“Les prêtres ne sont pas ce qu’un vain peuple pense,Et sa crédulité fait toute notre science.”
“Les prêtres ne sont pas ce qu’un vain peuple pense,Et sa crédulité fait toute notre science.”
“Les prêtres ne sont pas ce qu’un vain peuple pense,Et sa crédulité fait toute notre science.”
“Ma foi,” said I, “si tous les prêtres vous ressemblaient je penserais bien autrement.”
October, 13th: Evening.
I was unfortunately unable to keep my word with my friendly Amphitryon. A ‘megrim’ confined me all day to my bed. The archbishop sent me word that he would cure me; and, if I would but bring firm faith, would be sure to drive away the headache-fiend by a well-applied exorcism. I was, however, obliged to reply, that this devil was one of the most tractable, and that he respected no one but Nature, who sends and recalls him at her pleasure, which, alas! is seldom in less than four-and-twenty hours. I must therefore cut off even you, dearest Julia, with a few words.
October 14th.
‘Après la pluie le soleil!’ This day has indemnified me for the last. I was on horseback by six o’clock, on my way to breakfast at Captain S—— ‘s country-house, where the sportsmen were to rendezvous for a hare-hunt. I found six or seven sturdy squires assembled: they do not think much, but their life is all the more gay and careless. After we had eaten and drank the most heterogeneous things,—coffee, tea, whiskey, wine, eggs, beef-steaks, honey, mutton-kidneys, cakes, and bread and butter, one after another,—the company seated themselves on two large cars, and took the direction of the Galtee mountains; where, at a distance of about eight miles, the hounds and horses were waiting for us. The weather was fine, and the ride very pleasant, along a ridge of hills commanding a full view of the fruitful plain, enclosed by mountains and richly varied by a multitude of gentlemen’s seats and ruins which are scattered over the whole level country. I enjoyed these beauties, as usual, alone; my companions had only dogs and horses in their heads. A spot was pointed out to me where a strange phenomenon took place ten years ago. A bog which lay at a considerable elevation, forced up probably by subterranean springs, was completely loosened from its bottom, and travelled on in a mass, sixteen feet high and three or four acres in extent. It moved on in a continual zigzag, according to the nature of the objects it encountered; and thus passed over a distance of nine miles till it reached the nearest river, into which it slowly discharged itself, causing an overflow of the waters. The rate of its progress was about three miles an hour. It laid waste every thing in its course. Houses were levelled with the earth at its touch; trees torn up at once by the roots; the fields completely covered, and the valleys filled with bog. An immense multitude had assembled at the end of its course, without the power of offering the slightest resistance to the progress of this awful and majestic phenomenon.
On our arrival at the appointed place of meeting, the horses were there, but no dogs. There were, however, a great many gentlemen, and insteadof hunting hares we now all traversed the fields in every direction in search of the stray hounds. The sort of riding on these occasions is a thing of which people in our country can form no idea. Although most of the fields are enclosed by stone hedges from three to six feet high, and either piled loosely together or regularly cemented, and some of them edged by ditches; or strong walls of earth and stones pointed at the top, from five to seven feet high, with a ditch on one, sometimes on both sides;—all this is not admitted as any pretext whatever for the riders to deviate from a straight line. If I mistake not, I have already described to you how wonderfully the horses here leap; the sagacity is also admirable with which they distinguish a loose hedge from a firm one; one recently thrown up, from one hardened by time. The loose ones they spring over at one leap,—‘clear them,’ according to the technical expression; but they take the firm ones more easily, making a sort of halt at the top. All this takes place equally well in a full gallop, or, with the utmost coolness, at a foot pace, or with a very short run. Some gentlemen fell, but were only laughed at; for a man who does not break his neck on the spot must look for no pity, but on the contrary, ridicule. Others dismounted at very bad places, and their docile steeds leaped without them, and then stood still, grazing while their riders climbed over. I can assure you I very often thought I should be compelled to follow their example; but Captain S——, who knew the excellent horse on which he had mounted me, and was always by my side, encouraged me to trust with perfect security to the admirable creature; so that at the end of the day I had acquired a very considerable reputation even among ‘fox-hunters.’ Certainly it is only in Ireland one sees all that horses are capable of; the English are far behind them in this respect. Wherever a man could get through, my horse found means to do so in one way or other, leaping, crawling, or scrambling. Even in swampy places where he sank up to his girths, he laboured through without the least hurry or agitation, where a more lively and timorous horse, though equally strong, would certainly never have made his way. Such a horse on a field of battle would be beyond all price: but only very early and perfect training, joined to the excellence of the breed, can produce such an one. Experience shows that a peculiar bent of education, continued through centuries, ends in rendering the superinduced qualities natural even in animals. I saw pointers in England, which without any training, stood still and pointed as decidedly the first time they were taken out shooting, as if they had been ever so carefully trained.
The price of these admirable horses was extremely reasonable ten years ago, but since the English have begun to buy them for hunting, it is greatly raised, and an Irish hunter of the quality of the one I rode to-day, would fetch from a hundred and fifty to two hundred guineas. At the Galway races I saw a celebrated blood-hunter, for which Lord Cl—— had given the latter sum. He had won every ‘steeple-chase’ he had ever run; was as light as he was powerful, swift as the wind, a child could manage him, and no hedge was too high, no ditch too wide for him.
At length we found the dogs: the men who had the care of them having got completely drunk. Our hunt did not end till the approach of twilight. It was become excessively cold, and the flickering fire, with the table spread before it, shone most agreeably upon us on our arrival at Captain S——’s house. A genuine sportsman’s and bachelor’s feast followed. There was no attempt at show or elegance. Glasses, dishes, and all the furniture of the table, were of every variety of form and date: one man drank his wine out of a liqueur glass, another out of a champagneglass, the more thirsty out of tumblers. One ate with his great-grandfather’s knife and fork, his neighbour with a new green-handled one which the servant had just bought at Cashel fair. There were as many dogs as guests in the room: every man waited on himself; and the meats and potables were pushed on the table in abundance by an old woman and a heavy-fisted groom. The fare was by no means to be despised, nor the wine either, nor the potheen clandestinely distilled in the mountains, which I here tasted for the first time genuine and unadulterated. For sweetening a pudding, two large lumps of sugar were handed about, and we rubbed them together as the savages do sticks for kindling the fire. That the drinking was on a vast and unlimited scale you may safely presume: but though many at last could not speak very articulately, yet no one attempted any thing indecorous or ill-bred; and the few who were much excited, enhanced the merriment by many a ‘bon mot’ or droll story.
I am indebted for the great cordiality, I might say enthusiasm, with which I am received here, to my visit to the ‘Man of the People,’ with whom the curious believe me to be in God-knows-what connection. I am greeted with hurrahs in every village I ride through; and in Cashel, the market-place, in which my inn stands, is daily filled with people, who congregate at an early hour, and cheer me every time I go out. Many press forward and ask leave to shake my hand, (a no very gentle operation,) and are quite happy when they have accomplished this.
We rose from table very late. I was packed into my host’s car with another gentleman, and set off for Cashel through an icy fog. Every individual ran out to my assistance. One would draw a pair of furred gloves on my hands; another lent me a cloak; a third tied a handkerchief round my neck;—every man insisted on doing me some little service: and with many a ‘God bless his Highness!’ I was at length suffered to depart. The gentleman with me, Mr. O’R—, was the most original, and the most drunk of any. Equally bent on doing me some kindness, he invariably made the matter worse than he found it. He unfastened my cloak, in trying to fasten it; tore off my handkerchief, instead of tying it; and fell upon me, in his efforts to make room. His poetical humour displayed itself as characteristically when we reached the Rock of Cashel. It was dreadfully cold, and the cloudless firmament twinkled and glittered as if bestrewn with diamonds. Between the road and the rock, however, a thick mist lay along the earth, and covered the whole surrounding country as with a veil, though it did not rise higher than to the foot of the ruin. Its base was invisible, and it appeared as if it stood built on a cloud in the blue æther, and in the midst of the stars. I had been admiring this striking night-scene some time, when my neighbour, whom I thought asleep, suddenly cried aloud, “Ah, there is my glorious rock! look, how grand! and above all, the sacred place where all my ancestors repose, and where I too shall lie in peace!” After a pause he tried in a fit of greater ecstasy to stand up, which but for me would probably have ended in his falling from the carriage. As soon as he was firm on his legs, he took off his hat reverently, and with a sort of devotion, at once affecting and burlesque, called out with tears in his eyes, “God bless Almighty God, and glory to him!” Notwithstanding the nonsense, I was touched by the feeling which broke through it, and in this at least I sympathized with my whole soul.
October 15th.
Lord H——, whom I knew in London, invited me to spend some days at his beautiful residence in this neighbourhood. This invitation I was obliged to refuse, but went to-day to dine with him. The well-kept pleasure-ground, and the excavation of a hollow for a little lake, recalled to me but too strongly the castle where you, my dear! are now living, to be able to look at it without emotion. When shall we see each other again! when shall we breakfast under the three lime-trees with the swans who so trustingly fed out of our hands, while your tame doves picked up the crumbs at our feet, and the little coco, surprised and jealous, looked at the audacious birds with his wise eyes,—a picture at which the ‘blasé’ man of the world shrugs his shoulders contemptuously, but which touches our hearts in all its native simplicity.
Lord H—— is not one of those Irish nobles who withdraw the whole of their revenues from their country: he sometimes resides there: but he understands his interest so ill, that instead of placing himself at the head of the people, he sets himself in opposition to them. The natural consequence ensues: Lord Llandall, though a Protestant, is beloved:—Lord H—— is hated, though personally he does not appear to me to deserve it. I heard much of his excessive cruelties towards the Catholics, and I was indeed witness to his violent temper on this subject. I think, however, that in this case, as in so many others, the mere change of one’s own point of view alters all the relations of things. This is a grand rule of the practical philosophy of life, and the effect is certain: for the objects are only raw material matter; every thing depends on the manner in which the individual understands and shapes them. How many situations may thus be transformed from black into rose-coloured, as soon as one resolutely takes off the black spectacles, or puts on the rose-coloured ones. With what spectacles will you read my letter?—I hear your answer, and kiss you for it.
Heaven guard you, and keep you in this mind!
Your devoted
L——.
Ban——, October 17th, 1828.
Beloved Julia,
Since yesterday I have been an inhabitant of a pretty Gothic cottage at the foot of a mountain. From one of my windows I see fertile fields: from the other, wood, lake, and rocks. The master of the house is Mr. O’R——’s brother, who possesses besides this charming residence a very pretty wife, to whom I pay my court a little, for the gentlemen drink and hunt too much for my taste. The family estate would have naturally devolved on my whimsical friend; but as he was always rather a wild bird, who from his boyhood had a strong propensity for whiskey-punch and a joyous life, his father, having the disposal of it, left it to his youngest son. The brothers are nevertheless the best possible friends; and the light-hearted kindly nature of the eldest finds no wormwood in the wine which he drinks at his brother’s table; while on the other side, the younger respects the poverty of his kind-hearted and amusing elder, (who gets regularly drunk every evening,) and lets him want for nothing. Such a connexion does honour to both, the more, because at the fathers death thelawyers were of opinion that the will might have been set aside. Both have doubtless acted with as much wisdom as kindness to leave it uncontested, and thus keep the oyster for themselves.
We passed the whole day in rambling about these magnificent mountain-paths. Others went out snipe-shooting, after which we satat the dinner table till 2 o’clock in the morning. Very soon after the dessert was served, the ladies, as usual, left us: and now the drinking began in earnest. Coffee was brought very late; on the heels of which followed a stimulating ‘souper’ of ‘devils’ of all sorts,[144]raw oysters and pickles. This formed the prelude to potheen punch, of which several drank from twelve to sixteen large tumblers, whilst O’R—— kept the whole company ‘in a roar of laughter’ by his inexhaustible wit and mad tricks. Besides this, every man was forced to sing a song: I among the rest, a German one, of which nobody understood a word, but all were very politely delighted. At two, I retired; but all the others staid. As my chamber was unfortunately directly over them, it was long before I could sleep for their noise and laughter.
October 18th.
You will wonder at the somewhat coarse and low life I led here, and to say the truth I wonder at it myself; but it is ‘genuine,’ that is to say, perfectly natural to these people, and nothing assumed; and that has ever a charm of its own, at least for me. Besides, the lady of the house is really charming, lively and graceful as a French-woman, with a foot like a zephyr.
This morning we hunted hares, and many a bold leap was taken. In the evening they produced the most celebrated piper of Ireland, Keans Fitzpatrick, called the King of the Pipers, having been honoured with the approbation of ‘His most gracious Majesty King George the Fourth.’ Indeed, the melodies which the blind minstrel draws from his strange instrument are often as surprising as they are beautiful, and his skill is equal to his highly polished and noble air. These pipers, who are almost all blind, derive their origin from remote antiquity. They are gradually fading away, for all that is old must vanish from the earth.
October 19th.
In the course of the day we met two men of very suspicious appearance in a wood. My companion very cooly pointed them out to me as notorious robbers, who had managed, partly by cunning, partly by the general terror they inspired, to preserve their liberty;—another proof how defective is the government and how entirely perverted are all the relations and sentiments of society; two things by which Ireland is specially characterized. Both of these men, who called themselves farmers because they rented a little bit of potatoe-field were of a singularly striking and national aspect. The one, a slender man of about forty, handsome, with a wild but imposing physiognomy, was a highly picturesque figure, even in his rags. Contempt of all danger was impressed upon his noble brow;—indifference in all disgrace played scornfully about his audacious mouth. His history confirmed the language of his features. He wore three or four military medals, which he had gained in the wars in Spain andFrance. In consequence of repeated proofs of his remarkable courage he had been raised to the rank of a non-commissioned officer, from which his disorderly conduct soon caused him to be degraded: he had then served a second time, again distinguished himself, and again for the same reasons as before been disgraced, though not convicted of any capital offence.—He is now strongly suspected of being the leader of the band of robbers who infest the Galtees, and have committed several murders. His companion was in external appearance the complete reverse of him; he was, for an Irish farmer, unusually well clad, that is to say, in whole clothes; sixty years old, short and thick-set, and in his whole aspect almost like a Quaker. In his sanctified countenance, however, lurked such an expression of cunning and of pitiless determination, that he appeared to me much more terrible than the other. He was prosecuted two years ago for forging bank-notes; and was very nearly convicted, when he was rescued from the gallows by a dexterous lawyer to whom he entrusted his case. With tears of gratitude he put fifty pounds into the hand of his deliverer, lamenting most pathetically that he could not requite him better. The advocate was satisfied with his success, and put the notes into his pocket-book. What was his indignation at finding that Paddy had paid him in the very notes from the consequences of the manufacture of which he had just saved him! When the Irish take a bad turn, (and the only wonder is that they do not all do so,) they are the most dangerous people in the world; their most prominent qualities—courage, levity, and cunning,—are but too efficient in enabling them to dare every thing and to effect much.
Oct. 21st.
I had so often laid the hospitality of these worthy squires under contribution, that I was obliged ‘en conscience’ to make some return. I therefore invited them all to dine with me before my departure. In the morning I gave a cock-fight, ‘car il faut hurler avec les loups;’ then a concert of the great piper; then we had a ride; and lastly ‘grand festin, grand chère, et bon feu.’ During our ride we came to a spot at which a magistrate named Baker was shot three years ago. He was a man exactly in the stile of the Bailiffs (Amtmäner) in Ifflands’s Plays; only, alas! there was no noble character to thwart and counteract him. The day before his death, in discharging a man whom he had imprisoned for six weeks on a charge of suspected revolutionary practices, he publicly said, “Last month I sent you word that I wanted to speak to you;—you would not come. I have given you this little lesson for it, which I hope will make you more complying in future: if not, in six weeks more you shall swing; of that you may rest assured!” The county was at that time under ‘martial law,’ in consequence of some disturbances; and almost unlimited power was given to the local authorities, whose insolence and atrocity therefore knew no bounds. The immediate cause of Baker’s death was of a kind which deprives one of all pity for him. He was indebted £500 to a dairyman, partly for articles supplied to his household, partly for money he had borrowed. This he had promised to pay as soon as the man found a suitable match for his daughter, whose portion the money was to be. In a few years this took place, and the dairyman humbly entreated to be paid. Baker, however, continually put him off under various pretences; and finding he could obtain nothing but vain promises, the poor fellow at length threatened him with an action, and set off for Cork to consult a lawyer. Taking advantage of his absence, Baker appeared thenext day at his house, followed by a detachment of soldiers, and with infernal hypocrisy asked his wife, then pregnant of her seventh child, whether she knew of any concealed arms, and told her that her husband was strongly accused of having secreted some. The woman answered without fear or hesitation, that she was sure no such thing existed in her house; that her husband would never have any thing to do with such plots; as Mr. Baker himself, who was an old acquaintance, well knew. “Take care what you say,” said Baker; “for if any thing is found after you have denied it, you are subject to transportation for life.” The woman persisted in her denial “Well, then, at your peril be it,” said he. “Soldiers, search the house thoroughly, and bring me word what you find.” They found nothing; but a second search being made, under Baker’s own superintendance, a loaded pistol was produced by some man, who pretended to have found it under some straw; into which it was always suspected Baker himself had just thrust it. The woman was immediately dragged away, and being regarded as convicted by the presence of the corpus delicti, was, after a short trial, sentenced to transportation. In a few days her husband returned, and moved heaven and earth to obtain her pardon. In vain did he entreat that at least he might be suffered to go to Botany Bay instead of his unhappy wife, the pregnant mother of six children. He offered to give Baker the £500. But this fiend remained inexorable, jeeringly reminding the despairing husband “that he wanted the money to portion off his daughter, who,” he added, “might now keep house for him, if after the consequences of the search he had still any house to keep. That he need not trouble himself about his wife’s travelling expenses, for that the Government would generously provide for them.” The law had its course; the poor woman was transported, and is perhaps now at Port Jackson. The husband, made furious by despair, and joined by her brothers and two other men, shortly after avenged her, by Baker’s cruel death. They fell upon him in the open fields, hunted him like a wild beast, and killed him slowly by a number of shots. All were taken and hanged.
Tales of horror like this were formerly of daily occurrence in this unhappy land, and even now have not entirely ceased. That such a contrast should exist between England and Ireland, and under the same Government too; that it should be suffered to endure for centuries, is indeed afflicting to every philanthropic mind. Unbridled bigotry, and rapacity unwilling to disgorge any part of its former prey, are the causes;—six millions of human beings the victims.
I have nothing remarkable to relate concerning my dinner-party: it was like its predecessors, and lasted far too long.
It was formerly the custom to give parties, of which the sole and avowed object was desperate drinking,—a fashion which is comparatively fallen into disuse. It was a common thing for a man to lock himself into a room with a hogshead of wine and some jolly companions, and not to leave it till the last drop was emptied. Barrington mentions such a party in his memoirs. It was given in a shooting lodge, in which the wall had been covered with mortar only the day before, and was of course still wet. Here the company were locked in with a pipe of claret, just arrived from France; and when some of them who had tumbled against the wall, awoke in the morning from their night’s debauch, they found themselves so thoroughly identified with it that they were obliged to be cut away, some with the loss of their clothes and others of their hair.
After my guests had exhausted their store of anecdotes, which were notprecisely of a kind to entertain you with, they resorted to all sorts of practical jokes and ‘tours de force.’ One of these was quite new to me. It is an experiment which any body may try, and it struck me as curious enough. The wildest and fiercest game-cock may be rendered motionless, and compelled to lie in deathlike stillness as long as you please, by simply laying him on a table, with his beak close to a white line drawn across it. Nothing is necessary but first to draw this line with chalk, then to take the cock in your hands and lay him on the table with his beak turned towards it. You press him down, and there he will lie as if bound by some spell; his beak stretched out, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the white line, till you take him away. The experiment must be tried by candlelight.
‘Voilà de grandes bagatelles, mais à la guerre comme à la guerre.’
Oct. 22d.
As Fitzpatrick the piper, whom I had sent for to my party yesterday, was still in the town, I had him come to play ‘privatim’ in my room while I breakfasted, and observed his instrument more accurately. It is, as you know, peculiar to Ireland, and contains a strange mixture of ancient and modern times. The primitive simple bagpipe is blended with the flute, the oboe, and some tones of the organ and of the bassoon: altogether it forms a strange but pretty complete concert. The small and elegant bellows which are connected with it are fastened to the left arm by means of a riband, and the leathern tube communicating between them and the bag lies across the body; while the hands play on an upright pipe with holes like a flageolet, which forms the end of the instrument, and is connected with four or five others joined together like a colossal Pan’s pipe. During the performance, the right arm moves incessantly backwards and forwards on the body, in order to fill the bellows. The opening of a valve brings out a deep humming sound, which forms an ‘unisono’ accompaniment to the air. By this agitation of his whole body, while his fingers were busied on the pipes I have described, Fitzpatrick produced tones which no other instrument could give out. The sight, in which you must picture to yourself the handsome old man with his fine head of snow-white hair, is most original and striking; it is, if I may say so, tragi-comic. His bagpipe was very splendidly adorned, the pipes were of ebony ornamented with silver, the riband embroidered, and the bag covered with flame-coloured silk fringed with silver.
I begged him to play me the oldest Irish airs; wild compositions, which generally begin with a plaintive and melancholy strain like the songs of the Slavonic nations, but end with a jig, the national dance, or with a martial air. One of these melodies gave the lively representation of a fox-hunt, another seemed to me borrowed from the Hunters’ Chorus in the Freischütz; it was five hundred years older. ‘Les beaux esprits se rencontrent dans tous les âges.’
After playing some time, the venerable piper suddenly stopped, and said smiling, with singular grace, “It must be already well known to you, noble Sir, that the Irish bagpipe yields no good tones when sober: it requires the evening, or the stillness of night, joyous company, and the delicious fragrance of steaming whiskey-punch. Permit me, therefore, to take my leave.”
I offered such a present as I thought worthy of this fine old man, whose image will always float before me as a true representative of Irish nationality.
With Fitzpatrick I take my leave of you, dearest Julia, to set out on my return to Dublin, whence I calculate on despatching my next letter to you.
Your faithful L——.
Dublin, October 24th, 1828.
Good and dear Friend,
After leading a half savage life so long, the tameness of the city appears quite strange. I can now imagine the home-sickness of the North American Indians, even the most civilized of whom always return to their woods at last. Freedom has such a matchless charm.
Yesterday, after dinner, I left Cashel, taking Captain S——’s brother in the carriage with me. While daylight lasted we saw at least twenty ruins, far and near. One of the most beautiful stands at the foot of an isolated hill, Killough Hill, called the garden of Ireland, because, according to the popular tradition, every indigenous plant in Ireland is to be found on it. The cause of this unwonted fertility is, that it was formerly the summer residence of the fairy queen, whose gardens bloomed here. The soil still retains some portion of its wondrous virtues. The ruin has likewise one of the mysterious slender round towers without any entrance. Some few of them have an opening or door, not at the bottom, however, but in the middle. It is impossible to conceive a more romantic watch-tower for the fairy hill. The weather was remarkably mild and beautiful, and the full moon so brilliant that I could read with perfect ease in my carriage. We slept, nevertheless, through a great part of the night.
I found a letter from you in Dublin;—a thousand thanks for all the kindness and affection towards me which it contains. Do not be too anxious as to the situation of your friend. Tell her she must act as necessity requires, avert what can be averted, postpone inevitable evil as long as possible, but always bear calmly what is actually present. This at least is my philosophy. Your quotation from Madame de Sevigné amused me extremely. Her letters are certainly extraordinary; repeating the same things, and those trivial enough, though volume after volume; yet by the new turn she continually gives them, always entertaining, sometimes bewitching; depicting court, city and country with equal grace; taking a somewhat affected love for the most insignificant of women as her main theme, yet never wearying: these were certainly conditions which no one but herself could have fulfilled. She is not in the least degree romantic, nor was she, while living, remarkably distinguished; but she is, without question, the best-bred model ‘du ton le plus parfait.’ Without doubt she also possessed ‘good temper’ bestowed by nature, ennobled and refined by art. Art is at least visible throughout; and probably her letters, which she knew were eagerly read by many, were carefully polished, and were calculated as much for society as for her daughter; for the admirable lightness of her style betrays much more of care than the ‘épanchement’ of the moment permits. The representation of the manners of the day has a considerable effect in heightening the interest of the letters, but I doubt whether such letters written now would enjoy equal success. We are become both too serious and too avaricious. ‘Les jolis riens ne suffisentplus.’ We want excitement, and violent excitement. Where a giant like Byron appears, little prettinesses sink into insignificance.
I was just now reading in his works,—for I never travel without them. I fell upon the description of a scene precisely like many I have lately witnessed. In what elevated language did I find my own feelings expressed! I translate it for you as well as I can, in a sort of poetic prose, and as literally as possible:—
Der Himmel wandelt sich!—Welch ein Wechsel! O Nacht—Und Sturm und Finsterniss, wohl seyd ihr wundermächtig!Doch lieblich Eure Macht—dem Lichte gleich,Das aus dem dunklen Aug des Weibes bricht.—WeithinVon Gipfel zu Gipfel, die schmetternden Felsen entlangSpringt der eilende Donner. Nicht die einsame Wolke allein,Jeder Berg hat eine Zunge gefunden,Und Jura sendet durch den Nebelvorhang AntwortZurück, dem lauten Zuruf der jubelnden Alpen.Das ist eine Nacht!—o herrliche Nacht!Du wurdest nicht gesandt für Schlummer. Lass auch michEin Theilnehmer seyn an Deiner wilden, fernhin schallenden FreudeEin Theil vom Sturme—und ein Theil deiner selbst—Wie der See erleuchtet glänzt—gleich dem phosphorischen Meer!Und die vollen Regentropfen—wie sie herabtanzen auf seine Wellen!Und nun wird Alles wieder schwarz—und von neuemHallt der Berge Chorus wieder, in lauter Lust,Als säng’ er Triumph über eines jungen Erdbebens Geburt![145]
Der Himmel wandelt sich!—Welch ein Wechsel! O Nacht—Und Sturm und Finsterniss, wohl seyd ihr wundermächtig!Doch lieblich Eure Macht—dem Lichte gleich,Das aus dem dunklen Aug des Weibes bricht.—WeithinVon Gipfel zu Gipfel, die schmetternden Felsen entlangSpringt der eilende Donner. Nicht die einsame Wolke allein,Jeder Berg hat eine Zunge gefunden,Und Jura sendet durch den Nebelvorhang AntwortZurück, dem lauten Zuruf der jubelnden Alpen.Das ist eine Nacht!—o herrliche Nacht!Du wurdest nicht gesandt für Schlummer. Lass auch michEin Theilnehmer seyn an Deiner wilden, fernhin schallenden FreudeEin Theil vom Sturme—und ein Theil deiner selbst—Wie der See erleuchtet glänzt—gleich dem phosphorischen Meer!Und die vollen Regentropfen—wie sie herabtanzen auf seine Wellen!Und nun wird Alles wieder schwarz—und von neuemHallt der Berge Chorus wieder, in lauter Lust,Als säng’ er Triumph über eines jungen Erdbebens Geburt![145]
Der Himmel wandelt sich!—Welch ein Wechsel! O Nacht—Und Sturm und Finsterniss, wohl seyd ihr wundermächtig!Doch lieblich Eure Macht—dem Lichte gleich,Das aus dem dunklen Aug des Weibes bricht.—WeithinVon Gipfel zu Gipfel, die schmetternden Felsen entlangSpringt der eilende Donner. Nicht die einsame Wolke allein,Jeder Berg hat eine Zunge gefunden,Und Jura sendet durch den Nebelvorhang AntwortZurück, dem lauten Zuruf der jubelnden Alpen.Das ist eine Nacht!—o herrliche Nacht!Du wurdest nicht gesandt für Schlummer. Lass auch michEin Theilnehmer seyn an Deiner wilden, fernhin schallenden FreudeEin Theil vom Sturme—und ein Theil deiner selbst—Wie der See erleuchtet glänzt—gleich dem phosphorischen Meer!Und die vollen Regentropfen—wie sie herabtanzen auf seine Wellen!Und nun wird Alles wieder schwarz—und von neuemHallt der Berge Chorus wieder, in lauter Lust,Als säng’ er Triumph über eines jungen Erdbebens Geburt![145]
Is not that beautiful? What true poetic feeling! What a pity that we have no good translation of his works. Göthe alone were able to give a perfectly satisfactory version of them,—if he were not occupied in creating what equals them in grandeur, and surpasses them in lightness, grace and sweetness.
October 25th.
I called yesterday at the Lord Lieutenant’s house in the Phœnix Park. He invited me to dine with him to-day. The party was brilliant. He is beloved in Ireland for his impartiality, and for the favour he has always shown to the cause of emancipation. His exploits as a general officer are well known, and no man has a more graceful and polished address in society. A more perfect work of art than his false leg I never saw. TheMarquis, although not young, has still a very fine person, and his artificial leg and foot rival the other ‘à s’y méprendre.’ The only thing which betrays it, is some little difficulty in walking. On the whole, I know few Englishmen who have so good a ‘tournure’ as the present Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. When he resides in the city, a very rigid etiquette, like that of a little court, is observed; but in the country he lives like a private gentleman. The power and dignity of a Lord Lieutenant are considerable as representative of the King; but he holds them only at the pleasure of the ministry. Among other privileges he has that of creating Baronets; and in former times inn-keepers, and men even less qualified, have received that dignity. When his functions cease he gains no accession of rank by the past performance of them. His salary during his continuance in office is £50,000 per annum, and a residence free of charge; so that he can very well lay by his own income. This, however, the present Lord Lieutenant does not appear disposed to do: his establishment is very liberal and splendid. He is surrounded too by very interesting men, who unite extreme good breeding with frankness and cordiality, and seem to judge of party questions with moderation and good sense. From what I have said, it may safely be presumed that Lord Anglesea’s residence here will not be of long duration; and indeed I heard some hints to that effect. As he suffers dreadfully from Ticdouloureux, I recommended H—— to him, as a person remarkable for cures of that complaint, and gave his physician the book in which he treats of it. The Marquis said, smiling, “I shall find no difficulty in obtaining leave of absence;” at the same time casting a significant glance on his private secretary. This confirmed me in the surmise I have just expressed. It will be a great calamity for Ireland, who rejoices in the new and unaccustomed blessing of a governor who views the disgusting religious dissensions by which she has so long been torn, with the eye of a philosopher.
Before I drove to the Phœnix Park I attended divine worship in a Catholic chapel. It is a handsome building: the interior is a large oval, with a colonnade of Ionic pillars running round it, surmounted by a beautiful dome, and an excellent alto-relievo in the arched roof above the altar: it represents the Ascension. The figure and expression of our Saviour are peculiarly admirable. The fancy of the artist has placed him before us such as we must imagine him. The Catholics affirm that they possess genuine portraits of Christ. Indeed, in the south of Germany I once saw an advertisement of a collection of genuine portraits of God Almighty.
The chief altar stands quite alone, and is of a simple and beautiful form: it is of white marble, and was made in Italy. The slab on the top and the base are of dark marble. The front façade is divided into three compartments, on the middle is a monstrous pyx of gold bronze, and on each side bas-reliefs of praying angels.
Above, on the centre of the altar, stands a magnificent temple of splendid gems and gold, in which the real pyx is kept, and near it two no less magnificent golden candlesticks. On each side of the altar stands a tripod, supported by angels with folded wings; on the tablet at the top are placed the Host and the wine. The details are executed in the best possible taste, and a grand simplicity reigns through the whole. From the roof hangs a massive silver chain, supporting an antique lamp of the same metal, which is kept perpetually burning. It is certainly one of the most beautiful institutions of the Catholic religion, that some churches stand open day and night to all who long for communion with Heaven. In ItalyI scarcely ever went to rest without visiting one of these; and giving myself up to the wondrous effect produced in the stillness of night by the red fantastic light thrown on the vaulted roof by the few scattered lamps, I never failed to find some solitary figure, kneeling in supplicating reverence before one of the altars, busied only with his God and himself, and utterly unmindful of all that passed around. In one of these churches stood the gigantic statute of St. Christopher, leaning against the middle pillar, and touching the roof with his head. On his shoulders was his heavy burthen, the miraculous child; and in his hand, as a staff, a full-grown trunk of a tree, with fresh green boughs, which were renewed every month. The light of a lamp suspended above, surrounded the infant Christ with a glory, and threw some rays, as if in benediction, upon the pious giant.
When I compare the Catholic service as it is performed here, with that of the English Protestant church, I must unquestionably prefer the former. It may perhaps contain some superfluous ceremonies, some which even border on the burlesque, such as the tossing about of the censers, the continual shifting of dresses, &c.; but still this form of worship has a sort of antique grandeur which imposes and satisfies. The music was excellent; the singers very good, and, which amazingly enhanced the effect, invisible. Some Protestants call this a taint of sensuality; but I cannot discover why the scream of an unmusical Lutheran congregation, which rends one’s ears, should be more pious than good music, executed by people who have been well taught.[146]Even with a view to the contents of the sermon, the comparison was greatly to the advantage of the Catholic church. While the Protestant congregation at Tuam was entertained with miracles, swine, and evil spirits, the discourse here was purely moral and practical. The eloquent preacher had taken envy as his subject, and said among other excellent remarks, “If you would know whether you are entirely free from this crime, so afflicting to humanity, so degrading to the individual who cherishes it,—examine yourselves thoroughly, whether you never experienced an unquiet and dissatisfied feeling at the constant and growing prosperity of another; whether you never felt a slight satisfaction at the tidings that some mischance had happened to a fortunate neighbour? This is a serious inquiry, and few will make it earnestly without advantage.”
The way in which every one reads silently in his prayer-book, while the sublime music elevates the soul, and withdraws it from the earthly and trivial, appears to me far preferable to the loud responses and prayers of the Anglican church. During this interval of silent veneration, little heed is given to the ceremonies, the change of raiment, or the incensing the priests. But even allowing for these slight blemishes, the Catholic church strikes the mind, as a whole, as something congruous and harmonious with itself, and venerable from its antiquity and its consistency: the English Protestant church, on the contrary, as something patch-work, incongruous, and unconnected. In connexion with the German church (of course I mean as it is understood by such men as Krug and Paulus,) these two establishments might be likened to three individuals who were in a magnificent place, affording every variety of enjoyment, and of valuable information; but shut out from God’s sun and his beautiful open creationby a high wall. The first of the three was satisfied with the glitter of the jewels and the light of the tapers, and never cast one wistful glance toward the few chinks in the wall which admitted some glimpse of daylight. The other two were restless and dissatisfied; they felt that there was something still better and fairer abroad, and determined to get over the high wall, cost what it would. Well provided with every thing they thought they should want, they began this great undertaking. They had many perils, many inconveniences to encounter, but at length they reached the top. Here, indeed, they could behold the sun’s radiant countenance, but clouds often concealed it, and the beautiful green of the meadows beneath was often deformed by weeds and thorns, amidst which terrible wild beasts roamed prowling about. But nothing could daunt the second of the three, nor turn him from his enterprise; his intense desire for freedom conquered all fear and all doubt; unhesitatingly, he let himself down into the new world, and as he left every thing behind him that he might be perfectly unimpeded, he soon disappeared within the sacred enclosure. As to the third, he remains still sitting on the wall, between heaven and earth; still living on the food, and delighting in the finery he brought with him from below, and unable to wean himself from it, though the rays of the sun, which now fall uninterrupted on the false tinsel, shows it in all its worthlessness. Like the ass in the fable, he hesitates between the two bundles of hay, without knowing which to prefer. Backward he cannot go, and he has not courage to go forward; the flesh-pots of Canaan detain him where he is—so long as they last.
October 27th.
If I do not choose to make ‘allotria,’ that is to talk of things which have nothing to do with my travels or my residence here, living in the world will make my letters very barren. I could draw out a scheme or formula and have it lithographed, leaving a few blanks to be filledad libitum. For instance, “Rose late, and out of humour. Walked, rode, or drove out to make visits. Dined with Lord——, or Mr.——; dinner good, or bad; conversation, common places. Evening, a tiresome party, rout, ball, or above all, amateur concert. N. B. My ears still ache.” In London, might be added, as a standing remark, “The crowd nearly suffocated me, and the heat was greater than on the highest bench of a Russian vapour bath. Physical exertion to-day =5 degrees (reckoning a fox-hunt at 20,) intellectual profit therefrom =0. Result, ‘Diem perdidi.’”
It is not quite so bad here: in this season the fatigue one has to undergo does not exceed that of a large German town; but there are a great superabundance of invitations which one cannot civilly refuse. For how truly can I say with the English poet, “How various are the feelings of guests in that world which is called great and gay, but which is the most melancholy and tedious of any to those who cannot share in its gaiety!”
October 28th.
I am just returned from a dinner-party, in which there was rather a provincial tone, but no want of pretension. Some things were comical enough; but the worst of it is, one buys a little laughing with such a quantity of ennui. The dinner too was a real ‘mystification’ for a ‘gourmet,’ and the house and park correspond with it.
My propitious star placed me at table next to Lord P——, a celebrated political character, who has taken his stand on the good and noble side,and has remained faithful to the cause of emancipation. It gave me great pleasure to find that his views of things agreed so perfectly with those which I had been led to entertain from my own observations on the spot. One of his expressions struck me by its ‘naïveté.’ I remarked to him, that from what I saw, even emancipation could do little good; for that the real evil was, that the soil was the property of an aristocracy, whose interests would always lead them to reside in England; and above all, the sums which were extorted from the poor Catholics by the Protestant church. So long as this remained unaltered, I saw no hope of any better state of things.
“Yes,” replied he; “but to alterthatis impossible. If the Protestant clergy were deprived of their wealth they would lose all their importance.” “How can that be?” replied I, laughing. “Is it possible that virtue, mild instruction, and pious devotion to the duties of his office, would not ensure to a clergyman, even of the highest rank, more respect with a moderate income than immoderate luxury; or are 20,000l.a-year really necessary ‘to make a Bishop or Archbishop appear decently in society?’” “My dear Sir,” answered Lord P——, “such a thing may exist and maintain itself abroad, but will never do in Old England, where, above all, money, andmuch money, is required and necessary to obtain respectability and consideration.” This remark was not applied to the aristocracy; but it is not the less true that money is essential to its very existence, although it now affects, with no little display of haughtiness, to estimate noble birth far above mere wealth.
Lady M——, who was present, entertained the company as usual by her wit. She amused me with some diverting anecdotes * * *
* * * * * * *
It is remarkable, that in no country does one meet half so many old maids as in England; and very frequently they are rich. Their excessive pride of wealth, which leads them to think no rank and greatness sufficient for them, or the exaggerated romantic notions in which they are brought up, are the causes of this phenomenon. English girls insist on being loved entirely and solely for themselves. French women make no such pretension, judging rightly enough, that this devoted affection will grow out of marriage, where there are the qualities fitted to produce it; and that where these do not exist, it will notendure, whatever the lover may say or believe to the contrary. The English, like true Turks, keep the intellects of their wives and daughters in as narrow bounds as possible, with a view of securing their absolute and exclusive property in them as much as possible, and in general their success is perfect.[147]A foreigner serves as an amusement, a plaything to Englishwomen, but always inspires them with some degree of fear and reserve. It is extremely rare for them to bestow as much of their confidence upon him as upon a countryman.They regard him as a half atheist, or a superstitious worshipper of Baal, and sometimes amuse themselves with attempting to convert him. I do not speak here of the London Exclusives; they give the same result as the rubbing together of all colours,—none remains.
October 29th.
The beautiful weather tempted me out into the country. I rode about the whole day, and saw two fine seats, Malahide and Howth. They have one peculiarity in common; both have remained for nine hundred years in the possession of the same family, which no English seat that I have seen or heard of can boast. Malahide has also an historical interest, for it belongs to the Talbots; and the armour of the celebrated warrior, with the mark of a blow from a partisan on the breast is preserved here. One-half of the castle is extremely old, the other was demolished by Cromwell, and rebuilt in the antique style. In the former part they showed me chairs five hundred years old, and a room in which the rich ‘boiserie,’ the carved ceiling and the floor, all of black oak, had remained unchanged for seven hundred years. The new part contains many interesting pictures.
There is a portrait of the Duchess of Portsmouth, so lovely that I almost envied Charles the Second even in his grave, the glory of making her a Duchess. An old picture of Mary Stuart, although represented at an advanced period of her life, confirmed me in my conviction of the resemblance of the portrait of this unfortunate and beautiful queen, which I saw in the County Wicklow. I looked with interest at a scene at the court of Madrid, with a portrait of the king seated in great solemnity in a scarlet robe; Charles the First, as Prince of Wales, dancing rather ‘légèrement,’ a minuet with the Infanta; and the gay, seducing Buckingham magnificently dressed, and paying assiduous court to one of the ladies of honour.
Howth Castle, belonging to the St. Lawrence family, and inhabited by Lord Howth, who is no absentee, has been more modernized, and with no happy effect. The Grecian portico accords but ill with the small Gothic windows and the high gables. Here likewise the sword and armour of a celebrated ancestor with a romantic name is carefully preserved. He was called Sir Armoricus Tristram, and in the year 1000 gave battle to the Danes on this spot, and I think lost his life. The antique stables were full of noble hunters: Lord Howth’s hounds are also very celebrated. On my return I went to the theatre, where Ducrow, the English Franconi, ennobles his art by his admirable representation of animated statues. This is a high enjoyment to a lover of art, and far surpasses the ‘Tableaux’ which are in such favour on the continent. When the curtain draws up, you see a motionless statue on a lofty pedestal in the centre of the stage. This is Ducrow; and it is hardly credible how an elastic dress can fit so exquisitely and so perfectly represent marble, only here and there broken by a bluish vein. He appeared first as the Hercules Farnese. With the greatest skill and precision he then gradually quitted his attitude from one gradation to another, of display of strength; but at the moment in which he presented a perfect copy of the most celebrated statues of antiquity, he suddenly became fixed as if changed to marble. Helmet, sword, and shield, were now given to him, and transformed him in a moment into the wrathful Achilles, Ajax, and other Homeric heroes. Then came the Discobolus and others, all equally perfect and true. The last was the attitude of the fighting Gladiator, succeeded by a masterlyrepresentation of the dying Gladiator. This man must be an admirable model for painters and sculptors: his form is faultless, and he can throw himself into any attitude with the utmost ease and grace. It struck me how greatly our unmeaning dancing might be ennobled, if something like what I have described were introduced, instead of the absurd and vulgar hopping and jumping with which we are now entertained. It gave me pain to see this fine artist, (for he certainly merits no less a name,) ride nine horses at once, in the character of a Chinese sorcerer; drive twelve at once in that of a Russian courier; and lastly, go to bed with a poney dressed as an old woman.
I must now bid you good night, and good-bye for some days. To-morrow morning early this letter will go by post.
Your faithful L——.
Dublin, October 30th, 1828.
Dearest Julia,
Oh what reproaches! However, three letters at once are a compensation for every thing. I read the news from home till I nearly appeased my appetite for it, and can hardly express my gratitude to you * * *
* * * * * * *
You are indeed right; such an ally as you would be of great use to me. Governess Prose would have kept Poetry better within bounds; and the boy who never grows old, and whose nature it is to play with gay soap-bubbles, would perhaps, under the guidance of a sage Mentor, have tried to pluck some more solid earthly fruit, instead of grasping at the rainbow balls. ‘Mais tout ce qui est, est pour le mieux!’ Let us never forget this axiom. Voltaire was wrong to turn it into jest; and Panglos was really in the right. This persuasion can alone console us under all afflictions; and for myself, I confess it is the essence of my religion.
Your letter No. I. is wisdom and goodness itself: but, dear Julia, as far as the former is concerned, it is powder and shot thrown away upon me. I am too much—what shall I call it?—a man of feeling and impulse, and shall never be wise,i. e.prudent in a worldly sense. But I am so much the more accessible to kindness,—yours only excepted; the measure of which is already so full and overflowing, that not a drop more can find entrance into my heart. With this full heart you must once for all be satisfied; your poor friend can give you no more. But is it possible that you can find room for fears that these two years of absence can have changed me towards you? that I may no longer find in you what I formerly found,—and so on. Do you know what the English would call this?—‘Nonsense.’ That I can wish nothing more intensely than to see you again, my unwearied correspondence might surely convince you; but you quite forget that * * *
* * * * * * *
How often have I told you that I am not suited to the world! My defects as well as my merits, nay even the intellectual character which you imagine you find in me, are only so many stumbling-blocks in my way. A man who is intelligent, somewhat poetical, good-natured and sincere, is commonly awkward and ill at ease in every-day society. Like all those,—to use the words of an English writer,—whose feelings and affections paralyzetheir advantages, I do not find out till too late what was the prudent and discreet course: “an artless disposition,” continues the Englishman, “which is ill adapted to enter the lists with the cunning and the cold selfishness of the world.” I know a distinguished man, a hundredfold my superior, who in this respect is in the same predicament, and who continually laments that he has been transformed from a poet into a statesman. “I ought to have ended my life as I began it,” said he; “wandering about the world unknown, and rejoicing undisturbed in the beauty and grandeur of God’s works; or remote from men, shut up in my study, alone with my books, my fancy, and my faithful dog.”[148]
Oct. 31st.
I spent a very pleasant evening to-day at Lady M——’s. The company was small, but amusing, and enlivened by the presence of two very pretty friends of our hostess, who sang in the best Italian style. I talked a great deal with Lady M—— on various subjects, and she has talent and feeling enough always to excite a lively interest in her conversation. On the whole, I think I did not say enough in her favour in my former letter; at any rate, I did not then know one of her most charming qualities,—that of possessing two such pretty relatives.
The conversation fell upon her works, and she asked me how I liked her Salvator Rosa? “I have not read it,” replied I; “because,” (I added by way of excusing myself, ‘tant bien que mal,’) “I like your fictions so much, that I did not choose to read any thing historical from the pen of the most imaginative of romance writers.” “O, that is only a romance,” said she; “you may read it without any qualms of conscience.” “Very well,” thought I; “probably that will apply to your travels too,”—but this I kept to myself. “Ah,” said she, “believe me, it is only ennui that sets my pen in motion; our destiny in this world is such a wretched one that I try to forget it in writing.” (Probably the Lord Lieutenant had not invited her, or some other great personage had failed in his engagement to her, for she was quite out of spirits.) “What a fearful puzzle is this world,” said she: “Is there a presiding Power or not? And if there be one, and he were malevolent! what a horrible idea!” “But in Heaven’s name,” replied I, “how can a woman of sense, like you,—forgive me,—utter such nonsense?” “Ah, I know well enough all that you can say on that subject,” said she; “certainly, no man can give me.” This obscurity in a most acute mind was unintelligible to me, even in a woman. (‘Ne vous en fachez pas, Julie!’)
Lady M——’s husband, formerly a physician, now a philosopher and author, and what the French call ‘un bon homme,’ affecting moreover the man of taste and judgment, gave me a book of his, containing a thoroughly materialist system of philosophy: there are, however, some good things in it, and it has altogether more merit than I should have expected from the author. I was busied in reading it half the night. From the unconnected and daring character of the whole, I however concluded either that Lady M—— had written a considerable portion of it herself, or at least that these views of things had thrown her mind into such a state of doubt and confusion, that she had actually imagined the question whether God mightnot possibly be malevolent. Your celebrated people are but men like others, Heaven knows!—scholars and statesmen, philosophers and poets. At every acquaintance of this sort that I make, I think of Oxenstierna, who, when his young son expressed some hesitation and diffidence as to the part he should play at the Congress of Münster in the presence of so many great and wise men, replied with a smile, “Ah, my son, depart in peace, and see by what manner of men the world is governed!”
Nov. 1st.
‘Les Catholiques me font la cour ici.’ The * * * sent me word through his wife, that as I was a lover of their church music, I should go to their chapel to-day, where the choir would be remarkably full and good, and he himself was to perform the service. I heard indeed some magnificent vocal music, (in which female voices took part,) accompanied only by some few notes of a powerful organ. It was a high enjoyment—this sublime music, which filled the soul with a fulness of delight, and raised it on its soft wings above the cares of this lower world, while the whole congregation knelt in reverent supplication.
You will begin to think, dear Julia, that I intend to imitate the Duke of C——, and turn Catholic. And to say the truth, the motives which lead to such a change do not appear to me wholly absurd. Protestantism,—such Protestantism as we commonly find,—is not a whit more rational, and far less poetical and attractive to the senses. I am fully persuaded, however, that a new Luther or a new Messiah is at hand, and will help us through all our difficulties and doubts: then we shall not need to cast a look behind us;—till then, I can quite imagine that many may find more consistency, at least, in the Catholic faith. It is no imperfect half-idolatry, but perfect and consistent,—a ladder descending from heaven to earth, whose last steps are those deified creatures, those kind sympathizing saints of both sexes, who are so near to us, and who know so well our human wishes, emotions, and passions! * * *
* * * * * * *
When the priest and the acolytes toss about the censers; when the bishop every minute puts on a fresh embroidered garment,—now standing still before the altar, now running forwards, then backwards, then touching the ground with his forehead, and at length turning himself about like a weather-cock with the pyx, and then keeping his eyes fixed upon it as upon a microscope,—I am perfectly prepared to hear any of the miracles, wonders, or monstrous absurdities with which religion has been overlaid. But when a man in simple garb, and quiet reasonable appearance, gets up and speaks to me of patience, of purity, of eternal truth and eternal love, and then goes on to ascribe to the God of justice and of love, and to his noblest and purest interpreter on earth, fables and atrocities which shock every sound and unperverted understanding, and then requires me to receive them as something holy and divine,—I turn disgusted from such hypocrisy or such folly. A bigot may reply, Your sound understanding is no measure for the ways or the works of God. To which I answer, ButyourGod is a human being; and our understanding and our reason, with our knowledge of external nature, and the experience thence derived, are the only true and genuine revelation of God, of which we are all sharers and which no one can doubt. Man is so formed by nature, that it is his inevitable destiny for ever to carry on through these means his own education, for ever to advance in the career of improvement.Thus Christianity was a consequence of this progressive civilization; as were at an earlier period the Mosaic law, and at a later the Reformation, and its second act the French Revolution. Its latest results are the universal liberty of thought and of printing which have sprung from the latter event, and all that is now preparing by their more tranquil but so much the more certain operation. In every case we find only the results of the same gradual civilization. No man can know the highest point which this civilization will reach; but be that point what it may, it must always retain its human character, and be furthered by human means.
November 2d.
My last and longest visit this morning was to the sweet girls I met at Lady M——’s. I took them some Italian music, which they sang like nightingales, and with a total absence of all pretension and all affectation. Their father is a distinguished physician; and like most of the ‘doctors’ of eminence here, a ‘Baronet’ or ‘Knight,’ a title which is not esteemed a mark of nobility in England, although some families of great antiquity and consideration bear it. There are, however, Creti and Pleti, as among our lower nobility. A Baronet is generally called not by his family, but by his Christian name; as Sir Charles, Sir Anthony; as in Vienna they say, Graf Tinterle, Kürst Muckerle, and so on. The medical Knight of whom I now speak, received his title in consequence of the establishment of excellent baths, and is a very interesting man. His wife seemed to me still more remarkable for talent. She is very superior to her celebrated relative in accurate tact and judgment, and possesses an extraordinary power of mimicry, whose comic bent does not always spare her own family. The daughters, though perfectly different, are both very original; the one in the gentle, the other in the wild ‘genre.’ I always call her Lady M——’s ‘wild Irish girl.’ All three have a characteristic nationality,[149]and indeed have never quitted Ireland.
In the evening Lady M—— told me that the translations of her works, which were often so bad as to destroy the sense, were a source of great vexation to her. In her Letters on Italy for instance, where she says of the Genoese, “They bought the scorn of all Europe,” the translator read forscorn,corn, and wrote, ‘Gênes dans ce temps achetait tout le blé de l’Europe.’
November 3d.
I rose early, and went to the window, when a genuine Irish scene presented itself to my eyes; such a one as no other country can show. Opposite to me in the street sat an old woman selling apples, and smoking her pipe with great satisfaction. Nearer to the house a man in a ragged dress was performing all sorts of antics, assisted by his monkey. A regular ring of people, four or five deep, surrounded him, and at every fresh trick there was a loud shout, accompanied by such ‘demonstrations,’ cries and gesticulations, that you would have thought they were quarrelling, and would soon get to blows. The recommencement of the acting,however, immediately caused a deathlike stillness. But now the most lively person of the audience could not be satisfied to remain a mere spectator; she must take a part in the action; and with uncontrollable gaiety sprang into the magic circle, seized the terrified monkey, and outdid him in antics, leaps, and grimaces of every kind, which were rewarded by the redoubled shouts and laughter of the multitude. The rage for acting grew infectious; many joined the first actress; the order which had hitherto prevailed became more and more lost in wild confusion; the original performer, anxious for the safety of his ally the monkey, or fearful lest he should be corrupted by bad example, broke hastily off. His retreat soon assumed the air of a hurried flight; the whole crowd rushed, screaming and shouting, after him; every one tried to be close at his heels, some jeered at him, and several shilelahs, which pleasure had till now kept sheathed, came to view. Others took the part of the fleeing artist, who meanwhile disappeared; and before they knew what they were about, the pursuit ended in a universal battle among the pursuers.
A bachelor’s dinner at Lord S——’s, at which I was present, closed my day nearly as tumultuously, though not quite so violently, and kept me awake till midnight. ‘Voilà tout ce que j’ai à vous conter d’au-jourdhui.’
November 6th.
I spend a great deal of my time with the little nightingales, see Lady M—— frequently, and avoid general society as much as I can. The young ladies keep a burlesque journal, in which they write a chronicle of their daily ‘fata,’ illustrated with the most extravagant drawings, which is infinitely diverting. After that we sing, talk, or act pictures, in which the mother, with her talent for the drama, contrives admirable dresses out of the most heterogeneous materials. You would have laughed if you had seen the ‘wild Irish girl,’ with moustaches and whiskers marked with charcoal, pocket-handkerchief and stick in her hand, come in as my caricature. These girls have an inexhaustible fund of grace and vivacity, extremely un-English, but truly Irish.
The eldest, who is eighteen, has brown eyes, and hair of a most singular kind and expression, the latter has a sort of deep golden hue without being red, and in the former is a tranquil humid glow, over which comes at times a perfectly red light like that of fire; but yet it always remains only an intense glow, not a lightning-flash like that which often glances from the eyes of the little wild girl. With her, all is flame; and under her maidenly blushes there often breaks out the determination and high spirit of a boy. Indiscreet, and carried away by the impulse of the moment, she sometimes gives way to too great vivacity, which, however, from her sweet simplicity and inimitable grace, does but enhance the charm which distinguishes her. To-day when my carriage was announced, I exclaimed with a sigh, “Ah, que cette voiture vient mal à propos!” “Eh bien,” cried she, with the perfect air of a little hussar, (she was still in male costume,) “envoyez la au diable.” A very severe and reproving look from her mamma, and one of terror from her gentle sister, covered all of her little face, that was not concealed by her disguise, over and over with scarlet: she cast down her eyes ashamed, and looked indescribably pretty.
Nov. 17th.
Lady M—— received me to-day in her authoress-boudoir, where I found her writing, not without some view to effect, elegantly dressed, and with a mother-of-pearl and gold pen in her hand. She was employed on a new book, for which she had invented a very good title, “Memoirs of Myself and for Myself.” She asked me whether she should put ‘of myself’ or ‘for myself’ first. I decided for the former as the more natural order; for I observed she mustwrite, before she canhave written. Upon this we fell into a sportive contest, in which she reproached me with my German pedantry, and maintained that hitherto ‘bonnet blanc’ and ‘blanc bonnet’ had been the same; the justice of which I was obliged to admit. The motto she had chosen was from Montaigne, ‘Je n’enseigne pas, je raconte.’ She read me some passages, which I thought very good. This woman, who appears so superficial, is quite another being when she takes the pen in her hand.
She told me that she intended to go next winter to Paris, and wished to go on into Germany, but that she had a great dread of the Austrian police. I advised her to go to Berlin. “Shall not I be persecuted there?” said she. “God forbid!” rejoined I: “in Berlin talent is worshipped: only I advise you to take at least one of your pretty young friends, who is fond of dancing and dances well, so that you may be invited to the balls at court, and may thus have an opportunity of becoming acquainted with our amiable and accomplished young military men: they are well worth knowing, and you may not find any other way of being introduced to them.” At this moment her husband entered, and begged me to get his philosophical work translated into German, that he might not figure there only as aide-de-camp to his wife, but fly with his own wings. I promised all he wished; but observed that a new prayer-book would have a better chance of success at the present day than a new system of philosophy, of which we had enough already.
In the evening I took a box in the Equestrian theatre for the young ladies, who go out very little. Their ‘naif’ delight at the varied skill of the riders was most charming to witness. The little one never turned her eyes for a moment from Ducrow’s terrific feats; she trembled all over with anxiety and eagerness, and kept her hands fast clenched the whole time.
There was a child of wonderful beauty in the company, just seven years old, who danced on horseback, performed a variety of parts with uncommon grace, and especially that of Napoleon, in which the tiny girl mimicked the abrupt manners of the Emperor most divertingly, and was rewarded by thunders of applause. My young friends wished to have a nearer view of her, and I accordingly went behind the scenes, where she was just undressed, and stood naked as a little Cupid before the looking-glass. Her part was finished for the night; and as soon as she was dressed again I took her in my arms, and brought ‘l’enfant prodige,’ as she was called in the bills, in triumph to the box. After the first caresses were over, the little creature was the most attentive spectator of the performance among us, though one might have thought she had enough of it every day. Only a paper of sweetmeats which I gave her had power to distract her attention for a few minutes. She sat for some time on the lap of the elder Miss ——, who put her down rather suddenly, and accidentally scratched the child’s arm against a pin in her dress, so as to draw blood. We were all afraid she would cry; but the miniatureNapoleon was only angry, beat the offender as hard as she could, and cried out indignantly, “Fy, for shame, you stung me like a bee!” With that she sprung on the lap of the younger, laid her little arms over the edge of the box, and fixed her eyes again with undisturbed attention on the Siege of Saragossa. Between the acts Lady C——, to whom I had related the laughable mistake concerning me in Limerick, told her I was Napoleon’s son. She turned quickly round, looked at me fixedly for a while, and then exclaimed with the most serious ‘grandezza,’ “O, I have played your father very often, and always gained uncommon applause by it.” Thus natural, droll, and completely free from embarrassment, the little thing captivated us all: and we saw with regret the end of the performance approaching—the signal for us to part with her. She would not let anybody but me carry her down, because I had brought her up. When we arrived behind the scenes, where every place was filled with horses, I scarcely knew how we should get through. She cried out eagerly, while she slapped my arm impatiently with her little velvet hand, “Come, are you afraid? only do you go on, I’ll keep the horses in order;” and so saying she distributed to the right and left, blows on the noses of her old acquaintances, who obediently made way for us to pass. “Now set me down!” said she; and scarcely did her feet touch the ground, when with the swiftness of a little hare she flew across the back part of the stage, and vanished in the crowd. Children are certainly the most graceful of all creatures when they are not crippled and distorted by education: seldom, however, does so much genuine nature appear on the stage, yet seldomer perhaps on the theatre of the great world.
Nov. 18th.
I forgot to mention to you that I have met O’Connell again here. I heard him speak at the meetings of the Catholic Association, the present Irish Parliament, which I visited to-day for the second time. I was received, as a well-disposed foreigner, with applause, and O’Connell immediately made room for me between himself and Lord C——. The room is not very large, and as dirty as the English House of Commons. Here too every man keeps his hat on, except while he is speaking: here too are good and bad orators; but certainly occasionally less dignified manners than there. The heat was suffocating, and I had to sit out five hours; but the debate was so interesting that I scarcely remarked the annoyances. O’Connell was undoubtedly the best speaker. Although idolized by the greater number, he was severely attacked by several, and defended himself with equal address and moderation: on the other hand, he assailed the Government without reserve; and in my opinion in too strong expressions. It was easy to perceive that much intrigue and several firmly united parties, whose minds were made up beforehand, were to be found here, as in other bodies of the like kind, and consequently that the discussion was often only a sort of sham-fight. The leaders at least had however studied their parts well. The three most prominent speakers are O’Connell, Shiel, and Lawless. Mr. Fin and Mr. Ford also spoke well, and with great dignity of manner. Shiel is a man of the world, and has even more ease in society than O’Connell: but as a speaker he appeared to me too affected, too artificial; and all he said, too muchgot up; his manner was theatrical, and there was no real feeling in the ‘delivery’ of his speech, as the English expressively call it. I am not surprised that,in spite of his undoubted talents, he is so much less popular than O’Connell. Both are very vain, but the vanity of O’Connell is more frank, more confiding, and sooner satisfied; that of Shiel, irritable, sore, and gloomy. The one is therefore, with reference to his own party, steeped in honey; the other in gall; and the latter, though contending for the same cause, is evidently jealous of his colleague, whom he vainly thinks to surpass. Mr. L——s is the Don Quixote of the Association. His fine head and white hair, his wild but noble dignity, and his magnificent voice, excite an expectation of something extraordinary when he rises: but the speech, which commences in an earnest tone, soon falls into the most incredible extravagancies, and sometimes into total absurdity, in which friend and foe are assailed with equal fury. He is therefore little heeded; laughed at when he rages like King Lear, unmindful of his audience, and of all that is passing around him. The dominant party, however, use him to make a noise when they want him. To-day he outdid himself to such a degree in the flight he took, that he suddenly erected the standard of Deism in the midst of the Catholic, arch-Catholic Association. Perhaps, indeed, this was only done to give occasion to O’Connell to call him indignantly to order, and to bring in a pious tirade; for on the orator’s rostrum as on the tub, on the throne as in the puppet-show booth, clap-traps are necessary.