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Sheffield (United Kingdom) (search for this): chapter 22
iefly under it. . . . . September 28.—We intended to have left Wentworth House this morning, and, passing the day at Sheffield, about ten miles off, have proceeded on our journey to-morrow; but I found Lord Fitzwilliam had invited Montgomery, themall man, above sixty-five years old, rather feeble and sensitive, but good, kind, and benevolent, and greatly loved in Sheffield, where he has lived many years. He is a Moravian, and much interested in what relates to his sect and to Christianity.hatever he says, so that I was quite glad to talk with him. He told me, among other things, that Chantrey was born near Sheffield; that he knew him as quite a young man before he went to London; that he began in the country as a portrait-painter, anrly period. He told me, too, a good deal about Elliott, the author of the Corn Law rhymes, who is in the iron-trade at Sheffield, and who, it seems, has been these thirty years trying to obtain notice as a poet, but never succeeding until lately.
Keswick (United Kingdom) (search for this): chapter 22
venerable father and excellent, gentle, matronly mother, a group which leaves such a kindly and harmonious impression on the mind as we are always glad to cherish there. . . . Bidding farewell to the Wordsworths and the Fletchers, we drove on to Keswick. Keswick, September 3.—We came here by invitation to pass the evening with Southey, but we accepted the invitation with some hesitation, for Mrs. Southey has been several months hopelessly deranged, and is supposed now to be sinking away. . .Keswick, September 3.—We came here by invitation to pass the evening with Southey, but we accepted the invitation with some hesitation, for Mrs. Southey has been several months hopelessly deranged, and is supposed now to be sinking away. . .. . He received us very kindly, but was much moved when he showed me his only son, and reminded me that I had last seen him hardly three weeks old, in his cradle in the same room. . . . . Southey was natural and kind, but evidently depressed, much altered since I saw him fifteen years ago, a little bent, and his hair quite white. He showed me the materials for his edition of Cowper and the beginning of the Life; the last work, he says, he shall ever do for the booksellers. Among the materi
Cambria (United Kingdom) (search for this): chapter 22
did not cease until the death of Mrs. Edgeworth, the survivor of the two, in 1865. on our return from the Continent, and make them a longer visit. At half past 10 this morning, after lingering at the breakfast-table longer than we ought to have done, we left them. The roads are good, the post well served, so that we reached Dublin —sixty-five English miles—in eight hours and a quarter. September 1, 1835. The interval since the last extract had been filled by a charming journey in North Wales, including visits to Mr. J. Taylor and the Miss Luxmoors of St. Asaph's.—At Ambleside we found a kind note from Wordsworth, inviting us to come directly to him. I walked there as soon as I had refreshed myself a little. . . . . I found it, as I anticipated, a house of trouble. Mrs. Wordsworth's sister died a few weeks ago; Mr. Wordsworth's sister—a person of much talent—lies at the point of death, and his daughter is suffering under the spine complaint, though likely to recover. But
Portugal (Portugal) (search for this): chapter 22
ion of Cowper and the beginning of the Life; the last work, he says, he shall ever do for the booksellers. Among the materials was the autograph manuscript of John Gilpin, and many letters .. . . . He read us, too, about three cantos of his Oliver Newman,—the poem on American ground,—some of it fine, but the parts intended to be humorous in very bad taste. He showed me as many curious and rare manuscripts and books as I could look at, and told me that he means now to finish his history of Portugal and Portuguese literature; and if possible write a history of the Monastic Orders. If he does the last, it will be bitter enough. He says he has written no Quarterly Review for two years, and means to write no more; that reviews have done more harm than good, etc. In politics I was surprised to find him less desponding than Wordsworth, though perhaps more excited. He says, however, that Ireland will not be tranquillized without bloodshed, admits that Sir Robert Peel is not a great man,
Charles Waterton (search for this): chapter 22
ppointment, and added to every interest and enjoyment in the next two days by his delightful union of talent, simplicity, quaint humor, and most winning kindliness. Mr. Gaskell had been Member of Parliament for Malden, and his son at this time represented Shropshire. The whole family were rich in cultivation, refinement, and hospitality, and the establishment elegant and luxurious. Immediately after lunch [on the first day] Mrs. Gaskell carried us to the house of that strange person, Mr. Waterton, whose Wanderings in South America excited so much remark a few years ago. He is an anomaly; a thorough Catholic, and holding the most despotic theories of government, yet a radical at home, in order to overturn everything now existing in England; living a large part of his time in the woods, with the habits and the sharpened instincts of a savage, and yet with a fine, comfortable, English establishment, full of servants and luxuries; a man of an old family and large hereditary property
eeply into this projecting collar, the effect was by no means good at first. However, he is very agreeable in conversation, and much in earnest in whatever he says, so that I was quite glad to talk with him. He told me, among other things, that Chantrey was born near Sheffield; that he knew him as quite a young man before he went to London; that he began in the country as a portrait-painter, and showed great skill in drawing but no power of coloring; and that he—Montgomery-had a portrait of himself painted by Chantrey at this early period. He told me, too, a good deal about Elliott, the author of the Corn Law rhymes, who is in the iron-trade at Sheffield, and who, it seems, has been these thirty years trying to obtain notice as a poet, but never succeeding until lately. Montgomery represents him—as might have been anticipated—to be a person with much talent and tenderness, mixed up with great rudeness, passion, and prejudice. After dinner the children danced and frolicked in the <
John Campbell (search for this): chapter 22
poetry he analyzed with great truth and acuteness, considering it as the fresh and unidealized expression of the most beautiful of merely human feelings and affections, in the better parts of it, and in this view of unrivalled merit. He described to us his last sad visit to Scott, just as he was setting off for Naples, broken down in mind and body, and conscious of it; for when his two last stories were mentioned, he said, Don't speak of them; they smell of apoplexy. And he talked about Campbell, the reviewers, and their effect on his own reputation, etc., all in the most kindly and frank spirit, describing to us The Recluse, his unpublished poem, and repeating, in illustration of his opinions, passages from his own works, in his peculiarly sonorous recitative. The drive of fifteen miles and the visit seemed short, and soon after my return home I rejoined him at Rydal Mount and passed an extremely agreeable evening with him again, which he again ended by accompanying me back to A
Rivaulx Abbey (search for this): chapter 22
of Lord Fitzwilliam at Wentworth House. The arrival of the royal party at the race-ground was a brilliant sight, with the turnout of Lord Fitzwilliam's many splendid carriages, all with six or four horses and outriders, and escorted by a body of forty of his manly-looking tenants; and when the Princess was seated in front of the Grand Stand, the upturned faces of the immense crowd that welcomed her made another impressive sight. The descriptions of these scenes, and of Castle Howard, Rivaulx Abbey, and other interesting spots, must be set aside to make room for visits at pleasant country-houses. First comes Mulgrave Castle, where, by Lord Mulgrave's invitation, given at Dublin, the party were received by Mr. and Mrs. Edward Villiers, Mrs. Edward Villiers was a sister of Lady Mulgrave, and Mr. Villiers a brother of Mrs. Lister, a highly intellectual person, with large and pleasant resources in belles-lettres knowledge, whom, says Mr. Ticknor, I thought quite equal to any of the
Oliver Newman (search for this): chapter 22
hardly three weeks old, in his cradle in the same room. . . . . Southey was natural and kind, but evidently depressed, much altered since I saw him fifteen years ago, a little bent, and his hair quite white. He showed me the materials for his edition of Cowper and the beginning of the Life; the last work, he says, he shall ever do for the booksellers. Among the materials was the autograph manuscript of John Gilpin, and many letters .. . . . He read us, too, about three cantos of his Oliver Newman,—the poem on American ground,—some of it fine, but the parts intended to be humorous in very bad taste. He showed me as many curious and rare manuscripts and books as I could look at, and told me that he means now to finish his history of Portugal and Portuguese literature; and if possible write a history of the Monastic Orders. If he does the last, it will be bitter enough. He says he has written no Quarterly Review for two years, and means to write no more; that reviews have done m
Auguste Stael (search for this): chapter 22
thtown, the old priests have been removed, and Jesuits placed in their stead. After lunch,—there is only one service in the church,—Miss Edgeworth showed me a good many curious letters from Dumont,— one in particular, giving an account of Madame de Stael's visit, in 1813, to Lord Lansdowne at Bowood, for a week, when Mackintosh, Romilly, Schlegel, Rogers, and a quantity more of distinguished people were there; but Miss Edgeworth declined, not feeling apparently willing to live in a state of continual exhibition for so long a time. It was, however, very brilliant, and was most brilliantly described by Dumont. One thing amused me very much. Madame de Stael, who had just been reading the Tales of Fashionable Life,—then recently published,—with great admiration, said to Dumont of Miss Edgeworth: Vraiment elle était digne de l'enthousiasme, mais elle se perd dans votre triste utilitye. It seemed to delight Miss Edgeworth excessively, and it was to show me this that she looked u
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