my dear
Hillard,—I do not delay one moment to acknowledge the receipt of your touching letter, communicating the intelligence of the death of your dear child.
1 Would that these lines could go to you as swiftly as my sympathy!
I sorrow with you from the bottom of my heart, and I fear that the lightsome letters which I have written latterly, all unconscious of your bereavement, may have seemed to flout your grief.
I have been rejoicing while you have been sad; I have been passing, with joy lighting my steps, from one pleasant abode to another, while you have been sitting still in the house of mourning.
Would that I could have shaken to you some of the superflux of happiness which has been my lot, and received upon my abler shoulders something of that burden under which I fear you may faint!
I opened your letter this morning, by the faint light of dawn, on my arrival from
Holkham,—after a long night's journey.
I knew, of course, the familiar hand, and hurriedly broke the seal to get those tidings of my friends, which, amidst all that has befallen me, come like refreshing airs.
I pitied you and your wife; but rejoiced when I read that she bore her loss with calmness.
It is hardly for me to whisper consolation to you. Though not unconscious of sorrow myself, I have never yet felt such a bereavement as yours; I cannot, therefore, speak with the authority of suffering.
But I can well imagine that, even to you, desolate as you are, there may be society of the richest kind in the cherished image of that dear creature, whose body has been taken from you,—in the recollection of his expanding faculties, his tender smiles, and, above all, his unsullied purity of soul.
Think of him where he is, his own pure spirit mingling with the greatness and goodness that have been called away before him, nor finding aught purer or more
[
12]
acceptable than itself.
And has he not escaped toils and trials, which would perhaps—if he had lived to encounter them—have made him mourn that he was born?
These are stale topics, which will not, I fear, reach the depths of your sorrow.
Let me, however, urge you to renounce, as a false indulgence, what I would call the luxury of grief.
Think with gladness that God has cast such a sunbeam across your path, though for a short time, and followed by clouds and darkness; and be consoled by calling to mind the present bliss of your boy, and your own sterling performance of the duties of a father. . . . I feel ashamed almost to have written what I have; it is all so tame, and commonplace, and unsatisfactory.
But you have poured out your heart in that most beautiful letter; and I could not rest easy till I had tendered you my sympathy in that way and language which, for the moment, has seemed most appropriate.
Let me know that you are calm and happy, and believe me, with new ardor,
Affectionately yours,
my dear
Judge,—Once more in
London, this mighty concentration of human energies, wishes, disappointments, joys, and sorrows!
Its vastness is inconceivable and untold.
I last wrote you from Wentworth House, the proud seat of Lord Fitzwilliam.
Since then I have passed over a considerable tract of country,—have seen York Minster, so venerable for its antiquity, so rich in Gothic ornament, and perambulated the walls of that ancient city; visited
Hull on the eastern coast of
England, seen the brass statue of William III.
on horseback, which adorns its principal square, crossed the broad
Humber while a hurricane was blowing, and driven by the storm sought shelter for the first time in my life in the inside of the coach,—to my joy and astonishment found that I could bear the confinement without sickness,—and arrived at
Boston.
How I thrilled when I saw a guide-board on the road pointing ‘to
Boston!’
But I did not find that neat, trim, well-ordered place which I had always known under that name.
They were engaged in their
caucuses for municipal elections; and I was curious to go to the meetings of both parties.
They were in different inns; the tables were covered with long pipes and mugs, and the village politicians were puffing and discussing and sipping their porter, in a style that would make a very good caricature print in the book illustrative of English manners and society, which I shall
not write!
I went to the venerable
Guildhall; penetrated even to its kitchen, and inspected the spit, now rusty in these days of reform, on which for generations had revolved the meats that were to make glad the stomachs of the fathers of the town.
From
Boston went to
Lynn, an ancient and commercial place of about fourteen thousand inhabitants, passing over the spot where King John lost his baggage, and over the
Wash. . . .
[
13]
Arrived at
Holkham, the superb seat of Lord Leicester, better known as
Mr. Coke.
After four days at
Holkham, where were Lords Spencer and
Ebrington,
2 Edward Ellice,
3 &c., got into the mail which drives through Lord Leicester's park, rode inside all night, and this morning arrived in
London.
Now for Westminster Hall.
Mr. Justice Vaughan is afraid there will be no room for me on the
full bench, but still thinks I may sit between him and
Lord Chief-Justice Tindal.
This I resolutely decline.
I will not sit on the bench.
The
Queen's counsel row is surely enough.
As ever, affectionately yours,
C. S.
P. S. You have received doubtless the edition by
Maxwell of your ‘Equity Pleadings.’
He has received a very flattering note about it from
Mr. Wigram, one of the leaders of the
Chancery Bar.
my dear
Judge,—It is mid-day, and yet I am writing by candlelight.
Such is a London fog. I am knocked up by a cold, and have determined to avoid Westminster Hall to-day and to keep in the house, hoping to be well enough to dine with
Bingham this evening.
The
Attorney-General asked me, a few days ago, for some American references that would bear upon the case of
Stockdale v. Hansard,
4 wherein the question arises whether the House of Commons could
privilege a libellous publication.
I have written him in reply, stating that no such question had yet risen among us; but that the matter of
contempts had been discussed repeatedly in the
United States, and have referred him to your ‘Commentaries on the
Constitution’ for the completest view of the subject.
The Attorney further asked me to write to you, to ascertain if you were aware of any
[
14]
authorities or discussions in the
United States which would reflect light upon the question. . . .
Sir William Follett's grand reputation you well know.
If the Tories should come into power, and he would accept the place, I think it more than probable that he could be Lord Chancellor.
Sir Edward Sugden is on the shelf completely;
5 and the immoralities of Lord Lyndhurst render him not very agreeable to
Sir Robert Peel.
But I will not discuss these things now; I shall soon send you a ‘many-sheeter,’ or several letters, in which I will give you sketches of all the judges and lawyers, reporters, &c. I need not say that I now know nearly all, and with many have contracted relations of intimacy and familiarity which I have not with any member of the bar in
America (except
Greenleaf), between whom and myself there is the same disparity of age. All the serjeants and
Queen's counsel I know; but of this hereafter.
Mr. Burge has sent me his work on Colonial Law
6. . . . Remember me as ever to your family, and believe me,
As ever, affectionately yours,
my dear
Hillard,—. . . I am oppressed by the vastness and variety of this place.
Put two Bostons, two New Yorks, two Philadelphias, and two Baltimores all together, and you may have an idea of
London.
There is no way in which one is more struck by its size than by seeing the variety and extent of its society.
In all our towns a stranger would meet every day in society some of the persons, perhaps all, that he met yesterday.
In
London, one has an infinite variety.
Take my case: I have been in town only a few days; I first dined at the
Garrick Club, where was
James Smith, giving in the most quiet way the social experiences of his long life;
Poole, the author of ‘
Paul Pry,’ sitting silently and tremblingly in a corner, beneath a fine painting of
John Kemble; the editors of the ‘Times’ and ‘Globe’ laughing and dining together, not remembering the morning and evening severities in which they had indulged;
Hayward, poor in health, taking a light dinner;
Stephen Price sipping his gin and water, &c. Next I dined with
Mr. Justice Vaughan and
Lady St. John en famille; next with
Baron Alderson, where we had
Sir Gregory Lewin,
7 Sir Francis Palgrave,
8 Serjeant Talfourd, and
Lockhart; next with the
Lord Mayor at
Guildhall;
[
15]
next passed the day at
Windsor Castle, the guest of the household, breakfasting and lunching with Lord Byron,
Earl of
Surrey,
Hon. Colonel Cavendish,
Murray, and Rich; next dined with
Joseph Parkes, the great Radical and a most intelligent man, who thoroughly knows Lord Brougham; next with
Mr. Senior, where were
Count Pologne,
Count Ravel, and
Mr. Bellenden Ker; next with
Mr. Serjeant D'Oyly, where were
Mr. Justice Littledale,
Mr. Serjeant Taddy, and
Mr. Impey; and to-night, if my cold will let me go out, with
Bingham,
9 the reporter,—a most able man, and friend of
Jeremy Bentham,—to meet
Austin and some of the philosophical Radicals; to-morrow with
Talbot,
10 the son of Earl Talbot, to meet undoubtedly a Tory party; next day (being Sunday) to breakfast and pass the day with
Roebuck, and to dine with Leader, the member for
Westminster, to meet Lord Brougham and
Roebuck; the next to dine with
Sir Robert Inglis, the most distinguished Tory now in town; then with
Sir Gregory Lewin; then with
Cresswell,
Theobald,
Warren (‘Diary of a Physician’), &c. I cannot content myself by a bare allusion to my dinner at
Guildhall and to my day at
Windsor.
I was indebted for the honor of an invitation to
Guildhall11 to Lord Denman; and
Sir Frederick Pollock was so kind as to take me in his carriage.
Our cards of invitation said four o'clock for the dinner; but we were not seated till seven o'clock. I never saw any thing so antique and feudal.
The hall was gloriously illuminated by gas, and the marble monuments of Lord Chatham,
William Pitt, and
Nelson added to the historic grandeur of the scene.
I could hardly believe that I was not on the stage, partaking in some of the shallow banquets there served, when the herald, decked with ribbons, standing on an elevated place behind the
Lord Mayor, proclaimed that ‘the
Right Honorable the
Lord Mayor to his guests, —lords,
ladies, and gentlemen, all,—drank a cup of loving kindness.’
The effect of the scene was much enhanced by the presence of women decked in the richest style; among them was the
Princess of Capua
12 (the famous
Miss Penelope Smith), who has been married in so many countries, and who is the most queenly-looking woman I ever saw.
But my day at
Windsor would furnish a most interesting chapter of chitchat.
I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance, at Lord Morpeth's table, of
Mr. Rich,
13 the member for Knaresborough, and the author of the pamphlet, ‘What will the Peers do?’
He is one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber of the
Queen; or, as they are called under a virgin queen, gentlemen-in-waiting.
[
16]
He was kind enough to invite me to visit him at
Windsor Castle, and obtained special permission from her Majesty to show me the private rooms.
I went down to breakfast, where we had young
Murray (the head of the household), Lord Surrey, &c. Lord Byron,
14 who you know was a captain in the navy, is a pleasant, rough fellow, who has not many of the smooth turns of the courtier.
He came rushing into the room where we were, crying out, ‘This day is a real
sneezer; it is a
rum one indeed.
Will her Majesty go out to-day?’
Lord Surrey hoped she would not, unless she would ride at the ‘slapping pace’ at which she went the day before, which was twenty miles in two hours. You understand that her suite accompany the
Queen in her equestrian excursions.
Lord Byron proposed to breakfast with us; but they told him that he must go upstairs and breakfast with ‘the gals,’—meaning the ladies of the bedchamber and maids of honor,—
Countess of
Albemarle,
Lady Byron,
Lady Littleton,
Miss Cavendish, &c. The ladies of the household breakfast by themselves, and sometimes her Majesty comes in and joins them, though she generally breakfasts quite alone; the gentlemen of the household also breakfast by themselves.
Very soon Lord Byron came bouncing down, saying, ‘
Murray, ‘the gals’ say that there is nothing but stale eggs in the castle.’
Again the ladies sent a servant to
Murray (who I have said is the head of the royal household), complaining that there was no Scotch marmalade.
Murray said it was very strange, as a very short time ago he paid for seven hundred pots of it. You will understand that I mention these trivial occurrences to let you know in the simplest way what passed.
Of the splendors of
Windsor you have read a hundred times, and all your friends who have been abroad can recount them; but such little straws as I am blowing to you will give you indications of the mode of life and manners in the castle.
After breakfast (it having been mentioned to the
Queen that I had arrived), we went into the private apartments, which are never shown except during the
Queen's absence.
The table was spread for dinner, and the plate was rich and massive.
I did not like the dining-room so well as Lord Leicester's, at
Holkham, though it is more showy and brilliant.
The drawing-rooms were quite rich.
While wandering around with
Mr. Rich and Lord Byron, we met the
Duchess of
Kent in her morning-dress,—a short, squab person,—who returned our profound obeisance with a gracious smile (you see I have caught the proper phrase). Some of the pictures at
Windsor are very fine.
I have never before seen any thing by
Rubens that pleased me, or that I could tolerate (except, perhaps, a picture at
Holkham). There is one room devoted to
Rubens.
They were kind enough to invite me to visit them again at the castle, and
Murray told me that a horse would be at my disposal to ride in the park and see the
Virginia water. . . .
I am in Westminster Hall every day, and have been most happy in renewing my acquaintance with the bench and bar after my absence in the country.
Believe me, ever affectionately yours,
[17]
my dear
Lieber,—. . . I arrived in
London on Sunday.
On Monday evening I submitted your book
15 to
Colburn, and he declined it. I had spoken to
Clark in
Edinburgh, who published
Story's ‘Conflict of Laws,’ but he also declined.
From
Colburn I went to
Maxwell,—an intelligent and enterprising law-publisher, whom I knew very well, and who had just published
Story's ‘Equity Pleadings’ at my suggestion.
He took your book, examined it, and declined it. But he was kind enough to put it into the hands of another publisher, who is not exactly in the law trade, and with whom I have concluded arrangements for the publication of both volumes of your work,—
Mr. William Smith, of Fleet Street, an intelligent, gentlemanly person of about thirty-five years, whose appearance I like very much, more than that of
Colburn or
Longman.
It will appear at Christmas (an edition of five hundred copies) in very good style. . . . On the publication of the
English edition I will send a copy to
Mr. Empson, the successor of
Sir James Mackintosh as
Professor of Law, whom I know, and who writes the juridical articles in the ‘
Edinburgh,’ asking his acceptance of it, and stating that it is a work in which I have great confidence, and that I should be well pleased to see it reviewed in the ‘
Edinburgh.’
I will do the same with
Hayward, who writes the juridical articles in the ‘Quarterly,’ besides editing the ‘Law Magazine,’ and whom I know intimately.
Perhaps I will send a copy to
Lockhart, whom I have met several times.
I will dispose of several other copies in the same manner,—one to a leading writer in the ‘
London and Foreign Review.’
16 The copy which you sent me has been out of my hands so much since I received it, that I have only found time to glance at it. It is very finely executed, and reads admirably.
I still hold to the high opinion I have always expressed with regard to it, and to the highest expectations for your fame.
I have authorized the publisher to omit on the title-page the phrase, ‘for the use of colleges and schools;’ that limits the object of the book too much.
I hope you will believe that I have done my best for you. On Jan. 1 I leave
England for
Germany. . . . How are politics?
You have been in
Boston among my friends: what say you now to my trip to
Europe?
Shall I be injured by it?
Give me one of your long, closely-written letters.
Ever yours,
P. S. One of my friends,
Joseph Parkes, has bought and is reading a copy of your book.
I will give a copy to the editors of the ‘Spectator’ and ‘Globe.’
[18]
ATHENAeUM Club,
17 Nov. 22, 1838.
my dear
Mrs. Howe,
18—I should be cold, indeed, did I not cordially acknowledge your kind letter, which I have received by your nephew,
Edward Lyman.
I often think of
Cambridge and the quiet life I have led there, and the many good friends who, I hope, will not forget me during a protracted absence.
The ‘Book Club’ still exists. . . . We
judge English authors better than the
English themselves: all here are too near them.
When I see the foppery of
Bulwer every day, and hear his affected voice, should not that disenchant me from the spell of his composition?
You, sitting in your
rocking-chair and joining reading to your household duties, actually keep a better run of English literature than many—ay, than most —of the
English themselves.
London is so full, and teeming, and mighty, that it is next to impossible for anybody to do more than to attend to his own affairs and take care of himself.
The magazines and reviews are not read here with half the avidity they are in
America; and, when read, are not judged with the same dispassionate fairness.
At the different clubs which I frequent, I find that I am generally the first person to take them up; and I have tried in vain at this club, where I now write, with a Lord of the Treasury snoring by my side, and where are all the literary men of
London, to ascertain the authorship of an article in the last ‘
Edinburgh Review.’
I have asked
Mr. Hallam,
Mr. Rogers, and numerous literary men and M. P. s; and cannot find out. In short, nobody cares for these things.
You see what a rambling letter I am writing,—if that can be called a letter which began as a note.
I have been pleased to hear from your nephew the good reports of all your family.
And so E——is married, and gone to the
West!
All the world is getting married or engaged.
I shall find myself alone of my class,—a sort of fossil remains of the bachelor species.
All my friends have renounced celibacy, and rejoice in the pleasures of a house of their own, with a pretty wife, and mayhap some little prattlers.
Said
Barry Cornwall to me yesterday, while he held in his hand a lovely little boy: ‘Have you any such beautiful
pictures as this?’
What fine sentiment comes from married folks!
And, indeed, a lovely child is a beautiful picture.
I loved the poet more after he had put me that close question.
His gentle countenance, which seemed all unequal to the energy which dictated ‘The
Sea!
the
Sea!’
was filled with joyful satisfaction and love; and he hugged the boy to his bosom.
What a loss is that of
Hillard!
I pity him from the bottom of my heart.
To lose such a lovely picture was a loss beyond rubies.
I hope he bears it well. . . .
Felton seems happy and contented in the house he has builded.
He is happy by nature. . . .
Remember me to all who care any thing about me; and believe me,
As ever, affectionately yours,
[19]
ATHENAeUM Club, Dec. 4, 1838.
dear
Hillard,—These magnificent clubs of
London are to the town as country-seats, hall, park, house, or castle.
Here are extended drawing-rooms, adorned in the choicest style with statuary and painting, and holding every thing that conduces most to comfort and luxury, with books, magazines, and papers all within call.
Here also you may meet the best society of
London.
I have often met
Hallam19 at the Athenaeum.
I was standing the other day by the side of a pillar, so that I was not observed by him, when he first met
Phillips,
20—the barrister who visited
America during the last summer; and he cried out, extending his hand at the same time: ‘Well, you are not tattooed, really!’
Hallam is a plain, frank man, but is said to be occasionally quite testy and restless.
Charles Babbage,
21 himself one of the most petulant men that ever lived, told me that
Hallam once lay awake all night till four o'clock in the morning, hearing the chimes and the watchman's hourly annunciation of them.
When he heard the cry, ‘Four o'clock, and a cloudy morning,’ he leaped from his bed, threw open his window, and, hailing the terrified watchman, cried out: ‘It's not four o'clock; it wants five minutes of it!’
and, after this volley, at once fell asleep.
At the same dinner last week, I met
Hallam,
Whewell,
Babbage,
Lyell,
22 Murchison,
23 Dr. Buckland,
Sedgwick,
24 and one or two M. P. s.
Hallam talked about
Prescott's book, and praised it very much.
He said that Lord Holland was in ecstasy about it; and that he was the most competent judge of it in
England.
Mr. Mountstuart Elphinstone25—one of the most remarkable men in
England—has read it with the greatest care; and he spoke of it to me with the highest praise.
I find myself in such a round of society that I hardly know of which dinner or reunion to write you. I have many more invitations than there are days in the week; and all from men eminent in literature, law, politics, or society.
One of the most remarkable days that I have passed was Sunday before last, at Leader's
26 place, about six miles from town.
I breakfasted with
Roebuck, and then with him went to the member for
Westminster.
There were only Leader,
Trelawney,
27—author of ‘Adventures of a Younger Son,’—
Roebuck,
Falconer,—late
editor of the ‘Westminster Review,’—and myself.
We talked till midnight, meeting early at breakfast the next morning; and I did not leave Leader's till it was time for me to go to town to dress for dinner at
Sir Robert Inglis's,—thus passing from the leader of the Radicals to one of the chiefs of the Tories.
I have already written you that
Roebuck
[
20]
is a person of great talent, force, and courage, with a quick, sharp, incisive manner of expressing himself.
He speaks French beautifully, and quotes
Ariosto with grace and propriety; is about thirty-four or thirty-five, and quite small; is rash, self-confident, and unassimilating.
His party is himself; for he will brook no shadow of variance from his own opinions.
Leader is twenty-six or twenty-seven, with gentle looks and manner and flaxen hair, and a finished education.
I have seldom heard a finer French accent from English lips than from his; and his acquaintance with all Continental literature seems to be quite complete.
I need not tell you that
Trelawney is a most remarkable man. The terms of freedom and familiarity on which I found myself with all these—and, I may add, with a most extensive literary and legal circle that I meet—you may infer from the slight fact that they address me without any prefix, as ‘
Sumner;’ and I, of course, do the same with them.
Sir William Follett always meets me on that footing.
It was only night before last that I dined at his house.
We had at table
Sir Frederick Pollock,
Serjeant Talfourd, Theodore Hook,
28 Charles Austin,—one of the cleverest, most enlightened, and agreeable men in
London,—and
Crowder, the
Queen's counsel.
Talfourd29 outdid himself; indeed, I have never seen him in such force.
He and
Pollock discussed the comparative merits of
Demosthenes and
Cicero; and
Talfourd, with the earnestness which belongs to him, repeated one of
Cicero's glorious perorations.
Pollock gave a long extract from
Homer; and the author of ‘
Ion,’ with the frenzy of a poet, rolled out a whole strophe of one of the Greek dramatists.
Theodore looked on in mute admiration, and then told some of his capital stories.
As a story-teller he is unparalleled, but says little in general conversation.
It is only when the ladies have retired, and there is room for something approaching license, that he is at his ease.
He then dramatizes and brings before you
Sir Charles Wetherell and the
Duke of
Cumberland, and whom he wishes.
In his line he is first; but, as a contributor to the intellectual feast, he is of little value,—vastly inferior to
Sydney Smith, whose humor makes your sides shake with laughter for weeks after you have listened to it. We left
Follett at about half-past 11 o'clock; and
Talfourd carried me to the ‘
Garrick,’ where we found
Poole.
Talfourd took his two glasses of
negus, his grilled bone, and
Welsh rare-bit; and both he and
Poole entertained me by their reminiscences of
Godwin.
[
21]
While I listened late at night to these reminiscences, I did not expect the next evening to be sitting on the same sofa chatting with
Godwin's daughter,
Mrs. Shelley,
30 the author of ‘
Frankenstein.’
I dined with
Theobald,
31 whose legal writings you well know, and, stealing away from his drawing-rooms, repaired to
Lady Morgan's.
32 Her Ladyship had particularly invited me to her party on this evening, saying, ‘Promise me that you will come on Sunday night, and I will have all the literary characters of
London.
I will trot them all out for your benefit.’
Accordingly, there were
Sam Rogers, —just returned with renewed youth from
Paris,—Kenyon,
Hayward,
Courtenay33 (the M. P. and great
London epicure), and his beautiful daughter; Westmacote Young, the retired actor, Young (Ubiquity),
Mr.Yates and
Mrs. Yates,
Quin, and
Mrs. Shelley.
We had excellent music.
I talked a good deal with
Mrs. Shelley.
She was dressed in pure white, and seemed a nice and agreeable person, with great cleverness.
She said the greatest happiness of a woman was to be the wife or mother of a distinguished man. I was not a little amused at an expression that broke from her unawares, she forgetting that I was an American.
We were speaking of travellers who violated social ties, and published personal sketches, and she broke out, ‘Thank God!
I have kept clear of those
Americans.’
I did not seem to observe what she had said, and she soon atoned for it.
Lady Morgan points every sentence with a phrase in
French.
She is now engaged upon a work on ‘Woman,’ which will be published in the spring.
34
I have told you of one dinner with the Radicals; another was at
Joseph Parkes's, where we had
Dr. Bowring35 (just returned from
Egypt),
Roebuck,
Falconer, and myself.
I was nearly dead with a cold, but I could not be insensible to the bold, searching conversation and the interesting discussions of the characters of public men and events.
Brougham said last week to
Roebuck: ‘They say there will be a contest between
Durham and myself in the House of Lords.
There will be no such thing.
It were affectation in me not to
know that I am a very great debater, and that Lord Durham is a very poor one; there can be therefore no
contest between us.’
Brougham has two volumes in press, being a supplement to his volume on Natural Theology, in which, among other things, there is a dialogue between him and Lord Spencer, on Instinct.
[
22]
I have been daily in Westminster Hall; at six o'clock, I go home to dress for dinner, and then the evening is devoted to society.
Since the term was up, I have paid some visits which I have been long owing.
I went to
Hampstead, by invitation beforehand, to lunch with
Joanna Baillie.
36 I place her next after Lord Brougham's mother.
She is seventy-five, neat, tidy, delightful in her personal appearance; and in conversation, simple, interesting, and agreeable.
She affected me in the same way as did
Wordsworth.
I thought that
Providence should have brought them together as man and wife.
We talked of
Scott and
Lockhart.
Was it not strange that I should be put to inquire at a dozen doors in that village, to know where
Miss Baillie lived?
In my vexation, I told one person who lived within a stone's throw of what I afterwards found to be the simple roof of the poetess, that he did not know the residence of the greatest ornament of his town!
Another morning was devoted to
Carlyle.
37 His manners and conversation are as unformed as his style; and yet, withal, equally full of genius.
In conversation, he piles thought upon thought and imagining upon imagining, till the erection seems about to topple down with its weight.
He lives in great retirement,—I fear almost in poverty.
To him,
London and its mighty maze of society are nothing; neither he nor his writings are known.
Young
Milnes38 (whose poems you have doubtless read) told me that nobody knew of his existence; though he,
Milnes, entertained for him personally the greatest regard.
Carlyle said the strangest thing in the history of literature was his recent receipt of fifty pounds from
America, on account of
[
23]
his ‘
French Revolution,’ which had never yielded him a farthing in
Europe and probably never would.
I am to meet
Leigh Hunt at
Carlyle's. Another morning I devoted to
Mr. Babbage, breakfasting, seeing the calculating machine, and talking.
He seemed to give me his confidence to a remarkable extent, and told me of his future plans, his disappointments, and his high ambition.
His rage against the
English Government is intense.
He vowed that he would never make his machine for them.
‘No,’ said he, ‘not if Palmerston and Melbourne come on bended knees before me.’
He is a very able man. Another morning I went with my friend,
Sir Gregory Lewin, to see the Tunnel.
By the way, Sir Gregory has in his dining-room the original paintings by
Reynolds of
Dr. Johnson and
Garrick, which have been perpetuated by so many thousand engravings.
How strange it seems to me to sit at table and look upon such productions, so time-hallowed, and so full of the richest associations!
You must see that I write blindly on; a mere word, which I chance to hit upon, suggesting the next topic.
The word ‘associations’ brings to my mind
Westminster Abbey.
Books and descriptions will not let one realize the sweeping interests of this hallowed place. . . .
Cooper and
Willis have harmed us not a little; and then some others of our countrymen, who have not been so extensively received in society as these two, and who have written nothing, have yet left impressions not the most agreeable.
A friend told me yesterday what
Rogers said the other day to him: ‘The
Americans I have seen have been generally very agreeable and accomplished men; but there is too much of them: they take up too much of our time.’
This was delivered with the greatest gentleness. . . .
Bulwer was here a few moments ago in his flash
falsetto dress, with high-heel boots, a white great coat, and a flaming blue cravat.
How different from
Rogers who is sitting near me, reading the ‘North American;’ or
Hallam who is lolling in an easy chair; or
Milman,—both absorbed in some of the last Reviews or Magazines.
December 5.
To-night my invitations were to dinner at
Brougham's,
Sir Robert Inglis's,
Mr. Justice Littledale's, and
Mr. Kenyon's; at the latter place to meet
Rogers and
Southey.
I dined with
Brougham, as his invitation came first, and hoped to be able to drop in at
Inglis's and
Kenyon's; but we sat so late at table that I could only reach
Inglis's, and then get home at midnight, trusting to some future opportunity of meeting
Southey and
Rogers: the last, of course, I may see every day. To-morrow, I dine with the
Political Economy Club, where I shall meet Senior, John Mill,
39 McCulloch,
40 Spring
Rice, Lord Lansdowne, &c. On the next day I commence my pilgrimage to
Oxford, where I pass four days, and those four are engaged: first, to
Sir Charles Vaughan, at All Souls; second, to my friend
Ingham, M. P., at Oriel; third, to
Dr. Hampden, at Christ Church; fourth, to
Wortley, at
Merton.
I then go to
Cambridge, where my first day is engaged to
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Whewell, &c. A few days ago I received a most friendly and affectionate letter from Lord Morpeth, in which he enclosed a letter of introduction to the
Countess of
Granville,
41 now in
Paris.
Sir Robert Inglis expressed himself to-night in terms of the highest admiration of
Dr. Channing's ‘
Texas,’ which is a good deal from such a churchman.
I passed a very pleasant evening last week—till long past midnight—with
Mr.Montagu and
Mrs. Basil Montagu.
42 Mr. Montagu was full of
Bacon, and told me it was said of him that in a quarrel with the keeper of a turnpike gate he would quote
Bacon!
He invited me to go with him to visit
Bacon's mansion about twenty miles from
London.
Mrs. Montagu is a remarkable woman.
As ever yours,
C. S.
P. S. What will be my prospects at the bar on my return?
Will they say I am spoiled?
I have received a most friendly letter from Miss Edge-worth, expressing her regret that I did not visit her in
Ireland, and inviting me there if I should ever visit
Ireland again.
I have missed a second invitation to meet
Southey!
ATHENAeUM Club, Dec. 5, 1838.
my dear
Judge,—I have long promised you an account of legal characters; and now I will redeem in part my pledge.
There are some general things to be observed, first.
I shall send you light sketches, in which you will find the chat of the bar, benches, and the dinner-table, and also the results of my observation of the subjects in court, on circuit, in Westminster Hall, and in society.
Most of the judges go to the court in the morning on horseback, with a groom on another horse behind; and they are notorious as being very poor
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riders,—though the fate of
Twysden has been latterly unknown.
43 In the winter the court opens at ten o'clock; and they continue sitting till between four and five,—often till seven.
Between one and two, they leave the bench and retire to their room, where they eat a sandwich and drink a glass of wine from a phial; this takes five or ten minutes only.
The judges have not separate seats, as with us; but all sit on one long, red-cushioned seat,—which may with propriety be called the
bench, in contradistinction to the
chair, which is the seat of a professor.
I shall begin with the common law, and, of course, with the
Queen's Bench.
You know Lord Denman
44 intellectually better than I; but you do not know his person, his voice, his manner, his tone,—all every inch the judge.
He sits the admired impersonation of the law. He is tall and well-made, with a justice—like countenance: his voice and the gravity of his manner, and the generous feeling with which he castigates every thing departing from the strictest line of right conduct, remind me of
Greenleaf more than of any other man I have ever known.
I wish you could have listened to
Lord D., as I did on the circuit, when he sentenced some of the vicious and profligate wretches brought before him. His noble indignation at crime showed itself so naturally and simply that all our bosoms were warmed by it; and I think his words must have gone like iron into even the stony hearts of the prisoners.
And yet I have seen this constitutional warmth find vent on occasions when it should have been restrained: it was directed against the
Attorney-General,
45 who was pressing for delay in a certain matter with a pertinacity rather peculiar to him.
Lord D. has, to a remarkable degree, the respect of the bar; though they very generally agree that he is quite an ordinary lawyer.
He is honest as the stars, and is willing to be guided by the superior legal learning of
Patteson.
In conversation he is gentle and
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bland; I have never seen him excited.
His son, who will be the future Lord Denman, is what is here called a nice person.
46
Littledale47 is rather advanced in life; I should call him seventy.
He has the reputation of great book-learning; but he seems deficient in readiness or force, both on the bench and in society.
I heard old
Justice Allan Park say that
Littledale could never get a conviction in a case where there was any appeal to the feelings.
He has not sat
in bane this term, but has held the
Bail Court.
He has but one child,—the wife of
Mr. Coventry,
48 whose various legal labors you know very well.
Patteson49 is the ablest lawyer on the
Queen's Bench,—some say the first in all the courts.
As I have already written you, he is unfortunately deaf, to such a degree as to impair his usefulness, though by no means to prevent his participating in the labors of the bench.
He is deeply read, and has his learning at command.
His language is not smooth and easy, either in conversation or on the bench; but it is always significant, and to the purpose.
In person he is rather short and stout, and with a countenance that seems to me heavy and gross; though I find that many of the bar think of it quite otherwise.
I heard
Warren50—author of ‘Diary of a Physician,’ &c.—say that it was one of the loveliest faces he ever looked upon: perhaps he saw and admired the character of the man in his countenance.
I have heard many express themselves about him with the greatest fondness.
He has a very handsome daughter.
Williams51—commonly called ‘Johnny,’ or ‘Little Johnny’
Williams—is short in person.
He was the ancient associate of
Brougham in the
Queen's case, and was made a judge by his Lordship.
He has the reputation of being a good classical scholar; though I do not remember ever observing, either in his conversation or judgments, any particular marks of the attainments attributed to him. Indeed, I have always thought him dull: he certainly is an ordinary lawyer, and has very little legal talent.
He seemed often in inextricable confusion on the circuit.
He is famous for very early rising, and for falling asleep in company.
I have seen him fall asleep at the head of his own table; and they tell a story that
Brougham once made a dinner, in order to give
Williams an opportunity of meeting some persons who would furnish him some valuable materials for a motion he was
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about to make in the House of Commons; but before they arrived at that stage of the dinner when the conversation was to be opened,
Williams was nodding.
I will, however, do him the justice to add that I once dined in company with him at
Cresswell's, when he continued awake during all the time.
Coleridge52 is the junior of the
Queen's Bench, and a moderate Tory, who was appointed by
Sir Robert Peel.
He never had a large business at the bar, but has pleased everybody on the bench.
I believe him to be a man of learning, and of the highest honor,—in personal appearance quite agreeable, and in accomplishments inferior to nobody on the bench.
As the
junior judge, it devolves upon him to read the reports of the evidence on all motions for a new trial.
I have never met him in society,—the only judge I have not. His mother has lately deceased.
Turn next to the
Common Pleas.
There is, first,
Lord Chief-Justice Tindal.
53 He sits bent over his desk in court, taking notes constantly,—occasionally interposing a question, but in the most quiet manner.
His eyes are large and rolling; in stature he is rather short.
His learning, patience, and fidelity are of the highest order.
He is one of the few judges who study their causes on their return home.
His manner is singularly bland and gentle, and is, perhaps, deficient in decision and occasional sternness.
Serjeant Wilde is said to exercise a very great influence over him; indeed, scandal attributes to him some of ‘the power behind the throne greater than the throne.’
Upon
Tindal devolves the decision of all interlocutory matters in his court,—the other judges seldom interposing with regard to them, or, indeed, appearing to interest themselves about them.
He is one of the kindest men that ever lived.
Next to
Tindal is old
James Allan Park,
54 the oldest judge on the bench, and who, it is reported, is now at the point of death.
He has been some fifty-eight years at the bar and on the bench; is a staunch Tory, and a believer in the divinity of
wigs. He dislikes
Campbell, the
Attorney-General; interrupts counsel very much, and has some of the petulance of age. There are a thousand amusing stories about him, which the lawyers tell at dinner to illustrate his rather puritanical character.
Then comes
Vaughan.
55 He became a serjeant some time in the last century, and was the youngest ever known.
At one period his practice was
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greater, perhaps, than that of anybody ever known in the courts,—his income was some fifteen thousand pounds. About 1820 his leg was broken very badly by a cartman, who ran against him as he was driving in a gig. After being confined to his bed for three months, he at length appeared in court on the shoulders of his servants; had a hole cut in the desk before him for his leg; and, by permission of the court, addressed the jury sitting.
His business at once returned to him. In 1820 he was made a judge, it is said at the bar, by the direct command of George IV., who was moved to it by his favorite physician,
Sir Henry Halford; which gave occasion to the saying in the bar-benches that ‘
Vaughan was made a judge by
prescription.’
He is reputed to have the smallest possible allowance of law for a judge; but he abounds in native strength and sagacity, and in freedom of language.
With him the labors of the judge cease the moment he quits the bench.
I doubt if he ever looks into a cause at chambers.
In his study he once showed me four guns, and told me with great glee that, by sending a note to
Serjeant Wilde, he persuaded him not to make any motions on a certain day, and got the Court of Common Pleas adjourned at twelve o'clock; he at once went fifteen miles into the country, and before four o'clock had shot four brace of pheasants,—the learned judge sitting on horseback when he fired, as from his lameness he was unable to walk.
He is fond of
Shakspeare, and often have we interchanged notes during a long argument from
Follett or
Wilde (while I was sitting by the side of the latter in the Serjeants' row), the burden of which has been some turn or expression from the great bard,—the crowd supposing he was actively taking minutes of the argument, while he was inditing something pleasant for me, to which I never failed to reply.
His present wife when young was eminently beautiful, so that
Sir Thomas Lawrence used her portrait in some imaginary pieces.
He has several children, one of whom—his eldest son—graduated at the
University with distinguished honor, and has recently been called to the bar: I think him a young man full of promise.
Vaughan, though not a man of book-learning himself, respects it in others.
I once sat with him in chambers in a matter where one of the young
Chittys appeared; at first the judge inclined against the barrister and his authorities, but he said in a way that I saw gave no little pleasure, ‘
Mr. Chitty, I have a great respect for your opinion.’
Bosanquet56 you well know as a reporter.
As a judge he seems dry and reserved, sitting on the extreme left, and apparently taking so little interest in the causes, that his qualities as a judge seem to be all
negative. You do not hear him talked of by the bar, nor meet him in society.
Lord Denman told me that he went his first circuit as judge in company with
Bosanquet, who taught his Lordship how to wear his robes, and which of the various robes to assume on certain days.
Next is
Coltman,
57 whose appointment astonished everybody, and is said
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to have been a job of
Brougham.
He was of the
Northern circuit, and a friend of
Brougham.
He is a dull man; but as honest and good-natured as the day. I have seen him perplexed in the extreme, both before a jury and
in bane, by the arguments of counsel.
He is truly amiable, and is much of a liberal.
Lady Coltman is a sister of
Duckworth, the Chancery barrister.
At
Coltman's at dinner, I saw young
Wortley hand down
Lady Coltman, though there were at table
Baron Parke,
Vaughan, and
Sir Edward Curry.
This was strictly correct according to the Heralds' books, as the son of a peer takes precedence of knights, whatever may be their respective ages; but it shocked my notions of propriety.
Dec. 14, 1838.
Poor
Allan Park is dead; and everybody is speculating about his successor.
The
Solicitor-General will be the man.
58 I dined last night with
Serjeant Wilde, and it was amusing to see the
coquetry between him,
Talfourd,
Bompas, and
Hill, with regard to the successor.
I came up yesterday from
Oxford, where I have passed four delightful days.
I was installed by
Sir Charles Vaughan as an honorary
Fellow of All Souls.
I have now given you the
Queen's Bench and the
Common Pleas judges.
I shall follow this with the barons of the Exchequer; and then with a view of the common law bar. Afterwards you may expect something about the
Chancery Bar and Admiralty.
I have read
Sir Mathew Hale's Ms. on the
Admiralty, and find it to be a complete treatise on the subject, which contains nothing new to you, but which, nevertheless, I think you ought to be acquainted with, as it is a scientific discussion of the subject by one of the master minds of the common law. The spirit with which it is written, as regards the common law, you may conceive from the way in which he speaks of the two jurisdictions together.
He says, “The suitor is sent to Admiralty on an incidental point out of the common law courts,—
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne.” Through the kindness of
Sir Robert Inglis I have been enabled to have a copy taken; which will cost about eight pounds. . . .
As ever, affectionately,
C. S.
all Souls,
Oxford, Dec. 11, 1838.
dear
Hillard,—Look at the picture
59 of this venerable place; in the sketch of All Souls, and between two lofty towers, you will see the room where I am installed, in the enjoyment of the pleasing delusion that I am a
Fellow of this peculiar institution.
All this I owe to
Sir Charles Vaughan, who is in residence now. How musically these chimes fall upon my ear!
The clock strikes in one venerable tower, and the notes are echoed round.
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The bells sound for prayer; and you hear all varieties of peals, from the imperious notes of ‘Great Tom,’ to the softer strains of Magdalen and
Merton,—
Answering temples with obedient sound
Peal to the night, and moan sad music round.
But your own imagination will supply you with the natural emotions incident to this place.
While here I have seen most of the heads of houses and the tutors, and have derived much knowledge with regard to the system of study and the points of police.
60 Some of the tutors have been so kind as to write out abstracts of the studies, and particularly of the system of examination for degrees: I hope I may be able to do some good with this information on my return.
The minutes of the expenses I have been furnished with; and I have established relations here which will enable me at any time to command any information on the subject, which our friends may desire.
I have been charmed to find that there is a
bona fide system of examination for degrees, so that an idler and a dunce cannot get the academic laurel.
I was much struck by the gentlemanly appearance of all the students; they were not rough, but all seemed, if I may so say, of gentle blood: these things, however, I will explain at home.
Athenaeum Club, Dec. 14, 1838.
I came up from
Oxford, after a most delightful residence, to dine with
Serjeant Wilde, and go down to
Cambridge to-day, starting in a few minutes.
I already have engagements which will absorb the four days I purpose devoting to this place.
From
Cambridge I shall pass to Milton Park, to spend
Christmas or some of its holidays with Lord Fitzwilliam.
It is now a year since I left
America.
How much I have seen in that time, and what ample stores I have laid by of delightful reminiscence and of liberal instruction!
Thankful am I that I was able to conceive my present plan of travel, and, though contrary to the advice of dear friends, to put it in execution before I had grown indifferent to these things; and while, with the freshness of comparative youth, I could enter into the spirit of all that I see. But now I begin to turn my thoughts to the future.
Tell me how I shall find myself on my return; what I can do in my profession; what will be expected of me; what difficulties I shall encounter; and what aids enjoy.
Write me of these things; and if you write immediately on receipt of this (if it goes by the steamer), I shall get the answer before I leave
London.
I have seen some
Boston papers, and how petty, inconceivably petty, did that tempest strife at your last election seem!
I saw the various summonses to party meetings, and the split in the ranks of the
Whigs, occasioned by
Mr. Bond.
61 I could hardly believe that honest men, of elevated views, could have taken the smallest interest in such affairs.
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Tom Thumb's ‘pint-pot’ always seemed larger than the stage of these transactions does to me at this distance, amidst the world-absorbing affairs which occupy the great metropolis.
I am obliged, on account of my
Cambridge engagements, to lose a most interesting dinner to meet
Fonblanque, Black, and all the liberal
press gang; also to meet Lord Durham.
I shall, however, see the latter before I leave.
I am sorry that I cannot write by this steamer to
Longfellow, whose letter I have, and
Greenleaf's also, and
Felton's.
As ever, yours affectionately,
P. S. You may receive this on my birthday.
Milton Park, Dec. 25, 1838.
A merry
Christmas to you, dear
Hillard!
This morning greeting I send with the winter winds across the
Atlantic.
It will not reach you till long after this day; but I hope that it will find you happy,—not forgetful of your great loss, but remembering it with manly grief, and endeavoring in the undoubted present bliss of your dear boy to catch a reflected ray for yourself.
I am passing my
Christmas week with Lord Fitzwilliam, in one of the large country-houses of old
England.
I have already written you about Wentworth House.
The place where I now am is older and smaller; in
America, however, it would be vast.
The house is Elizabethan.
Here I have been enjoying fox-hunting, to the imminent danger of my limbs and neck; that they still remain intact is a miracle.
His Lordship's hounds are among the finest in the kingdom, and his huntsman is reputed the best.
There are about eighty couples; the expense of keeping them is about five thousand pounds a year.
In his stables there are some fifty or sixty hunters that are only used with the hounds, and of course are unemployed during the summer.
The exertion of a day's sport is so great that a horse does not go out more than once in a week.
I think I have never participated in any thing more exciting than this exercise.
The history of my exploits will confirm this.
The morning after my arrival I mounted, at half-past 9 o'clock, a beautiful hunter, and rode with Lord Milton about six miles to the place of meeting.
There were the hounds and huntsmen and whippers-in, and about eighty horsemen,—the noblemen and gentry and clergy of the neighborhood, all beautifully mounted, and the greater part in red coats, leather breeches, and white top-boots.
The hounds were sent into the cover, and it was a grand sight to see so many handsome dogs, all of a size, and all washed before coming out, rushing into the underwood to start the fox. We were unfortunate in not getting a scent immediately, and rode from cover to cover; but soon the cry was raised ‘Tally-ho!’—the horn was blown—the dogs barked—the horsemen rallied—the hounds scented their way through the cover on the trail of the fox, and then started in full run. I had originally intended only to ride to cover to see them throw off, and then make my
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way home, believing myself unequal to the probable run; but the chase commenced, and I was in the midst of it; and, being excellently mounted, nearly at the head of it. Never did I see such a scamper; and never did it enter into my head that horses could be pushed to such speed in such places.
We dashed through and over bushes, leaping broad ditches, splashing in brooks and mud, and passing over fences as so many imaginary lines.
My first fence I shall not readily forget.
I was near Lord Milton, who was mounted on a thoroughbred horse.
He cleared a fence before him. My horse pawed the ground and neighed.
I gave him the rein, and he cleared the fence: as I was up in the air for one moment, how was I startled to look down and see that there was not only a fence but a
ditch! He cleared the ditch too. I have said it was my first experiment.
I lost my balance, was thrown to the very ears of the horse, but in some way or other contrived to work myself back to the saddle without touching the ground (
vide some of the hunting pictures of leaps, &c.). How I got back I cannot tell; but I did regain my seat, and my horse was at a run in a moment.
All this, you will understand, passed in less time by far than it will take to read this account.
One moment we were in a scamper through a ploughed field, another over a beautiful pasture, and another winding through the devious paths of a wood.
I think I may say that in no single day of my life did I ever take so much exercise.
I have said that I mounted at nine and a half o'clock. It wanted twenty minutes of five when I finally dismounted, not having been out of the saddle more than thirty seconds during all this time, and then only to change my horse, taking a fresh one from a groom who was in attendance.
During much of this time we were on a full run.
The next day had its incidents.
The place of meeting for the hounds was about fourteen miles from the house.
Our horses were previously led thither by grooms, and we rode there in a carriage and four, with outriders, and took our horses fresh.
This day I met with a fall.
The country was very rough, and the fences often quite stiff and high.
I rode among the foremost, and in going over a fence and a brook together, came to the ground.
My horse cleared them both; and I cleared him, for I went directly over his head.
Of course he started off, but was soon caught by
Milton and a parson, who had already made the leap successfully.
I should not fail to commemorate the feats of the clergymen, as they illustrate the position of this body in
England.
The best and hardest rider in this part of the country is reputed to be a clergyman; and there was not a day that I was out that I did not see three or four persons rejoicing in the style of ‘
Reverend,’ and distinguishable from the rest of the
habitues by wearing a black instead of a red coat.
They were among the foremost in every field, and cleared fences with great ease.
Once we came to a very stiff rail fence; and, as the hounds were not in full cry, there was a general stop to see how the different horses and riders would take it. Many were afraid, and several horses refused it. Soon, however,
the Rev. Mr. Nash, a clergyman of some fifty years, came across the field; and the cry was raised, ‘Hurrah for
Nash!
now for
Nash!’
I need not say that he went over it easily.
It was
the Rev. Mr. Nash who caught my horse.
Change the scene
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one moment, and imagine
Mr. Greenwood or
Dr. Lyman Beecher riding at a rail fence, and some thirty or forty persons looking on and shouting, ‘Hurrah for
Greenwood!
Hurrah for
Beecher!’
None of the clergymen who were out were young men; they were all more than forty-five, if not fifty.
They mingled in all the light conversation of the field,—one of them told a story which I would not venture to trust to this sheet,—and they were addressed by all with the utmost familiarity.
I did not hear one of them addressed by the title of ‘
Mr.,’ except by myself, though most of the company were fifteen or twenty years younger than themselves.
These little things will reveal to you more than several pages of dissertation.
Every day that I was out it rained,—the first day incessantly,—and yet I was perfectly unconscious of it, so interested did I become in the sport.
Indeed, sportsmen rather wish a rain, because it makes the ground soft.
We generally got home about five o'clock; and I will give you the history of the rest of the day, that you may see how time passes in one of the largest houses in
England.
Dinner was early, because the sportsmen returned fatigued, and without having tasted a morsel of food since an early breakfast.
So, after our return, we only had time to dress; and at five and a half o'clock assembled in the library, from which we went in to dinner.
For three days I was the only guest here,—during the last four we have had
Professor Whewell,—so that I can describe to you what was simply the family establishment.
One day I observed that there were only nine of us at table, and there were thirteen servants in attendance.
Of course the service is entirely of silver.
You have, in proper succession, soup, fish, venison, and the large English dishes, besides a profusion of
French entrees, with
ice-cream and an ample dessert,—Madeira,
Sherry, Claret, Port, and Champagne.
We do not sit long at table; but return to the library,—which opens into two or three drawing-rooms, and is itself used as the principal one,—where we find the ladies already at their embroidery, and also coffee.
Conversation goes languidly.
The boys are sleepy, and Lord Fitzwilliam is serious and melancholy; and very soon I am glad to kill off an hour or so by a game at cards.
Sometimes his Lordship plays; at other times he slowly peruses the last volume of
Prescott's ‘Ferdinand and Isabella.’
About eleven o'clock I am glad to retire to my chamber, which is a very large apartment, with two large oriel windows looking out upon the lawn where the deer are feeding.
There I find a glowing fire; and in one of the various easy chairs sit and muse while the fire burns, or resort to the pen, ink, and paper, which are carefully placed on the table near me.
I have given you an off-hand sketch of English fox-hunting.
I was excited and interested by it, I confess; I should like to enjoy it more, and have pressing invitations to continue my visit or renew it at some future period.
But I have moralized much upon it, and have been made melancholy by seeing the time and money that are lavished on this sport, and observing the utter unproductiveness of the lives of those who are most earnestly engaged in it, —like my
Lord's family, whose mornings are devoted to it, and whose evenings are rounded by a sleep.
I should not forget to tell you that in the library, where we pass our evenwings,
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is the immortal picture of
Edmund Burke, by
Sir Joshua Reynolds; that which has been perpetuated by so many engravings.
The artist
Osgood has taken a copy of this picture for
Governor Everett, which is pronounced very good indeed.
I have given you some of my experience in fox-hunting.
Change we our story.
When I last wrote I had been enjoying
Oxford.
On my way to
Milton I passed four or five days at
Cambridge,—deeply interesting and instructive, —during which I saw most of the persons eminent at the university, and visited the various colleges.
Dined with
Whewell,
62 and met a large company; next day dined in hall at
Trinity, and then repaired to the Combination room of the Fellows; next day again in hall at
Trinity, and went to what is here called ‘a wine party,’ at one of the tutor's; afterwards, at ten or eleven o'clock in the evening, had supper at young Lord Napier's,
63 an undergraduate; next day dined in hall with the Fellows of
Caius;
64 breakfasted with
Whewell, Henslow, and
Peacock.
65 So you will see I met all kinds and degrees of persons, and saw every variety of social entertainment.
Oxford is more striking as a whole, but less so in its individual features.
I am delighted to find that there is much study done here; and that the examinations for degrees are serious, so that it is impossible for one who is entirely lazy or stupid to obtain a degree.
Athenaeum Club, Dec. 28, 1838.
Again in town and in this glorious apartment, where I look upon the busts of
Milton and
Shakspeare, of
Locke and
Burke, of
Bacon and
Newton!
It was not long since I saw
Bulwer writing here; and when he threw down the pen he had been using, the thought crossed my mind to appropriate it, and make my fortune by selling it to some of his absurd admirers in
America.
But I let the goose-quill sleep.
What a different person I have just been conversing with for three hours or more!—
Basil Montagu; one of the sweetest men, with honeyed discourse, that I ever met. His mind is running over with beautiful images and with boundless illustration and allusion.
He has known as bosom friends
Mackintosh,
Coleridge,
Wordsworth, and Lord Eldon; and he pours out his heart, as I freely mention their names, like water.
He has just published a charming little book, entitled, ‘Essays and Selections;’ and he has given me a copy, in which he has written my name, ‘with the affectionate good wishes of
Basil Montagu.’
I have been amused at what was told me to-night with regard to my admission to the Athenaeum.
I am an Honorary Member, admitted as a ‘foreigner of distinction,’ a title which it made me shrink to see applied to my name.
But it seems I was nominated last July, and rejected, as was said, by the vote of
Croker, whereat
Milman was in great anger.
Croker's objection was that I was
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35]
not known as the author of any book!
Everybody is laughing at
Willis's sketch, in a late ‘
New York Mirror,’ of Lord Durham.
Marryat says that when
Willis ‘looked over his spoon, one
spoon looked over
another.’
Lady Blessington says it is all false, as also does
Fonblanque, who was at the dinner.
I have seen
Disraeli. . . .
Captain Marryat has returned full of blood and fury.
He will probably write a book; if he does, he will show us no mercy.
He says there is nobody in Congress worth any thing but
Webster and
Adams.
Miss Martineau is diligently engaged on her novel,
66 which will be published in February or March.
She has been exerting herself very much, and seems confident of no ordinary success.
If she succeeds, she intends to follow it up by others.
I left off my sketch at
Milton without giving you my Christmas Day.
In the forenoon,
Whewell and I went to the Minster at
Peterborough, where the church service is chanted.
In the afternoon I read some of the manuscripts of
Burke; after dinner, there were about thirty musicians who came from
Peterborough, and in the hall alternately played and sang.
Quite early the family retired; but
Milton, in a distant wing of the house, had provided what he called a ‘jollification’ on my account.
What passed there I could easier tell than write.
I got to bed before the cock crew.
Hunting songs and stories abounded.
I prize much all the opportunities I have had of mingling in the sports and social enjoyments of the young men; because, on these occasions, I see them as they are without reserve, and thus learn their real characters.
I have been trying to get a review in the ‘
Edinburgh’ of
Sparks's ‘Life of
Washington;’ and a person of no little literary eminence,
67 the bosom friend of Lord Brougham, has written me that he will do it if
Brougham does not do it himself.
I have strong reason to believe that his Lordship will undertake it, and, if he does, his late efforts give us assurance what we may expect.
Your trouble about the loss
68 of the letters is superfluous.
I care nothing about their loss; it is their possible existence out of the hands of friends that troubles me. You see that I write with winged speed, literally as fast as my pen can shed its ink, without premeditation or care, in the confidence of bosom friendship, and with the freedom which is its result.
Therefore I shudder at the thought of a stranger seeing my letters, particularly the kind of stranger into whose hands a lost letter might fall.
Excuse this ponderous letter, and believe me,
As ever, yours,
C. S.
