Leeds has near 120,000 inhabitants, and yet no representatives in parliament,—because it is a new town: while, as it is well known, many a wretched ruined village sends two members, who are, of course, the creatures of the proprietor. Glaring and monstrous as is this nuisance, the statesmen of England have not yet dared to abate it; perhaps because they fear that any change in so complicated a piece of machinery may be a dangerous operation, to which recourse should be had only in extreme necessity.
Late in the Evening.
I have adapted myself to many English customs,—among others, to cold dinners. As a change they are sometimes wholesome, and, being completely national, are almost always of excellent quality. To-day my solitary table was covered with no less than the following varieties; a cold ham, an awful ‘roast beef,’ a leg of mutton, a piece of roast veal, a hare pie, a partridge, three sorts of pickle, cauli-flowers cooked in water, potatoes, butter, and cheese. That this would have been meat enough to feed a whole party of German burghers, ‘saute aux yeux.’
October 2nd.
The first thing I saw this morning before my windows was the refined contrivance of a grocer, who had not been satisfied with exhibiting, like most of his brethren, a number of Chinese tea-chests, mandarins, and vases, but had put a piece of clockwork in his window, a stately automaton Turk diligently grinding coffee. From hence I proceeded on my further tour. First I visited the Market-hall, a beautiful building, in which the market is held under a glass roof; then the Cloth-hall, an immense room entirely filled with cloth of all sorts and colours; and lastly, the largest cloth manufactory of the place, which is worked by three steam-engines. Here you begin with the raw material (the sorting of the wool,) and finish with the perfect cloth; so that if you took a tailor with you, you might bring your wool in the manufactory in the morning, and come out with a coat made of it in the evening. Our friend R—— actually performed this feat, and wore the coat for a long time with great predilection. The various machines are ingenious in the highest degree; but the stench and the unwholesome air, as well as the dust in many of the operations, must be very unhealthy to the poor workmen, who moreover were all of a dark blue colour. The young man who showed me the manufactory said, however, that the cotton manufactories were much more unhealthy, from the fine and subtle dust; that in them a workman seldom reached his fiftieth year, whereas here there were instances of men of sixty. The Gothic churches which yesterday produced such an effect at a distance, presented nothing remarkable on a nearer inspection; and the town itself, enveloped in an everlasting fog produced by the smoke, which never ceases day nor night, is the most disagreeable place you can imagine.
Rotherham:—Evening.
Continuing my journey, I made the first halt at Templenewsome, a house of Elizabeth’s time, belonging to the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford. This edifice has a great singularity; instead of battlements, a stone gallery surrounds the roof, consisting of letters which compose a sentence from the Bible. The park is melancholy, and the furniture of the house old-fashioned, without being interesting. I found nothing remarkable in the picture-gallery, but in the other rooms there were some interesting portraits: both the Guises, the uncles of Mary of Scotland; General Monk, who is strikingly like our old friend Thielemann; and Lord Darnley (Mary’s husband,) to whom this castle belonged; it hangs in the room in which he was born. I had a very bad headache; for which reason, perhaps, a second park, Stainbrook, appeared to me dreary and uncomfortable, nor could I admire the pictures. The road then led me through a series of manufacturing places, which looked like burning towns and villages. Rotherham itself, where I now am, is celebrated for its great iron-works, and I intend to see some of them to-morrow, if my illness goes off.
October 3rd.
After having walked half a German mile to the largest iron-work, I unluckily found the engine stopped, in consequence of the furnace having received some damage yesterday. I could therefore see but little, and went a mile further on to the steel-works. Here the steam-engine had just got out of order, and the operations were likewise suspended. So I wandered on again to the thread and linen manufactory; and my own astonishment, as well as that of my guide, was not small, when we perceived no signs of working here also, and heard that the great spindle had been broken in the morning. With this extraordinary ‘guignon’ ended my useless efforts to instruct myself for to-day; indeed there was no time to make any more.
Sheffield:—Evening.
I rode from Rotherham to Wentworth House, the seat of Lord Fitzwilliam, another truly regal domain, for extent, richness, and splendour; but (like many English parks) melancholy and monotonous; the immense tracts of grass, with a few scattered trees, and the tame sheep-like deer grazing upon them, in time become intolerable. Certainly, it is a most tasteless custom to have these green deserts extend on one side up to the very houses; it makes them look like enchanted palaces, inhabited by deer instead of men. It is easier to give oneself up to this notion since there is seldom a human being to be seen outside the house, which is usually shut up, so that you are often obliged to ring at the door for a quarter of an hour before you can get admittance, or the Lady ‘Chátelaine’ appears to play the cicerone, and receive her fee. Wentworth House is adorned with many valuable statues and pictures. Amongst others, a beautiful picture by Vandyk, representing the builder of the castle, Lord Strafford, just as sentence of death has been announced to him: he is holding the fatal scroll in his hand, and dictating to his secretary his last will. Another picture represents his son, a beautiful boy of sixteen, in a most becoming mourning dress,—black, with rich lace, fawn-coloured boots, a tight enamelled collar, a short cloak, a rich sword, and a scarf ‘en bandoulière.’
The picture of a race-horse as large as life, painted on gray linen, and placed in a niche without a frame, really deceived me; I thought it alive. This horse won so much, that the former lord built a quadrangle of magnificent stables, the most complete I have seen in this country, with the money. In these stables, which contain also a riding-school, stand sixty beautiful and picked horses.
An excellent portrait of the vain and ambitious Cardinal Wolsey, and one of the fickle Duke of Buckingham, are very interesting. The housekeeper, pointing to the portrait of Harvey, said: “This is the man who invented the circulation of the blood.” One would like to make that man’s acquaintance.
In the flower-gardens I found some beautiful parts; amongst others, an enclosure made of wire-fence, running along the gay parterres, peopled with foreign birds, a clear brook flowing through it, and planted with evergreens, on which the feathered inhabitants could sport at pleasure.
Several black swans, which have already reared four young ones, were swimming on a small pond near it. They seem to be completely accustomed to this climate. I was struck by a common beech on the banks of the water, which, by early polling, had completely changed its character. It was very low, but its branches stretched out on all sides, so as to cover an immense space, and form a regularly leafy tent of unequalled beauty. A fir, polled in the same manner, had attained a beauty far greater than that of its natural growth.
I arrived in good time at Sheffield, where, from the quantity of smoke, the sun appeared shorn of his beams. I looked at the astonishing productions in cutlery; as, for instance, a knife with a hundred and eighty blades; scissors which cut perfectly and can be used, though hardly visible with the naked eye, &c. &c. In defiance of superstition, I bought you needles and scissors enough for your whole life, with some other newly-invented trifles, which I am sure will please you.
Nottingham, Oct. 4th.
I rode the whole night, and saw only from a distance, and by moonlight, Newstead Abbey, Lord Byron’s birth-place and family seat, now much neglected.
Besides the Gothic church (of which nearly every English town possesses one, more or less beautiful,) there is not much to be seen in Nottingham; a remarkable manufactory of net excepted, where the steam-engines do all the work, and only a single man stands by the machinery to take care that nothing goes wrong.
It is most strange to see the iron monsters begin to work, as if moved by invisible hands, and the most beautiful lace, stretched in a frame, comes slowly forth at the top, neat and finished; while the spindles, with the raw thread wound round them, keep on their perpetual motion below; the whole unaided, as I have said, by a single human hand.
It was just the time of the Fair, which had drawn together a great number of curiosities; among others, a beautiful collection of wild beasts. Two Bengal tigers, of an enormous size, were so perfectly tame, that even ladies and children were allowed to enter their cage, or the animals were let out in the riding school where the collection was exhibited. No dog could be more gentle; but I doubt whether our police would have sufferedsuch experiments. A remarkable animal was the horned horse, or Nyl Ghau, from the Himalaya mountains,—handsome and fleet, and in some respects very strangely formed. The beautiful wild ass of Persia, which they say is swifter and more untireable than a horse, and can live for weeks without food, was new to me. There were also here, as in the collection of animals on the Pfaueninsel near Berlin, a giant and a dwarf.
London, Oct. 6th.
Before I left Nottingham I visited the neighbouring seat of Lord Middleton, which is worth seeing. The park offered little remarkable. There was a curious old picture—a faithful portrait of the house and gardens as they existed two hundred years ago. It is very interesting; the more so, as you see the family in the strangest dresses, with a great company and numerous attendants, walking in the garden, and as the noble owner therein represented is the same who is so often mentioned in connexion with the celebrated ghost story. Every one ought to have pictures of this kind painted for his successors: the comparisons they suggest are always amusing, and sometimes instructive.
I reached St. Albans in the night, and saw the celebrated Abbey by the light of the moon, and of lanterns. The clerk was quickly awakened, and conducted me thither. I first admired the exterior of the building, built by the Saxons, in the eighth century, of indestructible Roman bricks, and then entered the imposing interior. The nave of the church is doubtless one of the largest in the world; it is more than six hundred feet long. There are many beautiful stone carvings; and although little could be distinctly seen by so feeble a light, the general effect by this strange and uncertain illumination, with our dark figures in the middle, and the sounds of the midnight bell from the tower, was most romantic and awful.
This was still more the case when we descended into the vault where, in an open leaden coffin, lies the skeleton of the Duke of Gloucester who was poisoned six hundred years ago by Cardinal Beaufort. Time has rendered it as brown and smooth as polished mahogany; and curious antiquarians have already robbed it of several bones. The clerk, who was an Irishman, seized one of the leg-bones without ceremony, and brandishing it in the air like a cudgel, he remarked that this bone had become so beautiful and hard with time, that it would make an excellent shillelah. What would the haughty Duke have said, if he could have known how his remains would be treated by such ignoble hands? The magnificent oak ceiling, more than 1000 years old, is a glorious proof of the solid architecture of those times. It is still as beautiful and perfect as if there were no cyphers after the unit. The painted windows, with the golden tomb of St. Alban, were unhappily almost entirely destroyed in Cromwell’s time.
I reached London early enough to repose half the night; and my first business in the morning was to finish this letter, already swollen to a packet. In a few hours I hope it will be on its way.
Do not be impatient therefore; and receive this letter with the same affectionate indulgence as its numerous predecessors.
Your faithful L——.
London, Nov. 1st, 1827.
AFrenchmansays; “L’illusion fut inventée pour le bonheur des mortels; elle leur fait presqu’autant de bien que l’espérance.” If this is true, happy man is my dole, for I am never at a loss for illusions or hopes.
Some of these have certainly been thrown to the winds by your letter; but be of good courage, there is already a fresh crop of new ones springing up as fast as mushrooms.—More of them anon.
Concerning the intolerable, sleepy President, I cannot possibly write from hence. Besides, as a dandy would say, the man is not ‘fashionable’ enough. And indeed you manage all these affairs so admirably, that it were a shame not to leave them entirely to you. This is selfishness on my part, but of a pardonable sort, since it is advantageous to us both * * *
* * * * * * *
During the last few days I have made a little excursion to Brighton, taking a circuitous route back. Arundel Castle, the seat of the Duke of Norfolk, was one of the objects of my curiosity. It has some points of resemblance to Warwick, but is far inferior to it, though of equal antiquity. Here also is an artificial mound and keep, at the eastern end. The view from the top of the round ruined tower must be magnificent, but to-day the fog rendered it impossible to see it; indeed I could not even distinguish the terrace gardens surrounding the castle: I therefore consoled myself in the company of a dozen large tame horned owls, which inhabit what was once the warder’s room. One of them has been here these fifty years, is very amiable, and barked when he wanted any thing, exactly like a dog. The English are great lovers of animals,—a taste in which I entirely sympathize. Thus, in many parks you find colonies of rooks, which hover round the house or castle in vast flights, and are in very good keeping with an ancient castle and its towering trees; though their cawing is not the most agreeable music in the world. The interior of Arundel Castle has nothing very distinguished. The numerous painted windows are modern; and among the family pictures only one struck me,—that of the accomplished Lord Surrey, put to death by Henry the Eighth, the costume of which was very singular.
The library is small, but very magnificent; wainscoted with cedar, and ornamented with beautiful carving and painting; in short, it wanted nothing but books, of which there were not more than a few hundreds.
A very large but very simple hall, called the Baron’s Hall, has a great number of painted windows, the merit of which is not remarkable.
In the apartments there was a quantity of old furniture, preserved with great care to prevent its falling to pieces, in its frail condition. This fashion is now general in England. Things which we should throw away as old-fashioned and worm-eaten, here fetch high prices, and new ones are often made after the old patterns. In venerable mansions, when not destructive of convenience, they have a very good effect. In modern buildings they are ludicrous.
The old part of the castle is said to have been a Roman fort, and many Roman bricks are found in the walls. In later times it was still a place of defence, and sustained several sieges. The modern part, in the style ofthe ancient, was built by the predecessor of the present duke, and cost, as I was told, eight hundred thousand pounds. The same thing might certainly have been done in Germany for three hundred thousand reichsthalers. The garden appeared to me diversified and extensive, and the park is said to be very noble and picturesque, but the horrid weather hindered me from seeing it. In the evening I drove to Petworth, where there is another fine house. I write from the inn, where I was settled in a few minutes as if at home, for my travelling arrangements and conveniences have been greatly perfected since my residence in England.
Petworth House, Oct. 26.
Colonel C—— came to my inn early in this morning, and reproached me with not driving straight to the house of his father-in-law, Lord E——, the owner of Petworth House. He pressed me so kindly to spend at least a day there, that I could not refuse. My luggage was soon transported thither, and I as quickly installed in my room. It is a fine modern palace, with a noble collection of pictures and antiques, and a large park which contains a celebrated stud. I was peculiarly struck with three of the pictures,—Henry the Eighth, a full-length, by Holbein, remarkable for the exquisite painting of the dress and ornaments, and the fresh masterly colouring: a portrait of the immortal Newton, which is far less distinguished for its expression of intelligence, than for its pre-eminently elegant and gentlemanly air; and one of Maurice of Orange, so like our poet Houwald that it might pass for him. The mixture of statues and pictures which is common here, is disadvantageous to both.
Among the curiosities is a family relic,—the great sword of Harry Percy, an ancestor of Lord E——’s. The library served, as usual, as drawing-room,—a very rational and agreeable plan. It was fitted up according to your taste,—only the best modern books, in elegant bindings; for all others there was another room upstairs.
The freedom in this house was perfect, which rendered it doubly agreeable to me. One really feels not the slightest ‘gène.’ There were many guests of both sexes. The host himself is a learned and accomplished connoisseur in art, and at the same time a very conspicuous and successful man ‘on the turf.’ In his stud I saw a horse about thirty years old, (‘Whalebone’,) who was obliged to be supported by several grooms when he attempted to walk, and whose foals still unborn, fetch enormous sums. That’s what I call a glorious old age. ‘Au reste,’ the regulations of the stud are very different here from ours. With all your appetite for knowledge, however, this ‘thema’ might interest you little, so that I shall go on to other matters.
On the following day, arrived the Duchess of St. A——, a woman whose ever ascending fortunes have been remarkable enough. The earliest recollections of her infancy are those of a deserted, starving, shivering child, in a solitary barn in an English village. Thence she was taken by a band of gipsies;—quitting them, she entered a strolling company of players. By her agreeable person, high spirits, and original humour, she gained some reputation in her new profession, gradually secured patronage and friends, and lived in long and undisturbed connexion with a rich banker, who at length married her, and at his death left her seventy thousand a year. This enormous fortune afterwards promoted her to bethe wife of the third English Duke, and (by a curious coincidence) the descendant of the celebrated actress Nell Gwynne, to whose charms the Duke owes his title, in the same manner as his wife has acquired hers.
She is a very good-natured woman, who is not ashamed to speak of the past—on the contrary, alludes to it perhaps rather too much.
* * * * * * *
After an agreeable visit of three days, I returned hither, and now celebrate my birth-day in the profoundest solitude, with closed doors. Three-fourths of my melancholy fits I may certainly ascribe to the month in which I first saw the light. May children are far more cheerful: I never saw a hypochondriacal son of the Spring. A song calledPrognosticaonce fell into my hands: I am very sorry I did not keep it; for it told a man’s fortune according to the month of his birth. I only remember that those born in October were to have a melancholy temper, and that the prophecy began thus:—
“Ein Junge geboren im Monat OctoberWird eim Critiker, und das ein recht grober.”[71]
“Ein Junge geboren im Monat OctoberWird eim Critiker, und das ein recht grober.”[71]
“Ein Junge geboren im Monat OctoberWird eim Critiker, und das ein recht grober.”[71]
I leave you now for a great dinner at Prince E——’s, for I will not devote the whole day to solitude; I am too superstitious for that. Adieu.
November 4th.
In my quality of Chevalier de St. Louis, I was invited to-day to a great dinner at Prince P——’s, in commemoration of the Saint’s day, or the ‘jour de fête’ of the king of France,—I really don’t know which. After it, I went to see theContinuationof Don Juan at Drury Lane. ‘Of course’ the first act was laid in hell, where Don Juan immediately seduces the Furies, and at last even the devil’s grandmother, for which offence he is forcibly ejected by His Satanic Majesty. Just as he reaches the picturesque shores of the fire-rolling Styx, Charon is in the act of ferrying over three female souls from London. While they are landing, Don Juan occupies the old ferryman’s attention with changing a bank-note (for paper money is current in the infernal regions,) seizes the moment to make off with them from the shore, and conducts them back to earth. Arrived in London, he has his usual adventures,—duels, elopements, &c.; the equestrian statue at Charing Cross invites him to tea; but his creditors carry him off to the King’s Bench, whence he is delivered by marrying a rich wife, in whom he at length finds that full punishment for all his sins which hell could not afford. Madame Vestris as Don Juan is the prettiest and most seductive young fellow you can imagine, and, it is easy to see, does not want practice.
The piece amused me. Still more amusing was a new novel which I found on my table, the scene of which is laid in the year 2200,—not a very new idea, certainly.
It represents the religion of England as once more Catholic, the government an absolute monarchy, and universal education so diffused, that learningis become the common property of the lower classes. Every artisan works upon mathematical or chemical principles. Footmen and cooks, with such names as Abelard and Heloisa, speak in the style of theJenaer Literaturzeitung. On the other hand, it is the fashion among the higher classes, by way of distinguishing themselves from the ‘plebs,’ to use the most vulgar language and expressions, and carefully to conceal any knowledge that goes beyond reading and writing. There is some wit in this idea, and perhaps it is prophetic. The habits of life of this class are also very simple. Few and homely dishes appear on all their tables, and luxury is to be met with only at those of the servants. That air-balloons are the common conveyances, and that steam governs the world, are matters of course.
A German professor, however, makes a discovery in galvanism, by which he is enabled to bring the dead to life; and the mummy of King Cheops, recently found in a pyramid which had remained unopened, is the first person on whom this experiment is tried. How the living mummy comes to England, and how horribly he behaves there, you may read when the novel is translated into German. ‘Au reste,’ I often feel like a mummy myself,—bound hand and foot, and eagerly waiting my release.
Nov. 5th.
Such a fog covered the whole town this morning that I could not see to breakfast without candles. Going out till evening was not to be thought of. I was invited to dinner at ——: P—— was there too, to whom she generally shows great hostility, I know not why. To-day, with his usual ‘étourderie,’ he ruined himself for ever. The lady has, as you may remember, rather a red nose, which the malicious have ascribed to the custom with which General Pillett reproaches Englishwomen. P—— probably did not know this, and remarked that she mixed a dark liquid with her wine. In the innocence—or the wickedness—of his heart, he asked her whether she was so much of an Englishwoman as to mix her wine with Cognac. It was not till he remarked the redness diffuse itself over her whole face, and the embarrassment of those who sat near, that he was conscious of his ‘bévue;’ for the innocent beverage was toast and water. This suggested to me the ludicrous directions given by a book ofRules for Good Behaviour, written in our pedantic national manner. “When you go into company,” says the author, “be sure to inform yourself accurately beforehand concerning the persons you are likely to meet; their parentage, connexions, foibles, faults, and peculiarities; so that you may not, on the one hand, say any thing unknowingly which may touch a sore place, and on the other, may be able to flatter in an easy and appropriate manner.”
Laughably expressed enough, and difficult to accomplish, but not a bad precept!
There was a great deal of political talk, particularly of this dashing commencement of a war, by the destruction of the Turkish fleet.
How inconsistent is the language of Englishmen on this subject! But ever since the fall of Napoleon the leading politicians do not seem to know rightly what they would be at. The miserable results of their Congresses do not satisfy even them; but yet there has appeared no original mind capable of making these meetings conduce to more important consequences;no master-will to guide them; and the fate of Europe depends no longer on its leaders, but on chance. Canning was but a transient vision; and how are his successors employed? The destruction of the fleet of an old and faithful ally, without a declaration of war, is the best proof; though, as man and Philhellene, I heartily rejoice at it.
But amid all these political abortions, this tottering and vacillating of all parts, we shall certainly live to witness still more extraordinary things;—perhaps combinations which have hitherto been deemed impossible. This is partly to be ascribed to Canning himself,—for his plans were not matured; and a man of eminent genius is always detrimental to his successors when they are pygmies. The present Ministers have completely the air of wishing to lead England slowly into the pit which Canning dug for others.
Even the very storm which they have been gathering on the boundaries of Asia, will perhaps burst most furiously over the centre of Europe. I hope however the God of the thunder will be withus. The future prospects of Prussia appear to my anticipations far higher and more glorious than any fate has yet granted her; only let her never lose sight of her motto, “Vorwärts.”
On returning home I found your letter, which amused me much; especially K——’s sallies, vainly bottled up in Paris to be let loose in S——, where they find so little success; for indeed you are right,
“Rien de plus triste qu’un bon motQui se perd dans l’oreille d’une sot.”
“Rien de plus triste qu’un bon motQui se perd dans l’oreille d’une sot.”
“Rien de plus triste qu’un bon motQui se perd dans l’oreille d’une sot.”
And that he may experience often enough.
Oct. 29th.
As one has now time to go to the theatre, and the best actors are playing, I devote many of my evenings to this æsthetic pastime. Last night I saw with renewed pleasure Kemble’s artist-like representation of Falstaff, about which I once wrote to you. I must however mention, that his dress of white and red,—very ‘recherché,’ though a little worn, combined with his handsome curling white hair and beard,—gave him a happy mixture of the gentleman and the droll, which in my opinion greatly heightened, and, so to say, refined the effect.
Generally speaking, the costume was excellent;—on the other hand it must be admitted to be an unpardonable destruction of all illusion, that as soon as Henry the Fourth, with his splendid Court, and his train of knights, brilliant in steel and gold, quit the stage, two servants in theatrical liveries, with shoes and red stockings, come on to take away the throne. I found it just as impossible to reconcile myself to hearing Lord Percy address the King, who was sitting at the back of the stage, for a quarter of an hour, during the whole of which time I never could catch sight of anything but his back. It is remarkable that the most celebrated actors here regularly affect this offensive practice; while with us they run into the contrary fault, and the ‘primo amoroso’ during the most ardent declaration of love, turns his back on his mistress to ogle the audience. To hit the right medium is certainly difficult, and the stage arrangements ought to assist the actor.
Of the character of Percy, German actors generally make a sort of mad calf, who behaves both towards his wife and towards the King as if he had been bitten by a mad dog. These men don’t know when to soften, and when to heighten the effects of the poet. Young understands this thoroughly, and knows perfectly how to unite the stormy vehemence of the youth with the dignity of the hero and the high bearing of the prince. He suffered the electric fire to dart in lightnings from the thunder-cloud, but not to degenerate into a pelting hail-storm. They appear to me, too, to act together here, better than on the German stage, and many of the scenic arrangements seemed to me judicious.
To give you one example:—you remember (for we once saw this play together at Berlin) the scene in which the King receives Percy’s messengers. You thought it so indecorous that Falstaff should be continually pressing forward before, and up to, the King, and rudely interrupting him every moment with his jokes. The cause of this was, that our actors think so much more of their persons than of their parts. Herr D—— feels himself ‘every inch a King’ in comparison with Herr M——; and forgets whom they severally represent at the moment. Here Shakspeare is better understood, and the scene more appropriately represented. The King stands with the ambassadors in the front of the stage; the Court is scattered in groups; and midway on one side are the Prince and Falstaff. The latter cracks his jokes, as a half-privileged buffoon; but rather addresses them in an under voice to the Prince than directly to the King: when addressed by him, he immediately assumes the respectful attitude suited to his station, and does not affect to fraternize with his sovereign as with an equal.
In this manner you can give in to the illusion of seeing a Court before you; in the other, you think yourself still in Eastcheap. The actors here live in better society and have more tact.
Nov. 23d.
It is curious enough that men regard that alone as a wonder which is at a distance from them, in time or space; the daily wonders near them they pass by unheeded. Yet we must be now living in the days of the Arabian Nights, for I have seen a creature to-day far surpassing all the fantastic beings of that time.
Listen what are the monster’s characteristics. In the first place, its food is the cheapest possible, for it eats nothing but wood or coals. When not actually at work, it requires none. It never sleeps, nor is weary; it is subject to no diseases, if well organized at first, and never refuses its work till it becomes incapable by great length of service. It is equally active in all climates, and undertakes every kind of labour without a murmur. Here it is a miner, there a sailor, a cotton-spinner, a weaver, a smith, or a miller;—indeed it performs the business of each and all of them; and though a small creature, it draws ninety tons of goods, or a whole regiment of soldiers packed into carriages, with a swiftness exceeding that of the fleetest stage-coaches. At the same time it marks its own measured steps on a tablet fixed in front of it. It regulates, too, the degree of warmth necessary to its well-being: it has a strange power of oiling its inmost joints when they are stiff, and of removing at pleasure all injurious air which might find its way into its system;—but should anything become deranged in it, it immediately warns its master by the loud ringing of a bell. Lastly, it is so docile, spite of its immense strength (nearly equal to that of six hundred horses,) that a child of four years old is able in a moment to arrest its mighty labours, by the pressure of his little finger.
Would people formerly have believed that such a ministering spirit could be summoned by anything but Solomon’s signet? or did ever a witch burnt for sorcery produce its equal?
Now a new wonder. Only magnetise five hundred gold pieces with a strong will to change them into such a creature, and after a few preliminary ceremonies, you will see him established in your service. The spirit ascends in vapour, but never vanishes. He remains your lawful slave for life. Such are the miracles of our times, which perhaps surpass many of the most extraordinary of former ages.
I spent the evening at the house of Lady C—— B——, who has just finished a new novel, called “Flirtation.” I talked very frankly to her about it, for she is a clever and a good woman.* * *
* * * * * * *
I don’t know whether I told you that I lodge at the house of a dress-maker in Albemarle-street, who has collected around her a perfect garland of English, French, and Italian girls. All is decorum itself; but there are many talents among them which can be turned to account—among others, that of a French girl, who has a genius for cooking, and has thus enabled me to entertain my kind friend L—— in my own little home. Dinner, concert (droll enough it was, for the performers were all ‘couturières’), a little dance for the young ladies, a great many artificial flowers, a great many lights, a very few intimate friends;—in short, a sort of rural fête in this busy town. The poor girls were delighted, and it was almost morning before they went to bed, though the duenna kept faithful watch and ward to the last moment. I was greatly praised and thanked by all; though in their hearts they no doubt liked my young friend L—— much better.
Nov. 28th.
A great actor,—a true master of his art, certainly stands very high. What knowledge and power he must have! How much genius must he unite with corporeal grace and address!—how much creative power, with the most perfect knowledge of wearisome ‘routine!’
This evening, for the first time since my residence here, I saw Macbeth,—perhaps the most sublime and perfect of Shakspeare’s tragedies. Macready, who has lately returned from America, played the part admirably. The passages in which he appeared to me peculiarly true and powerful, were, first, the night-scene in which he comes on the stage after the murder of Duncan, with the bloody dagger, and tells his wife that he has done the deed. He carried on the whole conversation in a low voice, as the nature of the incident requires;—like a whisper in the dark,—yet so distinctly, and with such a fearful expression, that all the terrors of night and crime pass with the sound into the hearer’s very soul. Not less excellent was the difficult part with Banquo’s ghost. The fine passage—
“What man dare, I dare.Approach, then, like the rugged Russian bear,The arm’d rhinoceros, or Hyrcanian tiger;Take any shape but that, and my firm nervesShall never tremble. Or be alive again,And dare me to the desert with thy sword;If trembling I inhibit, then protest meThe baby of a girl. Hence, terrible shadow!Unreal mockery, hence!” &c.
“What man dare, I dare.Approach, then, like the rugged Russian bear,The arm’d rhinoceros, or Hyrcanian tiger;Take any shape but that, and my firm nervesShall never tremble. Or be alive again,And dare me to the desert with thy sword;If trembling I inhibit, then protest meThe baby of a girl. Hence, terrible shadow!Unreal mockery, hence!” &c.
“What man dare, I dare.Approach, then, like the rugged Russian bear,The arm’d rhinoceros, or Hyrcanian tiger;Take any shape but that, and my firm nervesShall never tremble. Or be alive again,And dare me to the desert with thy sword;If trembling I inhibit, then protest meThe baby of a girl. Hence, terrible shadow!Unreal mockery, hence!” &c.
with great judgment he began with all the vehemence of desperation; then, overcome by terror, dropped his voice lower and lower, till the last words were tremulous and inarticulate. Then, uttering a subdued cry of mortal horror, he suddenly cast his mantle over his face and sank back half-lifeless on his seat. He thus produced the most apalling effect. As man, you felt tremblingly with him, that our most daring courage can oppose nothing to the terrors of another world;—you saw no trace of the stage-hero, who troubles himself little about nature; and playing only to produce effect on the galleries, seeks his highest triumph in an ascending scale of noise and fury. Macready was admirable, too, in the last act; in which conscience and fear are equally deadened and exhausted, and rigid apathy has taken the place of both; when the last judgment breaks over the head of the sinner in three rapidly succeeding strokes,—the death of the Queen, the fulfilment of the delusive predictions of the witches, and Macduff’s terrific declaration that he is not born of woman.
What had previously tortured Macbeth’s spirit—had made him murmer at his condition, or struggle against the goadings of his conscience,—can now only strike him with momentary terror, like a lightning flash. He is weary of himself and of existence; and fighting, as he says in bitter scorn, ‘bear-like,’ he falls at length, a great criminal—but withal a king and a hero.
Equally masterly was the combat with Macduff, in which inferior actors commonly fail;—nothing hurried, yet all the fire, nay, all the horror ofthe end,—of the final rage and despair.
I shall never forget the ludicrous effect of this scene at the first performance of Spiker’s translation at Berlin. Macbeth and his antagonist set upon each other in such a manner, that, without intending it, they got behind the scenes before their dialogue was at an end; whence the words “Hold—enough!” (what went before them being inaudible,) sounded as if Macbeth was run down and had cried, (holding out his sword and deprecating any further fighting,) “Leave off—hold—enough!”
Lady Macbeth, though played by a second-rate actress,—for, alas! since the departure of Mrs. Siddons and Miss O’Neil there is no first rate—pleased me better in her feeble delineation of the character, than many would-be-great ‘artistes’ of our fatherland, whose affected manner is suited to no single character in Shakspeare.
I do not, however, entirely participate in Tieck’s well-known view of this character. I would fain go still deeper into it. Scarcely any man understands how the love of a woman seesevery thingsolely as it regards or affects the beloved object; and thence, for a time at least, knows virtue or vice only with relation to him.
Lady Macbeth, represented as a furious Megæra who uses her husband only as an instrument of her own ambition, is wanting in all inward truth,and, still more, in all interest. Such a woman would be incapable of that profound feeling of her own crime and misery so fearfully expressed in the sleeping scene; it is only in the presence of her husband, and in order to give him courage, that she always seems the stronger; that she shows neither fear nor remorse; that she jests at them in him, and seeks to deafen herself to their voice in her own heart.
She is certainly not a gentle, feminine character; but womanly love to her husband is nevertheless the leading motive of her actions.
As the poet reveals to us her secret agonies in the night scene, so likewise does he suffer us to perceive that Macbeth had long ago betrayed to her those ambitious wishes lurking in his breast, which he had scarcely confessed to himself: and thus it is that the witches choose Macbeth as their own,—as worms and moths attack what is already diseased and decaying,—only because they find him ripe for their purpose. She knows then, the inmost desires of his heart; tosatisfy him, she hurries with passionate vehemence to his aid, and, with all the devoted impetuosity of a woman, far outstrips even his thoughts. The more Macbeth falters and draws back—half acting a part with himself and with her,—the more is her zeal quickened; she represents herself, to herself and to him, more cruel, more hard-hearted than she is; and works herself up by artificial excitements, only that she may inspire him with the courage and determination necessary to accomplish his ends. To him she is ready to sacrifice not only all that stands between Macbeth and his wishes, butherself; the peace of her own conscience—nay, all womanly thoughts and feelings towards others; and to call the powers of darkness to aid and strengthen her.
It is only when viewed in this manner that her character appears to me dramatic, or the progress of the piece psychologically true. Viewed in the other light, we find nothing in it but a caricature—a thing impossible to Shakspeare’s creative spirit, which always paints possible men, and not unnatural monsters or demons of the fancy.
And thus do they mutually urge each down the precipice; for neither, singly, would have fallen so far;—Macbeth, however, manifestly with greater selfishness; and therefore is his end, like his torment, the more painful.
It is a great advantage to the performance of this piece when the part of Macbeth, and not that of the Lady, falls to the actor of genius. Of that I was strongly convinced to-day. If Lady Macbeth, by superiority of acting, is converted into the principal character, the whole tragedy is contemplated in a false point of view. It is something quite other than the real one, and loses the greatest part of its interest, when we see a ferocious amazon, and a hero under her slipper who suffers himself to be used as a mere tool of her projects. No,—inhimlies the germ of the sin from the beginning; his wife does but help him: he is by no means a man of originally noble temper, who, seduced by the witches, becomes a monster;—but, as in Romeo and Juliet the passion of love is led from the innocent childishness of its first budding, in a mind too susceptible of its power, through all the stages of delight, to despair and death,—so in Macbeth the subject of the picture is self-seeking ambition fostered by powers of evil, passing from an innocence that was but apparent, and the fame of an honoured hero, to the blood-thirstiness of the tiger, and to theend of a hunted wild beast. Nevertheless, the man in whose soul the poison works is gifted with so many lofty qualities, that we can follow the struggle and the developement with sympathy. What an inconceivable enjoyment would it be to see such a work of genius represented by great actors throughout, where none were a mere subordinate! This however could be accomplished only by spirits, as in Hofmann’s ghostly representation of Don Juan.
You will perhaps find much that is incongruous in these views; but recollect that great poets work like Nature herself. To every man they assume the garb and colour of his own mind, and thence admit of various interpretations. They are so rich, that they distribute their gifts among a thousand poor, and yet have abundance in reserve.
Many of the stage arrangements were very praiseworthy. For instance, the two murderers whom Macbeth hires to murder Banquo, are not, as on our stage, ragged ruffians,—by the side of whom the King, in his regal ornaments and the immediate vicinity of his Court, exhibits a ridiculous contrast, and who could never find access to a palace in such a dress; but of decent appearance and behaviour,—villains, but not beggars.
The old Scottish costume is thoroughly handsome, and is probably more true to the times, certainly more picturesque, than with us. The apparition of Banquo, as well as the whole disposition of the table, was infinitely better. In this the Berlin manager made a ludicrous ‘bévue.’ When the King questions the murderers concerning Banquo’s death, one of them answers,
“My lord, his throat is cut.”
“My lord, his throat is cut.”
“My lord, his throat is cut.”
This was taken so literally, that a most disgusting pasteboard figure appears at table with the throat cut from ear to ear. The ascent and descent of this monster is so near akin to a puppet-show, that, with all the good-will in the world to keep one’s countenance, one can hardly manage it. Here the entrance of the ghost is so cleverly concealed by the bustle of the guests taking their seats at several tables, that it is not till the King prepares to sit down that the dreadful form seated in his place, is suddenly visible to him and to the audience. Two bloody wounds deface his pale countenance (of course it is the actor himself who played Banquo), without rendering it ludicrous by nearly severing the head from the body; and when he looks up fixedly at the King from the festive tables, surrounded by the busy tumult of the guests, then nods to him, and slowly sinks into the earth, the illusion is as perfect as the effect is fearful and thrilling.
But, to be just, I must mention one ridiculous thing that occurred here. After the murder of the King, when there is a knocking at the door, Lady Macbeth says to her husband—
“Hark, more knocking!Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,And show us to be watchers.”
“Hark, more knocking!Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,And show us to be watchers.”
“Hark, more knocking!Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,And show us to be watchers.”
Now ‘nightgown’ does indeed mean dressing-gown; but yet I could scarcely believe my eyes, when Macready entered in a fashionable flowered chintz dressing-gown, (perhaps the one he usually wears,) loosely thrown over his steel armour, which was seen glittering at every movement of his body, and in this curious costume drew his sword to kill the chamberlains who were sleeping near the King.
I did not observe that this struck any body; indeed the interest was generally so slight, the noise and mischief so incessant, that it is difficult to understand how such distinguished artists can form themselves, with so brutal, indifferent, and ignorant an audience as they have almost always before them. As I told you, the English theatre is not fashionable, and is scarcely ever visited by what is called ‘good company.’ The only advantage in this state of things is, that actors are not spoiled by that indulgence which is so ruinous to them in Germany.
The Freischütz was performed the same evening—after Macbeth. Weber, like Mozart, must be content to be ‘travaillé’ by Mr. Bishop, with his abridgments and additions. It is a positive affliction and misery to hear them: and not only the music, but the fable, is robbed of all its character. It is not Agatha’s lover, but the successful marksman, who comes to the wolf’s glen and sings Caspar’s favourite song. The Devil, in long red drapery, dances a regular shawl-dance before he carries off Caspar to hell, which is very pleasingly represented by cascades of fire, scarlet ‘coulisses,’ and heaps of skeletons.
Here then the comparison with Germany is as much to our advantage as it is the contrary in tragedy. I wish, however, the matter were reversed.
Dec. 2nd.
I wrote you word lately, that I was better; since that time I have been almost constantly unwell. One ought never to boast of anything, as the old women say; for, adds Walter Scott, “it is unlucky to announce things which are not yet certain.” This indeed I have often experienced. As to my health, it is as unintelligible as all the rest of me.
You doubtless wonder that I remain in London in this thankless season; but I have still friends here—besides, I have settled into this quiet life, which is only interrupted by the noise and clatter of the little troop of ‘couturières’ in the house; the theatre too has begun to interest me, and the serenity of this seclusion refreshes me after the former tumult. It is indeed so quiet and solitary, that, like the celebrated prisoner in the Bastille, I have formed a ‘liaison’ with a mouse,—a darling little creature, and doubtless an enchanted ‘lady:’ when I am at work, she glides timidly out of her hole, looks at me from a distance with her little eyes twinkling like stars, becomes tamer every day; and enticed by bits of cake which I regularly deposit six inches from her residence, in the right corner of my room.—At this moment she is eating one with great grace—and now she frisks about the room quite at her ease. But what do I hear? an incessant loud cry in the street! Mousey has fled in terror to her corner.
“What is the matter?” said I; “what an infernal noise!” “War is proclaimed—a second edition of The Times is cried about the streets.” “War, with whom?” ‘I don’t know.’ This is one branch of trade among the poor devils in London: when they can contrive nothing else, they cry some ‘great news,’ and sell an old paper to the curious for sixpence; you seize it in a hurry, you understand nothing clearly, you look at the date, and laugh at finding you have been taken in.
As is always the case when I live alone, I have unfortunately so completely turned day into night, that I seldom breakfast before four in the afternoon, dine at ten or eleven after the play, and walk or ride in thenight. It is generally not only finer but (‘mirabile dictu’) brighter in the night. The days are so foggy that even if there are lamps and candles you can’t see them a yard off; but in the night the gas-lights sparkle like diamonds, and the moon shines as bright as in Italy. As I galloped home last night through the wide and quiet streets, white and coal-black clouds coursed each other swiftly over her face, and afforded a singularly wild and enchanting spectacle. The air was serene and mild; for the late cold has been succeeded by almost spring weather.
Except L—— and the standing dishes at the clubs, I see few persons but Prince P——, who is accused here of great haughtiness andbrusquerie. They likewise whisper that he is a very Blue Beard to his poor wife, and that he shut her up for six years in a solitary castle in a wood, so that at last, wearied by ill treatment, she was obliged to consent to a separation. What say you, good Julia, to this unhappy fate of your best friend.
How strangely, however, do rumours and calumnies sometimes arise! How little can we foresee the inconceivable heterogeneous consequences of human actions! What quite unexpected rocks peril our course! Nay, in the moral as in the physical world, we often see tares arise where wheat was sown, while beautiful flowers and fragrant herbs spring out of the dunghill.
I have received your long letter, and give you my heartiest thanks for it. Do not be displeased that I so seldom answer in detail, but in some sort pay off the sum of the passages, the neglect of which you reproach me with. Be assured that not a word is lost upon me. Remember that one gives no other answer to the rose for its precious fragrance, than to inhale it with delight. To dissect it would not enhance our pleasure. ‘Au reste,’ I regret that I have now neither the materials nor the disposition to send you such roses in return. The wall is as bare before me as a white sheet—no kind of ‘ombre Chinoise’ will appear upon it.
Woolmers, Dec. 11th.
Sir G—— O——, formerly English ambassador to Persia, had invited me to his country house, whither I drove this morning.
I arrived late, in darkness and rain, and was obliged to dress instantly to go to a ball at Hatfield, which Lady Salisbury gives on a certain day of the week to the neighbourhood, during the whole time of her residence in the country. The going there is therefore received as a sort of call, and no invitations are sent. Sir G—— took his whole party, among whom was Lord Strangford, the well-known ambassador to Constantinople.
You remember that on my return from my northern excursion I saw Hatfield ‘en passant.’ I found the interior as imposing and respectable, from its air of antiquity, as the exterior. You enter a hall hung with banners and armour; then climb a singular staircase, with carved figures of apes, dogs, monks, &c., and reach a long and rather narrow gallery, in which the dancing was going on. The walls are of old oak ‘boiserie,’ with curious old-fashioned silver chandeliers fixed to them. At one end of this gallery is a library, and at the other a splendid room with deep metal ornaments depending from the panels of the ceiling, and an enormously high chimney-piece surmounted by a statue of King James. The ‘local’ was very beautiful, but the ball dull enough, and the company rathertoo rural. At two o’clock all was over, and I very glad; for, weary and ‘ennuyé,’ I longed for rest.
The next morning I delighted myself with a review of the various Persian curiosities which decorated the rooms. I was particularly struck by a splendid manuscript, with miniatures, which excelled all the illuminations of the middle ages in Europe, and were often more correct in drawing. The subject of the book is the history of Tamerlane’s family, and is said to have cost two thousand pounds in Persia. It is a present from the Shah. Doors inlaid with precious metals; sofas and carpets of curious velvet, embroidered with gold and silver; above all, a golden dish splendidly enamelled, and many finely-worked ‘bijoux,’ show that if the Persians are behind us in many things, they surpass us in some.
The weather has cleared a little, and enticed me to a solitary walk. Noble trees, a little river, and a grove, under whose thick shade a remarkably copious spring gushes forth as if from the centre of the earth, are the chief beauties of the park. When I returned, it was two o’clock, the hour of luncheon; after which Sir Gore showed me his Arabian horses, and some of them were quickly saddled for a ride. The groom had little else to do than to jump off and on his horse to open the gates which interrupted our course every minute. This is the case in most English parks, and still more in fields, which makes riding, except on the high roads, somewhat troublesome. In the afternoon we had music. The daughter of the house and Mrs. F—— distinguished themselves as admirable pianistes. The hearers were, however, perfectly unconstrained; they went and came, talked or listened, just as they felt inclined.
When the ladies had retired to dress, Sir Gore and Lord Strangford told us many anecdotes of the East—a theme of which I never tire. Both these gentlemen are great partisans of the Turks, and Lord Strangford spoke of the Sultan as a very enlightened man. He was probably, he said, the first ambassador from any Christian power who had had several private conferences with the Grand Signior. At these a singular etiquette was observed: the Sultan received him in the garden of the Seraglio, in the dress of an officer of his body-guard, and in that character always addressed Lord Strangford with the greatest deference in the third person; Lord Strangford did not venture to let it appear that he recognized him. He declared that the Sultan was better informed about Russia than a great many European politicians, and knew perfectly well what he was undertaking.[72]
After dinner, at which we had some Oriental dishes, and I drank genuine Schiraz for the first time in my life, (no very pleasant wine, by the by, for it tastes of the goat-skins,) we had music again, and ‘des petits jeux.’ As these latter were not remarkably successful, the whole party went to bed in good time.
December 12th.
I have bought a coal-black horse, a thing as wild as a roe, of my host’s Arab breed; and to give him a longer trial, we rode over to pay a visit to Lady Cowper, who lives in the neighbourhood. The park and house of Pansanger are well worth seeing, especially the picture-gallery, which contains two of Raphael’s early Madonnas; and a singularly fine portrait of Marshal Turenne on horseback, by Rembrandt. Lady Cowper receivedus in her boudoir, which led immediately into a beautiful garden, even now gay with flowers, on the other side of which are green-houses, and a dairy in the form of a temple.
Pansanger is celebrated for the largest oak in England. It is nineteen feet and a half in circumference six feet from the ground, and is at the same time very straight and lofty, though its branches reach to a great extent on all sides. We have larger oaks than this in Germany.
To reconnoitre the country still more fully, we afterwards made a second visit to Hatfield, which I viewed more accurately.
The whole house, including kitchen and wash-house, is heated by one steam-engine. The Dowager Marchioness, the most active woman in England of her age, did the honours herself, and led us about into every hole and corner. The chapel contains some admirable old painted glass,—buried in Cromwell’s time, to which it is indebted for its escape when the frantic iconoclasts destroyed all the church windows. In one of the rooms was a fine portrait of Charles the Twelfth,—that ‘Don Quixote en grand,’ who, but for Pultawa, would perhaps have become a second Alexander. In the present stables (formerly the house,) Elizabeth lived a captive during the reign of her sister Mary. The Queen ordered a very lofty pointed chimney, surmounted with an iron rod, to be built on a gable opposite to her sister’s window, and caused it to be insinuated to her that this rod was destined to receive her head. So the Marchioness told us. The chimney is still standing, and is thickly overgrown with ivy; but Elizabeth, to feast on the delightful contrast in after years, when she could contemplate the threatening pinnacle with more agreeable feelings, built the new palace close to it. The house is poor in works of art, and the park rich only in large avenues of oaks and in rocks; otherwise dreary, and without water, except a nasty green standing pool near the house.
December 13th.
In my host’s house is a singular picture gallery,—a Persian one, which contains some very curious things. The portraits of the present Shah, and of his son Abbas, are the most interesting. The yellow dress of the former, covered with precious stones of every kind, and his enormous black beard, form a very characteristic picture of this Son of the Sky and of the Sun.Hisson, however excels him in beauty of feature; but he is almost too simply dressed, and the pointed sheepskin cap is not becoming. The late Persian ambassador to England completes the trio. He was a very handsome man, and fell into European manners and customs with such ease, that the English speak of him as a perfect Lovelace. On his return home he proved himself nowise ‘discret,’ but compromised several English ladies of rank in a shameful manner.
Some large dressed dolls gave a faithful idea of the fair sex in Persia, with long hair painted red or blue, arched and painted eyebrows, large languishing eyes of fire, pretty gauze pantaloons, and gold rings round the ankles.
Lady O—— told us many amusing details of the Harem, which I reserve till we meet, that I may not exhaust all my resources.
Many things in Persia seem to be very agreeable, many the very reverse; among them the scorpions and insects.
These things we are free from in our temperate climates. Let us alltherefore be contented in them; a wish which I cordially form for you and me.
Your L——.
London, Dec. 16, 1827.
Dear Julia,
After writing some verses in the W—— album, in which Arabian steeds, Timour’s magnificence, Cecil, Elizabeth, and the fair beauties of Teheran, met in agreeable confusion, I took leave of my kind hosts, and returned to London. The same evening L—— took me to a singular exhibition.
In a suburb, a good German mile from my lodging, we entered a sort of barn; dirty, with no other ceiling than the rough roof, through which the moon peeped here and there. In the middle was a boarded place, about twelve feet square, surrounded by a strong wooden breastwork: round this was a gallery filled with the lowest vulgar and with perilous-looking faces of both sexes. A ladder led up to a higher gallery, for the patrician part of the spectators, which was let out at three shillings a seat. There was a strange contrast between the ‘local’ and a crystal lustre hanging from one of the balks of the roof lighted with thick wax candles: as well as between the ‘fashionables’ and the populace among whom they were scattered, who—the latter I mean—were continually offering and taking bets of from twenty to fifty pounds. The subject of these was a fine terrier, the illustrious Billy, who pledged himself to the public to kill a hundred rats in ten minutes. As yet the arena was empty, and there was an anxious, fearful pause; while in the lower gallery huge pots of beer circulated from mouth to mouth, and tobacco smoke ascended in dense clouds. At length appeared a strong man, bearing a sack, looking like a sack of potatoes, but in fact containing the hundred live rats. These he set at liberty in one moment by untying the knot, scattered them about the place, and rapidly made his retreat into a corner. At a given signal Billy rushed in, and set about his murderous work with incredible fury. As soon as a rat lay lifeless, Billy’s faithful esquire picked him up and put him in the sack; among these some might be only senseless, or perhaps there might be some old practitioners who feigned themselves dead at the first bite. However, be that as it may, Billy won in nine minutes and a quarter, according to all the watches; in which time a hundred dead, or apparently dead, rats were replaced in their old quarters—the sack. This was the first act. In the second, the heroic Billy, (who was greeted with the continual shouts of an enraptured audience,) fought with a badger. Each of the combatants had a second, who held him by the tail. Only one bite or gripe was allowed; then they were separated, and immediately let loose again. Billy had always the best of it, and the poor badger’s ears streamed with blood. In this combat, too, Billy was bound to seize the badger fast in a certain number of minutes,—I don’t recollect how many. This he accomplished in brilliant style, but retired at last greatly exhausted.
Theamusementsended with bear-baiting, in which the bear treated some dogs extremely ill, and seemed to suffer little himself. It was evident through the whole, that the managers were too chary of their animals to expose them in earnest; I therefore, as I said, suspected from the beginning some hidden talents for representation—even in the rats.
In a few months, cock fights will be held in the same place. I shall send you a description of them.
Dec. 21st.
There are unquestionably three natures in man,—a vegetable one, which is content merely to exist; an animal, which destroys; and an intellectual, which creates. Many are satisfied with the first, most lay claim to the second, and a few to the third. I must confess, alas! that my life here belongs to Class I., at which I am often discontented enough: ‘but I can’t help it.’
You have heard of the English Roscius. A new little wonder of this kind has appeared, and the maturity of his early talent is really astonishing. Master Burke (so this little fellow is called) acts at the Surrey Theatre. Though only ten years old, he played five or six very different parts, with a humour, apparent familiarity with the stage, ‘aplomb,’ volubility of utterance, accurate memory, and suppleness and power over his little person, which are perfectly amazing. What struck me most, however, was, that in a little interlude he acted his own natural part,—a boy of ten years old,—with such uncommon truth that the genuine ‘naivété’ of childhood he represented, could be nothing but the inspiration of genius,—it is impossible it could be the result of reflection in such a child. He began with the part of an Italian music-master, in which he displayed extraordinary mastery of the violin, and that not only in acquired dexterity, but in the good taste of his playing, and a fulness and beauty of tone seldom equalled. You perceived in his whole performance that he was born a musician. Next followed a learned pedant; then a rough captain of a ship; and so on;—every part admirably filled, and the by play, in which so many fail, peculiarly easy, clever, and appropriate. His last character was Napoleon,—the only one in which he failed; and this failure was exactly the thing that put the crown to my admiration. It is characteristic of true genius, that in the meagre, absurd, and foolish, it appears foolish too; and this part was the quintessence of bad taste and stupidity. It is the same in life. Turn Lessing into a courtier for instance, or Napoleon into R—— Lieutenant, and you will see how miserably each will fill his part.
Generally speaking, the important thing is that every man should be in his right place. If he is, some excellence will scarcely ever fail to be developed in him. Thus, for instance, my genius consists in a fancy, so to say, practically applicable; I have nothing to do but to wind it up like a watch, not only to find myself immediately at home in every actual situation, but employing it as a stimulus, to throw myself headlong down any conceivable precipice. If I get hurt in the fall, I can use it again as a restorative, by the unexpected discovery of some wonderful piece of luck or other. Now is this the consequence of an accidental physical organization, or of an acquired power,—acquired perhaps through a hundred preceding generations? Had this spiritual individual whom I callmyself, any previous existence connected with another form? and does it endure independent, or does it lose itself again in the universal Whole, after the bursting of that bubble which the eternal fermentation of the universe throws up?
Is—as many will have it—the history of the world (or what passes intime), as well as of nature (or what passes in space,) predetermined through its whole course, according to the immutable laws of a guiding will? and does it end like a drama in the victory of good over evil?—or does the free power of the spirit fashion its own future, uncertain in all its incidents, and only subject to the conditions necessary to its existence?—‘That is the question!’ Meantime, thus much appears to me clear;—that, by the adoption of the former hypothesis,—turn it which way we will,—we are all, more or less, mere finely-constructed puppets: it is only according to the second, that we remain free spirits. I will not deny that there is in me an unconquerable, instinctive feeling, like the deepest consciousness ofself, which impels me to the latter belief. This may possibly be an inspiration of the devil! Yet he does not lead me so far astray, as that I do not, with profound humility and gratitude, ascribe this, our mysterious being, to that great incomprehensible Creator, the object of my highest and deepest love. But forasmuch as our origin is god-like, we must live on, independently, in God. Hear what Angelius Silesius, the pious Catholic, says on this subject.