Journal.
August 21.—We set out pretty early this morning to make a visit, by invitation, to the Edgeworths, at Edgeworthtown, sixty-five English miles from
Dublin. . . . The whole country we passed through was like a succession of prairies, so little inequality was there in the surface, and it was only at rare intervals we even saw any tolerably sized hills in the horizon.
Nor were the objects on the road more various. . . . . The ruins of an old castle of the Leinsters, at
Maynooth, two mounds, which were probably burial-places of the aborigines, a good many ruined churches, and a good many villages, some very squalid and wretched, and some as comfortable as the poorer Scotch hamlets, were all we noticed. . . . .
At last we approached the house.
There was no mistaking it. We had seen none such for a long time.
It is spacious, with an ample veranda, and conservatory covering part of its front quite beautifully, and situated in a fine lawn of the richest green, interspersed with clumps of venerable oaks and beeches.
As we drove to the door
Miss Edgeworth came out to meet us,—a small, short, spare lady of about sixty-seven, with extremely frank and kind manners, and who always looks straight into your face with a pair of mild, deep gray eyes, whenever she speaks to you. With her characteristic directness, she did not take us into the library until she had told us that we should find there
Mrs. Alison of
Edinburgh, and her aunt,
Miss Sneyd,
1 a person very old and infirm; and that the only other persons constituting the family were
Mrs. Edgeworth,
2 Miss
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Honora Edgeworth,
3 and
Dr. Alison, a physician, and son of the author on ‘Taste.’
Having thus put us
en pays de connaissance, she carried us into the library.
It is quite a large room, full of books, and every way comfortable as a sitting-room.
We had not been there five minutes before we were, by her kindness and vivacity, put completely at our ease, a sensation which we do not seem likely to lose during our visit.
Soon after we were seated and had become a little acquainted with
Mrs. Alison,—who is a daughter of the famous
Dr. Gregory,—the rest of the party came in from a drive.
Mrs. Edgeworth—who is of the
Beaufort family—seems about the age of her more distinguished step-daughter, and is somewhat stout, but very active, intelligent, and accomplished, having apparently the whole care of the household, and adding materially, by her resources in the arts and in literature, to its agreeableness
4. . . . .
It is plain they make a harmonious whole, and by those who visited here when the family was much larger, and composed of the children of all the wives of
Mr. Edgeworth, with their connections produced by marriage, so as to form the most heterogeneous relationships, I am told there was always the same very striking union and agreeable intercourse among them all, to the number sometimes of fifteen or twenty. . . .
After sitting about an hour in the library. . . . we went to dress, and punctually at half past 6 were summoned by the bell to dinner. . . . . At half past 8 we rejoined the ladies in the library, which seems to be the only sitting-room; at nine we had tea and coffee, and at half past 10 went to bed. . .. . What has struck me most today in
Miss Edgeworth herself, is her uncommon quickness of perception, her fertility of allusion, and the great resources of fact which a remarkable memory supplies to her, combined into a whole which I can call nothing else but extraordinary vivacity.
She certainly talks quite as well as
Lady Delacour or
Lady Davenant, and much in the style of both of them, though more in that of
Lady Davenant. . . .
August 22.—It has been a rainy day to-day, the first, properly so,
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that we have had since we left
Liverpool, nearly two months ago. I was heartily glad of it, for it prevented all talk of driving into a country essentially flat and uninteresting, and kept us in the most interesting and agreeable society.
We did not really separate during the whole day, from breakfast, at nine, until bedtime, half after eleven.
The whole time was passed in the library, except the breakfast, which was protracted to an hour's length by sitting round the table; lunch, which is really the dinner of most people;. . . . and dinner itself, from half past 6 to half past 8.
Miss Edgeworth's conversation was always ready, and as full of vivacity and variety as I can imagine.
It was, too, no less full of good-nature.
She was disposed to defend everybody, even
Lady Morgan, as far as she could, though never so far as to be unreasonable; and in her intercourse with her family she was quite delightful, referring constantly to
Mrs. Edgeworth, who seems to be the authority in all matters of fact, and most kindly repeating jokes to her infirm aunt,
Miss Sneyd, who cannot hear them, and who seems to have for her the most unbounded affection and admiration.
About herself, as an author, she seems to have no reserve or secrets.
She spoke with great kindness and pleasure of a letter I brought to her from
Mr. Peabody,
5 explaining some passage in his review of ‘Helen,’ which had troubled her from its allusion to her father; ‘but,’ she added, ‘nobody can know what I owe to my father; he advised and directed me in everything; I never could have done anything without him. These are things I cannot be mistaken about, though other people can,—I
know them.’
As she said this, the tears stood in her eyes, and her whole person was moved.
Of ‘Helen,’ she said that it was a recent conception altogether, first imagined about two years before it was printed.
The
Collingwoods, she said, were a clumsy part of it; she put them in, thinking to make something of them, but was disappointed, and there they stuck, she could not get them out again.
Many parts of it were much altered; two only were printed just as they were first put on paper, with hardly the correction of a word,—
Lady Davenant's conversation with Helen in the pony phaeton, and
Lady Cecilia's conversation with Helen towards the end, telling her all that had happened during their separation.
These two portions she said she dictated to her sister Lucy, whom she represented to be a person of sure taste.
She dictated these particular passages because, as they
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were to represent narrative conversation, she thought this mode of composing them would give them a more natural air, and whenever her sister's pen hesitated, she altered the word at once.
‘So,’ said she, ‘all that turned out right, and I was very glad of it for Lucy's sake as well as my own.’
‘Taking for Granted,’ she told me, was sketched very roughly about fifteen years ago, and she is now employed in working it entirely over again, and bringing it out. She was curious to know what instances I had ever witnessed of persons suffering from ‘taking for granted’ what proved false, and desired me quite earnestly, and many times, to write to her about it; ‘for,’ she added, ‘you would be surprised if you knew how much I pick up in this way.’
‘The story,’ she said, ‘must begin lightly, and the early instances of mistake might be comic, but it must end tragically.’
I told her I was sorry for it. ‘Well,’ said she, ‘I can't help it, it must be so. The best I can do for you is, to leave it quite uncertain whether it is possible the man who is to be my victim can ever be happy again or not.’
But neither ‘Helen’ nor ‘Taking for Granted,’ she said, is the subject she should be glad to write about, and write about with the most interest.
It is something connected with the religious and political parties that are ruining
Ireland, ‘my poor
Ireland.’
‘But,’ she went on, ‘ it won't do. Few would listen, and those that would listen would do it to serve their own purposes.
It won't do, and I am sorry for it, very sorry.’
But though she talked thus freely about herself and her works, she never introduced the subject, and never seemed glad to continue it. She talked quite as well, and with quite as much interest, on everything else.
Indeed, though I watched carefully for it, I could not detect, on the one side, any of the mystification of authorship, nor, on the other, any of its vanity. . . . . The sustained tone of conversation, however, with her unquenchable vivacity, was, I think,—continued as it was through so long a day,—a little fatiguing to her. She was just the same to the last moment,—just as quick in repartee, and just as gay in her allusions and remarks,—but her countenance showed that her physical strength was hardly equal to it. Indeed, she is of a feeble constitution naturally, though for the last two years she has gained strength.
It was, therefore, something of a trial to talk so brilliantly and variously as she did, from nine in the morning till past eleven at night.
Sunday, August 23.—To-day was more quiet; not less interesting
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or agreeable than yesterday, but less exciting.
We went to church with the family, who all seemed Episcopalians in principle and practice.
Miss Edgeworth carried her favorite Prayer-book in a nice case, and knelt and made all the responses very devoutly.
The church is small, but neat, and their pew is the place of honor in it, with a canopy and recess as large as any two other pews. . . . . On one side of the altar was a small, plain, oval tablet, to the memory of their grandfather, bearing no inscription but his name, and the time of his birth and death; and on the other side was one exactly like it,. . . . to their father, who died in 1817.
The whole had the air of decency and reverence that ought always to be found in a village church; but the sermon was Calvinistic, from a young man, and the congregation very small, making a striking contrast to the congregation which poured out from the
Catholic chapel in the neighborhood, so as to fill and throng the highway.
The
Edgeworths have always been on the most kindly terms with their Catholic neighbors and tenantry, but, like many other Protestants whom I have met, they feel rather uncomfortably at the encroaching spirit which the
Emancipation Bill has awakened in the whole Catholic population of the island, and the exclusive character and tone assumed by the priests, who have every day, as they assure me, more and more the air of claiming superiority; especially where, as in the case of Edgeworthtown, 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 up the letters.
In the evening she showed me her long correspondence with
Sir Walter Scott, at least his part of it. The whole seemed to have been extremely creditable to both parties.
As soon as ‘Waverley’ was
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published, she wrote a letter to its anonymous author, filled with the fulness of her fresh delight, which she enclosed to
Ballantyne, who answered it on behalf of the Great Unknown.
This was the beginning of the matter.
Soon after, they wrote directly to each other; she went to see
Scott; young Walter and his new wife were sent to her as to an intimate friend, immediately after their marriage.
Sir Walter wrote to her, also, on his loss of fortune, and the correspondence was continued till his mind failed.
When she was in
Edinburgh, in 1823,
Lady Scott expressed her surprise that
Scott and
Miss Edgeworth had not met when
Miss Edgeworth was in
Edinburgh in 1803. ‘Why,’ said Sir Walter, with one of his queer looks, ‘you forget, my dear,—
Miss Edgeworth was not a lion then, and my mane, you know, was not grown at all.’
She told many stories of him, all showing an admiration for him, and a personal interest in him and his fame, which it was delightful to witness in the only person that could have been fancied his rival.
During the evening she was very agreeable, and in the latter part of it very brilliant with repartee, so that we sat late together, not separating until midnight. Everything shows that her mind is as active, and as capable of producing ‘Ennui,’ or ‘The Absentee,’ now, as at any previous period.
In fact, ‘Helen’ proves it.
August 24.—The house, and many of its arrangements,—the bells, the doors, etc.,—bear witness to that love of mechanical trifling of which
Mr. Edgeworth was so often accused.
It was only this morning that I fully learnt how to open, shut, and lock our chamber-door; and the dressing-glass, at which I have shaved for three mornings, is somewhat of a mystery to me still.
Things are in general very convenient and comfortable through the house, though, as elsewhere in
Ireland, there is a want of English exactness and finish.
However, all such matters, even if carried much farther than they are, would be mere trifles in the midst of so much kindness, hospitality, and intellectual pleasures of the highest order, as we enjoyed under their roof, where hospitality is so abundant that they have often had twenty or thirty friends come upon them unexpectedly, when the family was much larger than it is now.
But we were now obliged to leave them.
We did it with great regret; but our engagements with other friends in
England would be broken by a more protracted stay in
Ireland.
So urgent was their kindness, as we parted from them, that we fairly promised to come back to
Ireland,
6 on our return from the Continent, and make them
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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.
7—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 they received me—I mean Mr. and
Mrs. Wordsworth, their daughter, and their two sons—with entire kindness, and, after the first few moments, did not seem to recall their sorrows.
Wordsworth was very agreeable.
He talked about politics, in which his views are very gloomy.
He holds strongly and fondly, with an affectionate feeling of veneration, to the old and established in the institutions, usages, and peculiarities of his country, and he sees them all shaken by the progress of change.
His moral sensibilities are offended; his old affections are wounded; his confidence in the future is disturbed.
But though he talks about it as if it were a subject that oppresses him, he talks without bitterness, and with the large and flowing eloquence which marks his whole conversation.
Indeed, he feels the whole matter so deeply and so tenderly, that it is not easy to avoid sympathizing with him, even when the strictness of his political system is most apparent.
He was very curious, too, about our institutions in
America, and their effect upon society and character, and made many shrewd as well as kind remarks about us; but is certainly not inclined to augur well of our destinies, for he goes upon the broad principle that the mass of any people cannot be trusted with the powers of government.
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In this sort of conversation a couple of hours passed very quickly away, and when I rose to leave him he took his staff and walked nearly back to
Ambleside with me.
September 2.—As it was not convenient for us to go up to Rydal and breakfast with
Mr. Wordsworth, he came and breakfasted with us. His talk was like that of last evening, flowing and abundant, with an elevated moral and intellectual tone, and full of a kindliness that was not to be mistaken.
We determined to pass the day in an excursion up Coniston Water, generally considered the most beautiful of the lakes, and he said he would go with us,—a great addition to a great pleasure. . . . . To show us the best points he carried us to the houses of two of his friends.
The first was
Mrs. Copley's, where we met
Miss Fletcher,
8 formerly of
Edinburgh, and one or two other quite agreeable people, and where we stopped long enough to lunch with them. . . . . The other place was that of the venerable
Mrs. Smith,—the mother of the extraordinary
Elizabeth Smith,— where, besides the fine views, we saw the cottage, the site of the tent which has given the name of Tent Hall to the place,. . . . and the other localities mentioned in the beautiful ‘Fragments,’ printed after her premature death. . . . .
We then set out to visit my old friend
Mrs. Fletcher,. . . . but met her, and, finding that our engagements would permit no other arrangement, she offered to breakfast with us to-morrow morning, and we parted and came back to
Ambleside.
Wordsworth, as usual, talked the whole time.
He showed us the scenery in the spirit of one bred among its beauties; with which his mind has been peculiarly nourished, and of which his poetry everywhere bears the impress.
He talked about
Burns, whose 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
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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
Ambleside by a beautiful moonlight.
September 3.—
Mrs. Fletcher and her daughter came to breakfast with us; and though she is sixteen years older than she was when I saw her last, she is as interesting as ever, by her talent and enthusiasm.
When we drove from
Ambleside she accompanied us to
Wordsworth's, where we passed a couple of hours very agreeably.
He showed us quite over his pretty grounds and through his favorite walks, where he has composed so much of his poetry,. . . . and went with us to the picturesque waterfall in
Lady Le Fleming's grounds. . . . . His daughter was on her sofa, very intelligent and pleasing, her animation not impaired by her debility; and his younger son, whose education is not completed, is an agreeable, kind-hearted young man, forming, with their 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. . .. . 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 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’
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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, and that
England is now desperately in want of really great minds to manage its affairs.
His conversation was very various, sometimes quite remarkable, but never rich or copious like
Wordsworth's, and never humorous or witty.
It was rather abundant in matters of fact, and often in that way quite striking and effective. . . .
York,
September 6.—We arrived here early, and established ourselves in the narrow, but neat and comfortable lodgings which we had previously secured for the
Musical Festival week.
The city, though old, seemed beautifully clean; and the streets, though close and dark, were filled with crowds of well-dressed people, many of whom, like ourselves, had been attracted by the great occasion. . . . In the latter part of the evening, the moon being at its full and very brilliant, we walked quite round the magnificent minster, enjoying the effect of its glorious Gothic architecture by the light in which it can be most appropriately seen.
It was very beautiful and very solemn, especially when viewed from near the gates of the Residence.
September 7.—I met, this morning,
Mr. William Vernon Harcourt, with whom I dined at Lord Mulgrave's in
Dublin.
He is the son of the
Archbishop of
York, first Residentiary Canon of the minster, and the most active and efficient manager of the Festival. . .. . The first instance of his kind attention was to give us the means of going to the garden of the Museum this morning, when the
Duchess of
Kent and the Princess Victoria were received there. . . . .
September 8.—The first great day of the Festival.
Mr. Harcourt sent us tickets for the ‘Patrons' gallery’ in the minster, the best part of the building, where seats were reserved for the royal party, and we went at eleven o'clock. Everything was perfectly arranged, twelve avenues being opened to admit the immense crowd into the immense building; a moment after we entered, we emerged into a gallery at the west end of the church opposite to the choir and the great organ.
The part of the minster given to the purposes of this occasion is the nave and aisles, the nave being 261 feet long, 109 broad, and 99 high. . . . all together capable of containing full 5,000 persons seated, besides the 620 musicians. . . . . Punctually at twelve o'clock the royal party arrived. . . .. The
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whole audience rose, and when the royal guests came to the front of the gallery so as to be distinctly visible, a tumult of applause broke forth which was with difficulty suppressed by the
Dean as entirely unsuitable to the place. . . .. . As soon as they were seated the whole choir broke forth with
Handel's Coronation Hymn, this being the anniversary of the
King's crowning.
The effect was electrical.
The vast audience rose again, and when the shout of ‘God save the
King’ broke from the choir of four hundred voices sustained by the full power of two hundred and fifty instruments and the tremendous organ, its effect was not to be mistaken.
There was not a soul under those wide vaults that did not feel it. . . .
September 9.—The performance to-day was
Handel's Messiah,— the whole of it,—a great work, which requires all the power and variety that the art of music can bring with it; and which, I suppose, has never been heard so well anywhere as in this vast and solemn minster. . . . It is astonishing how distinctly a single voice is heard, even in its lowest and sweetest tones, through nearly every part of this wide pile; and the stillness of the multitudes to catch its murmurs is sometimes as thrilling as the notes themselves.
Grisi can fill the whole building with the most brilliant sounds.
We dined at Lord Fitzwilliam's, who has taken a large house just outside the gates, for the Festival week, which he thinks it his inherited duty to patronize. . . . .
September 12.—
Mr. Willis of Caius College,
Cambridge, who has published on architecture, being here, and desirous to see some parts of the cathedral not usually seen,
Mr. Harcourt had it opened and lighted, and a party was formed to go over it. It was very curious.
We were shown, under the pavement of the present choir, the remains of the ancient choir of the church built in 1070 and burnt in 1137, together with one arch of the still older church built about A. D. 900, all discovered in 1830, when the excavations were made for the repairs of the present building, after the disastrous fire of 1829.
These old ruins are of Cyclopean size, and the later portions of them are in the Norman style and very elaborate.
The whole is in total darkness under the foundations of the huge minster itself, but was this morning beautifully lighted up with gas, which has been introduced for the purpose.
After this we went over the choir and the other parts of the church. . . . It has more of the power given to Gothic architecture in the ‘ Penseroso’ than any building I know of; ‘the high embowed roof,’ the ‘antic pillars massy-proof,’ the ‘storied windows, richly dight,’ ‘ the pealing organ,’ and ‘the fullvoiced
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quire below,’ are all there, and there in their original perfection.
We were invited to dine with the Harcourts, but had an engagement with the Phillipses. . . . . We passed a couple of hours most agreeably with
Professor Phillips, who gratifies and surprises me more, the more I know him.
9. . . . We finished the evening with the Harcourts, who are fine specimens of the highest order of the
English character,—the lady beautiful, intelligent, winning, and religious; and
Mr. Harcourt a quiet, unobtrusive, efficient gentleman, with very large resources of various and elegant knowledge.
We shall be sorry indeed to leave
York, because it contains such people.
, the excitement of the multitude was vastly increased that year by the presence of the Princess Victoria and the
, who were then the guests 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
, the upturned faces of the immense crowd that welcomed her made another impressive sight.
, 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
then staying there.
, died, whose death is thus recorded in the parish register of the place: ‘buried in the yeare of our
dooke of bookingam,’ etc.,—so carelessly and ignorantly was the death of a statesman, out of date, put on record, even in the midst of his own possessions and tenantry.
—showed him the wonderful machinery of their great woollen manufactory, with a freedom and openness very unusual; and ‘after resting from this labor,’ he says, ‘I went to dine at
, who is now staying at his house.
It was a pleasant, quiet dinner; the professor himself being, as he always is, agreeable, with the utmost simplicity
[
, and it was one of my pleasures to witness his exquisite enjoyment of the music at the minster.’
, by appointment, 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.
.
The whole family were rich in cultivation, refinement, and hospitality, and the establishment elegant and luxurious.
reached Wentworth House, Lord Fitzwilliam's ‘princely establishment,’ and there four days were filled with rich and varied interest, and with the most true and delightful hospitality.
[
Journal.
Sunday, September 27.—After breakfast—which was rather late, and over which we lounged a good while—Lord Fitzwilliam asked who would drive to church; all but two of the ladies declined.
It seems to be the custom of the house to employ the carriages as little as possible on Sundays, so that we made a formidable procession, the children and all constituting about twenty.
Those of the tenantry who were in the churchyard-perhaps a dozen—drew up to the path and took off their hats as Lord Fitzwilliam passed in. . . . . The church is small, very old, and has nothing curious about it but a few old monuments, especially one to Lord Strafford's father and one to himself, all quite rude.
He was the last distinguished person buried here; his son, with the Rockinghams,
Fitzwilliams, etc., being deposited in York Minster.
The pew of the family is of oak, very rudely carved, and has a shattered look; but it is in the state in which it was when the famous
Strafford sat there, and has his arms ill cut in several places. . . . . I could not help imagining how things looked when he was there, and the great
Marquis of
Rockingham, and when
Burke and
Fox sat there, as they often did, with the late Lord Fitzwilliam.
I had many strange visions about it, and little heeded poor old
Mr. Lowe. . . . We lounged slowly home through the grounds and gardens. . . .
After lunch, Lord Fitzwilliam said he should go to hear a charity sermon two or three miles off, and asked who would go with him; but all declined except
Lady Mary and
Mr. Thompson, it being understood that
Dr. Dundas would read the evening service in the chapel after dinner.
Instead of going to church we made a party at half past 3, to see the stables and the establishment for young horses at one of the lodges.
They were well worth the trouble. . . . .
After dinner. . . . the party distributed itself through the gallery and the library rooms, to the number of about thirty.
A little before nine o'clock the groom of the chambers came as usual and said, ‘ My lord, the chapel is ready,’ and everybody went.
About seventy or eighty servants were there when we went in, and with the family and visitors made quite a respectable congregation.
The ladies were in the gallery, the female servants chiefly 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, the poet, to meet us, and that they had proposed
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to make a party for
Sheffield to go with us, so that we altered our plan. . . . . After breakfast we went over some other parts of this vast pile of building, saw the state sleeping-apartments, which are magnificent, and many other suites of rooms that are very rich and comfortable. . . . The saloon fitted up by the present Lord Fitzwilliam is very rich and magnificent.
On one side of it hangs the famous picture of Lord Rockingham's horse ‘
Whistler,’ by
Stubbs, nearly as large as life, and one of the most striking pictures of an animal I ever saw. It is nothing but a painting of a horse, no trappings, no background, no earth, yet it does not leave any feeling of deficiency.
Lord Fitzwilliam told me that when the horse was painted Lord Rockingham intended to have put George III.
upon him; ‘ but,’ said he, laughing, ‘the king misbehaved about that time, and so Lord Rockingham would not have him there.
However,’ he added, ‘that is a story I do not often tell, and the people here know nothing about it. There is no use in having such things remembered.’. . . .
When I went into the gallery before dinner I found
Montgomery talking with
Mr. Lowe.
He—Montgomery—is a small 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.
He dresses rather singularly,—but, I suspect, from some fancied benefit to his health,—with a large cravat and very high standing collar to his shirt, so that, as his head is small and sunk quite deeply 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 gallery, as usual, until prayer-time, when the service was read by
Mr. Lowe in
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the chapel, about forty or fifty persons being present.
Then we went to the library, had tea, and played a little whist. . . . . Before we went to bed Lord Fitzwilliam and the ladies urged us so kindly and earnestly to return to them on Saturday, and meet Lord Spencer,. . . . that we promised to do so. . . . . I shall be very glad to see this distinguished statesman so quietly and familiarly.
September 29.—We left Wentworth House to-day, after having enjoyed as much really considerate kindness as we ever enjoyed anywhere in four days, and came thirty-five miles,. . . . to
Colonel Richard Yorke's, at
Wighill Park. . . .
October 3.—In the course of the four days we stayed at
Wighill Park there were about twenty different inmates in the house.
11 It was a very pleasant party, whose chief attraction and amusement was music. . . .
Sir Francis Doyle, an old officer, and very intelligent gentleman, who has read much and seen much, was uniformly agreeable, and so was
Lord Arthur Hill, one of the best cavalry officers in the service, who fought at
Waterloo in the famous regiment of the
Scotch Grays, and now commands it, but whose obvious character here was only
bonhomie, and easy careless happiness. . . . . Our host himself, who has been entertaining company in this way these thirty years, has much knowledge of the world, great kindness, and a good deal of amusing anecdote.
His establishment was perfect for its purposes, in comforts and luxuries, and there was an exactness in the mode of carrying it on that was quite remarkable.
We left
Wighill Park between eleven and twelve, and reached Lord Fitzwilliam's before five. Twelve or thirteen miles off, the milestones that announced the distance ‘From Wentworth House ’ showed we were within his dominions. . . . We found Lord Fitzwilliam in the long gallery.
He received us with great kindness, and presented us to Lord Spencer, lately the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and as ‘ Honest
Althorp,’ the leader of Lord Grey's administration in the House of Commons.
12 He had arrived about an hour before us, and was still standing before the fire in his travelling-dress.
He is about fifty-three years old, short, thick-set, with a dark red complexion, black hair, beginning to turn gray, a very ordinary, farmer-like style of dress, and no particularly vivacious expression of countenance.
His manner was as quiet and simple as possible, perfectly willing to
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talk, but not seeming to have much to say. We were presented also to
Mr. Wood, I believe a son-in-law of Lord Grey, and to
Mr. Chaloner, a brother-in-law of Lord Fitzwilliam, who is here with his wife, a daughter of the late Lord Dundas, and a son and daughter.
We found too the Dundases, whom we left here on Tuesday, and
a Mr. Phillips,
13 a fine scholar-like young man, and
Mr. Frederic Ponsonby, of the Besborough family. . . . .
Lord Spencer, whom I sat near at dinner, was very agreeable.
We talked about the hunting season, which is now just beginning.
He said he used to keep a pack formerly, and that the relations into which it brought him with his neighbors and the county had taught him more of human nature than he had learnt in any other way. The whole affair of fox-hunting, he added, with all its trespasses upon property, could not be maintained, if the whole neighborhood did not take as great an interest in it as the owner of the hounds.
In talking a little politics, he happened to speak of Lord Lyndhurst, and while he gave him all praise as a man of talent, of perfectly good temper, and of the best possible qualities and habits for a business man, he declared that he was entirely unprincipled.
In illustration, he said that, having made up his mind formerly to introduce a bill for the collection of small debts by a simpler process, he communicated with Lord Lyndhurst—then
Solicitor-General—on the subject, and was assured by him that he approved of it entirely, and that it would be, not only a great benefit to suitors, but a great relief to the upper courts, who were most uselessly oppressed with such business.
Lord Spencer-then Lord Althorp—introduced the bill, and Was surprised beyond measure to have
Mr. Solicitor Copley oppose it in a very able and acute argument.
He went over instantly and spoke to him on the subject, and reminded him of what he had previously said in its favor, in private, to which ‘
Copley made
no sort of reply but by a hearty laugh.’
Lord Eldon, however, on whom
Copley's promotion then depended, it was found afterwards, was opposed to the bill, and this explained it. Later, the government changed its opinion on the measure, Lord Althorp introduced it again, received the most efficient, good-tempered, and sagacious support for it, both in committee and in the
House, and carried it, with
Copley's aid, in every stage, and in every way, except debate.
Lord Spencer talked to me, too, a great deal about his recollections of
Fox,
Pitt, and
Sheridan, placing the latter much lower than his party usually does, and giving more praise to
Pitt than I ever heard
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a Whig give him. He does not talk brilliantly,—he hardly talks well, for he hesitates, blushes even, and has a queer chuckling laugh, —but he interests you and commands your attention.
I felt sure all the time that I was getting right impressions from him. . . . . As we went down to the chapel, Lord Spencer told me that so solemn and fine a chapel is nowhere else kept up in
England.
Dr. Dundas read prayers, and about fifty-five were present.
Sunday, October 4.—The forenoon was rainy. . . . . Lord Fitzwilliam said he was not well and should not go to church, but asked round, and collected a considerable number, for whom he ordered three carriages. . . . .
Lord Spencer talked with decided ability about the Poor-Laws as we walked home, for the rain had ceased.
He told me, too, about his brother, who, from being a richly beneficed English clergyman, has become a poor, fervent Catholic priest; and yet is a man of much talent and learning, who greatly distinguished himself at
Cambridge.
At the end of our talk he invited us to visit him at
Althorp, any time after December 1, which is the earliest period he can be there himself, and I was very sorry to be obliged to decline.
I should revel in that magnificent library and most beautiful establishment.
But we cannot go. It is time already that we were on our way to
Dresden.
The dinner to-day was in greater state than we have yet seen it; that is, there was a greater show of plate, five gilt silver ‘cups,’ as they are called, but really massive vases of elaborate workmanship, ornamenting the centre of the table and three more the sideboard, the whole being prizes won by the family race-horses. . . .
In the evening we looked over a good many of Lord Fitzwilliam's curious black-letter books, and Lord Spencer told us so much about
Althorp, that I was very glad to promise to make him a visit there on our return from the Continent.
Dr. Dundas read the evening service at ten o'clock. The chapel was very full to-night, more than a hundred servants being present.
The huntsmen in their scarlet dresses, who have come [from
Northamptonshire] since we were here before, made quite a show.
October 5.—It is a rainy morning, and yet when we went to breakfast I found Lord Spencer with spurs on, prepared for a ride.
He told me that he is going to
Wakefield, to see the prison there, and had sent on one of his horses to change half-way.
The distance is eighteen miles, making thirty-six in all, which he prefers to take on horseback, notwithstanding the rain, and to be back to dinner. . . .. Lord Fitzwilliam generally makes his journeys on horseback, in all
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weathers.
Last year he went in this way to
Milton, eighty-nine miles, in a single day, and will probably do the same this year.
All this comes of fox-hunting.
October 6.—To-day, for the first time in my life, I have witnessed and joined a fox-hunt,—a thing as different from all I ever witnessed before as anything can well be, and which I suppose I saw in great perfection, for Lord Spencer tells me the establishment for it here is as fine as any in
England, if not the finest .. . . . We reached home about five o'clock, rather late, for dinner was to be at six, as it is ‘the
Public Day,’ or the day on which the family — in observance of a custom formerly common among the chief nobility, but now hardly kept up at all except here-receive any of their neighbors who think fit to come and who think themselves fit to come.
In this way Lord Fitzwilliam keeps open house once a week during the two or three months he lives in
Yorkshire, it being understood that persons do not generally avail themselves of the invitation more than once in a season; and in this way he avoids all the embarrassments and heart-burnings which would be the inevitable consequence of selecting, sorting, and inviting formal parties.
The whole state and ceremony of the house is observed on these occasions, to which people come ten, twenty, and even forty miles or more.
To-day there were a little more than twenty, the most curious of whom was old
Lady G., eighty-four years old, covered with diamonds, laces, and feathers.
14. . . . The party was received in the beautiful saloon,. . . . and the procession to dinner across the enormously large hall, headed by the chaplain in his canonicals, was quite a solemnity. . .. .
Mr. Lowe was in full costume, bands and all, and asked a blessing and returned thanks.
The dinner itself was much as usual, but there was of course a greater show of plate.
Lord Fitzwilliam was not well enough to appear.
, between the 8th and 13th of October, was crowded with interest and beauty, and the ten days passed in
were busy, not only by reason of the kind attentions of friends, but with the necessary preparations for a migration to the Continent.
In a