done
to the light and pleasant pages of one, who has so agreeably added to
the daily increasing list of noble authors,[48] and who is certainly
something more than “a wit among lords, and a lord among wits.” But who
among the literary toparchs, who are so ready to bring mediocrity into
fashion, and to patronize the usurpations that can never interfere with
their own acknowledged supremacy—who among the great fame-bestowing
reviewers, that “give and take away” the bubble reputation, or try to
do it, have turned out the author of “Crohoore of the Bill Hook,” and
“John Doe,” for public admiration? And yet in these two great pictures
of an unopened vein of national manners, there is as bold etching,
and as fine masses of _chiaro oscuro_, as were ever produced even by
the exquisite burin of the Scottish Rembrandt. It was not, then, the
gentility of Horace Walpole, that stood in the way of his preferment in
reviews, and his popularity with the members of literary coteries. Yet
that he has been borne down, from his own to the present time, both by
the corporate bodies, and by the honorary members of criticism, is quite
true—his claims to genius denied, his pretensions to taste ridiculed, his
style termed “slip-slop,” his “Historic Doubts” doubted, and his villa
at Strawberry Hill, which he himself has named “a paper fabric to hold
an assemblage of curious trifles,” selected as a _damning proof_ against
his antiquarianism, by the learned young gentlemen of the “old lady’s
logic”[49]—(the learning which draws fools from their obscurity)—who have
always affected to consider it as a “Gothic Vatican of Greece and Rome,”
and a standing monument of his ignorance of all true _virtù_. And yet
Horace Walpole _has_ established his claims to genius by its own highest
prerogative—original invention! His “Castle of Otranto” is the first of
its genus,[50] and has consecrated him the founder of that delightful
school of literary fiction, of which Radcliffe, Scott, and a host of far
inferior spirits, are but the disciples;[51] while his “Correspondence”
has supplied to British literature that elegant branch of familiar
composition, so long a desideratum. The letters of Horace Walpole have
almost the merit of original inventions, compared with all the printed
collections which preceded his own, (with the sole exception of those of
his contemporary, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.[52]) The letters of Howell
(deemed models in their time) had long been condemned by the standard
simplicity of modern taste, which loves epigrams, and hates essays; and
had already taken their places on the dusty shelves

    “With all such reading as is never read.”

The quaint and peremptory style of Swift’s never _very familiar_
epistles (his Journal to Stella excepted), though certainly a pure and
sterling specimen of the English language of the Augustan day, wanted
that _laissez-aller_ charm, which is the perfection of letter-writing;
and Pope’s _Voiture_-like and _spirituel_ epistles, have all the air
of being got up for print, and were evidently as much intended for the
public and his publisher, as for his mistress or his friend.[53] Even
Addison’s “Letters,” (to whose style and “study” we are ordered by the
once colossal dictator of literature—ponderous but not powerful—already
a Hercules without his club—to “give up our days and nights,”—a false
and despotic counsel! as if every age has not necessarily its own
style, dependent upon the progress of society and the development of
human intellect and science)—even Addison’s “Letters,” cold, formal, and
studied, are as devoid of originality as the travels of which they are
supposed to be a journal;[54] while Richardson’s epistles to his literary
ladies are tiresome as the homilies of his own “good Mrs. Norton.” Gay
(and perhaps Arbuthnot sometimes) has alone given to his letters the
charm of that exquisite simplicity, which was the characteristic feature
of the talent of the English La Fontaine; and Sterne, whose letters,
though witty and agreeable, are affected, came rather too late to be
offered as an exception to the studied and pedantic style, which left
England without a good letter-writer, while France justly boasted so many.

Good letter-writing is but good conversation carried on by the pen, a
familiar talking upon paper, the intimate chit-chat of the fire-side on
its travels by post, not invented solely for some “wretch’s aid,” but
resorted to by the fond and the feeling to cheat absence of its pang;
or by the intellectual, and the social, “for the better carrying on” of
that intercourse of mind and imagination, without which life is a blank;
or by the gay, and the gossiping, for the circulation of those petty
interests and every-day incidents and events, which, if important to
none, are resources to all, which prevent time from stagnating, and which
originate ideas, the lightness of which gives temporary relief from the
great penalties of existence, deep thinking and deep feeling. The best
letter, therefore, is that which makes the least demand upon the mind,
and the most upon the fancy and the heart. He who writes to be studied,
rarely writes to be read; he who writes to be admired, rarely writes to
please. Ye Sévignés, and ye Ninons,[55] to whom _l’esprit Rambouillet_
was a source of perpetual ridicule, I invoke the careless spirit that
pervades your delightful letters to attest the truth of the observation,
and to bear witness in favour of the only letter-writer in the English
language, who resembles or who rivals you! The letters of Horace Walpole
were written evidently _à trait de plume_,[56] carelessly and playfully,
and yet, like those of the goddess of his idolatry, they are eminently
“_propres à faire connaître les mœurs, le ton, l’esprit, les usages de
son tems_;” indeed he himself confesses, in one of his sketching details
of the day, thrown off at a heat for the amusement of George Montague,
and of his hero Harry Conway, (whose character and adventures, by the
by, give a sort of epic interest to his correspondence) that he was
“collecting the follies of the age for the benefit of posterity.” He was
in fact, and often unconsciously, the Dangeau of his times and class; and
in the course of his agreeable and epistolary gossiping, “enshrined in
amber” the ephemeral “flies” of fashion, the autocrats of high society,
who, insignificant in themselves, illustrate by their reigning manners
and vices the history of the age in which they flourish, as “Kitcats”
and “schemers,” the despots of Cornelis or Almack’s.[57] He has also
left some characters of men, whose names belong to history, finer and
truer than history herself could delineate. The true secret of Horace
Walpole’s unpopularity with a large class of professional and amateur
literati, who deny his claims to that reputation which genius alone
can give, is the unmitigated war, the _guerre à la mort_, which he
waged, almost from the go-cart to the tomb, against all pretension, and
against all unfounded and self-sufficient claims to distinction. He not
only attacked those influential _bodies corporate_, who have obtained
authority over public opinion, merely by assuming it,[58] but with
daring scepticism, and moral courage, he attacked the false gods of the
popular worship of his day, set up by bad taste, or imposed on credulity
by audacious talent.[59] He attacked the cant of Warburton,[60] and the
affectation of Rousseau. He attacked the buckram heroes and heroines
of Richardson, when it was “religion to adore them,”[61] and declared
Sir Charles a bore, and Clarissa a quiz! He attacked the authenticity
of Ossian, when it was deemed heresy to doubt it. He attacked the most
imposing historical fallacies, which ages had consecrated through party
prejudice down to the present times. He attacked scientific pedantry in
the “old lady’s logic,” and detected literary imposition in the person
of Chatterton. He attacked those solemn and sentimental vices of high
society, which were then beginning to make their way to England,—from
the voluptuous bowers of the Medici, to the sober mansions of the stern
and rigid English gentry:[62] and lastly, and worst, the head and front
of his offence, he attacked that loyalty which he himself terms “the
loyalty to Kings in possession,”—he attacked its _alma mater_, Oxford, as
a “nursery of bigotry and nonsense;”[63] and made war upon Toryism in its
strongest hold—divine-righted prerogative, and royal infallibility and
martyrdom.[64] For such an assailant there could be _point de salut_, and
there was none. The blockheads of pretension, more particularly, flew to
arms,—a powerful body in all times, “_car l’empire des bêtes est un fait
constaté dans l’histoire_:” and though two generations have nearly passed
away since the first blow was struck, still the rancour of assuming
mediocrity, wounded in its life-nerve, is a bequest that descends from
generation to generation:

    “Et les envieux meurent, mais non pas l’envie.”

The leading trait of Walpole’s intellectual temperament was evidently a
quick and delicate perception of the truth of things, moral and material,
in nature and art. The true and unerring tact, that innate endowment by
which the ridiculous as well as the false (and the ridiculous is but an
amusing set-off of the false) is always rapidly got at, lost nothing
of its perfection by his education having been begun and finished in
the closet of one of the shrewdest and cleverest ministers that England
ever possessed. Shut up with old Sir Robert, _tête-à-tête_,[65] he
learned “to laugh at the madness of political ambition,” and discovered
that “happiness did not depend on administration and victories.” In
the galleries of Houghton, amidst the trophies of a palace, his early
taste for the arts was developed, which testified its exquisite justness
in the learned and clever preface, written almost in boyhood, to his
“_Ædes Walpolianæ_.”[66] It was there too he learnt “what a monarch a
man was, who wanted nothing;”[67] and, governed by a conviction which
would have best become a stoic, and by a taste and contempt which were
evidently those of an epicurean, he settled down in early life an
intellectual voluptuary, preferring enjoyment to fame, yet acquiring the
latter, which he so well deserved, while simply occupied in pursuit of
the former. So early as his return from Italy, and during his travels,
his vocation to _virtù_, or “_l’amour pour l’enquitaille_,” as Rabelais
terms it, unequivocally declared itself; but his floating capital of
taste, which was for a time devoted to the classic antique, properly
so called, was soon thrown, for want of a “quick return” in England
(where Roman antiquities are few and bad), into that fund, so rich and
yielding in Great Britain, the antiquities of the middle ages. England
then abounded in relics of the times of the Chaucers, the Spensers, the
Sidneys, and the Shakspeares, relics then neglected and unappreciated.
The “betweenity” which occurred in the interval when the charming Gothic
had declined, and the Palladian had not crept in, was in every respect a
Bœotian age. Then gardens were built, not planted; and the disciples of
Kent, Brown, and Southcote, were still struggling through “clipt hedges
and cockle-shell avenues:” while Sir William Temple’s “natural walls” and
lead-covered grottos, were not yet quite out of fashion, and wildernesses
were still composed of straight walks, and caverns were lined with
looking-glasses.[68] The furniture of aristocratic mansions was then half
German, half French; cumbrous, not venerable—with all the inconveniences
of the antique, without its picturesqueness. While ponderous stuffed
chairs and china monsters filled the apartments of the descendants of
the worthies of Elizabeth’s court, carvings by Gibbons, and portraits by
Holbein, were consigned to lumber-rooms; beds embroidered by the Queen
of Scots, and sweet-bags worked by her maids, were left to moulder,
while a stiff-backed _bergère_, from some _miroitier’s_ shop in the
Rue de Bac, or a china sconce from Sevres, brought any price. Such
were the neglected treasures, which discovered themselves to the most
ardent of antiquarians and collectors, in his various and delightfully
recorded “pilgrimages to the holy lands of Gothic castles and abbeys,”
the hereditary seats of the Byrons, the Howards, the Seymours, the
Russels, the Cavendishes, the Rutlands, the mansions of “Old Bess of
Hardwicke,”[69] and the palace-prisons of captive royalty. It was in
the low-roofed chambers, and nests of closets of Monceaux, Haddon,
Hatfield, Newstead,[70] Althorpe, Hinchinbrook, and Chatsworth, that
Walpole drew “deeper and deeper still” from the stream of antiquarianism,
and was led to unearth those tangible records of past times, which fill
up the blanks in history, with details of society, infinitely more
interesting than any thing the scene-painting pencil of the historian
can preserve: for it is curious to think what a _philosophie des mœurs_
may be drawn from an inquiry into a china-closet, or an inquisition
held on a lumber-room!—what epochs in commerce and manufactures may
be fixed by the dimensions of a coffee-can, or by the fragments of a
suit of hangings!—what traits of manners and morals may be furnished
by hoops of whalebone and bodices of buckram, by the low-cut stomacher
of a Cleveland, or the _négligé_ of a Pompadour—and what lights and
illustrations may be thrown on such works as Grammont, Pepys, and Evelyn,
by the plunder of a Dowager Duchess’s tall-boy, or the _exploitation_ of
the coffers and clothes-presses, the cupboards and dark-closets, in which
the old mansions of old families always abound.

It was in such pictorial and historical mansions that Horace Walpole
imbibed the desire of having a Gothic castle of his own; and, with his
imagination full of the proportions and traceries of Winchester, the
fretted roofs of Netley, the cross-legged knights and the piked-horn
dames, that started from tombs, or walked out of picture frames,[71]
he began to look out for a spot, where he might found a new school for
old things, and arrange around him those objects so early associated in
his mind,—relics, which the arts and history of ages had contributed to
fill his crowded cabinet. He at last found a site whereon to place this
long-built “castle in the air” of his antiquarian dreams; but he neither
sought nor found it amidst the romantic shades of Cumberland, nor the old
feudal territory of Yorkshire; he simply picked it up, accidentally, with
other _bijoux_, at Mrs. Chenevix’s toy-shop, then the _petit Dunkirk_ of
London. His own account of the acquisition is too pleasant to need an
apology for quoting it:—

“You perceive by my date that I am got into a new camp, and have left my
tub at Windsor. It is a little plaything house, that I got out of Mrs.
Chenevix’s shop, and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw. It is set in
enamelled meadows, with filigree hedges:

    ‘A small Euphrates through the piece is roll’d,
    And little fishes wave their wings in gold.’

Two delightful roads, that you would call dusty, supply me continually
with coaches and chaises: barges, as solemn as Barons of the Exchequer,
move under my window: Richmond Hill and Ham walks bound my prospect;
but, thank God! the Thames is between me and the Duchess of Queensberry.
Dowagers as plenty as flounders inhabit all around; and Pope’s ghost
is just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight. I
have about land enough to keep such a farm as Noah’s, when he set up in
the ark with a pair of each kind; but my cottage is rather cleaner than
I believe his was, after they had been cooped up together forty days.
The Chenevixes had tricked it out for themselves; up two pair of stairs
is what they call Mr. Chenevix’s library, furnished with three maps,
one shelf, a bust of Sir Isaac Newton, and a lame telescope without any
glasses. Lord John Sackville predecessed me here, and instituted certain
games called Cricketalia, which have been celebrated this very evening,
in honour of him, in a neighbouring meadow. You will think I have removed
my philosophy from Windsor, with my tea-things, hither; for I am writing
to you in all this tranquillity while a parliament is bursting about my
ears.”

The little tenement so playfully described, had already a fine antique
cast of character, and was rich in all the advantages of dark closets,
and “passages that led to nothing.” It had been built in 1698, had been
tenanted alternately by a profane comedian and a reverend divine—for
there Talbot, Bishop of Durham, had written his Homilies, and Cibber his
play of “The Refusal, or Lady’s Philosophy.” The site, too, abounded in
agreeable associations, consonant to the habits and tastes of the elegant
proprietor—the air still breathed of Pope, Swift, and Gay; the villas
still bloomed where the witty Lady Mary, the charming Lady Hervey, and
“Grammont’s daughter,”[72] had recently resided. Still it must be owned,
that, judged by modern ideas of the picturesque in villas, by the dictum
of Price or Knight, “the capabilities” of Strawberry were few. It wanted
space and prospect, and sometimes made its Gothic reformer sigh “with
Chute, that Battel Abbey had not been to be sold at Mrs. Chenevix’s
toy-shop, as Strawberry was.” Yet its defects, such as they were,
harmonized with the style of the old-English villa or country-house,
whose high walls, deep moats, and dismal clipt hedges excluded all view
but of their own dreariness. Even the narrow dusty avenues, and little
green lanes, that led to Strawberry, both from Twickenham and the Thames,
were all in keeping; for such were “the crack-skull roads” leading to
the rural residences of the great, in former times—by-ways which obliged
_La superbe Hamilton_ and _La belle Muskerry_ to mount their palfreys,
and jog on behind their gentlemen ushers on pillions, when they left
the court at Whitehall, to visit their friends in the country, or to
participate in the gaieties of Newmarket and “the Wells.”

Many Palladian palaces, even of a more recent day, were chosen with
a view to security and shelter, rather than to taste and views. The
spacious and splendid Mereworth, “though it had some prospect, was built
in the centre of a moat, and sprinkled with little ponds.” The shades
of Strawberry, however, soon began to extend beyond their original five
acres. The square-built little toy-house swelled out more nearly to
the dimensions of a feudal mansion, and was angled into cabinets, and
rounded into towers, lengthened by galleries, and raised by battlements;
and finally became the repertory of all those treasures that the taste,
learning, and research of its owner could rescue from the depredations of
time, and the neglect of tasteless and high-born ignorance.

“My collection” (says Walpole, in excuse for his passion for building
and Gothicism) “is too great to be humbly lodged.” The castle, however,
as now existing, did not raise its towers all of a sudden, like those
of Bagatelle. It was reformed, at different times, by alterations and
additions “to the old small house.” The library, and refectory, or great
parlour, were entirely new-built in 1753; the gallery, round tower, great
cloister, and cabinet, in 1760 and 1761; the north bed-chamber in 1770;
and the Beauclerc tower, with the hexagon closet, in 1776.

The greatest hold over the imagination, the most powerful tie which time
in its course lets fall upon the feelings and the mind, is that which
comes of early associations; and even the book read, the picture gazed
on, in that epoch of life when all is seen decked in prismatic hues,
are never forgotten, and are always over-rated in the fondness of old
recollections. It happened that at such an epoch, Strawberry Hill and
the “Walpoliana” were the picture and the book, to which the writer of
this rapid sketch was indebted for some of those new and delightful
impressions, which such objects are calculated to make on the young
and the imaginative, to whom pictures and books are such novelties and
such enjoyments; and being then the resident of an Irish country-house,
where a blind Irish harper was her _Magnus Apollo_, and the _fadaises_
of Della Crusca her _ne plus ultra_ of literary acquirement, Strawberry
Hill and the “Walpoliana” became her Mecca and her Talmud. To visit
Strawberry Hill was a vow, made rather in devotion than in hope; while to
peruse the works of its master was a desire, which time, and an intimate
acquaintance with their delightful pages, has rather sharpened than
diminished. Years swept on, some feathered with bird of paradise wings,
and others heavily and slowly, like the sailing flight of birds of less
happy omen; but still they swept on: and scenes far more distant and
sites far more remote than the “show-box of Twickenham” were visited.

“The Alps, the Apennines, and river Po,” and other lands and streams
as classic, were traversed and navigated, till they had become as
familiarized to the Irish wanderer’s mind as her own native Howth
or Liffey,—the Tiber and Soracte of her national partiality in less
travelled days; and yet the vow to visit Strawberry, though not
accomplished, was not forgotten, and it still held its place, while
other vows had faded away, with the airy nothings of which they were
the objects. The day, however, at last arrived,[73] when Strawberry was
visited, and with an interest as intense as the Vatican ever excited
in the breast of some long-vowed pilgrim to St. Peter’s shrine. It
was just such a day as the founder himself would have selected for
“showing off” to the “Bedford court,” and “Princess Emily,” or the “De
Bouffiers and De Beaumonts,” when the noble host was wont to draw his
bed-curtains, and ask “Harry if the sun shone?”[74] and beheld with a
rapture he so pleasantly ridiculed himself (as indeed he did all his
own peculiarities), that Strawberry was all “green and gold.” Who ever
has left England to visit the finest scenery in the finest climes, and
returned to glide along the shores of the Thames on such a day (days in
England “few and far between,”) will scarcely hesitate to admit, what
it is impossible not to feel, that, compared to those shores, there is
nothing equal in beauty and richness in the river scenery of any other
country in Europe. The pilgrimage to Strawberry was performed by water,
in preference “to one of those two delightful roads that might be called
dusty;” and the barge was anchored in one of those little creeks, where,
after “holding a chapter with Chute,” the antiquarian and his friend
were wont to watch the arrival of the boat, which was “freighted with
old window-frames, old tombs, and old chairs, of the time of Edward the
Sixth.” A freight was expected with an interest as intense as any Antonio
of the Rialto ever felt as he watched the entrance of “his argosie” into
the Lagunas of Venice: for the passion, not the object, is the thing,
and there is a fanaticism in collecting, which “none but collectors
know,” or can appreciate. From this little creek and its stepping-stone
landing-place, a scrubby sort of a bank on one side, a high dull wall
on the other, (but, still a wall, “castellated after the manner of that
which surrounded Aston House,”) and some thirty or forty yards of a
narrow rutted road, led to one of the gates of the castle, which, truth
to tell, seemed from this point to be built like the towers of Monceaux,
for the purpose of “seeing nothing at all.” All around, the modern
antique had the true characteristic feudal air of loneliness—the silence
(though not the waste) which despotic power ever creates around it, and
which the temporary absenteeism of the great lords of great mansions,
even in England, so well represents in its effects. This, however, but
deepened an illusion, which was soon dispelled by the appearance of the
_custode_ of the castle, who replied to the tolling of the porter’s
bell:—no grim gruff porter of the olden times, with staff and scutcheon,
and beard and belt, and buff coat and bluff air, but a smart, comely,
_rondelette_ little housekeeper, all frills and falbalas, welcomed our
arrival, of which she had been previously forewarned,[75] and playing
with her keys, as the ladies in the Spectator played with their fans,
alertly and civilly proceeded to do the honours of Strawberry—not a
little surprised, from the first starting, to find that one of the
sight-seers at least had a _catalogue raisonné_ in her head, which
superseded the necessity of any other, and who inquired for the “Holbein
chamber,” and the “Star chamber,” and the “Cabinet,” with a familiarity
that astonished the housekeeper of Strawberry, full as much as the lord
of Strawberry himself, on a similar visit, surprised the housekeeper
of Althorpe.[76] On entering the north gate, (to those well read in the
legends of Strawberry,) the “Abbot’s garden” may be at once recognised,
to the right, parted off by an iron skreen-work. The “Abbot’s garden”
has been often sneered at for its miniature dimensions, and, indeed, it
is not much larger than an old lady’s flower-knot in Bloomsbury;[77] but
it is quite as large as St. Francis’s garden in the magnificent abbey
of Ancisa, and larger than the little garden allotted to the friars and
monks of that spacious and beautiful monastery, the Certosa of Pavia. It
is in strict keeping with the order of things it is meant to represent:
some few and fine flowers were struggling through the crusted earth,
covered with dust, probably the _dernier rejetton_ of the “seeds from
Sunbury,” sown by that hand, which, like them, is now itself but dust.
The iron skreen, though so carelessly passed by the uninitiated as an
old gate, is nevertheless a fine copy from the tomb of Roger Niger,
Bishop of London, in old St. Paul’s; even the common-looking blue and
white china vase, in the adjoining little cloister, which looks like an
old cracked foot-pail of a lady’s dressing-room, has its interest, in
being the vase on whose verge the “pensive Selina reclined,” whose death
is immortalized by the muse of Gray;[78] and the half-defaced bas-relief
head in marble, inserted in the wall, though modern sight-seers scarcely
pause to look upon it, once rivetted the enamoured Tasso: it is the
portrait of the object of his love and his misfortune, Eleanor D’Este.
The hall of the castle is small and gloomy, paved with tiles, and
lighted by arched painted-glass windows: its dimensions are in utter
contradiction to the generally received ideas of Gothic halls, as taken
from those described in the romances of Mrs. Radcliffe and her imitators;
but Gothic apartments were not capacious. The royal chamber where the
Queen of Scots took her last supper, was scarcely larger than a modern
clothes-press; and a hall sixty by forty, in one of the finest old
castles in England, “was deemed so spacious that, like a leviathan, it
swallowed up all the other chambers.” Even “the great old gallery at
Woburn” was but a “bad room, powdered with little stars;” and low roofs,
nests of closets, mural cabinets, and slips of galleries, were much more
consonant to the manners of times when society only collected _en petits
pelotons_, under the influence of friendship or fear. In modern days,
on the contrary, every great mansion must have a room large enough, at
least, to hold its five hundred select friends, and halls, for flambeaux
and footmen, of proportionate dimensions.

On the left of the hall, (approached by a narrow passage, lighted by a
painted glass window, with the arms of Queen Elizabeth, and the date
1567 carved in wood above it) is the Refectory, or “great parlour”—a
great parlour thirty feet by twenty! Still this great parlour (scarcely
large enough to serve for a _salon-à-boire_ after dinner in a modern
mansion) is quite as large as the _salas_ of the old Lombardy castles,
or as the _sals-à-manger_ of the ancient châteaux of France. It has many
interesting if not precious pictures; such as “the Conversation,” by
Reynolds, which represents the old library at Strawberry, and the group
round the table in its centre, consisting of the witty George Selwyn,
Lord Edgecomb, and Mr. Williams; the second Lady Walpole (the Moll
Skerrett of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu), as a shepherdess, and a group
of the Waldegrave beauties. Here, too, beakers of Indian porcelain,
pails of Chelsea china, and vases of Roman _faïence_ mingle their
remote epochs in amicable confusion, against all rule and chronological
_virtù_; while skreens, worked and embroidered by celebrated coronetted
beauties, (though interesting to the noble owner, to whom so many of
such tributes were presented) now only look like the rubbish furnished
from the looms of the Minervas of a Paddington boarding-school to the
parlours of their parents in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The ancient bellows
and altar candlestick of the ante-room, have their own charms for the
antiquarian, as Dryden’s head and Cibber’s bust[79] possess for the
dramatic amateur. The china closet, at the first glimpse, looks like
any body’s china-closet, and, to the unlearned, is neither striking
nor interesting; but to those who can trace in its little ceiling
the roof of the pretty room at the Borghese Villa at Frescati, or a
chimney-piece copied from an old window at the ancient seat of the
Grimstones (Broadfield Hall, in Essex), it is not unimportant. Regiments
of Worcester china bowls, phalanxes of Sevres mustard-pots, with cups,
and dishes, and narrow-necked bottles, and wide-mouthed ewers, and
mugs, and jugs, of no very striking appearance, are turned from with a
sneer, by those who know not the history of this frail but venerable
collection. But when cups have been painted by Pietro Cortona, and plates
by Raffael, and dishes by Giulio Romano; when green-glass bottles turn
out to be Roman lacrymatories, and a china figure to be Michael Angelo’s
Bacchus, then the China-closet becomes a precious museum: and one regrets
that its dimmed stained-glass windows do not throw more light upon
treasures consecrated alike by the hand of time and of genius. The Yellow
bed-chamber would be simply a yellow bed-chamber (an unbecoming colour,
_par parenthèse_, for a “sleeping beauty,” if a brunette, who should
always choose _couleur de rose_,) but for its pictures; among which those
always amusing portraits (_pour le moins_) of the heroes and heroines
of the Grammont memoirs, long detain spectators, who, like Walpole, and
the writer of this sketch, have “the Grammont madness upon them.”[80]
The principal of these worthies is that modernly white-washed insolvent
in morals, Charles the Second himself, with some half dozen of his own
and his brother’s sultanas, the Sedley, the Richmond, the Portsmouth,
the Cleveland, the Churchill, and “Mistress Philadelphia Saunders.” This
group, nineteen in number, (Sacharissa excepted) made a part of the
collection of Jervas, the friend and laureate-painter of Pope.

The Breakfast-parlour, with its hangings of blue and white paper,
and its draperies of blue and white linen, has, according to the
sumptuousness of modern furniture, a very ordinary appearance. But when
its interesting miniatures catch the eye, its “Venitia, Lady Digby,
that extraordinary beauty of an extraordinary fame,” its Mary Lepell
(Lady Hervey), its _belle des belles_ (the Duchess de Montbazon), and
its Princess Palatine (of Madame de Sévigné’s letters), its unfortunate
Earl of Essex, and its heroic Charlotte de la Trémouille, with a score
of other historical heads; then the little blue and white breakfast-room
is lingered in with pleasure, and left with regret, even for the green
closet, with its multitude of curious pictures, or for the great
armoury, whose chief relic is the suit of mail worn by the great Earl of
Warwick, when he marched upon Westminster-hall, in that happy epoch when
parliaments were to be awed by a man in armour, and laws submitted to
spears and quivers—the good old times!

The Library has all the antique caste and sombre colouring of a private
room (once called closet) of the great men, and the studious ones of
the middle ages. The books are ranged in pierced Gothic arches; the
chimney-piece a tomb from Westminster Abbey; and shields, arms, and
lozenges, fill up every corner. The pictures are curious and historical,
and the fine old silver-gilt clock, the gift of Henry the Eighth to
Anna Boleyn, presents a piece of ponderous gallantry, very different
from the _bijou_ of _or moulu_ (often a poem in design, a picture in
combination) which a modern _merveilleux_ offers to the object of his
lukewarm devotions, showy and light as the times it represents, and the
hours of her whose actions it does _not_ govern. Among the rare books in
the splendid collection of this fine library, “The Book of the French
Portraits in the Time of Francis the First,” which belonged to Brantome,
who has written in the precious pages, in his own precious autograph, the
names of many of the originals of the pictures, is _the_ book!

The Star-Chamber! with its horrible name of fearful associations
(the boudoir of the Stuarts, where, alas, their subjects _boudoient
beaucoup_)—the Star-Chamber of Strawberry is only an innocent little
room, with green walls powdered with little stars, like a modern French
paper. Its treasures consist of a fine collection of medals, and it leads
by a “trunked ailed” passage to the Holbein Chamber, which looks like a
pet-room of Catherine of Arragon; small, gloomy, and magnificent, with
chairs from Glastonbury Abbey, and the red hat of her great enemy Wolsey,
lying beside that royal-looking bed, whose velvet hangings and waving
plumes put one in mind of the restless nights and uneasy dreams which the
crowned heads who slept on such couches were wont to endure, when the
heads themselves were never very sure upon the shoulders of the despots
who bore them. There are too few pictures of the “great original” whose
name gives interest to this room to entitle it to such a distinction;
what there are, however, are fine, and all the historical pictures are
curious and interesting.

The Gallery, long and narrow, in spite of its ceiling from Henry the
Eighth’s Chapel, will remind the Italian traveller of the gallery in the
royal palace at Turin. Its hangings of crimson damask have no better
effect than the crimson damask paper of the present day. It has doors
from the Abbey at St. Albans, and recesses from the tomb of Archbishop
Bourchier at Canterbury, and yet it is a light, splendid, and cheerful
apartment. Its pictures, busts, &c. would fill a tolerably sized
catalogue; and besides “Mrs. Keppel in white,” and “Lady Dysart in pink,”
and a hundred other such rainbow-dressed “Cynthias of the minute,”[81]
there are a number of the works of the best masters, particularly of
Zucchero, Vandyke, Jansen, Poussin, &c.; but here, as in the whole
collection, the pictures are more interesting as historical portraits,
than rare or valuable as paintings, and many of them would curl the
critical nose of the modern virtuosi, who, having posted through Italy,
return to buy Rembrandts and Raphaels, manufactured for the markets at
Amsterdam or the fairs of Leipsic.

The Round Room, which leads to the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the edifice,
(the Tribune,) is not to be passed through with careless glance or
rapid step, like an ordinary antechamber. It has the merit of all the
apartments of Strawberry, in offering an ample study to the antiquarian,
or to the curious in the economy of furniture. Its chairs of Aubusson
tapestry, its chimney-piece from the tomb of Edward the Confessor,
its ceiling from old St. Paul’s, and surbases from the monument of
Queen Eleanor in Westminster Abbey, have each their specific merit and
interest; while the wreck of Lady Betty Germaine’s collection, and
the plunder of Penshurst (from the apartments of Sidney “and Sidney’s
sister”) have contributed largely to enrich and adorn it, and to awaken
pleasant associations by its inspection. From the former, are the silver
chenets, vases, and sconces, which ornament the chimney-piece; from the
latter is the fine portrait, by Vandyke, of Lady Dorothy Percy, Countess
of Carlisle, and others.

Over the door is a most characteristic picture of Vandyke’s celebrated
love, “Mistress Lemon,” painted _con amore_ by the enamoured artist; she
represents Judith, and brandishes a sword, but

    “There lurks more peril in those eyes,
    Than twenty of such swords.”

Here, too, is Salvator Rosa’s fine[82] picture of Jacob travelling from
Laban. Whatever was consecrated by the pencil of that great master was
precious to the lord of Strawberry, who first acquired a knowledge and
professed an adoration of his genius, while yet a boy, in the gallery of
his own paternal Houghton.[83] When Lord Orford designed his tribune,
he doubtless had the tribune of the Imperial Gallery at Florence in his
head. The tribune at Strawberry is, however, of a less simple form.
It is a square, with semi-circular recesses in the middle of each
side, difficult to describe, but very effective to look at; its sober
stone-coloured walls are admirably relieved by its rich gold ornaments,
and other splendid decorations of every kind, and every age in the
history of the arts. The beautiful Gothic architecture of St. Albans has
furnished the models for its windows and niches; and its finely-fretted
roof, borrowed from the Chapter-house at York, is terminated by a star
of yellow glass, which throws a sort of Claude Lorraine tint over the
whole precious apartment. Amidst a number of fine antique busts and
statues, is raised a simple Gothic altar of black and gold; it is the
tomb of the children of Edward the Third in Westminster Abbey, and its
slab of black marble is covered with precious relics and _objets d’art_
of every time and description, silver filigree dishes, vases of amethyst,
and sconces of agate, with carved ivory by Verskovis; while a cabinet
of rose-wood, with panels and sculpture by Germaine of Paris, curiously
carved, rises above it, and contains one of the finest collections of
enamels and miniatures perhaps in England: some are by Lens, Carlo Dolce,
Boit, Zink, Groth, Isaac Oliver,[84] Petitot, Liotard, &c.;—many are
original portraits of the historical characters they represent, and
others are fine copies from Luca Giordano, Vanloo, and Holbein; some set
in the exquisitely little carved frames of Lejarée, and others mounted
in brilliants or precious stones. Here, in the immortal bloom of enamel,
still smiles the coarse but beautiful Cleveland, the intriguing but
_piquante_ Portsmouth, “Mistress Godfrey, of the York seraglio,” and
the lovely Countess d’Olonne (one of the heroines of De Retz’s Memoirs)
who had a seraglio of her own, though she is here represented as Diana.
Here, too, leers and lours the royal _petit-maître_ of despotism, as
he was wont to do at Versailles, in the midst of profligate mistresses
and slavish courtiers—Louis the Fourteenth, surrounded by De Fontanges,
De la Vallière, _et tutte quante_; while the wives of England’s Blue
Beard are to be found with all their heads on; and the lovely Madame
Mazarin, looking as if she had just escaped from St. Evremont’s letters,
accounts for the passion of the enamoured philosopher, in loveliness
far more bewitching than regular. Vases, cups, and chalices, in gems,
jewels, and chrystals, the great seals of great kings, and the pretty
_bijoux_ of great ladies, fill up this beautiful _répertoire_ of all
that is precious and curious, with rings to satisfy an alderman’s wife,
and snuff-boxes in number and beauty _à faire crever d’envie_ Beau B,
or Lord P; while vessels of wrought silver, and cups scooped out of
amethysts, or set with brilliants, recall the treasures of the _guarda
roba_ of the Medici, when Benvenuto Cellini worked for their amusement,
and had (as it sometimes fares with talent patronized by grandeur) his
labour for his pains. Pictures,[85] lamps, and bronzes, fill up every
part of this interesting room, and one leaves it with dazzled eyes,
and sated curiosity, by the sombre little passage and small closet
adjoining, (full to stuffing, like every other part of the edifice,
with objects of curiosity or of art) for that great north bed-chamber,
where the readers of French memoirs, and the adorers of Grammont, (or
rather of Antoine Hamilton,) may feast their eyes and associations to
satiety. The Great North Bed-chamber, considered as a bed-chamber,
is _en grande tenue_, according to the old style of magnificence; its
royal canopied bed is plumed with ostrich feathers, and hung with rich
tapestry of Aubusson, surrounded by a carpet of curious needlework, and
flanked by chairs of ebony and gold, too heavy to move, and too fine to
sit in. Its crimsoned damask walls are covered with the most precious
portraits. Over the chimney is a great picture of Henry the Eighth, and
his children,[86] and a bust of Francis the Second, the boy-husband of
the unfortunate Queen of Scots. Immediately opposite to the bed stands
that figure, which occasioned so many sleepless nights to the _gallants_
of Whitehall, “La belle Jennings,” afterwards Duchess of Tyrconnel,
whose _bon mot_ to James the Second, when, as Lady Lieutenant, she
received him at the Castle of Dublin, shows her not to have been of the
order of stupid beauties, or like Mademoiselle Stuart, _aussi bête que
belle_; her friend, Mademoiselle Hamilton, (Countess de Grammont,) is
placed near her. There is also in this chamber an admirable group, the
rehearsal of an opera, with the famous Mrs. Toft, the _prima donna_ of
her day, at the harpsichord. Its _pendant_ is a scene from the “Beggar’s
Opera,” by Hogarth, with portraits of the original performers.[87] The
charming portraits of Ninon de l’Enclos,[88] Hortense Mancini, and
Madame de Maintenon, long detain the attention, even from the wonders of
the “glass closet,” where a silver perfume box, by Benvenuto Cellini,
wedding-gloves of the patriot Hampden’s bride, and the trunked ones of
King James, with Von Trump’s tobacco-box, and “a silver-gilt apostle
spoon,” belonging to Lord knows who, offer a curious and heterogeneous
variety, and mark the successful and arduous researches of the collector
after all that was rare and old. The Beauclerc closet, dedicated to
the elegant works of the accomplished Lady Diana Beauclerc, the round
bed-room, and the great cloister, follow in sight-seeing succession, and
each has its separate interest and character. In the second are some fine
portraits, and many very pleasing ones: among the latter may be reckoned
the portraits of Lady Suffolk, the mistress _titré_ of George the
Second, Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Clive, the tragic and comic muses of their
time;—there is also a fine head of Oliver Cromwell’s mother. But the
Round Bedroom is to Strawberry, what Naples is to the rest of Italy, the
_ne plus ultra_ of curiosity: attention is exhausted, eyes are dazzled,
and expectation satiated by the time it is reached;[89] and it is with a
pleasure unspeakable, that one passes through the great cloister, into
the refreshing grounds and gardens, without even stopping to examine
those gate-piers, which are taken from the tomb of William de Luda in
the cathedral of Ely. The Shell Seat, at the end of the pretty winding
shaded walk, which is within view of the Gothic chapel, offers a _bel
riposo_ after the fatigue which pleasure ever imposes. This shell seat is
a very curious carving in oak, designed by the celebrated Bentley. The
shell is a _chama_. Here the three Graces of the Paphos of Strawberry[90]
were wont to repose, to the delight of their flattered and elegant host,
who saw even his friends with the eye of an artist. There is but little
in the grounds of Strawberry to detain the steps of the visitor, except
its beautiful little Chapel in the garden: an edifice of as true Gothic
taste and design, as its being copied, _à la rigueur_, from particular
parts of the Cathedral of Salisbury, and the Abbey of St. Edmundsbury,
can make it. The interior has all the character of the cells or oratories
appertaining to churches or monasteries in Catholic countries:—its
altar-piece and altar-picture are curious from their antiquity; the
beautiful windows of painted glass are emblazoned with saints and
arms and the effigies of kings and queens; a superb shrine faces the
door of entrance. In the front stands a superb crucifix, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl; on either side, a King of France, and the Virgin Mary,
in bronze and _faïence_, stand upon consoles. The story of the marvellous
“trasferimento” of this “holy house” is thus told on a tablet over the
door. “The shrine in front was brought, in the year 1768, from the church
of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, when the new pavement was laid there.
This shrine was erected in the year 1256, over the bodies of the holy
martyrs, Simplicius, Faustina, and Beatrix, by John James Capoccio and
Vinia his wife; and was the work of Peter Cavalini, who made the tomb of
Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey.”

Such is Strawberry, the cabinet, the toy, the retreat of the gifted son
of a great minister, whose talents, intellect, and observation, well
fitted him to run the career of his ambitious father: and who, had he
been an ambitious or an interested man, had eminent opportunities of
indulging either passion to their fullest extent. “I am unambitious, I
am disinterested, but I am vain,” observes Mr. Walpole, in a letter to
Lord Chatham. Into this frankly acknowledged foible, Strawberry Hill,
audits precious collection, entered largely; but the vanity of possessing
and showing off this monument of his taste, and knowledge, and industry,
and the objects of art they had gathered round him, did not blind Mr.
Walpole to the incongruities of the whole, nor to the objections which
the pedantry of _archi-virtu_ and the cant of criticism would eventually
level at the _hochet_ of one, who had shown so little mercy to the
unfounded pretensions and presumptuous mediocrity of that numerically
powerful body, in all communities, whose claims to distinction are
unsupported by those endowments which should alone command it:—

“In a house, affecting not only obsolete architecture, but pretending to
an observance of the custom even in the furniture, the mixture of modern
portraits and French porcelaine, and Greek and Roman sculpture, may seem
heterogeneous. In truth, I did not mean to make my home so gothic as to
exclude convenience and modern luxury. But I do not mean to defend, by
argument, a small capricious house. It was built to please my own taste,
and realize my own visions. Could I describe the gay but tranquil scene
where it stands, and add the beauty of the landscape to the romantic
cast of the mansion, it would raise more pleasing sensations than a dry
list of curiosities can excite: at least the prospect would recal the
good humour of those who might be disposed to condemn the fantastic
fabric, and to think it a very proper habitation—as it was the scene that
inspired—the author of ‘The Castle of Otranto!’”




ARTS AND ARTISTS.


I never raise my head from my writing-desk and look around me, without
being struck by the conviction, that though our inferiors may admire,
and our superiors notice us, for some quality of intellect which has
contributed to their ease, or their amusement, it is by our equals only,
or those who have pursued the same objects by the same efforts, (in
various degrees) that we are truly appreciated. The apartment in which I
usually scribble, is a little repository of precious objects, offered by
those, who, like myself (but in a far more eminent and successful career)
have owed their celebrity to their own efforts and genius. There are few
eminent artists in Europe whom I have numbered on the list of my personal
friends, to whom I do not stand indebted for some gracious and generous
offering of good will and esteem: and who in return for the idle hour’s
amusement afforded them by some trifling production of mine, have not
repaid me twenty times over, by works of art or literature, which mark
their feeling to merit (real or supposed), and are monuments of their
own superior abilities: Canova, Denon, Gerard, Robert Le Fevre, David,
Lawrence, Cosway, Berthon, Bartolini, Raphael Morghen, Mayer, Stroeling,
Davis, Turnerelli, Bate, Behnes, and many other younger friends,[91] who
have already given their promise to posterity, though yet unknown to
that fame, which can only come through time and industry, the true and
best friends of even the highest genius.

Such are _the great_, to whom alone talent should stand indebted; and
these are glorious times, when patronage is reduced to a party given and
returned by the man of rank to the man of letters; and when the mutually
exchanged rites of hospitality, replace the literary dependance of the
Spencers and the Savages, or the insolent protection of the Medici and
D’Este.




“NO ONE A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY.”


An immensity has been written on absenteeism, (I have written a volume
on it myself,) yet it remains pretty much where it was. Every body sees
and feels, (at least every body who resides in Ireland does so,) that
the absence of the rich proprietors of the soil works misery for the
country which endures it. Yet Macculloch’s logic is very close, if not
very convincing. Under these circumstances, argument will do nothing. The
deficiency is in facts. The whole data for arriving at a satisfactory
conclusion have not yet been obtained; and one observation or experiment,
judiciously conducted, is worth an hundred _ergos_. Let Mr. Macculloch,
therefore, come and pay us a visit, somewhat longer than the few days
he bestowed upon us at his last _avatar_, and his truly national
perspicacity will not long remain at fault. Let me take this opportunity
of recommending Ireland “to all and every one whom it may concern,” as
one of the richest _cadavres_ that ever offered itself to the inspection
of the morbid anatomist,—one of the best furnished elaboratories for
political analysis. No where will the suckling statesman and political
economist find a richer harvest of elementary instruction, in all that it
is necessary for a legislator and a citizen to avoid.

Without, however, pausing to consider what are the effects of absenteeism
on the country, it may be worth while to inquire what are its
consequences on the individual himself,—a theme of some importance, that
has but seldom been touched upon. It is ordinarily, and in some degree
justly, said, that the absentee loses immeasurably by expatriation.
Unquestionably the person who derives all his importance and consequence
from the possession of “lands and beeves,” will sink into the class of
non-proprietors, in a foreign country; and with all his expenditure,
will find it very difficult to impress on his continental acquaintance
a proper respect for his title-deeds and his manors. I remember a
noble lord, who held a high office in the British revenue, being much
surprised, and more mortified, by finding that his official dignity
procured him neither respect nor forbearance from the administrators
of the French Douane. The same must pretty generally be the case with
our travelling Justice Shallows, who, however capable of committing
themselves, can commit no body else, beyond the boundaries of their
own county. The case, however, is something different with those whose
qualifications are more personal, and whose titles to esteem may be
transplanted more readily than the family oaks. Man is no where an
apostle in his own country; but the proverb is only true, in all its
intensity, in Ireland. In a country where every one is morbidly desirous
of distinction, and where the master caste has so long been every
thing, personal qualities are disregarded by the privileged few, and
are objects only of jealousy and dislike with the degraded many. In
Ireland, there is as little affection for merit, as there is market;
nor could it possibly be otherwise, in a country so governed as Ireland
has been. It is not so much the fault, as the misfortune of the people;
but whether fault or misfortune, it is a very good reason for rendering
absentees every individual who feels within himself the desire for
personal consideration, and the talent to command it by other means than
“taking the trouble,” as Figaro says, “to be born to an estate.” It is
not alone that such is the disposition of the public in Ireland. Were it
a theatre as well disposed to reward and appreciate great endowments, as
it is precisely the contrary, it would still be too limited in extent,
to afford that exciting and intoxicating approbation, which rewards the
labours of genius in other and happier countries.

To those who have established claims on the public, or have been
fortunate enough to captivate its good will, absenteeism from Ireland is
almost a duty to self; and nearly all the eminent individuals, born and
educated in that country, have thought themselves justified in leaving
it. Swift himself, the patriot _par excellence_ among Irish literary
characters, was a resident in his own land from necessity; and the sense
of that necessity pressed for ever on his mind, embittering his latter
days, and discolouring all his views, if it were not among the immediate
causes of his deplorable insanity. For my own part, small as are my
claims on public attention, I have every reason, perhaps, to be satisfied
with whatever portion of esteem I may in any country be honoured with;
but in all things there are degrees, and it is not vanity to feel and
to appreciate the superior kindness of strangers, and to be sensible to
distinctions, of which the worthiest and the wisest might be proud.

Upon the score of pleasure also, the absentee, it must be allowed, has a
decided advantage. Divided and distracted by parties, a prey to constant
turbulence, and to frequent insurrections, Ireland could never have
offered much attraction, to stay the foot of the absentee. In the best
times, the pleasures of the Irish capital were derived more from the
hilarity and social temperament of the people, than from the physical
resources of refined and enlightened amusement. Since the union, even
these have “made themselves air, into which they vanished;” and the
transfer of the Irish legislature to London, and the importation of
British methodism to Dublin, have left the latter city nothing but a
short and fitful season of balls and assemblies. All public places of
amusement have closed, or have dwindled into insignificance and neglect;
and however much it may be lamented, it cannot be wondered, that those
who are masters of their own time, and have wealth at their disposal,
should _promener leur ennui ailleurs_, and seek in foreign countries for
those agreeable sensations and exciting pleasures which are not to be
found at home.

To the student, the artist, and the philosopher, the resources of Ireland
are still more limited. The libraries and collections which draw this
class of persons to the greater capitals of Europe, are wholly wanting;
nor is there a sufficiency of congenial talent to make society, to excite
emulation, and encourage zeal. The Irish gentleman, who has been blessed
or cursed with a superior education and a refined taste, is compelled
to emigrate, or to mortify and place in abeyance his natural impulses.
It is not, therefore, so much a matter of reproach to the absentee, as
of praise and admiration to him, who from patriotism, devotes his time
and his faculties to his own country, that the one resides in foreign
countries, and the other at home. It is idle and vain to talk of duties,
and to insist that the holders of estates are bound by their tenure to
stand by the country that feeds them. Duties are only respected as far as
they carry with them their own reward; and a nation has no right to claim
the residence of its proprietors, if it will not, or cannot, cultivate
the arts of peace, and make that residence desirable in itself. Whenever
the misfortunes of Ireland have become matter of legislative discussion,
British statesmen have coolly turned round upon the friends of that
country and reproached them with its absenteeism, as if that were the
sole and exclusive cause of all that it has suffered, and all that it
must still continue to suffer. But, if even this were the truth, to whom
does Ireland owe this plague spot in her social condition? I speak it not
in anger, or in a spirit of wanton reproach, but the cause of all this
calamity is to be found in antecedents, of which the policy of England
is the first link. Long and persevering acts of national benevolence
and of legislative wisdom are requisite, to do away the fatal injury of
her proconsular regime, and to wipe away the stain which her character
has acquired, through her wanton neglect and wilful destruction of the
resources of Ireland.




PATRICK’S DAY.


    “St. Patrick was a jontlemon,
    And came of dacent people.”

                      IRISH SONG.

I was awakened this morning at daylight by the cry under my windows,
of “Green shamrock, fine shamrock;” and the cry has been repeated as
incessantly and as annoyingly the whole day, as that of “hot cross buns”
is in London on a Good Friday. The Irish, by the bye, with all their
catholicism, do not eat cross buns; which is as exclusively a protestant,
as it is a cockney fashion of idolatry.

The national festival in Ireland, with the supremacy of the saint, to
whom it is dedicated, is still maintained with unabated devotion and
conviviality throughout the kingdom, from the castle to the cabin. For a
week before it arrives, the beggars wish you “many happy Patrick’s days;”
Patrick’s crosses are sold in every street; every field in the vicinity
of the metropolis is crowded with searchers after “green shamrocks;”
and the dealers in this national emblem (most appropriate to a people
accustomed to be trodden on) carry on a bustling and a thriving trade,
till the whole population comes forth like “Birnham wood to Dunsinane’s
high hill.” From the lowest mendicant to the lord lieutenant,[92] all
are supplied with shamrocks. Not only “bishops, priests, and deacons,”
of the church, as by law established, decorate their consecrated persons
with the venerable emblem of a catholic saint; but the law itself, and
its great conservators, “prank it in green,” like the “merry men” of
Sherwood forest. From the protestant keeper of the king’s conscience to
the papistical attorney, who has no conscience to keep, all are adorned,
though not distinguished by the shamrock.

As soon as the domestic day begins, and breakfast is announced, the head
servant in every house makes his appearance with a salver of shamrocks,
each tied up into a _bouquet_, presenting one to each of the family,
and usually receiving a _buona mano_, “to drown his shamrock in St.
Patrick’s pot.” The fumes of whiskey punch, the proper libation to the
patron saint, arise from every kitchen and servants’ hall, throughout the
country; and the court ball given at the Castle of Dublin, in that noble
temple dedicated at once to the saint, and to Terpsichore, St. Patrick’s
hall, surpasses in numbers and in splendour even the like celebration of
the king’s birthday. Feathers wave, lappets flutter, diamonds sparkle;
and the red bench still presents the descendants of the Geraldines, the
De Burgos, and the Brien Borrus, with six hundred years’ nobility at
their backs, upholding the patron saint of their ancient dynasties, in
the very face of the protestant church, and of the constitution of 1688.

When all are seated, (and what an amphitheatre of beauty presents itself
to the eye of the lucky stranger, who chances to visit the Irish court on
a Patrick’s day,) and when the vice-regal procession has passed up the
centre of the hall, and the representatives of majesty have taken their
seats on the throne, once consecrated by the august person of majesty
itself; then the national air is struck up with an enlivening influence,
to which even Lord F——’s protestant heart might beat responsively.
Chamberlains and masters of the ceremony, officiating as high priests
on this most catholic festival, arrange the “office” to be celebrated,
in honour of the merriest saint in the calendar; to whose glory, and
to whose tune, the beautiful youths of his own Ireland dance, with
a devotional ardour, far beyond the saltatory piety of the zealous
jumpers of Wales, or of the dancing dervishes of Constantinople. None
of the cold forms and still-life movements of the quadrille, invented
by philosophers, “atheists and politicians,” neutralize its fervour.
Fifty couples, danced down in dislocating springs and hops, attest the
fanaticism of the devotees; and every joyous face and glittering eye,
seems to say, with the disciples of a certain Italian saint, “plead for
us, we dance with you.”

St. Patrick’s day is the saturnalia of all the elderly gentlemen, who
have not “forgot themselves to stone.” Many veterans _de la vieille
roche_, go through a course of champooing for the occasion, and anoint
their joints, like the athletes of old, to attest their adherence to the
creed of their fathers, and preach the doctrine of Paddy O’Rafferty, and
of the Cameronian rant, in opposition to the heresy and schism of _Di
tanti palpiti_, _dos-à-dos_, and “_cavalier seul_.” This, too, is the
hegira of ladies of a certain age, who, taking flight from the fatal
pre-eminence to which Time had consigned them, bring the _weight_ of
their personal consequence to the support of an oppressed faith; and
yielding to the flattering proposition of some young aid-de-camp on
service, (and very hard service too,) drag the “feathered mercury” after
them, down the middle, and up again, to the interesting intonations
of “go to the devil and shake yourself,” or, “Patrick’s day in the
morning.”[93]

At last arrives the _media noche_ of the well worshipped saint, who for
once sees the religious acrimony and christian animosity of the country
he vainly protects, laid at the feet of national gaiety and sociality.
Supper is announced; and the feast of the _cocagne_ in France, or Naples,
was but a luncheon, to this truly catholic entertainment. Hands that
never met before, meet now on the necks of flasks and decanters. Fingers
habitually raised in mutual scorn, are now busy in the same pie; while
protestant nods at papist, in a tolerant hob-nob from “humble port to
imperial tokay.” Sir Harcourt takes wine with the author of “Florence
Macarthy,” and Counsellor O’Connell is helped to the wing of a pheasant
by a protestant archbishop, with a mental reservation against all other
“wings,” in all other places.

Again, the dance is resumed; hearts, lost or mislaid, before supper, are
detected on the person of the thief, after it. Partners, led out for a
waltz, remain partners for life; and St. Patrick becomes the Hymen of
the year, insuring the perpetuity of his rites, by the recollections
which every recurrence of his joyous festival is sure to bring with it.
Oh! that all the saints (St. Athanasius, the great protestant saint,
included,) were thus worshipped! That all saints “militant here” in
Ireland, maintained this spirit of social kindness, this interchange of
social courtesy. To those who, like myself, have made the sacrifice, (the
greatest that a true Irishman, and still more, a true Irishwoman can
make,) that of living in the country, where patriotism has long been not
only proscription, but martyrdom, what a change would such an order of
things produce! what a perpetual recurrence of bitter sensations would
it spare! what natural talent (now kept down by party spirit,) would
explode, to illuminate the murky atmosphere of political disunion like
the bursting of a sky-rocket on the midnight gloom of a winter’s night!
Who, that loves Ireland, that loves humanity, would not drop a bead, or
light a taper, to propitiate the saint, who would work this best and
greatest of miracles? Be it hoped, that this Patrick’s day, 1829, will be
the harbinger of an whole year of national festivals; and that he, who
has represented the good saint on earth, by an act, which every Irish
saint in the calendar will bless, will accept of this humble offering
from one, who has proved herself no

    “Swiss to fight for any God or king;”

and who, true to her old vocation, flung no tributary laurel under the
chariot wheels of the conqueror at Waterloo, yet now gratefully lays her
shamrock at the feet of the emancipator of Ireland.

THE END.




FOOTNOTES


[1] The prevalence of these barbarous notions of the Deity, almost
justifies the cynical observations of a French writer—“Ce fut donc
toujours dans l’attelier de la tristesse que l’homme malheureux a façonné
le fantôme dont il a fait son Dieu.”

[2] When this short interval of happiness closed before the tyranny of
the succeeding Cæsars, the increase of the slave population, and the
inroads of the northern barbarians, the human mind again relapsed into
a gloomy superstition. The influx of Asiatics and Egyptians into Rome,
conspiring with a strong sense of present misery, revived the taste
for portents and prophecies: the fantastical religions of the east
were imported, with its other products; and thus the Western World was
prepared to receive those manifold corruptions of Christianity, which,
under the name of church, have so long held mankind in slavery.

[3] “What would you have me do? When she goes to the cellar, she always
stays there.”

[4] Dans le tems où l’on rougissait souvent, où l’on vouloit dissimuler
son embarras et sa timidité, on portait de grands éventails. Aujourd’hui
l’on ne rougit pas, &c. &c. &c.—MAD. DE GENLIS.

[5] Charles the Second died in the arms of the Church and the Duchess of
Portsmouth.—See DALRYMPLE.

[6] “Era la carrozza tutta d’argento con statue, figurine intaglio et
imprese misteriose, d’invenzione del Cavalier Bernini, con la fodera e le
coperte di velluti di color celeste, tirata da sei corsieri leardi; coi
finimenti dello stesso drappo; come pure del medesimo erano adornati i
cocchieri, la lettica, e la sedia, e le coperte dei muli e della Chinea,
il tutto tempestuti di brocche massiccie d’argento e ornato da diversi
lavori superbi dello stesso metallo.”—_Platina Vite de’ Pont_.

[7] A book of engravings of the art of hair-dressing for the ladies
of France, after my own designs, with an abridged treatise on the
conservation of the natural hair.

[8] “Five and forty years ago, the women would have thought it indecent
to have their hair dressed by men.”

[9] “Yes, he is the most excellent person in the world. He was the
chancellor of my duchy; for my brother did not give me a kingdom.”

[10] Disputes on religion are, after all, but disputes upon men’s ideas
concerning supernatural objects; and to ridicule what is incongruous in
thought, is by no means to ridicule the divine Author of all things—that
is impossible.

[11] First dissertation to the Supplement of the Encyclopædia.

[12]

    “Sic tibi rescribo, de tuo palfrido,
    Crede quod habes et habes.”

[13] Lettres écrites de la Montagne.

[14] “Foreign ambassadors formerly made a pompous and solemn entry into
Paris. This usage subsisted until the middle of the last age: we know not
why it was abolished.”

[15] “Some day, or other, I will make a formal apology for bad books.
They are invaluable to a sound thinker.”

[16] “There is as much invention in making money by a bad book as there
is folly in buying it. Not to hazard sometimes great nonsense is to be
ignorant of public taste.”

[17] “Of bad wine is made good vinegar.”

[18]

    “And since the vulgar pay for books, ’tis just
    To take some pains to write down to their gust.”

[19] “We should be thankful to those who dare to broach paradoxes. If
the received opinion be the truth, they occasion us the advantage of
believing on reason, what before we credited by habit: if it be false,
they deliver us from an error.”

[20] “It is strange that they will print folks without their leave.”

[21] There is one of these cancelli, or altarpieces, at the castle of
Malahide, which escaped the religious rapacity of Myles Corbett, to whom
Malahide was given by Oliver Cromwell; the Talbots being then driven into
Connaught, the limbo of catholic gentility in Ireland.

[22] “E lavoravano con molto profitto, alle cose delle arti; non
lasciando ne in palazzo, ne in altra parte di Roma, cosa alcuna notabile,
che non disegnassero: e perche, quando il Papa era in palazzo, non
potevano così stare a disegnare, subito che sua Santità cavalcava, come
spesso faceva, entravano, per mezzo d’amici, in dette stanze a disegnare,
e vi stavano dalla mattina alla sera, senza mangiare alto che un poco di
pane.”

[23] That there are many bright personal exceptions, makes nothing
against the truth of the general conclusion. Genius and virtue are
superior to contingent circumstance; and the Russels, the Hollands, and
the Darnleys, are not to be placed in the common muster-roll of the class
to which they belong. The vice, however, is in the system, and not in
the individuals, and we daily feel its influence even on the liberal and
enlightened; who, when called upon to decide between privilege and the
people, are too apt to have their judgments warped by the peculiarity of
their position.

[24] “No persecution, and plenty of indifference or forgetfulness, would
be the death of all sects.”

[25] The deceased friend here alluded to, partook largely of the wit
and intellect of a family, to whose members, male and female, it is the
fashion in Ireland to apply “_l’esprit de Mortimar_,” as a distinction.
It is saying nothing, to say of Mr. B——, that he was one of the few
surviving conservators of the peculiar wit, humour, and national
information which once distinguished “_the order of gentlemen_” in
Ireland! I not only lost in him “_mon meilleur causeur_,” as Madame de
Villette said on losing her friend Champfort, but one to whose judgment
on all that was characteristically Irish, I could always refer with
confidence, and by whose approbation I was always flattered and assured.

[26] “Alas! why cannot I still expect him, even though he should not
come.”

[27] “As for the rouge and the president, I shall not give them the
honors of a rupture.”

[28] It is not without much pain that I revive the memory of
circumstances, which ought to lie buried in the tomb of the eminent lady
to whom they relate. There is nothing so certain, as that morality varies
with times and places; and that to censure conduct without reference to
the age and nation of the individual, is substantial injustice. Helen
Maria Williams came into life at a moment when the malignant influence of
bad institutions on happiness, and the prevailing hypocrisy of the times,
had rendered every moral principle problematical, and, like her highly
gifted cotemporary, the author of the Rights of Woman, she fell into the
common error of supposing, that whatever is opposed to wrong must be
right. But, though the individual should not be hastily condemned, the
interests of the younger part of my own sex require that the error should
be signalized. Female purity is indispensable to social happiness. It is
one of nature’s own laws; and is never violated with impunity.

[29] “That young lady who has been so long young.”

[30] “You flatter me; but no matter, always flatter.”

[31] He calls ambition “_la queue de Bonaparte_.”

[32] Saturnalia, I. 16.

[33] “The genius of man is too great for his little habitation; we must,
then, conclude that he is destined to a more elevated existence.”

[34] “Give the past to oblivion, the present to indifference; and, to
live exempt from all care, leave the future to Providence.”

[35] “What, then, is the use of emancipation?”

[36] “There is no devil, sufficiently a devil, to make head against a
wicked woman.”

[37] “Fools are not to be seduced; they must be overpowered.”

[38] A friend of mine kept a pet toad in his cellar, and for nine years
it never stirred off the tile which it had chosen for its habitation.

[39] “And all this for a flower and a walk—for a fatigue the less.”

[40] When Louis XIV. sent an army to dragoon the Britons into submission,
on their resistance to his oppressive taxation, they fell on their knees,
and cried aloud, “Mea culpa, mea culpa!” “C’étoit,” says Madame de
Sévigné, “le seul mot de François qu’ils savoient.”

[41] The Traité des Landes, made between these two pretenders to the
Duchy, was characteristic of the men and times.—“Rien de plus simple que
les conditions. Le Duché étoit partagé en deux. Chacun devoit porter
le titre de Duc, et avoir sa capitale; Rennes pour l’un, Nantes pour
l’autre. On se sépara avec promesses de se rejoindre, dans un lieu
indiqué, pour convenir des arrangemens que le partage exigeoit, et
recevoir la ratification de la Duchesse, Jeanne la Boiteuse, épouse de
Charles de Blois. C’est d’elle, qu’il tenoit le duché de Brétagne. Quand
elle eut lu le traité que son mari lui envoya, elle dit à celui qui
l’apportoit, ‘Il fait trop bon marché de ce qui n’est pas à lui;’ et dans
sa lettre de réponse, elle lui mandoit, ‘Vous ferez ce qu’il vous plaira;
je ne suis qu’une femme, et ne puis mieux: mais plutôt je perdrais la
vie, ou deux si je les avais, avant de consentir à chose si réprochable,
à la honte des miens.’ Sa lettre étoit mouillée de larmes; l’époux en fut
ému; et encore plus, lorsque en quittant sa femme, qu’il étoit allé voir,
elle lui dit, ‘Conservez-moi votre cœur, mais aussi conservez-moi mon
Duché; et quelque chose qu’arrive, faites que la souveraineté me reste
toute entière.’ Il le promit, baisa sa dame, et partit.”—ANQUETIL.

[42] “This mushroom Baron is most likely one of the Black band”—the
purchasers and dilapidators of the forfeited châteaux.

[43] “Send me your prospects, and I will send you my trees.”

[44] “We have white-washed all the old premises, and given them three
coats, inside and out.”

[45] “Mademoiselle du Plessis est tout justement comme vous l’avez
laissée. Elle a une nouvelle amie à Vitri, dont elle se pare, parce-que
c’est un bel esprit, qui a lu tous les romans, et qui a reçu deux lettres
de la Princesse de Tarente. J’ai fait dire méchamment par Vaillant, que
je ne témoignerais rien; mais que mon cœur étoit saisi. Tout ce qu’elle
dit là-dessus, est digne de Molière.”

                           _Lettres de Madame de Sévigné_, vol. i. p. 199.

[46] “Mes petits arbres sont d’une beauté surprenante. Pilois les élève
jusqu’au nues. Rien n’est si beau que ces Allées, que vous avez vu
naitre. Vous savez que je vous donnai une manière de dévise, qui vous
convenoit. Voici un mot que j’ai écrit sur un arbre pour mon fils, qui
est revenu de Candie, ‘vago di fama.’”—_Lettres de Madame de Sévigné_, p.
200.

[47] This article, already printed, has been so favourably received
by the public, that I have ventured to reclaim it from the miscellany
in which it originally appeared. It may be scarcely necessary to add,
that as far as the personal narrative is concerned, the production is a
mere _jeu d’esprit_, undertaken to fulfil a task incurred at a game of
forfeits.

[48] Every possible encouragement should be held out to the rising
aristocracy, to pursue other roads to distinction than those acquired by
coronets and quarterings. Upon such heaven-born distinctions, the world
is now somewhat _désabusé!_ thanks to the Monsieur Tonsons of the French
revolution, and to the Jesuitism and _toujours en arrière_ vocation of
the _premier sang Chrétien de l’Europe_. The _bel air_ pages of “Matilda”
and “Granby,” light as they are, are real benefactions, after the eternal
imitations of the Scotch novels.

[49] Archæology, so called playfully by H. W.

[50] “It was an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance,” says its
author, “the ancient and the modern. In the former, all was imagination
and improbability: in the latter, nature is always intended to be (and
sometimes has been) copied with success. Invention has not been wanting;
but the great resources of fancy have been dammed up, by a strict
adherence to common life. But if in the latter species nature has cramped
imagination, she did but take her revenge, having been totally excluded
from old romances. The actions, sentiments, conversations, of the heroes
and heroines of ancient days, were as unnatural as the machines employed
to put them in motion.”—_Preface to the second edition of Otranto._

[51] The first imitation of Otranto was “The Old English Baron,” of which
Walpole gives the following notice. “I have seen, too, the criticism
you mention on ‘The Castle of Otranto,’ in the preface to ‘The Old
English Baron.’ It is not at all oblique, but, though mixed with high
compliments, directly attacks the visionary part, which, says the author
or authoress, makes one laugh. I do assure you, I have not had the
smallest inclination to return that attack. It would even be ungrateful,
for the work is a professed imitation of mine, only stripped of the
marvellous—and so entirely stripped, except in one awkward attempt at a
ghost or two, that it is the most insipid dull nothing you ever saw. It
certainly does not make one laugh; for what makes one doze, seldom makes
one merry.”—_Correspondence of Horace Walpole._

[52] Lady M. W. Montagu’s letters, judged by the conventional standard
of modern refinement, must be deemed occasionally vulgar, coarse, and
indelicate; but they are clever, spirited, and easy, and invaluable
for the traits of manners they have preserved of her own times. Her
anecdotes of her friends, Moll Skerratt, Peg Pelham, Biddy Noel, and the
pretty fellows,—her lady-like remedy against spleen, galloping all day,
and champagne at night,—are exquisite. Her account also of the state
of morals, in those good old times, is worth quoting:—“When honour,
virtue, and reputation, are laid aside like crumpled ribbons, the forlorn
state of matrimony is as much ridiculed by young ladies as by young
fellows.”—See her Letters, Vol. I.

It is worth adding, that Lady Mary was so sensible of the superiority
of her own letters over those of her contemporaries, that she makes the
following prophecy of their future success:—“The last pleasant work that
fell in my way, was Madame de Sévigné’s Letters: very pretty they are;
but I assure you, without the least vanity, that mine will be full as
interesting in forty years.”

[53] See Pope’s love-letter to Lady M. W. Montagu, in which he talks of
“Momus his project,” and gets in, neck and shoulders, Herod and Herodias,
Jupiter and Curtius, to show off his power of “wit and raillery,” and
prove the strength of his passion by the force of his learning. “Before
Addison and Swift,” says Walpole, “style was scarce aimed at even by our
best authors.”

[54] “Mr. Addison travelled through the poets, and not through Italy;
for all his ideas are borrowed from descriptions, and not from the
reality.”—_Correspondence of Horace Walpole._

[55] I allude here to Ninon’s genuine letters, many of which are to be
found scattered through the works of St. Evremond, and her supposed
letters, addressed to the Marquis de Sévigné. “Les vraies lettres de
Ninon,” says a modern French critic, “étoient moins recherchés et plus
délicates, quoique le tour en soit singulier et qu’elles soient remplies
de morale et brillantes d’esprit.”

[56] He says of his own letters:—“I write more trifling letters than any
man living; am ashamed of them; and yet they are expected of me.”

[57] For the schemers see Lady M. W. Montagu’s letters. The following
passage from one of Walpole’s letters contains a curious prediction of
the future supremacy of Almack’s:—“Mrs. Cornelis, apprehending the future
assembly at Almack’s, has enlarged her vast room, and hung it with blue
satin, and another with yellow satin; but Almack’s room, which is to be
ninety feet long, proposes to swallow up both hers as easily as Moses’s
rod gobbled down those of the magicians.”

[58] See his admirable sketches of those “rags of a dishclout ministry,”
which he has scattered through his letters; particularly the Duke of
Newcastle. See also his letters to, and various anecdotes of Lord Chatham.

[59] “For my writings, they do not depend on venal authors, but on
their own merits and demerits. It is from men of sense they must expect
their sentence, not from boobies and hireling authors, whom I have
always shunned, with the whole fry of minor wits, critics, and monthly
censors.”—_H. Walpole’s Correspondence._

[60] “The turn-coat, hypocrite, infidel, Bishop Warburton.”—_Ibid._

[61] “There are two more volumes come out of Sir Charles Grandison. I
shall detain them till the last is published, and not think I postpone
much of your pleasure. For my part, I stopped at the fourth: I was so
tired of sets of people getting together and saying, ‘Pray, Miss, with
whom are you in love?’ and of mighty good young men, who convert your Mr.
M.’s in the twinkling of a sermon.”—_Correspondence of H. Walpole._

[62] “On Wednesday we expect a third she-meteor. Those learned luminaries
the Ladies Pomfret and W—— are to be joined by the Lady Mary Wortley
Montagu. You have not been witness to the rhapsody of mystic nonsense
which these two fair ones debate incessantly, and consequently cannot
figure what must be the issue of this triple alliance; we have some idea
of it. Only figure the coalition of prudery, debauchery, sentiment,
history, Greek, Latin, French, Italian, and metaphysics, all except the
second understood by halves, by quarters, or not at all. You shall have
the journals of this notable academy.”—_Correspondence of H. Walpole._

[63] “I was diverted with two relics of St. Charles the martyr: one,
the pearl you see in his pictures, taken out of his ear after his
foolish head was off; the other, the cup out of which he took his last
sacrament. They should be given to that nursery of nonsense and bigotry,
Oxford.”—_Ibid._

[64] “What foundation can there be for subjects devoting themselves to
their prince, if he is bound by no reciprocal ties? If they are his
chattels, his herd, his property, oaths are frivolous. He has power to
punish them, if they revolt, whether they are sworn to him or not. To
swear a king without reciprocity from him, is subjecting our souls to
him, as well as our bodies. We are to be damned to all eternity, if he
makes his tyranny intolerable. Proclaim him God at once: God alone can
be trusted with power over our minds: God alone can judge how much we
can endure. The blindest bigot to the memory of Charles I. or James II.
cannot deny that both were the original aggressors. Had they both acted
conformably to the constitution and laws, no man living can think that
any part of the nation would have revolted.”—_Life of Mr. Thomas Baker,
by Horace Walpole._

[65] The following little anecdote is extremely illustrative of the tenor
of the _tête-à-tête_ conversations of the father and son, during the last
two years that they spent together at Houghton. “In one of those summers,
I forget which, desirous of amusing him, which his ill health required, I
promised to read to him. He said, ‘What will you read?’ I answered, as a
young man would to a statesman, ‘History, Sir.’ ‘No, child,’ said he, ‘I
know that cannot be true.’”—_Detection of a late Forgery, by H. Walpole._

[66] See also his sermon on painting, preached at Houghton, and the
picturesque descriptions in his own letters, whilst on his travels
in Italy. The following is quite a Salvator:—“But the road west, the
road! winding round a prodigious mountain, and surrounded by others,
all shagged with hanging woods, obscured with pines, or lost in clouds!
Below, a torrent, breaking through cliffs, and tumbling through fragments
of rocks! Sheets of cascades, forcing their silver speed down channelled
precipices, and hasting into the roughened river at the bottom! Now and
then an old foot-bridge, with a broken rail, a leaning cross, a cottage,
or the ruin of an hermitage.”—_Correspondence of Horace Walpole._

[67] See his letters to Mr. Pitt, Lord Chatham.

[68] “Pope has made a subterranean grotto, which he has furnished with
looking-glasses.”—_Lady M. W. Montagu._

[69] See his most amusing description of Hardwicke:—“The next is her
(Mary Queen of Scots) dressing-room, hung with patch-work on black
velvet. Then her state bed-chamber. The bed has been rich beyond
description, and now hangs in costly golden tatters. The hangings, part
of which they say her Majesty worked, are composed of figures, large
as life, sewed and embroidered on black velvet, white satin, &c., and
represent the virtues that were necessary for her, or that she was forced
to have, as Patience and Temperance, &c. The fire-screens are particular:
pieces of yellow velvet, fringed with gold, hang on a cross bar of wood,
which is fixed on the top of a single stick that rises from the foot.
The only furniture which has any appearance of taste are the table and
cabinets, which are all of oak, richly carved. There is a private chamber
within, where she lay, her arms and style over the door. The arras hangs
over all the doors. The gallery is sixty yards long, covered with bad
tapestry, and wretched pictures of Mary herself, Elizabeth in a gown of
sea-monsters,” &c. &c.—_Correspondence of Horace Walpole._

[70] “As I returned, I saw Newstead and Althorpe: the former is the very
abbey. The great east window of the church remains, and connects with the
house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister untouched,
with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it; a private
chapel, quite perfect.”—_Ibid._

[71] He took the idea of the picture walking out of its frame in the
“Castle of Otranto,” from his own picture of Lord Falkland.

[72] Lady Stafford. “Madame de Mirepoix told me t’other day, that she
had known a daughter of the Countess of Grammont, an abbess in Lorrain,
who, to the ambassadress’s great scandal, was ten times more vain of the
blood of Hamilton than of an equal quantity of that of Grammont. She had
told her much of her sister, my Lady Stafford, whom I remember to have
seen when I was a child. She used to live at Twickenham when my Lady Mary
Wortley, and the Duke of Wharton lived there; she had more wit than both
of them.”—_Correspondence of Horace Walpole._

[73] June 20th, 1825.

[74] “Yesterday I gave a great breakfast at Strawberry Hill to the
Bedford court. There was the Duke and Duchess, Lord Tavistock and Lady
Caroline, my Lord and Lady Gower, Lady Caroline Egerton, &c. &c. The
first thing I asked Harry was, ‘Does the sun shine?’”—_Correspondence of
H. Walpole._

[75] The order, elegance, and neatness in which Strawberry Hill is kept,
in the absence of its present noble owner, is only too perfect for
antiquarian illusions. A little touch of the dreariness and desolation
of an Irish absentee’s “place,” would leave nothing to lament on that
subject; and the _virtuoso_ visitor might then sing, with the poet of
slovenly beauty, “Such sweet neglect most pleaseth me.”

[76] “In the gallery, I found myself quite at home, and surprised the
housekeeper with my familiarity with the portraits.”—_Correspondence of
Horace Walpole._

[77] When Walpole visited Hinchinbrook, in the middle of the last
century, he found the garden wondrous small, the park almost smaller, and
no appearance of territory.

[78] The first stanza of this ode is written on the vase:

    “’Twas on this lofty vase’s side,” &c.

[79] Colley Cibber gave this bust to Mrs. Clive, Lord Orford’s fair
friend—another equivocal Stella.

[80] A phrase of Horace Walpole.

[81] Among these, and far superior to them all in grace and loveliness,
is the picture, by Sir J. Reynolds, of Maria, second daughter of Sir
Edward Walpole, widow of James Earl of Waldegrave, and wife of William
Henry, Duke of Gloucester, brother of King George the Third. Walpole’s
own portrait of this favourite niece, on her wedding-day, (in a letter to
his friend G. Montague,) is equally lovely.

[82] I have mentioned this fine picture in the catalogue of Salvator
Rosa’s works now in England. But I had not then seen it; nor was I then
aware how enthusiastic an admirer of Salvator Lord Orford was, until
I recently read his admirable introduction to the “Ædes Walpolianæ.”
In the passage I allude to, he observes,—“The greatest genius Naples
ever produced resided generally at Rome—a genius equal to any that city
itself ever bore. This was the great Salvator Rosa! His thoughts, his
expression, his landscape, his knowledge of the force of shade, and
his masterly management of horror and distress, have placed him in the
first class of painters. In Lord Townsend’s ‘Belisarius’ one sees a
majesty of thought equal to Raphael, an expression great as Poussin’s.
In Lord Orford’s ‘Prodigal’ is represented the extremity of misery and
low nature, not foul and burlesque, like Michel Angelo Caravaggio’s, nor
minute, circumstantial, and laborious, like the Dutch painters. Salvator
Rosa was a poet and a satirist. Here again was a union of those arts: his
pictures contain the genius and true end of satire, though, heightened
and expressive as his pictures are, they still mean more than they
speak. Pliny describes Salvator in ‘Timanthes:’—In omnibus ejus operibus
intelligitur plus semper quam pingitur,” &c.

[83] One of the most beautiful and tender pieces of epistolary
reminiscences that ever was written, is Horace Walpole’s letter, dated
from Houghton, 1761, after fifteen years’ absence, and beginning, “Here I
am at Houghton—alone,” &c.—_Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 226.

[84] In no other collection is to be seen in any good preservation any
number of the works of Isaac and Peter Oliver. I forget whether Raphael’s
exquisite missal, with its unique miniatures, is in this cabinet or in
the library.

Among the curious enamels is one of Charles the Second. It is in an old
enamelled blue case, and is said to be one which he gave when in Holland
to a young lady, to whom he stood godfather. In her extreme old age she
sold it. There is another fine miniature of James the Second, when Duke
of York, which is remarkable as being purchased at the sale of Mrs.
Danet, daughter to his handsome bold-looking mistress, Mrs. Godfrey, of
whom there is also a miniature by Petitot. The most interesting among
the historical miniatures of this fine collection are, the clever Queen
of Bohemia, the most gifted of all the Stuarts; Charles the First, by
Petitot; Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, by Isaac Oliver; and Sir
Anthony Shirley, in a dress half English, half Persian, done when he was
ambassador from the Sophy of Persia.

[85] Among these the most striking are the Temptation of St. Anthony, by
Teniers. Soldiers at Cards, by Vandyke. His own Head, by Himself and a
portrait of Frances Howard, the celebrated Countess of Essex, by Isaac
Oliver.

[86] See a description of this piece in “The Anecdotes of Painting.”

[87] Among these is Miss Fenton (afterwards Duchess of Bolton) as Polly.

[88] It is of this picture that Walpole says, “You see Ninon tries to
look charming, and she only looks tipsy.” The tradition of this picture
is, that Ninon herself gave it to Lady Sandwich, daughter of Wilmot, Earl
of Rochester; her grandson (Miss Rae’s Lord Sandwich,) gave it to Horace
Walpole.

[89] I really forget in what order of seeing we visited a handsome
modernly-furnished saloon, in which the most interesting object is a
fine, full-length and very beautiful portrait of the present noble lady
of the castle, the Countess of Waldegrave. I think our cicerone told us
it was by Sir William Beechey. Both as a portrait and a painting, it may
stand the test with any of the Lely and Kneller beauties in the adjoining
rooms.

[90] “Strawberry Hill is grown a perfect Paphos—it is the land of
beauties. On Wednesday the Duchesses of Hamilton and Richmond, and Lady
Ailesbury, dined there, and the two latter stayed all night. There never
was so pretty a sight as to see them all three sitting in the shell. A
thousand years hence, when I begin to grow old, if that can ever be, I
shall talk of that event, and tell young people how much handsomer the
women of my time were, than they will be then. I shall say, Women alter
now; I remember Lady Ailesbury looking handsomer than her daughter, the
Duchess of Richmond, as they were sitting in the shell on my terrace with
the Duchess of Hamilton, one of the famous Gunnings! Yesterday, t’other
more famous Gunning, Lady Coventry, dined there!” _Correspondence of
Horace Walpole_, vol. ii.

[91] The arts are now making a struggling effort in Ireland, where
there is no want of genius, though great want of all means of rendering
it available. The commodity is there; but where is the market? Two
young artists of distinguished merit, the pupils of the school of
sculpture in the Dublin Institution, are now I believe studying with
their distinguished countryman Behnes, and have produced two original
compositions of considerable talent. Their names are Panormo and
Gallagher. Of the young artists, with whom I am personally acquainted,
Mr. Lover, as a miniature painter, and Mr. Mulrennan, as a faithful and
exquisite copyist of the old masters, only want a fair field, both of
study and encouragement, to become distinguished in the art to which
they are devoted. But though Ireland has given birth to some of the
most eminent artists of the British school, to Jarvis, Bindon, Roberts,
Robertson, Hamilton, Barret, Shea, Barry, Ashworth, Comerford, Smith,
Kirk, &c. &c., still it can never be the country of the arts. It may
produce artists for other markets; it will never have a mart of its
own. In the present state of the country, I would rather bind my son
apprentice to the meanest mechanical trade, than see him devote his
time, talent, and energy, to the arts in the service of a nation, where
excellence can only tend to generate disappointed ambition and indignant
and ineffectual regret.

[92] Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland, though in the
noviciate of their Irish Regency, had the condescension to appear, this
day (March 17th, 1829) at the windows of the state apartments of the
castle, with large shamrocks decorating their persons; while hundreds of
the common people danced in the court beneath, to the enlivening air of
Patrick’s Day, played by the band of the guard.

    “Chi ben principia ha il mezzo del opra.”

[93] This is the only occasion on which country dances are performed
at the Irish Court. The ball on Patrick’s night is always opened by
the lively dance of “Patrick’s day.” The Dowagers of both sexes then
come into play; and the “_Irish trot_” of many a veteran belle, recals
the good old times of the Rutland Court; when French quadrilles were
“undreamed of in the philosophy” of the dancing of that noted epoch.




WORKS OF LADY MORGAN.


1. THE O’BRIENS and the O’FLAHERTYS; a National Tale. In 4 vols. post 8vo.

    “Lady Morgan has on this occasion excelled herself, and has
    furnished the admirers of historical romance with a high and
    extraordinary treat.”—Literary Chronicle.


2. FLORENCE MACARTHY. Third Edition. In 4 vols. 12mo. 28s.


3. O’DONNEL; a National Tale. In 3 vols. 21s. Third Edition.


4. ITALY. Being the Substance of a Journal of her Residence in that
Country; exhibiting a view of the present State of Society and Manners,
Arts, Literature, and Literary Institutions; interspersed with numerous
Anecdotes of the most eminent Literary and Political Characters, &c. A
new edition, revised. In 3 vols. 8vo. 36s. boards.

    “This is not merely a work of opinions, expressed in the
    ornamental style of the writer. It is a substantial account of
    Italy, and may be consulted for its facts by the historian, the
    traveller, and the topographer.”—Monthly Magazine.


5. THE LIFE and TIMES of SALVATOR ROSA, with Extracts from his
Correspondence. In 2 vols. 8vo. with a fine Portrait of Salvator, from
the Original Painting by Himself, in the possession of Earl Grosvenor,
price 28s.

    “Lady Morgan has produced two of the most amusing octavos
    we have met with, even in this biographical age.”—Edinburgh
    Magazine.

6. ABSENTEEISM. 1 vol. post 8vo. 6s. 6d.


                                  LONDON:
            SHACKELL AND BAYLIS, JOHNSON’S-COURT, FLEET-STREET.



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